Private Peaceful by Michael Morpurgo Page B

tore it open and read it at once. It can’t have been long because she read it so quickly. “Tell him yes. Yes, I will,” she said, her eyes suddenly bright again.
    “Just yes?” I asked, intrigued, puzzled and jealous all at the same time.
    “Yes. Same time, same place, tomorrow. I’ll write a letter back and you can give it to Charlie. All right?” She got up and pulled me to my feet. “I love you, Tommo. I love you both. And Big Joe, and Bertha.” She kissed me quickly and was gone.
    That was the first of dozens of letters I delivered from Charlie to Molly and from Molly to Charlie over the weeks and months that followed. All through my last year at school I was their go-between postman. I didn’t mind that much, because it meant I got to see Molly often, which was all that really mattered to me. It was all done in great secrecy – Charlie insisted on that. He made me swear on the Holy Bible to tell no one, not even Mother. He made me cross my heart and hope to die.
    Molly and I would meet most evenings and exchange letters in the same place, down by the brook, both of us having made quite sure we were not followed. We’d sit and talk there for a few precious minutes, often with the rain dripping through the trees, and once I remember with the wind roaring about us so violently that I thought the trees might come down on us. Fearing for our lives, we ran out across the meadow and burrowed our way into the bottom of a haystack and sat there shivering like a couple of frightened rabbits.
    It was in the shelter of this haystack that I first heard news of the war. When Molly talked it was often, if not always, about Charlie — she’d forever be asking news of him. I never showed her I minded, but I did. So I was quite pleased that day when she started telling me about how all the talk up at the Big House these days was of war with Germany, how everyone now thought it would happen sooner rather thanlater. She’d read about it herself in the newspaper, so she knew it had to be true.
    It was Molly’s job every morning, she told me, to iron the Colonel’s
Times
newspaper before she took it to him in his study. Apparently he insisted his newspaper should be crisp and dry, so that the ink should not come off on his fingers while he was reading it. She didn’t really understand what the war was all about, she admitted, only that some archduke — whatever that was — had been shot in a place called Sarajevo — wherever that was — and Germany and France were very angry with each other about it. They were gathering their armies to fight with each other and, if they did, then we’d be in it soon because we’d have to fight on the French side against the Germans. She didn’t know why. It made about as much sense to me as it did to her. She said the Colonel was in a terrible mood about it all, and that everyone up at the Big House was much more frightened of his moods than they were about the war.
    But apparently the Colonel was gentle as a lamb compared to the Wolfwoman these days (everyone called her that now, not just us). It seemed that someone had put salt in her tea instead of sugar and she swore it was on purpose — which it probably was, Molly said. She’d been ranting and raving about it ever since, telling everyone how she’d find out who it was. Meanwhile she was treating all of them as if they were guilty.
    “Was it you?” I asked Molly.
    “Maybe,” she said, smiling, “and maybe not.” I wanted to kiss her again then, but I didn’t dare. That has always been my trouble. I’ve never dared enough.
     
    Mother had it all arranged before I left school. I was to go and work with Charlie up at Mr Cox’s farm. Farmer Cox was getting on in years and, with no sons of his own, was in need of more help on the farm. He was a bit keen on the drink too, Charlie said. It was true. He was in the pub most evenings. He liked his beer and his skittles, and he liked to sing, too. He knew all the old songs. He