London.’
‘But we’re children from London.’
‘I should think children from London whose parents can’t be bothered with them in a war.’
‘Poor
them
! You mean their mothers just – let them go?’
‘
I
don’t know. I should think policemen take them away,’ he added vaguely. He knew that Lydia could be boring on the subject of mothers. ‘I manage perfectly well
without one,’ he offered. ‘I have all my life.’
There was a pause, and then Lydia said, ‘I don’t think I’d like to be looked after by Mr York. Or horrible housekeeping Miss Boot. Although they have got a sweet little outdoor
lav.’
They climbed the five-barred gate that led into the farmyard. It was very quiet excepting for two or three brown hens who were walking about eating very small things they suddenly found. A large
tortoiseshell cat was crouched upon one of the posts of the smaller gate that led into the farmhouse garden. The gate was shut; they looked over it into the garden, which was full of cabbages and
sunflowers and white butterflies and an apple tree so drooping with fruit that its branches were hunched like someone carrying heavy shopping. There was no sign of the evacuees.
‘They must be in the house.’
‘Go and knock on the door.’
‘
You
go.’ Lydia was rather frightened of Miss Boot, who always looked to her as though she might really be somebody else.
‘All right.’ Neville lifted the latch and walked softly up the narrow brick path to the white latticed porch. He knocked on the door. Nothing happened.
‘Knock louder,’ Lydia said from the other side of the gate.
He did; the door flew open and Miss Boot stood there – like a jack-in-a-box.
‘We heard you had some evacuees,’ Neville said politely, ‘and we’ve come to see them.’
‘They’re out. I told them to stay out till I call them to their tea.’
‘Do you know where they’ve gone?’
‘Gone? It won’t be far. They don’t go far. I shouldn’t go worrying after
them
. I’d go home to my mother if I was you.’
‘I don’t have one,’ Neville said gravely. He knew from experience that this always made a difference with ladies. It did: she suddenly looked much nicer, and went and fetched
him a piece of cake.
‘But I can’t eat it,’ he said to Lydia, as they walked back into the yard. ‘It’s got seeds in it. And –
she’
s got a seed growing out of her
face. It must have fallen onto her when she was making the cake.’
‘It can’t be a seed.’
‘
Yes!
It was a sort of brown blob with little sprouts. It was a seed, you bet. Want some?’
‘I’m not hungry. Let’s give it to the hens, but round the cowshed in case she sees.’
In the cowshed they found the evacuees – two boys and a girl. They sat huddled in a corner, quite silent, and apparently doing nothing at all. They stared at each other for a bit, then
Lydia said, ‘Hallo. We’ve come to see you. What are your names?’
There was a further silence. ‘Norma,’ the girl said at last; she was clearly the oldest. ‘Tommy, and Robert.’
‘I’m Lydia, and this is Neville. How old are you?’
‘Nine,’ the girl said. ‘And Robert’s seven and Tommy’s six.’
‘We’re both eight.’
‘We don’t like it here,’ Norma said. Tommy started to snuffle. She boxed his ear, and he was instantly quiet. She put a protective arm round him.
‘Nah,’ Robert said. ‘We want to go ’ome.’
‘Well, I don’t suppose you can,’ Neville said. ‘Not if there’s a war. You’d be bombed. I expect in a few years you’ll be able to go back.’
Tommy’s face contracted. He took a deep, shuddering breath and turned bright red.
‘Jeepers!’ the girl said. ‘Now you’ve ruddy well gone and done it.’ She banged Tommy on the back and a wail burst from him. ‘Want to go ’ome
now
,’ he wept. ‘Want my mum.’ He drummed his heels on the ground. ‘I want her
now
!’
‘Poor boy!’ Lydia cried, as she flew to him.
‘Mind,’
‘But we’re children from London.’
‘I should think children from London whose parents can’t be bothered with them in a war.’
‘Poor
them
! You mean their mothers just – let them go?’
‘
I
don’t know. I should think policemen take them away,’ he added vaguely. He knew that Lydia could be boring on the subject of mothers. ‘I manage perfectly well
without one,’ he offered. ‘I have all my life.’
There was a pause, and then Lydia said, ‘I don’t think I’d like to be looked after by Mr York. Or horrible housekeeping Miss Boot. Although they have got a sweet little outdoor
lav.’
They climbed the five-barred gate that led into the farmyard. It was very quiet excepting for two or three brown hens who were walking about eating very small things they suddenly found. A large
tortoiseshell cat was crouched upon one of the posts of the smaller gate that led into the farmhouse garden. The gate was shut; they looked over it into the garden, which was full of cabbages and
sunflowers and white butterflies and an apple tree so drooping with fruit that its branches were hunched like someone carrying heavy shopping. There was no sign of the evacuees.
‘They must be in the house.’
‘Go and knock on the door.’
‘
You
go.’ Lydia was rather frightened of Miss Boot, who always looked to her as though she might really be somebody else.
‘All right.’ Neville lifted the latch and walked softly up the narrow brick path to the white latticed porch. He knocked on the door. Nothing happened.
‘Knock louder,’ Lydia said from the other side of the gate.
He did; the door flew open and Miss Boot stood there – like a jack-in-a-box.
‘We heard you had some evacuees,’ Neville said politely, ‘and we’ve come to see them.’
‘They’re out. I told them to stay out till I call them to their tea.’
‘Do you know where they’ve gone?’
‘Gone? It won’t be far. They don’t go far. I shouldn’t go worrying after
them
. I’d go home to my mother if I was you.’
‘I don’t have one,’ Neville said gravely. He knew from experience that this always made a difference with ladies. It did: she suddenly looked much nicer, and went and fetched
him a piece of cake.
‘But I can’t eat it,’ he said to Lydia, as they walked back into the yard. ‘It’s got seeds in it. And –
she’
s got a seed growing out of her
face. It must have fallen onto her when she was making the cake.’
‘It can’t be a seed.’
‘
Yes!
It was a sort of brown blob with little sprouts. It was a seed, you bet. Want some?’
‘I’m not hungry. Let’s give it to the hens, but round the cowshed in case she sees.’
In the cowshed they found the evacuees – two boys and a girl. They sat huddled in a corner, quite silent, and apparently doing nothing at all. They stared at each other for a bit, then
Lydia said, ‘Hallo. We’ve come to see you. What are your names?’
There was a further silence. ‘Norma,’ the girl said at last; she was clearly the oldest. ‘Tommy, and Robert.’
‘I’m Lydia, and this is Neville. How old are you?’
‘Nine,’ the girl said. ‘And Robert’s seven and Tommy’s six.’
‘We’re both eight.’
‘We don’t like it here,’ Norma said. Tommy started to snuffle. She boxed his ear, and he was instantly quiet. She put a protective arm round him.
‘Nah,’ Robert said. ‘We want to go ’ome.’
‘Well, I don’t suppose you can,’ Neville said. ‘Not if there’s a war. You’d be bombed. I expect in a few years you’ll be able to go back.’
Tommy’s face contracted. He took a deep, shuddering breath and turned bright red.
‘Jeepers!’ the girl said. ‘Now you’ve ruddy well gone and done it.’ She banged Tommy on the back and a wail burst from him. ‘Want to go ’ome
now
,’ he wept. ‘Want my mum.’ He drummed his heels on the ground. ‘I want her
now
!’
‘Poor boy!’ Lydia cried, as she flew to him.
‘Mind,’
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