That Burning Summer

by Lydia Syson

  Chemistry, he’d say, his arms swooping round her waist as he swept in from behind, all hands, and she pretended to push him away so she could get the supper on in peace. It’s an unavoidable reaction. Like the transformation of copper in a kiln from verdigris to lustrous red. You reduced me, Lizzie. You took my oxygen away and changed me forever. You make me iridescent.

  Slower-burning chemistry in Mum’s case. She always took longer to react. It had taken three more visits to get her to talk to him. Seven more cups of tea. And then on the tenth he’d brought her this.

  It was his final exam piece. A tall blue and green jar, wood ash glazes, the colors of the Marsh. Substantial. A satisfying lid, kept in place by a raised rim. Its handle was in the shape of a swan. Peggy loved the way he had planed the sides, with just a suggestion of geometry, that made you want to clasp it and run your finger down the seven vertical meeting points.

  It was for their marriage fund, the first sovereign already inside when he gave it to her, and it had remained their savings pot ever since. There was never an engagement ring, which hadn’t impressed Aunt Myra, but wasn’t this better than a ring?

  A ring would have been easier to hide, thought Peggy. Or sell, if need be.

  “I’ve got to keep it safe, if … when … it happens.”

  “The invasion?” Just say it.

  Peggy began to slide the pillowcases away from the pot, and her mother nodded her permission. They both wanted to see it again.

  “Yes. The invasion.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re old enough. You need to know. And I was going to tell you where I’d hidden it, of course, just …”

  “… in case?”

  The shimmering noises of the Marsh crept into their silence. The day could not have been more perfect. That Yorkshire man on the radio—the one with the calming voice Aunt Myra loved to listen to—he’d been quite right. There had never been a more lovely summer than this one. Loveliness like a beautifully painted silk curtain which might rip at any moment.

  Peggy made herself think how it might come, this invasion. Would it be by day, or by night? Tanks rolling relentlessly towards the farm. Explosions. Resistance. (June, with her baby. Myra, with her knife.) Occupation. And under all that destruction, a pot, waiting for its maker to return.

  Impossible. How could any of that happen here? The sky was too blue.

  “But we haven’t begun the harvest yet,” she protested, as if the Nazis were just waiting for them to stook the corn neatly.

  “Well, there may still be time. I don’t know. I’m afraid there’s not much in there now.” Mum shook the pot gently, and Peggy caught the clink of coins. “But we don’t want to be caught on the hop. Like I said, just in case.”

  Peggy touched the curving swan’s neck, and tried to push down the fluttering creature rising in her chest. There were lots of ‘in cases’ to consider. She thought about them all, and decided her mother was right.

  “I’ll help you,” she said. “But let’s move some raspberry canes on top. For protection. And it’ll be too obvious otherwise. Look—there are lots of new shoots we can take. They’re spreading into the rhubarb already.” She began to prise a fork under a stray plant, teasing at the soil, determined not to snap its long eager root.

  “It’s not just me,” Mum said, getting back to her digging. “Everyone is hiding things.”

  “Are they?”

  “Myra and June have sewed £5 each into their stays.”

  Peggy stared at her.

  “Five whole pounds?”

  “Yes. Notes. She hasn’t told Fred though. It would make him angry. You know how he is. He won’t believe it’s possible.”

  “Yes.” That was what Peggy liked about Uncle Fred.

  “But you just can’t tell, can you? And also, I heard …”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper, and she looked around.

  Then Peggy remembered. “Stop it. You’ve got to stop it. You shouldn’t listen to rumors, and you shouldn’t repeat them. You know that.”

  “It’s true, though. I’m sure it’s true. Myra heard it too. And if it’s true, it’s not rumor, is it?”

  Peggy wasn’t sure.

  “Anyway, telling you doesn’t count. You’re my daughter. And you’re not a child any more.”

  “What did you hear?” said Peggy. Was it better to know, or not? Better perhaps to be a child. “Where did you hear it?”

  Once more, her mother looked around.

  “At the post office, Mrs. Velvick was saying … The banks … I heard they are going to burn the money when the Germans come. The notes, of course. They have to. They can’t leave all our money for the Nazis and Fifth Columnists.”

  Peggy shushed her. Did they burn the money in Czechoslovakia and Poland, and Denmark and Holland and Norway and Belgium and France? She didn’t imagine the people there had time enough to sew money into stays before it was too late.

  “You won’t tell Ernest?”

  A ridiculous request. As if Peggy’s sleep wasn’t disturbed enough already by his nightmares.

  “But you’re old enough to know.” Mum laid down her spade, and tried to look Peggy in the face. She had shot up this spring and they were eye to eye now. Peggy considered the earth, and the hole, and the crate, and the pot, but avoided her mother’s gaze. It was sensible enough to take precautions. She could see that. But somehow it felt as if they were preparing to bury Dad.

  “You’re old enough,” Mum said again.

  Peggy really wished she wouldn’t keep saying that.

  21

  Henryk only left the church when he needed to pee. He could desert his post, but nothing could make him pee inside a church. The first time he simply crouched, supporting himself with one hand on the ancient sun-warmed bricks by the mounting-block that was built into the end wall.

  When he heard a dogfight start up over towards the coast, he found he couldn’t watch. He didn’t even want to listen. Before he knew it, he had run back inside to squat on the floor of his adopted pew with his hands over his ears. He rocked, back and forth, back and forth, humming tunelessly to himself to drown out the sound of the fighters. The panic eventually subsided, and finally he felt he could breathe again.

  After that he made a determined effort to be more practical. What if someone saw, from a distance, that the key wasn’t in the lock? Wouldn’t that make things look suspicious? Unlocking the door was terrifying, but Henryk decided it had to be done.

  Next he gathered all the hassocks from around the church and pushed them together to make a mattress. He lay on it experimentally, and then replaced each one, exactly where he’d found it. He spread out his damp clothes, and decided they’d dry eventually, and then he would hide them again. And he found a cupboard near the door of the church, and pulled out some musty-smelling robes, and spread these out to air too, for bedding.

  Near the stone font—empty under the wooden lid—there was an instrument. Not a piano, he realized when he saw the paddle-like foot pedals, slightly encrusted in animal dung in the corners. Too small. A harmonium? He lifted the lid, stroked the keys, and then, finally, pressed one slowly down. It didn’t make a sound. He pumped the pedal a few times, and felt the pressure build, like bellows. Then he tried another key, a little faster. This time a single note burst out, uncontrollably loud. It was still dying away seconds after he’d slammed shut the lid and backed guiltily away.

  For the rest of the day he read, half an eye always on the window. Without conviction or pleasure, he worked his way through the Psalms. The huge bible he found open at the lectern was bound in leather and coming apart at the spine. Slowly and methodically, he worked at matching up the English words in front of him with the Polish words lodged deep in his memory. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of shadow and death, yet I will fear no evil.”

  When he reached Psalm 91, he hesitated. “For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways.”

  Angels, Henr
yk thought. One of the first new English words he’d learned. Angels were part of the instructions that came crackling into your headphones just before an attack. Bandits over Folkestone at angels fourteen, you’d hear, and that would be it.

  Now he realized the real meaning of the word. It wasn’t just a measurement. A thousand feet. He thought back to the white-clad apparition that had rescued him in the night. “Peggy,” he said out loud. “Mój Aniołku …” That made sense. He heard the connection between the words for the first time. Angel or spirit? She was certainly haunting him. He wasn’t sure how he would manage another night on his own here if she didn’t come back. He glanced out of the window for the hundredth time, and watched the wind roll over the grass.

  What could she possibly think of him? A coward, someone to feel sorry for, someone to pity. And she’d be right. What else was there to think?

  “So sorry. Such a bother.” That’s what Henryk must say to her when she came. If she came. It was a phrase he couldn’t forget. Not since a fair-haired English officer had staggered into a still-turning propeller as he dismounted from the cockpit after too many sorties in succession. The pilot lay bleeding on a stretcher, waiting for the ambulance, saying the same thing, over and over again: “So sorry. Such a bother. So sorry. Such a bother. So sorry. Such a bother.” Until he could no longer speak.

  But a case like his own. That was quite a different matter. Aside from his ankle, there was nothing really wrong with him, Henryk persuaded himself. Nothing a little more time wouldn’t sort out. Peggy would understand that. If he could just stay here a little while longer, just long enough to get his strength back, then …

  Strength? Who was he fooling? It wasn’t his strength he needed. Nerve. That was what had deserted him. Like water into sand, it had seeped away while he wasn’t looking, and left him drained.

  22

  Several hours later, Peggy’s face was streaked with dirt, the compost heap was piled high with weeds, and you would never know that she and her mother had done anything more dramatic than increase the size of their raspberry plots. She also had a substantial harvest of carrots, runner beans, a few more tomatoes, and a mountain of late gooseberries in the basket.

  She set aside the vegetables she would take to the church later, picking out the best, straight and true. Anyone would think she was getting ready for the village flower show, she thought. Absurd, really, to take such care. But she could almost feel him waiting for her. And for some reason she wanted things to be perfect.

  Peggy sat back on her heels, wiped the sweat from her hairline with the back of her wrist, and gave herself a few more moments to conjure up Henryk, and the pleasure she would see in his face when he saw what she had brought him. Maybe he’d kiss her hand again.

  She smiled and held out her hand as if he were in front of her now. Her nails were bitten short, and for the first time she saw how stumpy and childish her fingers were, with dirt not just where you’d expect it but right under the soft bits June was always trying to get her to push back nicely too. The knife-cut was also edged with black, and stinging now. She’d give her hands a good scrub before she left. She hoped she could stay a little longer next time so she could find out more about Henryk. He’d be longing for company, you’d think. She must find a way.

  Peggy decided to hide the food in the old stable where they had started keeping the bikes. That way she’d have an excuse if anyone spotted her. Just checking Ernest had put his away properly. Like the leaflet said. You know. Hide your food and your maps and your bicycles.

  Of course Ernest had covered all the bikes with fertilizer sacks now, not so much as a spoke or a pedal showing anywhere. You’d think they’d been tucked up terribly carefully for the night.

  She flicked up a sack to put over the vegetables, and as she did so, another one began to slither off Mum’s bike. At first she thought the piece of paper tucked into its brake cable was part of Ernest’s precious salvage collection. Speed old Hitler to his grave with all the paper you can save! She was about to add it to the huge boxful by the door of the shed when something made her hesitate. The paper was yellow and lined—she’d never seen anything like it in the house. But it wasn’t flimsy enough to be a receipt. And it was odd how it was folded over and over, until it was hard and firm and solid.

  She began to unfold it.

  ELIZABETH FISHER, she saw. Written in neat and even capitals.

  It was for her mother then. So why not take it in and give it to her? Or just put it straight back, so that she’d find it for herself when she went off on her late shift a little later? Because. Just because, thought Peggy.

  She listened. Nobody was coming. She quickly hid the vegetables she’d “borrowed,” then looked outside, listened again, and finished opening up the note.

  It was all in capitals. A bit like a telegram. But there was no signature. Nothing at all to show who’d written it. The words made her feel cold and sick.

  YOUR HUSBAND DOESN’T CARE IF THE GERMANS COME AND RAPE YOU. YOU DESERVE TO BE PUNISHED.

  Peggy felt contaminated. She scrumpled up the paper in her fist, digging her nails into her palm. Then she marched straight to the outhouse and locked the door behind her, leaning against it and breathing heavily, while she waited for her knees to steady. She wouldn’t read it again. What good would that do? Instead Peggy stood over the privy and tore it into a hundred tiny pieces, which floated down like confetti into the earthy darkness below. And then sat down on the wooden seat and used the privy for its usual purpose, just to be sure.

  23

  Ernest sucked his pencil and wondered what to write next. He had asked Dad about the food, the uniform, and the weather so far, and was running out of ideas.

  “For heaven’s sake, boy, get that out of your mouth—you’ll be poisoned!” said Aunt Myra, poking his shoulder.

  “No, I won’t.” Ernest slid his elbow over the letter, before she leaned over any further. This was none of her business. “It’s not actually lead, you know. It’s graphite, and that’s a form of carbon.”

  He was about to explain that this was why pencil marks burned off under a glaze during the firing, but June had her finger on her lips and was quietly shaking her head at him.

  “Come on, Mum, you’ll be late for St. John’s. Aren’t you learning mouth-to-mouth today?”

  June bustled his aunt into her summer coat and hat and out of the kitchen. Ernest shuddered, and went back to sucking his pencil.

  It was hard to keep writing without getting anything back. That was war for you, Peggy always said when he complained about the silence. And the less anyone at home knew, the less chance there was of giving something or someone away by mistake. Careless talk and all that.

  “I know!” he suddenly said out loud, standing up and knocking his chair back into June, who was hovering right behind him.

  “Whoopsadaisy! What do you know?”

  “I’m going to go and check on the Hungarian tadpoles—the ones that didn’t die, I mean. The ones in the sewer.” He didn’t mind telling June. “Dad will be interested to hear how they’re getting along, don’t you think?”

  “I’m sure he will. Good idea. You run along. Oh—I nearly forgot to tell you—my dad said could you go and check the first lot of mole traps without him? There’s an LDV exercise on—a roadblock or something, on the Appledore road—oops—I shouldn’t have told you that!—but he won’t have time today.”

  “OK,” said Ernest, without meeting June’s eye. He ran upstairs to put the half-written letter under his pillow for safekeeping. He didn’t see how Uncle Fred would be able to tell if he’d done the job or not. He could always just say they were empty.

  June was waiting with a trowel for him.

  “Thanks,” he said, forcing a smile. Then he couldn’t help asking, “June, why do you think Uncle Fred hangs all the corpses up? I don’t think the other moles can see them.”

  “Oh, bless you, that’s not your Uncle Fred. That’s what the molecatcher does
, to show he’s been doing his job, you know. But he volunteered for the navy last month. Leaving us with yet another thing to do. Speaking of which, it’s time I got on, no rest for the wicked and all that … I don’t know …”

  June started doing her put-upon act for Claudette, blowing out her cheeks and shaking her head and sighing loudly, and the kitchen rang with the baby’s laughter.

  Ernest headed back to the place where he’d heard the frog a few days earlier. The new ones seemed to love this weather. They were much easier to find than the old kind this late in the year—always out sunbathing, just like the Greatstone holiday campers, before the army took over.

  He let himself down to the water’s edge with the help of a willow trunk, and moved slowly along the reeds, looking for a likely patch. The tadpoles seemed to prefer the shallower water. He used his trowel-hand to support himself against the bank, and rehearsed his lie to Uncle Fred. He’d have to pretend he’d reset the traps too, of course. That might be more of a problem.

  “Damn!” he said aloud, driving the trowel into the bankside in frustration. A clump of loose earth tumbled down and dissolved into the water below. Unusually loose earth, Ernest realized, looking more closely. He raised the trowel to his shoulder, and plunged it in like a dagger. A glimpse of white made him draw breath. It didn’t take much more digging to reveal that there was a substantial amount of light-colored material concealed beneath the soil.

  Ernest felt sick. A body? A dead body? His knees went watery, and he almost stepped back into the dyke. He wanted to get away, immediately, before he saw anything worse. Breathing ever faster, he forced himself to stay. Keep your head, he told himself. If you see anything suspicious, note it carefully. He hadn’t seen enough to note yet. He’d have to look properly. Could he do it without touching whatever it was with his fingers? Ernest used the trowel to brush away more soil, and almost laughed out loud when he realized it was much too squidgy underneath to be a body. The material was too soft and white to be a discarded feedsack either … unless it was a sheet flown loose from a washing line in one of those whipping east winds, which had flapped into the dyke and buried itself here?