Five Children on the Western Front

by Kate Saunders

  ‘No – certainly not! The theatre is heaps nicer than church. Everyone wears their prettiest clothes.’ Edie had been trying to explain the outing to him for days. ‘I’ll be wearing my white party dress and my coral locket.’

  ‘I have to wear my school suit,’ the Lamb said, ‘but it’s worth it. Peter Pan is a topping play – it’s about a boy who wouldn’t grow up, and he can fly.’

  ‘It must be difficult to find flying actors,’ the Psammead said.

  The Lamb gave a snort of laughter. ‘They fly on wires and it looks like the most ripping fun. There are also pirates and red Indians, a gang of Lost Boys—’

  ‘And a fairy,’ Edie said. ‘But she’s just a light – you don’t really see her.’

  ‘How feeble!’ The Psammead yawned (Edie thought the Psammead’s yawns, when his mouth went from horizontal to vertical, awfully sweet). ‘I must get back to sleep – I’m utterly exhausted.’

  He had complained a lot about being very tired after their visit to Cyril, and Edie was worried about him. He was too weak for long conversations and he was having bad dreams again, but she was having trouble making the others take her worries seriously. As usual, she was the person who spent most time with him. The Lamb had got a new and splendid bicycle for Christmas, and he was busy cycling around the countryside with Winterbum. Jane and Robert were swotting for exams and buried in books. Anthea’s art college had been turned into a hospital for wounded officers, and she had thrown herself into extra first-aid classes. Edie thought they were hard-hearted. The Lamb said the Psammead was ‘just sulking’ because he didn’t want to repent, but Edie saw bewilderment in his drooping eyes, and lurking terror.

  ‘I need more strength,’ he said sadly. ‘A little of my power goes every day, and every day I get a little weaker.’

  ‘When Mother thinks I look tired,’ Edie said, ‘she gives me Benger’s Food. But that wouldn’t be much use to a sand fairy. Do you ever eat anything?’

  ‘Not for thousands of years, and then it was only sand. Have a nice time at the amphitheatre,’ he said and sank into his bath. ‘I hope your chariot wins.’

  ‘He’s so tired he thinks this is ancient Rome,’ Edie sighed to Jane when they were getting ready to go out. ‘He’s never been muddle-headed like this before. Suppose he’s ill? Would we call the doctor or the vet?’

  ‘I’ve told you,’ Jane said briskly, tying a ribbon around the end of her long plait. ‘He’s perfectly fine – I listened to both his hearts, and his temperature’s normal. I’m sure he’ll perk up. You mustn’t let him spoil a splendiferous evening.’

  Robert and Anthea couldn’t come to the theatre; Anthea said she was too old for Peter Pan, anyway. The party was made up of Jane, Edie and the Lamb, besides Cousin Geraldine and Mother and Father.

  ‘I’ll never be too old for Peter Pan,’ Father said as they were shown into their box at the theatre, with its velvet chairs and fascinating view of the stage. ‘Good grief, Gerry – what on earth are you wearing?’

  Cousin Geraldine was wrapped in a rich, fur stole; it was beautifully soft and smelled of roses, though it was rather spoiled, in Edie’s opinion, by being decorated with the dangling heads and paws of little creatures.

  ‘They look like weasels,’ Father said. ‘I feel like attacking them with a broom – do they bite?’

  Cousin Geraldine laughed and draped the fur over the arm of her seat – only a few inches away from Edie. Then the music started and the lights in the theatre went down, and Edie forgot about everything else.

  Peter was played by a famous actress, who was lovely but rather bosomy for a little boy. However, it was easy to ignore this in the dazzlement of the powerful stage lights and the excitement of seeing Peter and the children flying off to Neverland – ‘Second star to the right and straight on till morning!’

  It was even better when the Lost Boys (played by genuine children) appeared, soon followed by the high drama of poor Tootles shooting the Wendybird with his bow and arrow.

  It was after the interval that Edie saw something move beside her. She looked at Cousin Geraldine’s fur stole – and only just managed not to squeak aloud with shock. One of the dangling dead creatures had changed into a stout, brown sand fairy, now fast asleep on the floor. She nudged the Lamb, in the chair next to her. The Lamb nudged Jane on his other side.

  They all shot each other looks of alarm and mouthed at each other, ‘What shall we do?’

  The Psammead couldn’t be got rid of unless woken up, and they daren’t risk waking him in a crowded theatre, right under the noses of their parents. Edie carefully nudged her foot closer to him, so she could feel what he was doing.

  Nothing strange happened until the moment Tinkerbell the fairy was dying, and Peter asked the audience to ‘Clap your hands if you believe in fairies!’

  Jane, the Lamb and Edie clapped harder than anyone – as the Lamb said in Edie’s ear, ‘Impossible not to believe in fairies when you’ve got one sitting on your foot!’

  What happened next almost knocked them out of their seats with shock. A huge voice rang through the theatre, loud as thunder: ‘NOT ENOUGH! CLAP HARDER! BELIEVE MORE!’

  Amazingly, no one else in the theatre noticed anything strange, but they clapped and cheered so loudly that Edie covered her ears. Mother, Father and Cousin Geraldine clapped and roared and stamped their feet.

  ‘MORE! MORE!’ boomed the voice.

  It went on and on, until the whole building shook.

  And then it stopped, and the play carried on as if nothing had happened.

  ‘What’s the matter, darling?’ Cousin Geraldine leaned over to put her arm around Edie. ‘Don’t you believe in fairies?’

  Her fur stole, with its dangling dead animals, dropped to the floor. She bent to pick it up, and Edie’s heart was in her mouth – but Cousin Geraldine didn’t find the Psammead because, mercifully, he wasn’t there.

  ‘He’s gone!’ Edie whispered to the others, and they all sighed with relief.

  The rest of the evening passed without incident. They enjoyed the play, took a cab to the station and then the train back to Kent, where Field waited with the pony-trap. It was very late by the time they got home to the White House, and they were all supposed to go straight to bed.

  But, of course, Jane, the Lamb and Edie immediately dashed up to the attic.

  ‘I want to see that he’s still there and all right,’ Edie said, ‘but we mustn’t disturb him.’

  ‘I’d like an explanation,’ Jane said. ‘That wasn’t ordinary clapping – I thought the roof was going to cave in. And Mother and Father didn’t notice a thing.’

  ‘He’ll be too tired and weak—’ Edie began.

  In the candlelight they saw the Psammead sitting in the middle of his sand bath, looking anything but weak – he seemed decidedly pleased with himself.

  ‘That was marvellous – it’s made a new fairy of me!’ He was plump and sleek, his fur shone, and his telescope eyes bounced about like springs. ‘Let me tell you about the fearful and solemn experience I have been through.’

  ‘Not before I tell you about ours.’ The Lamb spoke quietly but with extreme firmness. ‘Look here, Psammead, I thought we’d settled these surprise appearances of yours.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You suddenly appeared in our box at the theatre!’

  ‘No I didn’t. I wasn’t anywhere near your theatre.’

  ‘You did!’ The Lamb was indignant. ‘And you did something mighty funny with the applause.’

  ‘Shh!’ Jane hissed. ‘Let him explain.’

  ‘Thank you, Jane.’ The Psammead was gracious. ‘After you’d all gone to the theatre, I felt so very feeble and ill that I wished and wished to die – and then I had a strange dream. I heard a voice that said I could have my health and strength if I gave in and agreed to start my programme of repentance.’

  His mouth stretched into a smirk, as if he expected to be thanked.

  ‘Er – good fo
r you,’ Edie said quickly. ‘But you won’t have to go away, will you?’

  ‘No, my dear Edie, it’s a correspondence course that I can do from the comfort of my own sand bath.’

  ‘What’ll you have to do? Just be sorry?’ the Lamb asked.

  ‘Yes, but that sounds too easy,’ the Psammead sighed. ‘At first, I was stubborn – I don’t like thinking of myself as a criminal, and I don’t like admitting that any of my past actions were wrong. But if I’m ever to find peace I must face up to one or two little incidents from my days as a desert god, and truly understand the suffering I apparently caused. The moment I gave in, the power poured back into me and I felt – as the Lamb would say – completely top-hole.’

  ‘But why did we see you at the theatre?’

  ‘I have no idea. I was in a dark chamber, where my strength poured back in a great roar.’

  ‘I think I sort of understand,’ Jane said. ‘It was the applause that gave you strength – ordinary applause wouldn’t have done anything. Don’t you see? Everyone was clapping because they believed in fairies! I bet that had something to do with it.’

  ‘So some sort of fairy worship still exists,’ the Psammead said. ‘Most gratifying! Any time I feel a little out of sorts, I simply need to find a performance of Peter Pan and I’ll be right as ninepence.’

  ‘But I don’t think he’s quite grasped the exact meaning of what he’s promised,’ Jane said, when they left the attic. ‘He still doesn’t get the first thing about being sorry.’

  Eleven

  HOSPITAL BLUE

  IN THE EARLY SPRING OF 1915 they saw Cyril properly, when he came home on leave. He brought a real German bullet for the Lamb and a little glass globe for Edie. Inside was a tiny model of a French village with a church, and when you shook it the globe filled with whirling snowflakes.

  The Psammead had never seen a snow globe and thought it was beautiful. ‘I only wish I’d owned such a thing in my days as a god! My dear Cyril, where did you find this exquisite treasure?’

  ‘It’s not exactly a treasure,’ Cyril said. ‘I was behind the lines in rest-billets, and I bought it in the local market. An old biddy had a whole tray of them – they’re doing a brisk trade in overpriced souvenirs over there. That town must’ve been a sleepy sort of place before the war. Anyhow, good luck to them. The French are having a rotten time of it, far worse than us. You should see how the Huns have ripped up their countryside. Harper says he’s fighting to stop them doing the same to ours.’

  When he talked about the war, which he hardly ever did, Cyril’s voice hardened and he seemed to be looking through them all, as if he’d left part of himself behind. Mother said he looked older and thinner, and Mrs Field tried to give him suet pudding at every meal to build him up. They wanted to lay on all sorts of entertainments for him, from theatres to parties, but Cyril was quite happy to spend the entire two weeks either sleeping, going out for long walks on his own, or sitting in the old nursery with his brother and sisters and the Psammead.

  Robert was in the middle of exams, but managed to dash home for Cyril’s last weekend. Though the children didn’t go on about it, being together again was wonderful. Edie thought the White House felt comfortably complete, like a person after a big meal.

  On the last day of his leave, which was warm and sunny, Cyril persuaded the Psammead to come out into the garden for a little fresh air. ‘I’m sure it’s not good for you to be stuffed in the attic all day – you’ll go mouldy.’

  The Psammead said he would do nothing of the kind, but agreed to the outing because he wanted to be nice on Cyril’s last day. The six of them went out directly after lunch, with the Psammead riding cosily inside Cyril’s big tweed coat.

  Cyril found it easier to talk about the war when they were out in the open. He told them about the truce they’d seen when they visited him on Christmas Day, which had spread for miles along the lines. ‘My chaps just did a bit of shouting and singing, but some were out in No Man’s Land playing football with the Huns, and giving them Red Cross chocolate. It couldn’t last long, of course – or the whole war would have started to look absolutely silly.’

  ‘It is silly,’ sniffed the Psammead. ‘All those men dying, for the sake of a few yards of mud!’

  Cyril smiled. ‘Since when have you cared about men dying?’

  ‘I didn’t WASTE my own soldiers. I was very thrifty and only killed prisoners.’

  ‘Oh, Psammead, how refreshingly awful you are! We don’t kill prisoners these days.’

  ‘You don’t? What do you do with them? Good gracious – is this ANOTHER thing I have to repent about?’

  ‘I took some prisoners once,’ Cyril said, looking ahead at a line of poplar trees. ‘I stumbled on four German officers who didn’t realise their trench had been overrun. I don’t know which of us was more surprised. I felt far too polite to shoot them – luckily they decided to surrender, and I took them back to our lines for tea. They were rather decent.’

  ‘Decent!’ the Psammead sniffed. ‘What kind of war do you call this? You’re supposed to HATE the Germans.’

  ‘There are too many of them to hate individually,’ Cyril said. ‘They’re only following orders.’

  ‘Is that where you got my bullet?’ the Lamb asked. ‘Yes, it was in one of the guns I took off them.’

  ‘My hat – wait till I show Winterbum! What happened to your prisoners?’

  ‘I don’t know. I expect they’re in a camp somewhere. Sometimes I think they’re well out of it.’

  ‘My dear Cyril,’ the Psammead said, ‘I’ve tried out all sorts of wishes to keep you at home, but none of them worked. It looks as if you’ll have to go back.’

  Cyril smiled. ‘Of course I’m going back! The beastly bits are horribly beastly, but the war’s sort of at the centre of reality. It’s impossible to be anywhere else.’

  ‘Yes, it’s looking that way,’ Robert said. ‘I won’t be able to duck out for much longer.’

  They were all quiet.

  ‘Don’t rush into anything,’ Cyril said. ‘You might be too much of a weed to pass the medical.’

  Robert was serious. ‘You know the government’s talking about conscription.’ He added, to Edie, ‘That’s when they force people to join the army if there aren’t enough volunteers. I’ll join up before they have to force me. I’m already doing army drill three times a week, with what’s left of the Officer Training Corps at my college – and you’re right, we’re a rather wet-looking bunch of remnants. Our ancient sergeant calls us things I can’t repeat in front of girls or sand fairies.’

  ‘Back in my days of divinity,’ the Psammead began, ‘When I ruled the—’

  ‘NO!’ the Lamb groaned rudely. ‘I don’t want to hear another thing about your blood-soaked reign – it’s a waste of Squirrel being here. We want to hear about the REAL war.’

  ‘I BEG your pardon?’ The Psammead’s eyes telescoped back into his furious face.

  ‘Please, please don’t be offended!’ Edie cried out. ‘Don’t go into one of your huffs!’

  ‘Lamb, you have grown up into a very IMPUDENT boy. I was simply trying to chat with your brother, warrior to warrior.’ The Psammead cancelled his huff; he wanted to make the most of Cyril’s leave as much as anyone. ‘People at home can’t imagine what it’s like to fight a war. But I understand.’

  ‘I rather doubt that,’ Cyril said. ‘Wars have changed a bit since your day.’

  ‘Wars never change – they’re still basically two sides trying to kill each other.’

  ‘Yes, but your army didn’t have modern weapons. One of our machine guns could see off the whole lot of them in about thirty seconds.’

  ‘We shouldn’t spoil your leave talking about the war,’ Anthea said, taking Cyril’s arm.

  ‘I don’t mind. There are one or two good things about life at the front – my boys, for instance, the best bunch you ever saw. I’d walk through fire for every single one of them. And I’m looking forward to seeing good
old Harper again. We’ve planned a slap-up dinner at the Criterion before we catch our train.’

  *

  It was much harder to say goodbye to him this time. Mother put her hands on his shoulders and looked into his face. ‘I feel as if you’re only half here – as if most of you had already gone back.’

  He kissed her. ‘Don’t fret, Mother – I’m always incredibly careful.’

  The house was as flat as a burst balloon when he’d gone, and worse when Robert went back to Cambridge the next day.

  Father shook Robert’s hand. ‘Don’t make up your mind about the army until you’ve talked to me.’

  ‘They won’t be interested in Bobs,’ Mother said; she refused to believe it was possible that anyone would expect to take away another of her sons. ‘Not with his eyesight, and he’s never been strong.’

  ‘Anyway, it can’t go on much longer,’ Father said. ‘The spring offensive should sort things out.’

  This was the sort of thing people were saying now when they wanted to sound cheery, but even Edie had stopped believing it. Whatever an ‘offensive’ was, more and more men were dying; the newspapers ran long lists of the dead and wounded. In Edie’s class at Poplar House, Agnes the bully had lost her youngest uncle, and kind Miss Poole her brother. So many people wore black clothes and armbands wherever you looked.

  ‘I was so sorry for Agnes that I gave her one of my toffees,’ Edie told the Psammead during their afternoon session in the attic. ‘Poor thing, her eyes were swollen up like golf balls from crying. Miss Poole hasn’t come back yet, because she has to take care of her mother. There are so many sad people nowadays that sadness looks normal.’

  ‘Careful!’ The Psammead sank deeper into the sand. ‘Not thinking of crying yourself, I hope.’

  ‘Oh, stow it – I’m not crying.’ Edie was less perfectly polite to him these days. ‘What about your own tears, anyway – do they hurt too?’