flaming blinds. Been queuing half the morning for the material . . .’
The organ music which had gone on and on stopped suddenly. ‘Sssh,’ I said. ‘Listen!’
We walked back over the toasted daisies and stood round Gloria.
‘This is the BBC Home Service . . . Here is the six o’clock news . . .’
Everyone stood still. Mr Tailor raised one hand in the air, flat as if he was pushing against an invisible wall.
The government had given a final ultimatum to Hitler. Withdraw from Poland or we declare war. They’d given him until the next morning.
When it was over, another voice said, ‘This is Sandy MacPherson joining you again on the BBC organ . . .’
‘Not again,’ Mom said. ‘That bloke must be exhausted. He’s been stuck on that flaming organ all day.’ As she disappeared into the house she added, ‘Why does that Hitler have to do everything on the weekend?’
The sun went down slowly, though not slowly enough for Mom, who was still toiling away on the Vesta, the reel of black cotton flying round on the top, cursing to herself.
Without being told, I picked up the idea pretty quick that I was cooking tea. I saw there was a rabbit hanging by its hind legs in the pantry. Mom said Mr Tailor had got it somewhere. Don’t ask, sort of thing. ‘That’s for dinner tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Do summat with eggs tonight.’
When I’d got the spuds on, I went and stood out in the garden. Len was working like mad digging out turf and soil, dry though it was. He was droning some kind of tune and he didn’t look back or see me.
I took my shoes off, felt the wiry grass under my feet and wondered what it’d be like to live in the country with nothing but grass and trees. I wondered about Eric. The street was so quiet. Usually it was full of kids playing, in the gardens and out the front.
And I thought this evening was like no other I’d ever known. Not even the night I left school when I knew I was going to a job next week and everything else would be the same, not like Christmas Eve, even though there was the same sort of quiet. Everything was shifting, you could feel it all around you, those balloons filling in the sky. No one had a clue what was going to happen tomorrow.
I didn’t know whether to be excited or frightened.
Mom still didn’t manage to black out the whole house by sundown. ‘Cotton kept breaking,’ she complained. She wasn’t very good at sewing either.
We ate scrambled egg and potatoes. Len ate astonishing heaps of mash. It was a queer feeling sitting there with the windows all muffled. Made you feel cut off, as if you were in prison. And Mom decided for reasons of her own that we had to have the windows tight shut as well and nearly suffocated the lot of us.
None of us could settle to anything. Mom said she couldn’t stand the sight of any more sewing. So we sat round Gloria and listened in. She was our contact with the outside world: Sandy MacPherson, records, news. Parliament had sat in emergency session. Len slouched, picking his nose.
‘Don’t, Len!’ Mom scolded.
We sang along with ‘We’ll Gather Violets in the Spring’ and ‘Stay Young and Beautiful, If You Want to Be Loved.’
We wondered what tomorrow would bring. There was a storm in the night and I barely slept.
The Prime Minister was due to speak at eleven-fifteen. Mom was in the front at her machine again, tickety-tick, and I, who seemed to be cook for the duration, was stuck at the sink. Len was out digging, the ground softened by the rain.
It dried out to a perfect, calm morning, though the air was humid. I could hear church bells early on, then they stopped.
Our dinner was going to be late.
‘I can’t touch that thing,’ Mom said, pointing at the rabbit, its legs rigid against the door. ‘Make me bad, that would. You’ll have to skin it, Genie – we’ll have stew this afternoon.’
What a treat. Didn’t she always find me the best jobs?
I spread an old Sports Argus on the kitchen table. There
The organ music which had gone on and on stopped suddenly. ‘Sssh,’ I said. ‘Listen!’
We walked back over the toasted daisies and stood round Gloria.
‘This is the BBC Home Service . . . Here is the six o’clock news . . .’
Everyone stood still. Mr Tailor raised one hand in the air, flat as if he was pushing against an invisible wall.
The government had given a final ultimatum to Hitler. Withdraw from Poland or we declare war. They’d given him until the next morning.
When it was over, another voice said, ‘This is Sandy MacPherson joining you again on the BBC organ . . .’
‘Not again,’ Mom said. ‘That bloke must be exhausted. He’s been stuck on that flaming organ all day.’ As she disappeared into the house she added, ‘Why does that Hitler have to do everything on the weekend?’
The sun went down slowly, though not slowly enough for Mom, who was still toiling away on the Vesta, the reel of black cotton flying round on the top, cursing to herself.
Without being told, I picked up the idea pretty quick that I was cooking tea. I saw there was a rabbit hanging by its hind legs in the pantry. Mom said Mr Tailor had got it somewhere. Don’t ask, sort of thing. ‘That’s for dinner tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Do summat with eggs tonight.’
When I’d got the spuds on, I went and stood out in the garden. Len was working like mad digging out turf and soil, dry though it was. He was droning some kind of tune and he didn’t look back or see me.
I took my shoes off, felt the wiry grass under my feet and wondered what it’d be like to live in the country with nothing but grass and trees. I wondered about Eric. The street was so quiet. Usually it was full of kids playing, in the gardens and out the front.
And I thought this evening was like no other I’d ever known. Not even the night I left school when I knew I was going to a job next week and everything else would be the same, not like Christmas Eve, even though there was the same sort of quiet. Everything was shifting, you could feel it all around you, those balloons filling in the sky. No one had a clue what was going to happen tomorrow.
I didn’t know whether to be excited or frightened.
Mom still didn’t manage to black out the whole house by sundown. ‘Cotton kept breaking,’ she complained. She wasn’t very good at sewing either.
We ate scrambled egg and potatoes. Len ate astonishing heaps of mash. It was a queer feeling sitting there with the windows all muffled. Made you feel cut off, as if you were in prison. And Mom decided for reasons of her own that we had to have the windows tight shut as well and nearly suffocated the lot of us.
None of us could settle to anything. Mom said she couldn’t stand the sight of any more sewing. So we sat round Gloria and listened in. She was our contact with the outside world: Sandy MacPherson, records, news. Parliament had sat in emergency session. Len slouched, picking his nose.
‘Don’t, Len!’ Mom scolded.
We sang along with ‘We’ll Gather Violets in the Spring’ and ‘Stay Young and Beautiful, If You Want to Be Loved.’
We wondered what tomorrow would bring. There was a storm in the night and I barely slept.
The Prime Minister was due to speak at eleven-fifteen. Mom was in the front at her machine again, tickety-tick, and I, who seemed to be cook for the duration, was stuck at the sink. Len was out digging, the ground softened by the rain.
It dried out to a perfect, calm morning, though the air was humid. I could hear church bells early on, then they stopped.
Our dinner was going to be late.
‘I can’t touch that thing,’ Mom said, pointing at the rabbit, its legs rigid against the door. ‘Make me bad, that would. You’ll have to skin it, Genie – we’ll have stew this afternoon.’
What a treat. Didn’t she always find me the best jobs?
I spread an old Sports Argus on the kitchen table. There
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