took the wet garden path out to the cold Anderson shelter.
Uncle has risen from his chair, and he kneels down close to me. Did I say something, cry out?
‘It’ll be over soon, love.’
He is right. When I wake up it will be tomorrow. And Timothy Squire will help me get to the harbour and find a ship. And then everything will change. I will be headed far away from here. Montreal. Quiet nights, happy dreams, proper food. No ravens, no legends, no bombs.
Uncle is kind. I will write to him from Montreal and thank him. I will write to him and explain it all.
I would have liked to have seen home again. I have not thought of home in days. The blue door, almost grey at the edges. Pints of milk outside, the newspaper folded on top. My room, a front room, with views of the street – of people and horses and motor cars. Red geraniums on the window sill. The untidy bookshelves. Lavender-scented soap.
What will it be like now? It won’t be the same as Florence’s family, who covered rooms carefully in dustsheets, and packed silverware and pottery away in newspaper. The house will be as it was, maybe with a layer or two of dust.
Will someone look after it? The police, or the firewatchers, old Mrs Morgan next door? Some day, I will find out.
One more night. I pull my knees closer. As the low, distant sound continues, I feel my eyes closing. When the sound dries up, I have fallen asleep.
I dream of red geraniums.
Long dark months of trials and tribulations lie before us. Not only great danger, but many misfortunes, many shortcomings, many mistakes, many disappointments will surely be our lot. Death and sorrow will be the companions of our journey; hardship our garment; constancy and valour our only shield.
– Churchill, speech to the House of Commons, 8 October 1940
4
Sunday, 13 October 1940
Not until eight minutes to four in the morning did the All Clear sound. That wonderful, flat, steady sound. Then two hours in my bed. For once I am happy to have slept in my jumper. It is far too cold to even imagine undressing. And now it is all over.
I have made it.
I wash my face and hands in the freezing water from the bucket ( not lavender scented), immediately towelling myself dry and warm. This morning I put on a little of the cold cream – nearly half gone already – before lacing up my shoes and leaving the room.
Today is the thirteenth of October. It didn’t even occur to me how perfect it all is – of course today is the day I escape. The best gift of all. I swiftly take the long twisting stairs to the Stone Kitchen. I will not miss them, or the old thick rope that burns my hands as I descend.
Uncle is up and cheerful for the dawn feeding.
‘Do you see? Equal chunks, four ounces.’
He gestures to a square of meat, about the size of his palm, and begins to chop it into smaller chunks. The cleaver thuds on the wood.
‘Now, see this?’
I glance up, nodding. He is holding an egg, slightly brown and spotted.
‘Every other day. A boiled egg. Shell on.’ His slow voice is firm. ‘These are for tomorrow.’
Tomorrow . I am almost sad to hear him say it. He will have to feed the birds alone tomorrow. He will have to find someone else to listen to his stories. He will miss me.
I am wary of the next preparation, though, which also occurs every other day – the bloodsoaked biscuits. First they look like the dry Melba toast that Mum always had at tea, but then they are pulped into red oblivion with a potato masher.
What a thing to be doing on this morning. It suddenly dawns on me that Uncle might know that it is my birthday – maybe Mum once told him, and he remembered. I am not hopeful. It is not important, not now. Proof that I will not be missed.
I watch as carefully as I can. As ever, his movements are deliberate, considered. Uncle manages not to get any mess on his suit and tie.
‘I know it is hard, when there is so little to eat, not to resent the ravens. But you should see their usual diet. A rabbit
Uncle has risen from his chair, and he kneels down close to me. Did I say something, cry out?
‘It’ll be over soon, love.’
He is right. When I wake up it will be tomorrow. And Timothy Squire will help me get to the harbour and find a ship. And then everything will change. I will be headed far away from here. Montreal. Quiet nights, happy dreams, proper food. No ravens, no legends, no bombs.
Uncle is kind. I will write to him from Montreal and thank him. I will write to him and explain it all.
I would have liked to have seen home again. I have not thought of home in days. The blue door, almost grey at the edges. Pints of milk outside, the newspaper folded on top. My room, a front room, with views of the street – of people and horses and motor cars. Red geraniums on the window sill. The untidy bookshelves. Lavender-scented soap.
What will it be like now? It won’t be the same as Florence’s family, who covered rooms carefully in dustsheets, and packed silverware and pottery away in newspaper. The house will be as it was, maybe with a layer or two of dust.
Will someone look after it? The police, or the firewatchers, old Mrs Morgan next door? Some day, I will find out.
One more night. I pull my knees closer. As the low, distant sound continues, I feel my eyes closing. When the sound dries up, I have fallen asleep.
I dream of red geraniums.
Long dark months of trials and tribulations lie before us. Not only great danger, but many misfortunes, many shortcomings, many mistakes, many disappointments will surely be our lot. Death and sorrow will be the companions of our journey; hardship our garment; constancy and valour our only shield.
– Churchill, speech to the House of Commons, 8 October 1940
4
Sunday, 13 October 1940
Not until eight minutes to four in the morning did the All Clear sound. That wonderful, flat, steady sound. Then two hours in my bed. For once I am happy to have slept in my jumper. It is far too cold to even imagine undressing. And now it is all over.
I have made it.
I wash my face and hands in the freezing water from the bucket ( not lavender scented), immediately towelling myself dry and warm. This morning I put on a little of the cold cream – nearly half gone already – before lacing up my shoes and leaving the room.
Today is the thirteenth of October. It didn’t even occur to me how perfect it all is – of course today is the day I escape. The best gift of all. I swiftly take the long twisting stairs to the Stone Kitchen. I will not miss them, or the old thick rope that burns my hands as I descend.
Uncle is up and cheerful for the dawn feeding.
‘Do you see? Equal chunks, four ounces.’
He gestures to a square of meat, about the size of his palm, and begins to chop it into smaller chunks. The cleaver thuds on the wood.
‘Now, see this?’
I glance up, nodding. He is holding an egg, slightly brown and spotted.
‘Every other day. A boiled egg. Shell on.’ His slow voice is firm. ‘These are for tomorrow.’
Tomorrow . I am almost sad to hear him say it. He will have to feed the birds alone tomorrow. He will have to find someone else to listen to his stories. He will miss me.
I am wary of the next preparation, though, which also occurs every other day – the bloodsoaked biscuits. First they look like the dry Melba toast that Mum always had at tea, but then they are pulped into red oblivion with a potato masher.
What a thing to be doing on this morning. It suddenly dawns on me that Uncle might know that it is my birthday – maybe Mum once told him, and he remembered. I am not hopeful. It is not important, not now. Proof that I will not be missed.
I watch as carefully as I can. As ever, his movements are deliberate, considered. Uncle manages not to get any mess on his suit and tie.
‘I know it is hard, when there is so little to eat, not to resent the ravens. But you should see their usual diet. A rabbit
Similar Books
