by Cathy Gohlke
“Claire? What do you think? Could you spare these young soldiers for an afternoon or so?”
“Yes! I mean, I think that could be arranged.” Claire sighed in apparent relief. “I’m fresh out of ideas to keep everyone bus—productively employed since the school holidays began.”
“I don’t suppose David will be home in time to supervise?”
“Herr David is consumed with his most vital war work at the factory,” Josef spoke knowingly. “He would be most useful in helping to fortify the grounds, but he is not here. Do not worry, Frau Langford; we will protect you. We will not let you down.”
Gaston nodded in full support, a thing so rare even Josef blinked.
Aimee whispered, “May I help? I can do something, can I not?”
Josef straightened. “It is you most of all, Aimee, that we wish to protect. But you may bring us sandwiches.”
The little girl flushed with pleasure, while Elise huffed in disgust.
Five hours later, Mrs. Newsome witnessed two weary, mud-covered boys creep through the kitchen door and down the hallway to the stairs, carefully avoiding Mrs. Creedle and her spotless tiles. She’d heard them stash their spades and surrender their muddied boots to Mr. Dunnagan outside the back door, promising to scrub both down after tea.
“Well now, young soldiers, how are the fortifications coming?” Mrs. Newsome could not resist the tease.
“It will take us a day or two more,” Josef avowed, “but we should finish before the invasion, wouldn’t you say, Gaston?”
“Oui, Hitler and his minions will not get past us; this is certain!”
Mrs. Newsome’s mouth dropped open as they marched up the servants’ stairs. Not only had the two rivals spent an entire afternoon out from underfoot without creating mischief, but they’d apparently become comrades in arms, as well. Will wonders never cease? She clucked her tongue as she headed upstairs with the teapot. War certainly makes the strangest bedfellows.
David was home in time for tea, cause for rejoicing by all the children, big and small. Claire counted herself among the jubilants.
“How is the project coming, David?” Aunt Miranda wanted to know.
“The canteen’s finished. They’re working on the hangar now—almost ready. It will be a while before staff can be housed on site.”
“Good.” Aunt Miranda flushed. “I mean only that we don’t want you to leave. There, I’ve said it.”
“None of us want you to leave, Monsieur David.” Jeanine was nearly breathless. Claire realized for the first time the girl’s affections might be more than platonic. And why wouldn’t she be head over heels for him? He’s dashing and kind.
David smiled. “I’m in no hurry to go. It’s nice to be where I’m welcomed. Being an American here is as foreign as—”
“As being French?” Bertram suggested.
“But not the stench to the English as being German,” Peter said more quietly. Franz nodded soberly.
David tousled Franz’s hair. “It’s good to be war misfits together, isn’t it?”
Franz grinned.
Claire marveled again at the easy way David had with the children.
“Say, what’s for entertainment tonight?” David rubbed his hands together.
“Mademoiselle Claire is beginning a new book, Great Expectations!”
“Ah, Dickens, always a favorite.”
“Oui! We know his stories in France.” Bertram took a seat across from David.
“And what’s the news here today? I’m behind on the home front.”
Claire caught the quick exchange between Josef and Gaston, but contrary to their natures, neither boasted of their anti-invasion plans. David apparently saw the guilty glance between the boys as well.
“They’ve been digging Hitler holes,” Elise reported in the spirit of tattling.
“Digging what?” Aunt Miranda looked as puzzled as Claire.
“That reminds me: I ran into Ed Foley today,” David moved on.
Josef lit up like a Christmas tree. “Did you know that there are now thirty members of the Home Guard in the Lake District? That is, thirty adult members. Gaston and I have formed the youth brigade. We will be ready, as soon as we are called, to join forces with Sergeant Foley and his men.”
“Oui!” Gaston refused to be outdone. “They have four speedboats, two houseboats—all equipped with machine guns!” The boys turned to one another, raising imaginary guns in imaginary combat. “Rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat!”
“Boys!” Mrs. Newsome yanked both their ears, setting off yowls.
“Yes,” David said slowly, “he said to tell you boys to stay out of the tunnels by the lake.”
“Lake Windermere?” Aunt Miranda gasped. “What on earth were you doing way over there? What tunnels?”
Now Gaston and Josef quieted, ducking their heads.
“Apparently there are tunnels no one is supposed to know about. But our explorers—”
“Anti-invasion team. We are the Youth Anti-Invasion Team,” Josef insisted.
“The Youth Anti-Invasion Team has apparently been spying on the Home Guard, whose work and training are meant to be top secret, according to Sergeant Foley.”
“We were not spying on the Home Guard.” Josef stood, planting fists in his hips. “We were in training ourselves, and helping them by clearing hooligans out of the air-raid tunnels and secret pits.”
“Hooligans?” David sounded skeptical.
“Oui, courting couples—kissing in the tunnels,” Gaston spat in disgust. “We shone our torchlights on them and chased them away. They should not place our Home Guard at risk by discovering tunnels and revealing them to their lovers. They could be followed there. There are spies everywhere; that is what Sergeant Foley said!”
Following the first enticing chapter of Great Expectations, after the children were all tucked in for the night, David asked Claire to join him and Lady Miranda in the library.
“Foley’s quite concerned about the boys’ antics. They bring attention to things the Home Guard’s not wanting to publicize; they’re deeply concerned there may be German sympathizers in the area. Between the prisoner escapes from Grizedale Hall and the recent bombing near Troutbeck, there’s concern that communications from the area are reaching Germany, and that our factory may have been targeted. Of course, it might have been nothing more than a returning flier jettisoning his bombs, but fear of invasion is extremely high now.”
“I had no idea they’d even left the property; had you, Claire?”
Claire shrugged, shaking her head. “I knew they were outdoors most of the day, but they mentioned spying on courting couples—does that mean they’re sneaking out at night?”
David shrugged in return. “Could be anytime, especially in this summer weather. The tunnels, after all, are dark. But I take it from Foley that this was not their first offense. He’s convinced they’re trying to prove themselves patriots, but it’s got to stop.”
“I can’t keep track of them all.” Claire spread her hands. “I’ll try to do better, but even with insisting they help with some domestic chores, I don’t know how to keep them all busy or under observation at once. September and school are not exactly around the corner. I can’t keep them sitting at a table or under lock and key.”
“No,” David said, “but I’ve had an idea.”
“Anything,” Aunt Miranda begged.
“They need friends.”
“They have a houseful to plot and scheme with. Isn’t that part of the problem?”
“No disrespect, ma’am, but they need friends from the village. You heard them tonight. They see themselves as outcasts. If they made friends with the village kids, they could join in community efforts—paper drives, scrap collections, truly helpful efforts for the war that they’re only playing at now.”
“Or getting into trouble with,” Claire agreed.
“Exactly.”
Aunt Miranda shook her head. “I don’t see how they’ll do that with sc
hool closed. Not one family has invited any of these children to their home. You know how most of them feel about the French. They’ll not tolerate Germans, and even though they pity the Jews, they don’t trust them. I’m afraid our children are blacklisted at every turn.”
“I heard you tell Elise the other day that the way to have a friend is to be one.”
“My mother used to say that to my sister and me.” Aunt Miranda smiled.
“So, be friends to the community children. Invite them here.”
“Here?”
“Why not? A school chum or two to start. It can’t hurt, and if you invite them for a meal, well, no mother is going to turn down the chance to have her child eat off somebody else’s ration book.”
“But what would we have them do?” Claire nearly cried. “I really don’t think I can keep track of more.”
“Confine Gaston and Josef to the grounds. Tell them they can work out their war tactics as long as everything is focused on keeping Bluebell Wood safe, that they’re our very own Home Guard. If I don’t miss my guess, that will keep their imaginations and new friends busy for quite a while. Maybe, in time, some of the other kids’ mothers will reciprocate.”
Aunt Miranda sighed. “I hope you’re right.”
“It was a good plan, in theory.” Mrs. Newsome determined not to make her ladyship feel worse. She kept a tight hold on the ears of Josef and Gaston as she dragged them into the library and before their tribunal. “Asking the vicar’s son first was just the right diplomacy, if I do say so myself. We simply had no idea the number of holes these boys could dig, or that the vicar’s wife would cross the garden with her beef tongue aspic rather than keep to the road.”
“They’re Hitler holes, Madame Newsome,” Gaston insisted. “Intended to catch parachutists and members of the invading army. They were never intended to catch English vicars’ wives, or beef tongue aspic.”
Josef shuddered. “I’m glad we didn’t have to eat it.”
Gaston kicked him.
“But tripping her into a four-foot hole is just what they did, now isn’t it?” Mrs. Newsome fumed.
“How bad is it? Did she sprain her ankle? Oh, I hope not!” Lady Langford wrung her hands.
“Broke it clean, my lady. Dr. MacDonald’s plastering a cast even as we speak.”
“Ohhh, noooo,” Lady Langford groaned.
“I suppose it could be worse,” Gaston observed as he shoveled dirt into the very hole he’d dug out and so carefully camouflaged with branches, leaves, and a light layer of soil that morning. “I suppose Madame Langford could have court-martialed us.”
“Ja, that would be worse,” Josef agreed. “But now . . . this is a waste of our labor. How will we catch Nazis now? We’ve no weapons to speak of . . . only these protective strategies. Women do not grasp such things.”
“We could not very well have posted signs: ‘Keep off the grass. Watch for Hitler holes.’ That would have alerted the enemy.”
“Ja, ja. The English take down their road signs and village postings for the same reason, but they take offense when one civilian is injured because we have done something crucial to save them.” Josef threw down his spade and wiped his brow. “Ha! I heard from the vicar’s son that more English pedestrians are injured or killed on the motorways now than before the war.”
“The blackout—no headlights,” Gaston agreed. “It is a thing most dangerous.”
Josef picked up his spade again and the boys dug in silence.
Shortly before noon, Elise, trailed by Aimee, appeared with a thermos of tea and two sandwiches wrapped in brown paper. “Madame Creedle sent these. She says you are to eat out of doors and get back to work.”
“I didn’t want to go in anyway,” Josef huffed.
“Exiled,” Gaston moaned. “Will we be allowed in for tea?”
“Only if you’ve finished filling in the holes. Madame Langford said to tell you that she’s paid a visit and apologized profusely to the vicar’s wife, and that you must begin weeding the vicar’s garden first thing in the morning, including all the paving stones on the pathway to the church.”
“The paving stones! That’s a quarter mile if anything!”
“Exaggeration won’t help.” Elise shook her head. “You’ve brought it on yourselves, you know. Still, it is a pity, and I am sorry for you.”
“Merci, Elise, that is kind of you. I, too, am sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry for me.” Josef threw back his shoulders. “I’m not sorry—not one small bit—about digging the holes. It was a good idea. They’ll be sorry we’ve filled them in when the invasion comes.”
Elise shrugged. “Perhaps, but those are the orders from above.” She smiled sweetly at Josef. “But I am glad you’re here, Josef. I know I am safe with you.”
Gaston glanced between Josef and Elise and back again. “Ooh la la!”
Elise did not bop him on the head, but smiled again at Josef, then turned on her heel, head raised high, and walked back toward the house, Aimee following behind.
“She’s sweet on you, Josef!”
“Ja, well, I cannot help that. It is nothing to me.” Josef tore into his sandwich.
“I wouldn’t mind Elise being sweet on me,” Gaston said regretfully, “though I would much prefer the affections of Mademoiselle Claire.”
“There is no time for such things. We must think again how to prevent the invaders.” Josef set down his sandwich, eager to take Gaston’s mind off of Fräulein Claire. After all, he had his own sights set on that special lady.
Chapter Twenty-Two
BY MID-JULY Claire was at her wits’ end.
The vicar’s wife had proven more than gracious, all things considered, but the congregation’s leading gossips had erupted in fury over the “conspiracies of foreigners.” Not another invitation to Bluebell Wood had been accepted by village mothers on behalf of their sons or daughters. Claire walked on eggshells, all but pleading with the children to help forge peaceable relations with the villagers, until she learned that when given increased freedom for the summer, Elise and Ingrid had joined two local girls in spying on Mrs. O’Reilly, certain the arthritic old Irish lady was a conspiring member of the IRA. The girls had watched her mail, followed her, listened to her conversations in town, keeping track of her purchases and whereabouts, and even been seen listening beneath her window. Mrs. O’Reilly’s tearful telephone call to Bluebell Wood made Claire’s humiliation complete.
“I’m so very sorry, Mrs. O’Reilly. Yes, you’re absolutely right. They have no call to do any such thing. I’ll speak with our girls right away. I promise you they will apologize and never do that again.” Claire pleaded for understanding, pulling out the foreign-orphan-and-war-victim cards she’d mentally vowed never to use.
That night, after the BBC wireless news and the latest reading of Pip’s encounter with Miss Havisham in Great Expectations, with all the children safely abed, Claire met with her aunt and David in the library. Dr. MacDonald stopped by, late from his evening rounds, and joined the conversation.
“The trouble, I daresay, is that our locals still see all of you as the enemy. Being Jewish and that fiend’s victims in this war has not elicited the sympathy one might rightfully expect among many of the villagers, I’m that sorry to say, even though they be children.”
Aunt Miranda sighed. “I’d just hoped for better things and better attitudes . . . from everyone. And I’d not anticipated the antics all these children get up to.”
“You wouldn’t be so surprised if you knew the antics of your own lad at that age.”
“No, I suppose not. In those days I would have been mortified.”
“Now ye’d relish the laugh, I’ll wager.”
“Aye, Raibeart MacDonald, I would.” She smiled a comrade’s smile.
“If that’s the trouble,” David mused, “if they see us as the enemy, we must join forces with them.”
“I’m not so sure your idea of making friends with the locals was the best,” Cl
aire worried. “You can see what our gang did with that!”
“Not friends, not chums, exactly—more like allies in the fight against evil.”
“So you said before—more or less,” Claire reminded him.
“Out with it, friend. I’ve come to expect outlandish but suspiciously sound doctrine from ye.” Dr. MacDonald exaggerated his brogue.
David grinned. “What is the thing that the village and everyone here is united in?”
“The war against Hitler, against the Nazis,” Aunt Miranda went along.
“And what do the locals do that we don’t do here at Bluebell Wood?”
“We’re already rationing like everyone else. We’re digging victory gardens,” Aunt Miranda defended.
“Not to mention ‘Hitler holes,’” Claire huffed. “We’re sharing the school with the village, just like all the English evacuees.”
“Those are homeland preservation activities,” David urged.
“But not activities that unite us in fighting the war, to bring fathers and brothers and sons home.” The doctor nodded. “I see where you’re headed.”
David leaned forward in enthusiasm. “The village children, the families, are collecting fats and scrap metal. They’re hosting or supporting fund-raisers—dances, sing-alongs, plays, orchestrations. All sorts of things to raise money for Spitfires and ambulances. The local Women’s Institute—including Mrs. Newsome—are knitting their fingers to the bone making mittens and socks and helmet caps.”
“I’ve tried, but I’m the worst knitter in the village.” Aunt Miranda frowned. “I was all but expelled from the church knitting group for newborns years ago.”
“But what you do have is the most interesting grounds far and wide. The mazes here, the orchards, and the unusual layout of the gardens and wooded acreage are amazing.”
“The perfect backdrop for . . .” The wheels in Claire’s head began to turn. “I think I see where you’re going too.”
“Invite the enemy into the camp?” David grinned.
Dr. MacDonald took out his empty pipe and tamped it. “Rather like the MacDonalds offering hospitality to the Campbells and finding themselves slaughtered in their beds, isn’t it?”
