dish on the bedside table. ‘Everything’s so pretty,’ she yawned and pulled her blouse over her head. ‘I’ll just change out of these things and be downstairs in a jiffy.’
‘Don’t you have a dressing gown, miss?’ Mrs Bunting asked hurriedly, evidently outraged.
‘Why no.’
‘If … if you need more clothes,’ said Nell, trying not to look at Diana’s bosoms spilling out of her stained bra – such a large chest for such a little woman. ‘Miss Trenton might have a pile of jumble. She’s the matron at the boys’ school.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t go anywhere near her jumble,’ observed Sylvie dreamily.
Nell, fearful that Diana was going to peel off her brassiere too, grabbed Sylvie’s arm and headed for the door.
Bright and early, Nell ate breakfast in the kitchen. The start of school was delayed by one day because of the evacuees’ arrival, and the hours lengthened ahead of her like a curving Chiltern lane, enticing and full of mystery.
‘Did I hear the kettle? Time for a cup of tea, is it?’ Mr Pudifoot was at the back door, slipping off his cap and settling beside Nell at the table. ‘Where’s our French miss? And where’s them refugees?’
‘ Evacuees , Mr Pudifoot,’ Mrs Bunting at the range corrected him. ‘And evacuee , actually. Just one. A lady teacher. Strange sort. Bit over the top if you ask me. Still fast asleep.’
‘Strange you say?’ Mr Pudifoot said, nudging Nell. ‘If she’s strange it’s cos she’s a stranger . Make her a boiled egg, Mrs B. Make her feel at home. Perk her up.’
Muttering, Mrs Bunting reached for Miss Blanford’s ration book on the dresser.
Nell piped up, ‘When are you two going to get married?’
‘The cheek of it.’ Mrs Bunting tried to look cross but her face turned an extraordinary shade of red as she flicked through the buff empty pages of the ration book as if fascinated.
‘Lost count the amount of times I’ve asked ’er,’ stated Mr Pudifoot, sipping his tea from his saucer. ‘Still, there’s always the next time.’
‘Oh, I wanted an egg,’ said Nell, looking hopefully at Mrs Bunting.
‘You’ll be lucky, Miss Nell.’
Mollie appeared at the kitchen door, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, searching her long dressing gown pockets for her cigarettes. Nell wondered idly if her father had spent the night in her room last night. She always looked vividly happy and beautiful on those rare occasions.
‘Morning, all,’ said Mollie, languidly lighting a cigarette.
‘Sorry to intrude, Mrs Garland, just ’avin me tea,’ Mr Pudifoot said.
‘Oh, think nothing of it. I’m just desperate for coffee. Anything on the go, Mrs B?’
‘There’s always something on the go.’
Nell saw her throw a whisper of a smile at Mr Pudifoot.
Mr Pudifoot got noisily to his feet and doffed his hat to Mollie. ‘That spud bed won’t dig itself, Mrs Garland.’ And he left with a badly disguised wink in Mrs Bunting’s direction.
‘Shame about the hollyhocks.’ Mollie drifted through and reached for an ashtray from the dresser. ‘But that’s what this war is all about. Veg has to come first. Oh, and next time you see grouchy Trenton, Mrs Bunting, tell her I’ve resigned as billeting officer. I’m not putting myself through that again. You can serve me coffee in the drawing room. Where is Miss Blanford? I thought I—’
She was cut short by an inhuman wailing. It pierced the glass in the windows and the plaster in the ceiling and just about penetrated the bones of Nell’s skull. She ducked, pressing her hands to her ears.
‘Oh, Mother! Dad!’ she cried.
‘Oh, Christmas!’ shrieked Mrs Bunting, grabbing Nell by the arm and tugging her down. ‘Quickly under the table. Everyone, quickly. Where’s Sylvie?’
Nell ducked under the table, crouching as tight as she could, followed by her mother and Mrs Bunting.
She heard Sylvie call out excitedly, ‘ Merde ! Our first air raid!’ as she burst into the kitchen and dived under
‘Don’t you have a dressing gown, miss?’ Mrs Bunting asked hurriedly, evidently outraged.
‘Why no.’
‘If … if you need more clothes,’ said Nell, trying not to look at Diana’s bosoms spilling out of her stained bra – such a large chest for such a little woman. ‘Miss Trenton might have a pile of jumble. She’s the matron at the boys’ school.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t go anywhere near her jumble,’ observed Sylvie dreamily.
Nell, fearful that Diana was going to peel off her brassiere too, grabbed Sylvie’s arm and headed for the door.
Bright and early, Nell ate breakfast in the kitchen. The start of school was delayed by one day because of the evacuees’ arrival, and the hours lengthened ahead of her like a curving Chiltern lane, enticing and full of mystery.
‘Did I hear the kettle? Time for a cup of tea, is it?’ Mr Pudifoot was at the back door, slipping off his cap and settling beside Nell at the table. ‘Where’s our French miss? And where’s them refugees?’
‘ Evacuees , Mr Pudifoot,’ Mrs Bunting at the range corrected him. ‘And evacuee , actually. Just one. A lady teacher. Strange sort. Bit over the top if you ask me. Still fast asleep.’
‘Strange you say?’ Mr Pudifoot said, nudging Nell. ‘If she’s strange it’s cos she’s a stranger . Make her a boiled egg, Mrs B. Make her feel at home. Perk her up.’
Muttering, Mrs Bunting reached for Miss Blanford’s ration book on the dresser.
Nell piped up, ‘When are you two going to get married?’
‘The cheek of it.’ Mrs Bunting tried to look cross but her face turned an extraordinary shade of red as she flicked through the buff empty pages of the ration book as if fascinated.
‘Lost count the amount of times I’ve asked ’er,’ stated Mr Pudifoot, sipping his tea from his saucer. ‘Still, there’s always the next time.’
‘Oh, I wanted an egg,’ said Nell, looking hopefully at Mrs Bunting.
‘You’ll be lucky, Miss Nell.’
Mollie appeared at the kitchen door, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, searching her long dressing gown pockets for her cigarettes. Nell wondered idly if her father had spent the night in her room last night. She always looked vividly happy and beautiful on those rare occasions.
‘Morning, all,’ said Mollie, languidly lighting a cigarette.
‘Sorry to intrude, Mrs Garland, just ’avin me tea,’ Mr Pudifoot said.
‘Oh, think nothing of it. I’m just desperate for coffee. Anything on the go, Mrs B?’
‘There’s always something on the go.’
Nell saw her throw a whisper of a smile at Mr Pudifoot.
Mr Pudifoot got noisily to his feet and doffed his hat to Mollie. ‘That spud bed won’t dig itself, Mrs Garland.’ And he left with a badly disguised wink in Mrs Bunting’s direction.
‘Shame about the hollyhocks.’ Mollie drifted through and reached for an ashtray from the dresser. ‘But that’s what this war is all about. Veg has to come first. Oh, and next time you see grouchy Trenton, Mrs Bunting, tell her I’ve resigned as billeting officer. I’m not putting myself through that again. You can serve me coffee in the drawing room. Where is Miss Blanford? I thought I—’
She was cut short by an inhuman wailing. It pierced the glass in the windows and the plaster in the ceiling and just about penetrated the bones of Nell’s skull. She ducked, pressing her hands to her ears.
‘Oh, Mother! Dad!’ she cried.
‘Oh, Christmas!’ shrieked Mrs Bunting, grabbing Nell by the arm and tugging her down. ‘Quickly under the table. Everyone, quickly. Where’s Sylvie?’
Nell ducked under the table, crouching as tight as she could, followed by her mother and Mrs Bunting.
She heard Sylvie call out excitedly, ‘ Merde ! Our first air raid!’ as she burst into the kitchen and dived under
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