Peggy's Letters by Jacqueline Halsey Page B

look at their matching ginger curls.
    â€œMashman! Mash potatoes. That’s why you’re called Spud.”
    Spud gives me a coy grin from under his mother’s hug.
    â€œTime we were making tracks,” says Grandad.
    Behind a screen, Mum helps me change into the dry clothes she’s brought. Then we leave.
    â€œBye, Mrs. Mashman. Bye, Spud. Get well soon.”
    â€œYou too,” they call back.
    Dear Dad
    The “what ifs” won’t leave me alone. They fill my dreams and burst in on my thoughts whatever I’m doing. If anything had happened to Tommy it would have been all my fault. From now on I’m going to be the best big sister any brother could ever have.
    Grandad was strong and warm and kind. How could I have not liked him? Mrs. Mashman is nice too, when she’s not being a headmistress. I’m annoyed at Spud for not telling me the truth about his mum, but I understand. It must be awful hearing people call your mum names every day. My New Year’s resolution is to get to know people properly.
    Love, Peggy

16
    â€œWhat we used to call a pea souper,” says Grandad, joining me at the window. “The good thing is they won’t be bombing us and we won’t be bombing them today.”
    The fog outside is thick and yellow. All I can see are murky shapes. They fill my head.
    There’s just Grandad and me at home. Mum thought we needed some peace and quiet so she took Tommy to Mrs. Jones’s. I’m bored, but I don’t feel like doing anything. I’m tired, but I’m not sleepy. Grandad seems to understand. Perhaps he’s feeling the same way.
    â€œI’ve got an idea,” he says at last. “Come on, Peggy, into the kitchen.”
    Grandad brings out a large tin and puts it on the table. Inside are paper packets of raisins and currants. There’s sugar too.
    â€œI’ve been saving up my rations. I was going to ask your mother to bake us a Christmas cake. She’s a busy woman these days so why don’t we make it?”
    â€œHave you ever made a Christmas cake, Grandad?”
    â€œNo, have you?
    â€œI always make the icing look like snowy footprints and put the fir trees and the little church on top, but Mum bakes the cake.”
    â€œOh,” says Grandad. “Never mind. I have your grandma’s recipe book. Her cakes were the best.”
    Grandad fetches the book and shuffles through the pieces of paper stuffed in between the pages. “Here’s your grandmother’s recipe,” he says, handing me an ancient scrap of paper with torn edges and faded writing.
    â€œIt’s very hard to read, Grandad. It says we need twelve eggs. That’s a whole month’s ration of egg powder.”
    â€œWe’ll have to adapt it a bit.”
    The recipe needs a lot of adapting, but as I sieve and stir and mix and pour, the fog disappears from my head.
    â€œTime for a wish,” says Grandad, handing me the wooden mixing spoon.
    â€œCan I wish for impossible things?”
    Grandad hesitates. “Yes,” he says. “But you can’t un-wish things. Once something has happened, nothing can change it.”
    I sigh for a wish that can’t be wished, close my eyes, stir the cake three times and wish for Tommy to find a train at the bottom of his bed on Christmas morning. To make up for yesterday.
    â€œYour turn, Grandad.”
    He takes the spoon, stirs and wishes.
    That was a quick wish, Grandad.
    â€œI just wished for Peac…”
    I clap my hands over my ears. “Don’t tell me, or it won’t come true.”
    He laughs and puts the cake in the oven.
    â€œIt’s going to take four hours to cook,” says Grandad. “We could put up some decorations while we wait. That is, if I can remember where I put the box. This house hasn’t celebrated Christmas in years.”
    He goes up to his room and comes down a while later with a dusty cardboard box.
    â€œDecorate