Margot & Me

by Juno Dawson

  As spring arrives in Llanmarion, I have cast off the scarves and gloves and many of my inhibitions. Rick is gregarious, although never coarse, and it’s difficult to be uptight around him. The village seems to have accepted us a pair, which is what makes what happened to Bess even crueller. More on that shortly.

  Our courtship has lost its formality. There’s no time for ceremony. There’s a war on. Wartime rules apply. Our time together is now smudged at the edges like a Monet or Van Gogh: springtime yellows and greens, blossoms and buds and, of course, daffodils in abundance.

  By his own admission, Rick is not much of a reader, but loves stories. Today we walked through the village, bought iced buns from the bakery and took them down to the pond near the village green, to read. We’ve already ploughed through Jane Eyre so we started Treasure Island. I rested my head in his lap and shaded my eyes with the paperback as he stroked my hair.

  ‘Look!’ he said. ‘Ducklings!’

  ‘You are incapable of concentration!’ I derided him with a smile, sitting up to look at the baby ducks. They were, of course, quite adorable.

  And that was when it happened. ‘May I kiss you?’ he said, nudging me with his shoulder.

  Now the moment was here, I felt as still as the pond in front of us. ‘I think you ought. I was about to send a written invitation.’

  Used to my needling, he tilted my chin up with a thumb and pressed his lips to mine. I didn’t dare breathe. I don’t know how I’d imagined it would be, but it was even better than that; so soft, so warm, as intimate as a secret.

  For a moment I was completely paralysed. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Just to check, you’d better do that again,’ I said.

  He smiled and kissed me again, longer and deeper this time. I knew showing such affection in public was scandalous, but I found I didn’t care one jot. For a moment we were one being. I felt his lips on mine and all my thoughts, all my worries, seeped out of me, soaked up like rain into the grass. Eyes shut, colourful speckles swam through my vision. I don’t know how long we kissed for, minutes or hours, but I’m quite sure I could feel the turn of the earth.

  There’s every possibility we’d still be kissing if Bess hadn’t come tearing across the village green like a harpy in full flight. ‘Oh, Margot, there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere.’

  I gathered myself and stood as she nearly collapsed in my arms, red-faced and out of puff. ‘Bess, what on earth’s the matter?’

  She started to cry, and I could tell by her raw eyes that she’d already cried a bucket. ‘It’s Reg … Margot, he’s gone.’

  ‘What? Gone where?’

  Rick stood too, brushing down his trousers. ‘Gee, Miss Jones, are you all right?’

  ‘No! He’s gone and I don’t know where.’ She dissolved into uncontrollable sobs and I hugged her tight.

  I sat her down on the bench at the very edge of the pond. People were looking over – a prissy, shrew-like mother gathered up her two children and moved them away. I stroked her hand. ‘It will be all right, Bess. Take your time and tell us what happened.’

  ‘He’s gone,’ she repeated once she’d caught her breathe. ‘Da found out and said he’d kill him with his bare hands when he got back. Mam talked to Rhodri Ridwell and had him sent away.’

  ‘No! That’s beastly!’

  ‘No one will tell me where he is.’ Her bottom lip trembled again.

  ‘He’s left Llanmarion?’ Rick put in.

  ‘Yes. I don’t even know if he’s in Wales.’

  I sprang to my feet, indignant. ‘Well, this isn’t fair at all. Reg has done absolutely nothing wrong. Let me speak to Rhodri. If his host family are willing to have him back, then …’

  Rick took my elbow and gently steered me away from Bess. He spoke softly but firmly. ‘Listen, Margot, this might not be the worst thing—’

  ‘What?’ I exploded. ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘This isn’t London. What if Bess’s pop does get his hands on Reg? Being moved isn’t the worst thing that could have happened to him. Hell, we don’t even know if he’s really been sent away …’

  ‘You don’t seriously think …?’ He shrugged and I felt like I could very well vomit. ‘Surely not?’

  ‘Not everyone is as open-minded as us. There’s been talk at the hospital … When Reg was arrested, good men, good soldiers, were talking about taking justice into their own hands.’

  ‘Well, first of all, let’s clarify that that is not the attitude of good men or good soldiers, and secondly, whatever you do, don’t say that to Bess. She’s inconsolable as it is.’ I looked back and saw her blowing her nose on a handkerchief. I pictured Reg lying in a ditch somewhere, battered and bruised, and sincerely hoped he really had just been sent packing. ‘I wonder if I can get Ivor to discover where he’s been sent. I think he knows Rhodri well. If it’s a lie, I can find out.’

  ‘I swear on my life, Margot,’ Bess announced, ‘I’m going to find him and go after him. I love him and he loves me and that’s all there is to it.’

  I tried to smile for her, but both Rick and I knew that that was not all there was to it. Not in a town like Llanmarion.

  In the end Bess stayed the night at the farm. She was so cross with her mother that she couldn’t bear to be in the house. Glynis was more than happy to have her stay.

  There was no other choice than to sleep top and tail. At least it removed the need for a hot-water bottle. We went upstairs with mugs of Ovaltine and some fruit cake I’d made with dried raisins. It was a little dry, but I’ve never claimed to be the best baker in the world.

  ‘Oh, Margot,’ Bess said, filling her face with cake, ‘there’s no way he’s run away. He’d never leave me. He said so himself.’

  ‘When did you see him last?’

  She leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Have you heard of the old Whaddon farm?’ I said I had not. ‘Last winter, old Alun Whaddon basically drank himself into an early grave – oh, don’t tell anyone I told you that, but everyone knows – and he didn’t have no sons to take over the farm so it’s just still standing there while they sort it all out. Anyway, like, Reg and I have been going to his old hay barn to—’

  ‘Yes, Bess, I more than get the picture, thank you.’

  Bess nodded. ‘We were there last weekend. Margot, he told me he loved me. We’re not stupid. I know that next year he’ll be called up, but we made plans. We were going to get a house in Greenwich. The way he described it made it sound magical, like.’

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her otherwise. ‘Bess, I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘You think I’m soft in the head, don’t you?’

  ‘I think no such thing! I think you’re phenomenally brave to follow your heart. Usually that’s the least sensible path to take so it needs twice the gumption.’

  She shook her head, bob bouncing around her face. ‘I know what boys are like. I know they tell you tales to get their way, but Reg was different. I believe every word he’s ever said to me.’

  I took hold of her hand. ‘Then I’m sure, if he can find a way back, he will.’

  She crumbled into tears and I could do nothing more than hold her tight until she was all cried out.

  Poor Bess has been miserable all day. True to my word, I sent Ivor to talk to Rhodri and, although he was reluctant to get involved, he dutifully reported that Reg had been rebilleted on Anglesey in the north. Glynis assured me Holyhead is positively cosmopolitan compared to Llanmarion and he should be safe enough if he doesn’t go looking for trouble. On Rick’s advice, I have kept this knowledge to myself, fearing Bess will indeed flee the village if she gets wind of his location. She’s only fifteen. I would feel dreadful if something were to happen to her.

  I have been busying her with preparations for the St David’s Day celebration. The Welsh take it very seriously indeed and I feel we can all benefit from some cheer. The whole town gets involved. Bunting zigzags down the streets and red dragons billow from almost every win
dow.

  I understand their national pride – people in such a small country with so few voices have to shout extra loud to keep traditions alive, I believe. Why, the Welsh language is all but dying out in the south, so I’m told, and that would be a crying shame.

  I’m excited for the parade and the fete. It’ll be just the tonic for Bess, I’m sure.

  Saturday 1st March, 1941

  The war has arrived in Llanmarion. Even hearing the things I hear at the listening post, the war has always felt like something distant, something across the Channel. Tonight we were all reminded that truly the world is at war. We are all fighting. People, not numbers, are dying.

  My ears are ringing and my hands won’t stop shaking. I won’t sleep a wink tonight. I believe the worst is over, but I daren’t close my eyes. So I shall write. I shall write until the sun comes up. At this very moment, it feels like it might not.

  Today was the day of the village fete. Ivor loaned the back pasture and there were fairground rides – a carousel and a big wheel – donkey rides, skittles, and I suggested croquet, to much derision.

  Agatha Moss was in charge of the cider stall with some of the other ladies from the outpost, while Bess and I were to make candyfloss. There were daffodils for sale and, just for a day, it seemed everyone was willing to forget rationing and repairing and absent sons and husbands.

  Of course it was Christmas come very early for the children of Llanmarion – those born here and those sent against their will. Children came from all over – I recognised some from the train. Jane attached herself to the donkey man, an unusual Irish fellow with very few teeth, and declared herself his helper. I asked if she was in his way, but he humoured her presence, letting her brush the donkeys’ manes and feed them carrots.

  Oh, what a gay day it would have been. Children ran around freely as bands played on a makeshift stage made from bales of hay. I don’t know how it had escaped me that Ivor played the drums, but play he did, comically enormous behind a drum kit with a trio of bearded musicians I recognised from around town – one with a tin whistle, one a banjo, one a hurdy-gurdy. ‘I had no idea Ivor could play,’ I said to Glynis.

  ‘Oh aye,’ she said, admiring him with glazed eyes. ‘Still waters run deep with that one.’

  There was a tap on my shoulder. I turned to find Rick standing with a hand out. ‘Miss Stanford? May I have this dance?’

  I cringed. ‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’

  ‘You’re better than you think you are.’

  I smiled as he led me to where other couples were dancing. Bess looked on glumly, no doubt recalling her night two weeks ago at the dance. It hardly seems possible that I’ve only known Rick for fourteen short days. It feels like a lifetime. He took me in his arms and we swayed to the music. I didn’t know what I was doing, but it was enough to be close. All of a sudden I understood the appeal of dancing. It’s about the closeness, an excuse to touch.

  Next to us, Andrew danced with Doreen. He was quite the Fred Astaire and Doreen made a perfect Ginger. Next to them we must have looked so painfully clumsy, but I didn’t care. Not one little bit.

  A football match broke out late in the afternoon, evacuees versus townsmen. It was friendly enough, although I noted Bryn steered well clear of Rick, who played for a while for the evacuees – against doctor’s orders, I would hazard.

  Perhaps it was our own fault really.

  Perhaps it was what we deserved for leaving the listening post unattended.

  The first bombs fell at dusk.

  There was no time, no warning, no sirens, only the blast. No one saw the big black shapes soaring over the horizon until it was much too late – we were all too busy watching the football.

  We would later learn that German planes heading for Cardiff suddenly veered off course. It’s likely the payload was dumped too soon en route to Swansea, although some think the outpost was the target.

  In the moment it didn’t matter. We just ran.

  I don’t know how to describe it. The first bomb fell in the hills. I felt a whoosh of hot wind in my hair about a second before a hungry, ear-splitting roar tore through the valley. Rick stopped running and looked me squarely in the eye. The colour ran out of his cheeks.

  The ground shook and there was a terrible, terrible pause. Everything stopped. There was shocked silence for a second before frantic birds poured out of the trees.

  We came to our senses. All at once, the people of Llanmarion understood we were under fire. We were exposed, out in the open. We were going to die. I didn’t want to die.

  The screaming began. People scattered, rolling off in all directions like marbles.

  ‘Sound the alarm!’ someone cried. My mouth went dry and I’m ashamed to say my feet froze. I didn’t dare look up in case there was something falling towards me. If I was to die I didn’t want to fear it; I just wanted to go out quickly and silently.

  A hand grabbed my hand. ‘Rick –’

  ‘Run!’ he urged, dragging me towards the farm. It was noisy, jagged chaos. Mothers grabbed tearful children, some yelling to find theirs, but the nearest shelters were in the town centre. There was nowhere to hide.

  There were children everywhere, children miles from home. Some just stood and wept. I didn’t know how to help them. I was useless.

  More thunder. The earth shook. I smelled smoke.

  Rick pulled me so hard I felt my arm straining in its socket and my feet struggled to keep up, pummelling the dirt track. ‘Rick, slow down!’ I begged. He careered forward, barrelling past anyone who got in our way. Some people ran towards the farm, others headed for their vehicles parked in the lane. Others just milled around, dumbstruck.

  Black towers of smoke now loomed over Llanmarion village, as tall as Big Ben.

  ‘The cellar! The farm has a cellar, right?’

  ‘Yes!’

  We tumbled onto the front drive down the side of the stables, Glynis already at the door with Peter. As soon as she saw me, her eyes widened. ‘Margot, where’s Jane?’

  I could hardly breathe for running. ‘I don’t know! I thought she was with you!’

  ‘No!’ She pushed Peter through the door. ‘Quickly, the cellar!’ She ran down the drive. ‘Jane!’ she screamed at the top of her lungs.

  And suddenly I knew where she was. The donkeys. She wouldn’t leave the donkeys. ‘I’ll get her.’ Wrenching my hand free of Rick’s, I ran back towards the fete. I hurtled past the barn and on into the fields. From here I could see the rides and the stage, but I couldn’t see Jane. ‘Jane!’ I called in desperation.

  ‘Margot! Come back!’ It was Rick, hot on my heels. The ground shook again and we both fell. This time I felt the full punch of the blast. That one must have been close. The air was thick with smoke, the smell of bonfire night. It was coming from the church, the church had been hit.

  My knees were skinned and bleeding through my stockings. As I scrambled back to my feet, I saw the donkeys. More precisely, I saw Jane trying to drag all three into one of the little steel shelters where Ivor kept the hay. It leans drunkenly at the best of times and was certainly no bomb shelter. ‘Jane!’ I shrieked, setting off in the direction of the structure. ‘Jane, come here at once!’

  ‘He ran off and left them!’ she cried.

  ‘Well, of course he did!’ I took hold of her arm, but she snatched it back. Rick caught up with us and, in one movement, scooped the little girl into his arms and set off back towards the farm.

  I tethered the donkeys to the hay stall and wished them well. Another bomb fell. Another explosion. I felt the hot sting on my face. Singed my nostrils, brows. Now a thick, acrid fog blanketed the pasture. I could hardly see past the tip of my nose.

  I became aware of a high-pitched whistling, like a kettle singing. Something close, something hurtling towards us. ‘Margot, run!’ Rick yelled. He and Jane were up ahead of me, and my heels sank into the soil as I tried to run up the slope.

  I still refused to look up. I didn’t want to see.
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br />   ‘Margot!’ he cried again.

  I reached the edge of the field, and Rick dragged me over the wall. With Jane in one arm and my hand in his other, we ran as the shriek grew deafening. Glynis waited at the door. ‘Quickly!’

  She grabbed Jane and we tumbled through the front door.

  The bomb hit. We all fell into an untidy pile in the hallway. The front windows shattered. The whole farmhouse seemed to shake. I clung to Rick and waited for the walls and ceiling to bury us alive.

  After a second, I realised that wasn’t going to happen, at least not immediately. That last blast had felt close. Too close. ‘Quickly, the cellar.’ Glynis limped towards the door under the stairs. ‘The roof might collapse.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked Rick.

  ‘Yes, are you?’

  I nodded. Dust and dirt swirled through the broken windows and I could hardly see in front of my face. There was another deafening crash. The ground rumbled. I ducked down and Rick wrapped himself across me. Something was coming down … the barn perhaps?

  Rick guided me to the door and we hurried down the stone cellar steps to find Ivor, Peter and some other villagers who’d fled in this direction. Their faces were covered in grime, only white eyes staring expectantly up at us as we came down the stairs. Ivor pulled Glynis into an embrace and held her tight.

  After that all we could do was wait for the siren to stop, which it did about forty minutes later. An awful, awful forty minutes in which we said little, each imagining only the worst about what was happening above ground. Eyes wide in the gloom, we huddled together for warmth. I think I was in shock, I couldn’t stop shaking. Jane clung to me and, in turn, I clung to Rick. The pain in my knees was now a warm, dull ache.

  I feared that if the farm crumbled around our ears we’d be trapped down here, to die slowly as we ran out of air, but I thought it wise to keep such thoughts to myself.

  I thought about Bess and Doreen and Andrew. Where were they and had they reached a bunker? I tried to remember where I’d last seen any of them, but only remembered the first blast and the ensuing chaos.