by Carol Rivers
Then as if a messenger from the gods arrived to announce the futility of a search, the open car door shuddered. A sudden gust of smoke-filled air covered them all in ash.
Daisy couldn’t ever remember quite how they all managed to scramble outside at once, but they did, scraping the thick grey dust from their clothes and coughing, so that the scene was simply chaos.
Daisy choked a breath and covered her mouth with her coat collar. This was - or rather - used to be, Grandma and Aunt Pat’s cottage. This ruin was once the family home that had stood for a century at least. It had existed through wind and rain and storms and freezing winters and sultry, scented summers.
The cottage was a place of safety and welcome, a retreat from a city that was slowly burning. Now, Wattcombe was on fire too.
Where were Aunt Pat and Grandma? They couldn’t be - she gulped, they couldn’t be there, under all that.
Chapter 61
Uncle Leo appeared, his hair and beard spattered with tiny particles of grey ash. Shaking his head, he confirmed he had found no one. Muffled sobs came from Mother, Aunt Betty and Aunt Minnie as they hugged each other.
‘It’s useless,’ he gasped. ‘There’s nothing left at the back, nothing at all. Just - just a jungle of burned shrubbery.’ He swiped his smarting, red-veined eyes. ‘And the air is like poison.’
‘Nothing?’ protested Mother. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Only the stove and that’s - well, mangled, I suppose you could say.’
This word made everyone gasp again. The stove was the heart of the cottage and had breathed warmth and life into its character. To think of it as mangled?
Daisy looked at Bobby who met her gaze and moved close beside her. She knew the shock was affecting him too. It was only Will who wandered off to the wood, apparently unconcerned.
‘Will, come here,’ barked Uncle Leo in an unusually stern voice. ‘It’s too dangerous to go out of sight.’
‘There’s big tracks,’ called Will, pointing to the ground. ’The Germans have captured Grandma and Aunt Pat and put them in a tank.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Uncle Leo impatiently. ‘I won’t tell you again. Come here.’
Daisy heard Aunt Betty inhale a sob. ‘Leo, when do you think this … this happened?’
‘Going by the warm embers, within the last twenty four hours, I reckon.’
‘But why didn’t someone alert us?’ protested Mother. ‘Why weren’t we told and why - ‘ she stopped as grief overcame her.
Daisy blinked back her own salty tears. Grandma and Aunt Pat’s cottage was just like the shattered buildings in London, completely unrecognisable. And worst of all was the thought she would never see Grandma and Aunt Pat again.
‘Do you think … do you think Grandma and Aunt Pat are under all that - ‘ she blurted to Bobby whose eyes were trained fiercely on the devastation. ‘Could they be … ’
‘How should I know?’ he bit back, but added more softly, ‘It does look bad, though.’
They watched Uncle Leo make another search, avoiding the glowing embers and leaping obstructions. Once again he disappeared into the haze and his voice echoed desperately as he called out for Grandma and Aunt Pat.
Everyone waited with bated breath, as if hoping for a miracle or at least, some indication that life had not been completely extinguished. Minutes later, he returned, shaking his head again and pushing his dirty hands over his face.
Daisy heard a pitiful whimper come from Mother. Then a choked howl from Aunt Minnie. They were the most heartbreaking sounds she had ever heard.
‘There’s a chance someone got them out,’ soothed Uncle Leo, in a not very convincing tone as he too, stood aimlessly to one side. ‘I mean, the cottage might have been empty when it happened - ‘
‘Mother’s never out,’ shrieked Aunt Minnie as tears glistened on her cheeks. ‘She’s not been well, Leo, you know that. And as for Pat, who hates even walking to the shops - ‘ Her cheeks flared scarlet as she fumbled for words.
‘But I - ‘ began Uncle Leo spreading out his arms. ‘I didn’t mean to - ‘
‘How could anyone survive this inferno?’ continued Aunt Minnie, hopelessly. ‘How could you possibly think it? We’ve got eyes, we can see … there’s not a chance - ’
Daisy watched her aunt suddenly crumple into Uncle Leo’s arms. He held her against him to soften her sobs, but Daisy could bear it no longer. She ran to her aunt and uncle, throwing her arms around them. Very soon, everyone was huddled together, trying to contain their shock and grief. Daisy tried not to imagine the terrible thing that had happened to her grandmother and aunt. Would they have suffered? Did they hear the bomb coming?
‘It was definitely the Germans,’ called Will. ‘They’ve taken Grandma and Aunt Pat prisoner.‘
‘Will!’ yelled Uncle Leo, turning impatiently to frown at his son. ’Come away from that mess.’
‘But Dad, look down there, the Germans have left their tracks.‘
Daisy watched Uncle Leo reluctantly peel himself away from the group and with defeated shoulders, amble across to where Will stood. ‘Why do you insist on spouting such rubbish, Will - ‘ he began, only to halt mid-sentence as he followed Will’s gaze.
‘See?’ said Will eagerly. ‘It’s the tracks of a tank.’
Uncle Leo went down on his haunches and examined the ground. ’Good grief, you’re right, Will. Not a tank, but certainly a large vehicle. And what’s that over there?’ He pointed to a clump of nearby bushes.
No one moved at first, but then there was a mad dash to look at Uncle Leo’s discovery.
‘It’s Mother’s!’ cried Aunt Minnie, grasping the ancient handbag. ‘I’d recognise it anywhere! She’s had it for years!’
‘You’re right,’ agreed Mother. ‘She never let it out of her sight.’
Will pointed to the half inch of white paper sticking out of the clasp. ‘It’s a ransom note from the Germans.’
This time no one told Will to shut up. Daisy watched Uncle Leo lift the bag gently. Shaking off the ash, he turned the rusty brass catch. With a click it opened. Inside was a pristine white sheet of Grandma’s favourite notepaper.
‘What is it?’ Aunt Minnie demanded as Uncle Leo drew it out with the tips of his dirty fingers. ‘What does it say?’
Slowly he looked up, his face expressionless. ‘They’re alive,’ he whispered. ‘Those tracks were left by a tractor - they’re with the Webbers.
‘Told you,’ said Will, looking smug. ‘But no one ever listens to me.’
Seconds later, it was another mad scramble to the car. This time, after piling in, Uncle Leo drove furiously back along the lane. As if, Daisy thought, they were being chased by Will’s imaginary tank. Mother and Aunt Betty insisted on supposing what might have happened to Grandma and Aunt Pat while Aunt Minnie lit a cigarette for Uncle Leo. Then Mother, who rarely ever smoked shook one from the packet too.
‘Did the note say they were both safe?’ Aunt Betty said again to Uncle Leo.
‘Was there anything about injuries?’ demanded Aunt Minnie.
‘Where’s the handbag? Did we leave it behind?’
Uncle Leo was about to answer but swerved the car to avoid a rabbit. Everyone flew forward, until they careered off again.
‘Is this the way to the farm?’
‘I think we missed the turning.’
‘I’m sure it was the other way … ’
‘We’d better turn back - ‘
‘It can’t be far from here!’
When Daisy saw the field where Vesta and Ida and Harry Lauder were still grazing, she remembered how she and Bobby had almost got lost in this very spot.
‘That’s the lane to the farm,’ she cried, pointing to the sandy track.
There was a united sigh of relief when the Webber’s farmhouse came into view.
Chapter 62
There were tears, embraces, sighs and tears again as Grandma and Aunt Pat were hugged and kissed to within an inch of their lives.
/> ‘It was a stray bomb from an aircraft two nights ago,’ Grandma explained as she tottered her way with Aunt Pat and Mrs Webber into the farmhouse parlour. ‘No one saw the culprit. We suppose the pilot must have been on his way back to Germany.’
‘Sit yourselves down,’ interrupted Mrs Webber as she fussed with the fire, piling on more logs. ‘You must be frozen. I’ll put on the kettle.’
‘It was the stove that saved our lives,’ explained Aunt Pat. ‘It broke down again and we’ve been living here at the farm ever since. Had we been inside the cottage, well, we shouldn’t be alive to tell the tale.’
‘But all your personal items, clothes and books?’ Aunt Betty asked sadly. ‘All gone, I suppose?’
Grandma nodded. ‘All gone. But bricks and mortar are replaceable. Lives aren’t.’
‘Mother kept our ration books and identity cards and a little money in her handbag,’ said Aunt Pat practically. ‘Though we emptied it of course before leaving it at the cottage with the note inside. We knew you’d be thinking of us and might even go against the government’s advice and risk driving down for Christmas. Bill tried to telephone Minnie just after the raid happened but there was no answer from the studio.’
‘We must have been at Betty’s,’ explained Aunt Minnie. ‘Our studio isn’t deemed safe to return to after a bomb dropped close by.’
‘London is having a frightful time,’ said Grandma with a little shudder. ‘I worry about you girls living in the city.’
‘But look at what’s happened to the cottage,’ pointed out Mother gently. ‘It’s not safe down here either.’
‘I’ve no intention of leaving Wattcombe,’ Grandma replied in an alarmed voice. ‘Pat and I will find a place to rent. Wattcombe is our home and I refuse to be forced out of it.’
‘But that won’t be easy in wartime,’ persevered Mother. ‘Nor will it be cheap. Won’t you give some thought to coming back to Betty’s?’
‘Heavens no!’ exclaimed Grandma indignantly. ‘It’s my belief that everyone should save for a rainy day. I have enough put by to see me and Pat all right.’
‘Do think again,’ pleaded Aunt Betty. ‘We’d love to have you with us - ’
Grandma shook her head fiercely. ’Very nice of you dear, but I don’t care for the city. Bill knows of a place to rent in the village. A small two-bedroom mews at the back of the shops. I’ve asked him to make enquiries on my behalf.’
Daisy watched keenly as her aunts all looked at one another in dismay.
‘Now, I’m sure we could do with another cuppa,’ suggested Mrs Webber. ‘I’ll top up the teapot.’
More tea was drunk and it was finally agreed - not at all to Daisy’s surprise - that for better or worse, Grandma should have her own way.
When Mr Webber returned from the dairy, a hearty supper was served in the kitchen. ‘Eat up, my dears,’ Mrs Webber invited as they sat down to yet another farm feast.
Daisy piled her plate high - almost as much as Will and Bobby piled theirs; thick slices of cold pork and hot boiled potatoes with a knob of butter. Crusty slices of real, home baked bread and Mrs Webber’s creamy trifle. Made with thick, buttery cow’s cream, probably Vesta’s or Marie’s or even Harry Lauder’s, the spongy, fruity flavoured jelly was lost under the fluffy white topping. Trifles were unheard of in London, but here on the farm, Daisy reflected, life seemed to have changed very little.
‘Now, we’ll sort out the sleeping arrangements,’ said Mrs Webber, getting up from the table and slipping off her pinny, she addressed her husband. ‘Bill, fetch the ladder for the attic.’
‘But you can’t put us all up,’ protested Mother. ‘You’ve been very kind, but I’m sure we’ll find lodgings in the village.’
‘I won’t hear of it,’ said the farmer’s wife sternly. ‘We’ve four beds upstairs and two mattresses in the loft and plenty of bedding. There’s put-u-ups for the two men and the children won’t mind sleeping in the parlour I’m sure. As for Christmas dinner tomorrow, Bill’s bringing in a fresh turkey and we’ve sacks of spuds and carrots in the store. I’m sure we can make an apple pie or two go round.’
‘Are you really certain?’ Aunt Betty asked again.
‘We’re used to entertaining at Christmas but our own Mark and Susan and their children won’t be coming this year, what with restrictions and all. Young company will fill the gap they leave.’
‘We do have a few groceries in the car,’ said Aunt Minnie eagerly. ‘Children, help Uncle Leo to carry them in.’
‘Before you go, son,’ Mr Webber said with a wink, turning to the cupboard and opening its doors. ‘Let’s see what our friend from the North Pole has delivered.’ Two bottles familiar to Daisy were placed on the table and each adult’s glass was filled to the brim.
Grandma’s medicine, Daisy decided, was very versatile indeed.
Daisy heard Mr Webber tread softly down the stairs in the early hours of Christmas morning and make his way to the kitchen. Soon after the kettle whistled, followed by the seductive smell of frying bacon.
A little later, the thought of breakfast was enough to rouse her from the couch where she had been sleeping. Mrs Webber had draped her coat, trousers and jumper over the fireguard a safe three feet away from the embers in the hearth. Dressing quietly, she tiptoed past the boys on their mattresses.
‘Morning, love. Happy Christmas,’ Mrs Webber greeted, as Daisy stole into the kitchen.
‘Happy Christmas, Mrs Webber. Bobby and Will are still asleep.’
‘That’s boys for you,’ smiled Mrs Webber, rolling her eyes. ‘Bill’s breakfast is done and dusted and he’s gone out to the cowshed. You’ll be needing a fry up.’
Daisy sat down to her breakfast; an egg with a juicy yellow middle sitting squarely on a slice of fried bread and topped with a crispy brown rasher.
‘We never have breakfast like this in London.’ Daisy mopped up her plate with a slice of bread.
‘Today’s special,’ said Mrs Webber, filling the toast rack. ‘Thought you and your family could do with a decent meal.’
‘Can I help milk the cows?’
‘Course you can, love.’
‘How do you pull their udders?’
‘Easy as eating pie, you’ll find.’
‘I want to be as good as Bobby.’
‘Well, seeing as you’re so keen, I’ll show you.’ Mrs Webber demonstrated with one of Mr Webber’s thick socks hanging on the airer. ‘You give ‘em a bit of a tickle first, like so. Cows like a tickle. Then cup your fingers round the teat gently but firmly, see?’ She waggled the sock. ‘Now pull. And don’t forget to aim in the pail or else you’ll get an eyeful.’
Daisy giggled and left the table. Mrs Webber pointed to the many pairs of boots lined up by the door. ‘Now put on them galoshes, whatever ones fit best and remember to do a wee in the privy on your way out. Once you get milking you won’t want to stop.’
Later that morning, Daisy was perched on a milking stool, her booted feet spread wide. Her warm cheek rested softly against Harry Lauder’s round belly. Harry was giving little shudders as if she was enjoying the technique that Daisy had quickly mastered. An occasional moo resonated in the echoey cowshed, followed by another and another, as if the cows were talking. Every now and then, Harry produced an extra generous squirt of rich, white milk into the pail. Daisy’s little fingers worked hard to maintain a rhythm as Mr Webber passed the stalls, a bucket in each hand. His floppy galoshes squelched in the smelly, mucky cow pats and he’d whistle a tune or sing.
‘We’ll make a farmer of you yet, my girl,’ he called encouragingly. ‘Your Pops will be proud of you.’
‘Am I better than Bobby?’
‘There’s not a jot between you.’
Daisy couldn’t wait to tell Pops what she had achieved, in spite of the war. Nurse Gwen had recommended a career in nursing. Mr Webber suggested farming. Mrs Hayes, a tea lady’s position. Mrs Jones, the music teacher, had praised her singing and Mrs Gardiner had delegated an entire
class of infants to her care! Though Daisy had once dreamed of a world adventure, the dream had somewhat faded. A little ache fluttered near her heart for Poplar Park Row. Was this homesickness, she wondered?
It was a surprise to Daisy that even though she could milk a whole herd of cows if challenged and even though she loved Wattcombe with its peaceful green fields and thick, wild woods - she had grown to love the city more.
Chapter 63
Christmas dinner was, as Mrs Webber had promised, a treat. The turkey and potatoes were browned and basted to perfection, the sprouts and beans drowned in real butter and the fruit cake smothered in homemade cream.
Everyone ate ravenously and not a scrap on their plates remained.
‘How can we ever thank you?’ said Mother as the table was cleared. ‘We must return the favour somehow.’
‘You’re Wattcombe folk,’ replied Mr Webber as he took a small box of cigars from the kitchen mantel, ‘and there will always be a welcome for you at the farm. As for you, Leo,’ he teased, ‘a true city type, you and me have got some smoking to do. Come along, bring your glass, let’s listen to the King’s speech.’
Daisy inhaled the smell of cigars and the faint aromas of the farm drifting into the partly open window, as they all gathered by the fire in the parlour. The ancient wooden wireless set in the corner was given an encouraging thump to bring it to life. Very soon the crackly strains of the national anthem could be heard.
Daisy felt a lump grow in her throat as she sat cross-legged beside Bobby and Will on the floor. When the King faltered, everyone held their breath as he wrestled with his stutter. But he overcame his difficulty and addressed the nation as the ancient radio set crackled. Daisy felt the overwhelming love and pride that filled the room as he spoke.
Christmas is for children, the King reminded the country and referred to the many British children who had travelled to members of the Commonwealth for safety. When he spoke about the meaning of separation, hankies were tugged from sleeves and mother’s hand crept towards Aunt Betty’s. She knew that Mother was thinking of Pops and Matt and Aunt Betty’s sad smile was for Uncle Ed.
