‘Put on “Shaking the Shimmy”,’ Cyril said. ‘Jane, help me to brush up my two-step.’
It was very entertaining to see the Psammead putting the record on the turntable with his little paws, and winding the handle of the gramophone. Cyril danced with Jane, Robert danced with Edie, and Anthea danced with the Lamb (he refused to dance with anyone else). Cyril opened the French windows, and they danced through every record in the collection until the garden was grey-blue with dusk.
‘I like this machine,’ the Psammead said. ‘In my days as a desert god, I tried to shrink my palace orchestra to a tiny size – I wanted to put them in a box, so I could take them to picnics. But this invention is far more convenient.’
When it was properly dark and they were all breathless, Jane went to the kitchen to fetch lemonade. Then Anthea played ‘There’s a Long, Long Trail’ on the piano so that everyone could hear the Psammead singing. The solemn look on his face was so funny that they all (except devoted Edie) struggled not to offend him by laughing.
For the last chorus they all joined in:
There’s a long, long trail a-winding
Into the land of my dreams,
Where the nightingales are singing
And a white moon beams.
There’s a long, long night of waiting
Until my dreams all come true,
Till the day when I’ll be winding
Down that long, long trail with you.
When they heard the pony-trap in the lane, bringing their parents home, Edie carried the Psammead up to the attic.
He yawned and wriggled down in his soft sand. ‘What a day!’
‘Did you learn anything from the universe this time?’ Edie asked.
‘Hmmm, let me think.’ The Psammead yawned again. ‘There is something. That writing on the stone arch reminded me how hard – how very hard – wars are for the young. The old people only start them.’
He sank deeper into the sand and disappeared.
Twenty
TELEGRAMS
ON A BEAUTIFUL, STILL JULY morning, a few weeks after Anthea and the boys had gone, Mrs Trent from the post office rode her creaking old bicycle along the lane to the White House. She was bringing a telegram, and that was a dreadful thing these days; the girls at school who had lost their fathers whispered about the moment their worlds had ended when the telegram arrived. Lizzie the maid carried it into the dining room as if holding a bomb.
They were in the middle of breakfast; Edie and the Lamb were bickering mildly about the last half-inch of strawberry jam. The sight of the small brown envelope silenced them at once. For a few seconds there was a breathless quiet, like the moment when a glass teeters on the edge of a shelf before falling off and shattering.
Father took the envelope, ripped it open, and seemed to shrink.
‘Who?’ Mother cried out.
Father got up and put his arms around her; that was when Edie, Jane and the Lamb knew this was the news they had been dreading.
‘It’s Bobs,’ he said. ‘Killed in action.’
Mother let out a cry like a wounded animal.
And suddenly everything in the world was wrong.
Nobody went to school and Father stayed away from his office. He took Mother upstairs to their bedroom. Mrs Field, wiping her eyes, pulled down all the blinds, giving the house an underwater gloom. There was nothing to be done, but everyone seemed to be hanging about, waiting for something to do.
‘I want dreadfully to see the Psammead,’ Edie said, ‘but I’ve cried so much that he’ll only get cross.’
‘We should tell him as soon as we can,’ Jane said. ‘Just like they say you’re meant to tell things to bees – births and deaths – in case they swarm.’
‘Let’s wait for Panther,’ the Lamb said.
Anthea had sent a telegram saying that she was on her way home. She arrived late in the afternoon and everyone in the house was glad to see her. Though her eyes were red from crying, she was calm and kind, and seemed to drive away everything that was strange and frightening. She kissed Mrs Field and Lizzie, and took a cup of beef tea up to Mother and a glass of whisky to Father at his desk.
Later, when the still, hot dusk gathered over the garden and the fields beyond, Anthea came to the old nursery, where the others were waiting for her. For a long time they simply clung together. As the last gleam of sunset vanished, Jane lit the lamp and two fat moths immediately began to hurl themselves at the glass shade.
‘Dear old Bobs,’ Anthea said. ‘I can’t quite make myself believe it. A couple of weeks ago he was right here, throwing paper darts at my hair. How can he be gone if I can see him so clearly?’
‘We haven’t told the Psammead yet.’ Edie leaned against Anthea. ‘I just couldn’t bear to – saying it aloud makes it feel more real.’
‘He’ll be as glad as the rest of us to see Panther,’ Jane said. ‘Let’s tell him now.’ She scrubbed her face with her sleeve.
‘I’m the driest,’ the Lamb said sternly. He was stern because he’d spent the whole day trying to cry as little as possible; his heart was broken, but only girls cried. ‘I’ll go and get him.’
By the tiny flame of Edie’s night light, he went up to the attic and dug the Psammead out of his sand bath.
‘What? What’s going on?’
‘Wake up. This is an emergency.’
The Psammead’s telescope eyes came out properly. ‘Ugh, leave me alone. The air’s all soggy and painful with TEARS – the ends of my whiskers are AGONY!’
But he allowed the Lamb to carry him down to the old nursery. ‘Anthea! Why didn’t you tell me she was coming home?’ His eyes sharply scanned their faces. ‘Something has happened.’
Anthea told him about Robert.
There was a long silence, and Edie furtively went behind the bookcase to wipe her eyes.
‘But I don’t understand this,’ the Psammead said, ‘the universe was supposed to take ME first!’ A violent shudder ran through his furry body. ‘Lamb, please put me back in my bath – your tears are on the inside, but they hurt as much as anyone else’s – ow – OW! The TORMENT!’
‘Selfish little beast,’ the Lamb said furiously. ‘Is this the best you can do, when our brother’s dead?’
‘Dead?’ The Psammead was surprised. ‘But Robert’s not dead! Don’t you see? Mapeth was only lost, and the universe reminded me about him for a reason – he was found by his true love, the warrior maiden. Now kindly stop crying and LEAVE ME ALONE!’ He pulled in his eyes and hugged his limbs to his body.
Anthea took him back to his sand bath.
‘I’m not touching him again,’ the Lamb said through gritted teeth, ‘in case I get carried away and wring his disgusting little neck!’
*
Five days after that first, dreadful telegram, another one came. When Father read it, he let out a great shout and shoved it joyously at Mother.
This telegram said:
ROBERT ALIVE BUT BADLY WOUNDED STOP LETTER FOLLOWS STOP LILIAN WINTERBOTTOM
Twenty-one
WARRIOR MAIDEN
Letter from Lilian Winterbottom, Ambulance Depot,
Etaples, to Anthea Pemberton, July 1916
My dear old Ant,
I’ve written to your people but this letter is just for you; I can tell you the whole story because you’ve seen the same awful things as me, and you’ll be able to prepare them for the shock when Robert comes home. The poor old boy was hit by a fragment of shell on the first day of the Big Push on the Somme. His left cheekbone, eye socket and left eye were blown away. His other eye is still there but quite blind. The doctor told me his optic nerve has gone and he’ll never see again; they’re still waiting to see if there was any damage to his brain. He’s alive and that’s the main thing – but they mustn’t expect the same old Bobs.
I’m still reeling from the walloping luck of finding him. I’d just had Mother’s letter about Bobs being killed, and it made me so low that I nearly bunked off work for the
day. But I couldn’t when we’re so frantic – trainloads of wounded are coming in faster than we can get them to the hospital.
Oh, Anthea, it’s so terrible. I’m not surprised that Bobs got declared dead by mistake when everything here is chaos. The clearing stations at the front don’t have enough time or space to assess the wounded; they just bundle them all – British, French, German – onto the nearest hospital train, and many are dying or dead by the time they reach my ambulance. My job is to take them to one of the vast hospital encampments here at Etaples.
The dead ones go to the morgue (a grand name for a group of shabby tents) and the ones who are at the point of death go to one of the huts set aside for the ‘moribund’. Truthfully, they are the places I hate most in the camp. It would break your heart to see these boys moments from dying, with no familiar faces around them.
Anyway, I found Bobs when I delivered a patient to the moribund hut. I saw the name ‘Pemberton’ chalked on one of the little blackboards they have at the foot of each bed. And despite the fact that his head was covered with dressings and bandages, I knew my old pal at once. I’m afraid I forgot everything else for a moment. I ran to take his hand and started babbling at him in my usual madcap fashion (you’ll remember how I was always being sent out for chattering when we were at school). I simply refused to believe he couldn’t hear me and kept telling him over and over that I was there.
Then all of a sudden there was an officer looming over me – wearing a dog collar with his uniform, so I knew it was the chaplain. His name is Mr Ince and he’s a jolly good sort when you get to know him. He was frosty at first – I had to explain that I’d known Bobs for years, and he’d been declared dead.
He said, ‘All the same, you don’t belong in here.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘and neither does Lieutenant Pemberton! I’m not budging until he gets moved to a proper ward, because he’s not dying if I have anything to do with it!’
Mr Ince saw I was serious and fetched a ward sister.
She said, ‘I’m very sorry, but we’re desperately short of space and the other wards are for men who will live.’
‘He’s going to live,’ I said. ‘And I’m sticking right beside him.’
The ward sister pursed up her mouth and fetched a tired-looking doctor.
Tired as he was, he took a long and careful look at Bobs.
‘There’s no infection,’ he said. ‘No swelling of the brain and no fever – he might just have a chance.’
And he moved Bobs to a proper ward for the living, where he’ll have the very best care – I could’ve whooped and turned a cartwheel. I stayed with him until I’d seen him settled, then scooted back to the ambulance depot. Good old Mr Ince arranged to send my telegram to your parents, but I was in an ocean of hot water for deserting my post in the middle of a shift.
The moment I was free I borrowed a bike and went straight back to Bobs (which is amazingly against the rules but I don’t care). There are nineteen other men in his hut, all French. One of the VADs told me it made her wish she’d paid more attention at school; fortunately the other VAD had a French governess and does most of the translating.
The ward sister didn’t like me hanging around at first but I’ve worked hard at not getting in the way, and even lend a hand where I can – like everyone else, they’re run off their feet. And I make it perfectly clear to all and sundry that if they want me to leave they’ll need to find at least six able-bodied men to carry me out!
Truthfully, Bobs is not out of the woods yet. But I know he’s getting better. I sat up with him all last night and had my reward this morning when he squeezed my hand and said, ‘Hello, old bean.’
Joy and rapture! I could have cheered – but I surprised myself by starting to cry instead, and had to make sure my weedy tears didn’t fall where he could feel them.
Where there’s life there’s hope, as my mother would say, and for once I agree with her.
I’ll write again the minute there’s any change.
Chin up,
Lilian
‘HURRAH FOR OLD AIRY-FAIRY,’ Father said, with tears running down his cheeks. ‘Henceforth the name of Winterbum shall be held sacred in this house.’
‘That dear, good girl. She’s saved my boy’s life,’ Mother said.
After the horror of thinking they had lost him, knowing that Robert was alive was wonderful, like getting the greatest present in the world. The Lamb ripped off his black armband and (much to the annoyance of Mrs Field) threw it on the kitchen fire, where it burned with an awful stench.
‘I don’t want to sound smug,’ the Psammead said, with the utmost smugness, ‘but I told you so.’
Lilian’s letters from the hospital rained down at the rate of two or three a week. She spent every spare moment beside Robert, and reported every single hopeful change. The changes happened very slowly, but as the terrible summer of 1916 began to mellow into autumn, he got strong enough to send them messages, and was moved to another hospital further behind the lines. Lilian – to Mother’s delight – managed to get transferred to another unit, so that she could stay beside him.
‘I can’t recall the name of Mapeth’s warrior maiden,’ the Psammead said. ‘She was a big, strapping, healthy sort of girl – and she gave me a mighty telling-off for sending him to war in the first place.’
‘That was brave of her,’ Jane said, ‘considering the sort of things you did to anyone who disagreed with you.’
‘To tell the truth, I was genuinely sorry,’ the Psammead said. ‘I gave the two of them a very convenient little house beside the palace rubbish pit because I felt I owed them something. The universe teaches me that when people make sacrifices for their leaders, they deserve a little something in return.’
‘Gosh, that’s pretty much Father’s editorial in the latest Citizen,’ Jane said. ‘He says we can’t let our fighting men return to lives of poverty. They should have jobs that pay decent wages, and houses that aren’t slums. You must be turning into a socialist.’
‘Steady on,’ the Lamb said. ‘It was only a house beside a beastly rubbish pit.’
The Psammead drew himself up haughtily. ‘It was bright and airy – and a lot better than Mapeth’s old room in the palace. He was thrilled, and wrote a lovely song about my generosity.’
‘Because you told him to.’
‘Because the warrior maiden told him to,’ the Psammead said. ‘And she wasn’t the sort of girl you disobeyed.’
Twenty-two
A FORMAL INTRODUCTION
IN OCTOBER, CYRIL CAME HOME AGAIN. He was on sick leave after his left arm had been badly broken when a dugout collapsed on top of him.
‘I hate to say it was a piece of good luck,’ he told the others, ‘but the shameful fact is that we all pray for this sort of injury – just bad enough to get you sent home to mother, but without utterly wrecking you. The chaps call it “copping a Blighty”. My arm has brought me a jolly nice little holiday – it’s stupendous that I’ll be here to welcome good old Bobs.’
A postcard had come that morning, written by Lilian and signed at the bottom with a shaky letter ‘R’, announcing Robert’s homecoming the following afternoon. The next day the White House was in an uproar of excitement from early morning, and even though no one mentioned it, everyone was nervous about how Robert would look; he was blind, and Lilian had written that he was badly scarred. It was impossible to imagine.
‘I keep catching myself making plans for him,’ Cyril confessed. ‘Fishing trips and cycling, that sort of thing. As if everything was back to normal. And, of course, it won’t be. I think I’d go crazy if I couldn’t read.’
‘I’ll read aloud to him as much as he likes,’ Jane said. ‘And Father wants him to learn Braille.’ She added, to the Psammead, ‘That’s the method of reading for blind people – the words are raised dots they feel with their fingertips.’
‘Hmm, very clever,’ the Psammead said. ‘Like the gramophone, another example of how you humans get rou
nd your shortage of magic.’
All the children had come up to the attic to wait for Robert, away from their agitated parents.
‘It’s science,’ the Lamb said, ‘which is the human version of magic – and a lot more reliable.’
‘I wish Panther could be here,’ Edie said, for the umpteenth time.
‘She couldn’t leave her hospital,’ Jane said. ‘Half the other nurses have come down with influenza, and they’re rushed off their feet. And she says it’s awkward to be here when she hasn’t told Mother and Father about Ernie – though I’m sure Mother’s pretty much guessed there’s something going on.’
The sand fairy’s soft ears stiffened. ‘Your brother is coming. Please bring him to me as quickly as you can – I can’t settle properly until I’ve seen him.’ He vanished into his sand.
A moment later they heard the village taxi sputtering along the lane.
‘Bobs,’ Edie murmured. Now that the moment had come, she was almost scared of seeing him again, in case he’d changed too much.
They all ran downstairs. The front door stood open and Mother was outside, with her arms around a tall, spindly figure in a baggy khaki uniform, laughing and crying at the same time. Father hugged him, and then the taxi drove away, leaving a heap of luggage and one other person – a beaming young woman in a tweed coat and skirt and a lopsided felt hat.
‘Lilian!’ Mother kissed her. ‘Oh, my dear, we’ll never be able to thank you enough!’
‘You can thank me with a cup of tea and a slice of Mrs Field’s cake,’ Lilian said, ‘if such lovely things still exist.’ She gently took Robert’s arm. ‘Two steps up, old bean.’
Slowly, uncertainly, Robert walked back into his home. For one still moment, the others stared at him in silence. The first sight was a shock; he looked as if someone had taken a bite out of his head. What had been his left eye was now a huge, puckered scar that dragged one side of his face out of shape.
Five Children on the Western Front Page 16
