by Janet Tanner
‘Not until March. I’ve really only just found out about it but I couldn’t wait to tell you. I feel like shouting it from the rooftops but you can’t do that sort of thing, can you?’
‘No.’ Charlotte cast a shrewd glance at Margaret’s slim, almost boyish figure. ‘What will you do about work?’
‘I think I can carry on until Christmas. Then I’ll have nearly three months to rest and exercise and make all the preparations.’
Charlotte smiled wryly. Rest and exercise! That was the modern way for you! In the old days it had been work work and more work right up until your time.
‘Well, good luck to you,’ she said. ‘Hey look – here comes Peg back from market. You’ll be wanting to book her up for when your time comes I dare say.’
A plump fair-haired woman had turned the corner of the Rank carrying a laden shopping bag. Peggy Yelling was as old as Charlotte but somehow managed to look younger – because she had had fewer children, Charlotte thought. It always came back to the same thing …
‘No, don’t say anything to Mrs Yelling yet,’ Margaret said swiftly. A faint rosy colour had come up in her cheeks.
‘Oh, why’s that then?’ Charlotte asked.
‘Because – well, I might not be having the baby at home,’ Margaret said awkwardly.
‘Oh! Not have it at home?’ Charlotte was startled. ‘Why ever not?’
‘Because … well I just might not,’ Margaret said defensively. ‘Don’t say anything to her about it, please.’
Peggy was almost within earshot now and Charlotte was unable to question her further though she was determined to get to the bottom of it as soon as they were alone again.
‘Morning, Peg,’ she called. ‘Nice morning.’
Peggy stopped, propping up her shopping bag against the leg of the wooden bench.
‘Weather’s nice, yes. I don’t know that the news is so good.’
‘Oh, what do you mean by that?’
Peggy took a handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped her perspiring forehead.
‘Well – this war. It’s going to come, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s a lot of bluff. They’d never be that silly would they?’ Years of living with James had endowed Charlotte with some of his simple optimism.
‘The Territorials have been called up,’ Peggy said. ‘One of the doctors from South Compton is gone and that Conservative chap they say is going to be our next MP when Mrs Lincoln gives up. All his meetings have been cancelled. There’s notices up all over the place. And now they’re calling for men between forty-five and fifty-five to join the TA. When they start wanting the old’uns you can bet it’s serious.’
In the moment’s silence that followed the chimes of the town clock striking eleven carried up across the valley in the clear morning air.
‘Well, I’m going to look on the bright side,’ Charlotte said stoically. ‘Look, Peg, it was bad enough last time, wasn’t it? And this would be ten times worse. They reckon there’ll be bombing and gas attacks. Well, nobody could be fool enough to start something like that, surely?’
‘They must think it’s going to come though – to the cities anyway,’ Margaret said. Her face had gone serious. ‘That’s why they’re starting evacuations.’
‘Yes, I heard about that.’ Peggy finished mopping her brow and tucked her handkerchief back into her pocket. ‘There’s some coming here, isn’t there? I was reading about it in the paper yesterday.’
Margaret nodded. ‘They are expecting five train-loads in Bath today and some of them will be sent out here to Hillsbridge. Mum’s Womens’ Committee is involved with looking after them when they arrive and I’m supposed to be helping out. It will be quite a job finding them all somewhere to stay, and it won’t only be the children but mothers with young babies as well.’
‘However will you manage?’ Peggy asked.
‘We shall just have to find people willing to take them,’ Margaret said. ‘We’ve been drawing up lists, but I don’t think we’ve got enough. Actually, I thought of you for one, Mum. It’s something else I wanted to ask you about. You’ve got a spare bedroom, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, but I like to keep that in case our Jack and Stella want to come up and stay – or one of the grandchildren.’
‘It’s not going to be easy, I know, but I’m afraid we’re all going to have to make some sacrifices before it’s over,’ Margaret said.
Charlotte bristled. ‘What about your mother? She’s got room for a couple up there, hasn’t she?’
‘Yes, she’s already promised to take at least one, perhaps two,’ Margaret said and Charlotte felt a moment’s irritation. Trust Gussie Young. She always had been a bit of a do-gooder. Charlotte herself, though more than willing to do whatever was necessary to help her own children, had always been inclined to feel that charity should not only start at home but also stop firmly at the back door.
‘The authorities are sending some provisions with the evacuees,’ Margaret went on. ‘Enough tinned meat and milk and biscuits to last over the weekend so you need not worry about whether you’d have enough in your larder.’
This made Charlotte bristle afresh.
‘It wouldn’t be that that would worry me. I always keep a good table, you should know that. It’s just that I don’t fancy taking in strangers. Especially Londoners. Your house wouldn’t be your own.’
Peggy retrieved her shopping bag.
‘Oh well, no sense worrying about it. But if you’re really stuck I might be able to take one. If our Colwyn clears all his junk out of the small room that is.’
‘Thanks, Mrs Yelling. I’ll remember that,’ Margaret said gratefully.
Peggy set off along the Rank towards her own house and Charlotte stared after her feeling vaguely betrayed.
‘I should have thought that was the last thing Colwyn would want,’ she said tartly. ‘A strange child in the house. You know what his nerves are like. Now then, Margaret, you were just telling me about the baby when Peggy came along. You might not be going to have it at home, you say? Why ever not? There’s nothing like being at home, I say. You wouldn’t get me into a hospital, I can tell you …’
Before she could go on Peggy, who had reached her own door and gone inside, re-emerged, gesticulating wildly.
‘Lotty! Quick – go and put your wireless on!’ she called. ‘Mr Chamberlain is going to make a broadcast!’
Charlotte and Margaret looked at one another, dawning apprehension reflected in their eyes. Then they ran into the house.
‘What be going on?’ James asked, startled.
‘The wireless – Mr Chamberlain is going to make a broadcast!’ Charlotte bustled over to the set, turning the knobs and twiddling. ‘Oh come on, come on! Why does it take so long for this thing to warm up!’
A few crackles of static seemed to answer her then the voice of the Prime Minister filled the room, solemn and overlaid with tones of foreboding.
When he had finished they remained silent for a moment or two. They had expected it, even Charlotte in spite of her protestations to the contrary. But now it had happened they were stunned by the enormity of it.
‘So, that’s it then.’ It was James who broke the silence, his wheezing voice almost as solemn as Neville Chamberlain’s had been. ‘We’m at war.’
‘Yes,’ Charlotte said. ‘God help the boys who will have to fight it.’
‘God help us all.’
Through the open window they heard voices. ‘Have you heard the news? We’re at war! We declared war on Germany at eleven o’clock. Mr Chamberlain just broadcast…’ Up and down the Rank people called to one another and eyes searched the skies as if expecting to see the first German bombers with their cargoes of death. Margaret picked up her bag.
‘I’d better be going. Maybe the evacuees will be here sooner than we think.’
‘All right, Margaret. When shall we see you and Harry?’
‘I don’t know. Now … I don’t know anything now …
’ She sounded as if she were in a state of shock and Charlotte for once was unable to argue.
‘Take care then. Come when you can.’
It was only when she had gone that Charlotte realised she had never got to the bottom of why Margaret was not having her baby at home. Events had overtaken her. What had seemed so vitally important a few short minutes ago had ceased to have more than the slightest significance. Mr Chamberlain had broadcast and the world had turned upside down.
‘Oh my Lord!’ Charlotte said shaking her head. ‘Where do we go from here?’
Her only reply was James muttering as he always had done in moments of crisis. ‘Never mind, m’dear. Never mind. Worse things happen at sea …’
And Charlotte, still shocked, was unable to keep a sharp response from springing to her lips.
‘Oh, for goodness’sake, don’t you understand? We’re all at sea
this time!’
Although Hillsbridge, along with the rest of the country, had been rocked to its very foundations, very little seemed to happen that first weekend when England was at war.
In the bar at the Miners Arms and the George, the two public houses which faced one another across the main street, the talk was almost entirely of the terrible events which had overtaken them, and a few young hotheads marched into an army recruiting office in Bath only to be told that for the moment their services were not required and to go home and wait for their call-up papers. Margaret Hall, along with the rest of the band of willing volunteers, waited for the rest of the day and on Sunday, too, at the railway station, yet no trainloads of evacuees rolled in.
It was late on Monday afternoon before the first of them arrived, bussed in from Bath, and they managed to take the reception committee by surprise by their sheer numbers and the lateness of their arrival.
‘Oh my goodness, whatever are we going to do with them at this time of night?’ Captain Fish’s daughter, Elinor, stalwart of both the WI and the St John’s Ambulance, groaned as the pitiful procession filed off the hired charabanc and a fleet of private cars disgorged still more and even more into the Market Square.
‘We’ll sort them out, don’t worry,’ Margaret said, but she was almost as shocked by the sight of them as she had been by the declaration of war itself.
Some, it was true, looked tidy and well cared for, but far too many were a pathetic sight. Pale, undernourished children, each clutching a bag of food and chocolate and the cardbox box containing their gas mask, each with a label pinned to their clothing, for all the world as if they were just another piece of baggage. Some of the little ones had been crying; their faces were tear streaked and ribbons of slime ran from their noses to their upper lips, while the older ones wore mulishly defiant expressions as they tried to be brave about finding themselves here in this alien place. Most looked as though their clothes were hand-me-downs or had come from a stall at a jumble sale, the girls with darned handknitted cardigans buttoned unevenly over the cheap cotton frocks, the boys mostly wearing shorts which were either too small or too long, so that their battle scarred knees were almost hidden by voluminous grey. Socks had long since rucked down around skinny ankles, hair had been cut with the pudding basin. Like a truckload of mute young animals they herded together looking at the willing workers who greeted them with eyes that were hostile yet frightened.
There were a few women with the party, haggard women who should have looked young, judging by the babies in their arms. Their clothes, too, were cheap and unfashionable, and one had a bristle of curlers escaping from the headscarf she wore turban-style.
They were from the worst of the slum areas that still existed in some parts of the East End of London and to them Hillsbridge might have been the moon. To the people who waited to greet them they were an astonishing sight, poorer looking even than the children from Batch Row and scruffier than the gypsies who used to come with the fun fair to winter each year in the Market Yard.
As soon as they were assembled the volunteers set to work, attempting to match children to the people who had offered to take them in. But it was soon clear it would be no easy task and the Square soon came to resemble a cattle market.
‘Mrs Parfitt – you agreed to take one.’ Margaret led a small boy who looked as if he had been crying towards a sharp featured woman in a smart floral dress and marking off a name on her list as she went. ‘This is Johnny Cooper, six years old, from Peckham. Can I leave him with you?’
‘No thanks.’ Winnie Parfitt shook her head vehemently. ‘I don’t want a boy. They do too much damage. I’d rather have a girl.’
‘But …’ Margaret looked around helplessly. Useless to try and persuade Winnie if she had already made up her mind. That would only make the child feel more unwanted than he already did.
‘I’ll have her.’ Winnie nodded vigorously towards the most respectable of the girls.
‘I was going to take that one,’ another woman, whose name Margaret did not know, spoke up. ‘At least she looks clean, which is more than you can say for most of them. I said I’d take one in when they came round and asked me but I shan’t unless I can have some say which it is. I don’t want one with fleas or anything like that.’
‘I’m sure they haven’t got fleas,’ Margaret pleaded.
‘And I’m sure they have – if not worse!’ the woman argued. ‘Look at that one over there – she hasn’t stopped scratching since she got here.’
Margaret sighed and persisted and gradually the band of children grew smaller as they were matched with volunteer families and taken off home to be given a meal – and in some cases a good scrubbing.
Those who were left were the most difficult cases, however, and by the time the volunteers had been exhausted there was still a small cluster of them, mostly boys, rejected for the same reason Mrs Parfitt had given that they would be likely to be too much of a handful – and the siblings, brothers and sisters who were clinging tightly to one another in an effort to avoid being split up.
‘This is a pretty state of affairs,’ said Elinor Fish as she marched across the cobbled yard to Margaret, still waving her sheaf of papers on which the names had been mostly ticked off by now. ‘What are we going to do with the rest of them, I’d like to know?’
Margaret passed a hand through her hair. She was so tired that every movement was an effort and she felt slightly sick – perhaps because the hands of the town clock were now showing a quarter past seven and she had had nothing to eat since midday. But she had no business feeling tired, she thought. She was a great deal younger than many of the volunteer helpers here today and the most important thing was finding beds for the night for these poor children.
‘There’s nobody left on the list is there?’ she asked.
Elinor Fish shook her head. She was a tall straight woman who had inherited her military bearing from her father and the crisp navy blue uniform of the St John’s Ambulance Brigade suited her.
But she now wore the harrassed expression of a woman facing an impossible task.
‘Nobody. In fact, one or two who were on it changed their minds when they saw the state of the children. If this goes on it’s going to have to be made compulsory for people with the room to have them.’
‘If only Harry was here we could bundle some of them into the car and take them round to anybody we can think of who has the room’.
‘Good idea,’ Elinor agreed. ‘But since we haven’t got a car we’ll just have to make them walk. A bit of exercise won’t do them any harm.’
Margaret looked at the children doubtfully. Of course exercise did nobody any harm and most people got plenty of it. But these children looked on the point of exhaustion and to drag them, off on an endless trek from door to door seemed the height of cruelty – especially since it would probably involve a climb up one of the steep hills which were the only way out of Hillsbridge town centre.
‘What about Holly Bush House?’ she suggested. ‘They’ve got plenty of room and it’s not too far to walk.’
�
��Oh, I don’t think so,’ Elinor said swiftly. Holly Bush House was the home of the Dowlings, one of the most prominent families in Hillsbridge. ‘They would feel most out of place there.’
Margaret felt a stab of irritation. In Elinor Fish’s book it was one thing to push unwanted guests onto ordinary families, quite another when it came to imposing on people she knew socially.
‘Well, what about the Rectory? Or Dr Carter’s? If the children do have fleas at least he’d know what to do about it.’
‘We could try the Rector, I suppose,’ Elinor said doubtfully. ‘Though it’s a bit much to put something like this on a housekeeper. If he had a wife it would be different.’
‘Well, we’ve got to find somewhere for them to go or we’ll be here all night.’ Margaret was beginning to feel irritable.
‘Let’s make a start in Market Cottages,’ Elinor suggested. ‘That’s the closest and at least it’s on the level.’
Not very hopefully Margaret agreed with her. The cottages in Market Row were small ones, two up, two down, and she couldn’t see many of them having room for an extra child. But as she herself had said something had to be done or the children would be sleeping under the stars.
Two of the other volunteers, looking equally harassed, joined them and the remaining children were split into three groups, one to tour the houses in Glebe Bottom, one to be despatched to the Rectory and one, with Margaret as leader, to try Market Row.
‘Come along then, children,’ she said, summoning up her best schoolroom manner.
‘Where are we bleedin’going now?’ The speaker was one of the bigger boys, a gawky lad with a narrow, aggressive face.
‘To find you a bed for the night.’
‘I don’t want a bed here,’ a small girl wailed. She was clutching tight to the hand of her older sister and her small face was streaked with dirt and tiredness. ‘I want to go home!’
‘That wouldn’t be a very good idea,’ Margaret said gently. ‘It might not be very safe. There could be bombs.’
‘We ain’t afraid of bombs,’ the big boy said. ‘We ain’t afraid of anything.’
