A Christmas Candle

by Katie Flynn

  Eve licked her finger and drew it across her throat in the time-honoured fashion. ‘See this wet, see this dry …’ she began, but Johnny interrupted.

  ‘Don’t worry. I could tell you weren’t the blabbing sort or I’d never have shown you,’ he assured her. ‘But don’t forget this is just you and me. What is it that wall poster says?’

  Eve giggled. ‘Be like Dad and keep Mum,’ she quoted. ‘Are we nearly back at the lane? Only I promised Auntie Bess I’d be home in time for lunch and I haven’t done the shopping yet.’

  Chapter Five

  The old woman sitting on the mossy log smiled to herself as the memories flooded in. The badgers’ sett! She had not thought about it for years, and yet at the time it had seemed so important. It had been the first secret between herself and Johnny, who was determined not to let even a hint of its whereabouts become known. Anything which led to its discovery, he had said impressively, would be bad news not just for the old badger but for his young as well.

  The old woman played the memory back and frowned a little. Surely they had discovered the sett in winter, so why did her mind show her the green of young beech leaves against a sky of brilliant blue? She shrugged to herself; perhaps, after all, memories were not always more accurate than dreams, because she knew perfectly well that Johnny had talked of not visiting the sett again whilst their tracks in the snow might give the animals away. Of course there must have come a time when the weather had improved, but she was almost certain they had not visited the badgers’ sett for months after that first occasion. She had a vague feeling that there had been something else on their minds as the fragile beauty of April gave way to the warmth, sunshine and birdsong of May. Luxuriously, she remembered the brilliant weather, the wonderful early summer which had followed the harsh winter. It was then that she had really tried hard to get to know Connie, but whenever she asked if the other girl would like to join her and Johnny on one of their many expeditions, Connie would either make a dismissive comment or sneer at the suggestion that she should spend any time with Eve at all. Deep down this had suited Eve very well, and she and Johnny had had many wonderful times together, just the two of them.

  Even as the thought entered her mind the pictures began to form. She and Johnny lugging a large sack between them, a sack full of acorns for the two pigs who lived in the sty. Eve smiled to herself. She could not have said how old she and Johnny were at the time; she could only remember the happiness. They had picked blackberries as well, delving into many a copse, scratching and bruising themselves but presenting Auntie Bess with what she described admiringly as the biggest and best blackberries she had ever seen.

  There were other memories, too. Sledging trips and forgetting to brush the snow off a wonderful slide she and Johnny had made between them, so that Willy the postman had stepped unwarily upon it and whizzed the length of the farmyard whilst Johnny and Eve had clutched each other, helpless with laughter. Willy had cursed them roundly and made them gather up all the letters which had flown out of his bag during his unexpected and headlong journey, and then, steady on his feet once more, had begun to laugh every bit as helplessly as they.

  With determination Eve tried to remember why she and Johnny had not visited the badger again once the better weather had arrived and it was safe to do so, and suddenly, almost blindingly, the reason came to her. Of course! Uncle Reg had bought a wireless set and it was by this means that they heard that the BEF – the British Expeditionary Force – was being brought home from the Continent. No explanation that she could recall had been given, just a frantic appeal to anyone owning any sort of boat that they should set out for the beaches of northern France to bring back the British troops. She heard again Mr Churchill’s deep rumbling voice.

  We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender …

  He had said that immediately after the evacuation, and she thought now that his words had moved a nation, and resonated down through the years. There was a speech by Henry V, something about St Crispin’s Day; she could not remember all the words, but the sentiment was the same.

  He that outlives this day and comes safe home will stand a tiptoe when this day is named and rouse him at the name of Crispin … Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars and say, ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s Day.’

  As she sat there, under the canopy of green leaves, the pictures began to come. All the evacuees from the surrounding farms had gathered in the Favershams’ kitchen and heard it was not only little boats which were needed. Every man, woman and child on the south coast of England must do their bit to help.

  ‘But what can kids like us do?’ someone had said, and it was Uncle Reg who had answered.

  ‘The fellers will want feedin’,’ he had said. ‘They’ll be hungry and thirsty and some may be hurt …’ He had pointed at his wife. ‘Make up packs of grub and bottles of cold tea and put together as much first aid stuff as you can find. We’ll take the truck into Plymouth and distribute ’em to anyone in need.’

  *

  Eve had never dreamed that there were so many soldiers in the world. Every man she could see on the docks around her was grey-faced with fatigue, wet and filthy, thirsty and starving, and desperate for news; news which was not forthcoming, because nobody knew anything save that the BEF had drawn back. Not a retreat – Eve had heard the words a thousand times – but a strategic withdrawal, and Johnny, who was standing by her side, handing out packs of sandwiches and bottles of cold tea to the men as they passed by in their hundreds to make way for the next wave of returning troops, reminded her of what he had said earlier, as they had gone together to fetch more supplies from the temporary depot where more volunteers were feverishly making sandwiches: that Wellington preferred to fight a battle on ground of his own choosing, which is why his troops had fallen back to the village of Waterloo.

  Eve had no time to do more than smile quickly at each man as he passed her, taking the tea and the sandwiches eagerly and begging for news she was unable to give. So far as she could see it was just one terrible muddle, but a large white-haired woman standing within a few feet of her was giving what comfort she could. ‘Our aircraft are up there doing their best,’ Eve heard her repeating over and over. ‘Mr Churchill will tell us what’s going on as soon as possible, and in the meantime the orders are you’re to go to your homes, stay there and prepare for whatever lies ahead.’

  The lines of disembarking men seemed never-ending, and soon Eve found herself moving like an automaton, reaching for sandwiches and tea, pressing them into outstretched hands, and scarcely even glancing at each face as it passed. Indeed, when the man opposite her spoke to her directly she thought he must be addressing someone else and looked behind her to see who it was.

  ‘Sweetheart!’ the man was saying incredulously. ‘For God’s sake, sweetheart! What the devil are you doing here?’

  Eve’s head jerked back round. The voice was husky with fatigue, the face above her own drawn and weary, and the clothing bore little resemblance to what had once been a naval uniform, but as she automatically thrust a packet of sandwiches and a medicine bottle of cold tea into his grimy hands she knew him at last.

  ‘Daddy!’ she said in amazement. ‘Oh, Daddy, I never thought … I thought you were far away, somewhere safe, in your ship! What happened? Oh, Daddy …’

  Bill Armstrong made a brave attempt at a smile, but somehow it slipped and Eve saw a tear trickle down through the dirt on his face.

  ‘A direct hit when we were making our umpteenth trip across the Channel. But how did you get here? What on earth—’ He broke off. ‘I must get word to Eleanor; have you seen her?’ Before he could say any more someone further along the line came over and seized his shoulder in a not unfriendly grip.

  ‘That head wound needs attention, sailor, and you’re holding everyone up,’ the newcomer said. ‘There’s a dressing station a few
hundred yards further on. You’d better stop making up to this young lady and get seen to before you go on home.’

  Bill stepped obediently out of line, but when Eve would have followed him he shook his head. ‘I’ll find your mother myself, just as soon as I’ve had my wounds dressed,’ he said. ‘She won’t be far from her little girl, I’m sure of that.’

  Eve said nothing but watched him go, feeling puzzled. In all the vast crowd of helpers, she told herself, it was only natural that she should not have thought to look for her mother. Why should she, indeed? Eleanor Armstrong had visited the farm only twice, and on both occasions she had been in a hurry to get away. No doubt Daddy would run her to earth without any help from Eve herself. Not without relief, she reached for another food pack and bottle of tea and handed them to the next man in line, dismissing everything else from her mind.

  By the time the bright June day began to fade into evening, Eve was exhausted. When Auntie Bess came along to collect her, she asked rather timidly if the older woman had seen Mrs Armstrong, only to receive a decided shake of the head.

  ‘’Tis impossible to pick any one woman out amongst so many,’ Auntie Bess said comfortably. ‘Who were that you were talkin’ to, young woman? The tall feller?’

  ‘It was Daddy,’ Eve said, and could not keep the incredulity out of her voice. ‘Did you see him, Auntie Bess? His uniform was in shreds. He said his ship had received a direct hit, and then he asked if I knew where Mummy was, and of course I didn’t.’ She looked up at the older woman’s rosy face. ‘Mummy’ll be all right, won’t she?’

  ‘Your mum will be safe and doing something useful, you can be sure of that,’ Auntie Bess said firmly. ‘Now come along, out of harm’s way until Uncle Reg and I can take you home.’

  Eve pulled back. ‘Where’s Johnny?’ she asked wildly. ‘Oh, Auntie Bess, Johnny went off to get fresh supplies, and if I’m not here when he gets back he’ll be frantic with worry. I must try and find him before …’ She expelled her breath in a relieved sigh. ‘There he is! He must’ve met up with Robbo, ’cos they’re both heading this way. Oh, thank God!’

  *

  How could I have forgotten the evacuation of Dunkirk, the old woman marvelled to herself, staring into the sparkling waters of the stream. Why, it was one of the most important points of the war, that we managed to get so many members of the BEF safely back to Britain. Not that it was so very safe, for the Germans continued to attack our troops even when they were wading out to the boats, and in the ships – like my father’s – bringing them back home. And no sooner had they re-formed than the Battle of Britain started. Do I really remember watching the dog fights between the RAF and the Luftwaffe, or am I just remembering what was reported in the newspapers? What I know I remember is the brilliant weather, the sun glinting on the cockpits of the Spitfires … oh, dear God, sitting here is bringing everything back, both the things I want to remember and those I would rather forget. The day we watched a Spitfire and a Messerschmitt attacking one another, the flame from their guns … it was a school day, I remember that. We were in the playground and the teachers shouted at us to come back to the classroom and crouch under our desks, but of course no one took the slightest notice. We couldn’t stop watching the fight going on over our heads. I can even smell the lilac flowers on the tree which leaned over the playground fence, and feel Connie’s hand gripping mine as the boys screamed their support for the Spitfire as though they were watching a football match.

  She was back in the school yard, the years rolling away, the children’s shouts becoming louder. She saw Chrissie standing by the Ryders’ gate, his face red with excitement; heard his shrill little voice as he encouraged the Spitfire above him to ‘kill the wicked bugger’.

  But his encouragement was not needed. Suddenly the German aircraft was no longer involved. It was plunging earthwards in a column of black smoke and roaring flames and Eve had felt vomit rise in her throat.

  ‘There’s a man in there,’ she had said huskily. ‘Oh, Connie, I hope to God he’s dead and can’t feel anything …’

  Then there was a dull explosion as the burning plane crashed somewhere on the moors. Several of the bigger boys tore through the school gate and began to dash along the road, crowing with delight that ‘their’ plane had won and shouting that they must see what was left of the enemy.

  Eve had uttered a long sigh and released Connie’s hand. For a moment they had been sisters in sorrow, hating the war as much for the pain of the German pilot as for the Englishman who had downed him. Then Johnny had come into the playground with Robbo in close attendance and Eve had seen, with a rush of relief, that both boys were pale, clearly sharing her own feelings. Neither spoke but words were not necessary. The incident – if you could call it that – had brought home to them all the full horrors of war.

  Johnny had been the first to break the silence. ‘One of them had to win,’ he had said, and his voice had shaken a little. ‘Naturally it was horrid watching someone get killed, but that shouldn’t blind us to the fact that the Germans are the enemy. We didn’t ask them to come over here and shoot up our railway lines, kill our soldiers and sailors and try to enslave us. For all we know the pilot in that Messerschmitt could have been a hero, but he was still our enemy. We have to remember that, but it shouldn’t mean we’re pleased to see him suffer. I don’t want to sound like a prig …’

  Robbo had cut across him. ‘You’re right, of course,’ he had said slowly. ‘This isn’t a game, it’s deadly serious, and we oughtn’t to gloat when we see someone on the other side die a horrible death.’

  Johnny had agreed. ‘No, we oughtn’t,’ he said. ‘But being grateful isn’t gloating, so we can be grateful that at least there’s one plane that won’t be attacking us again.’

  The old woman adjusted her position on the mossy log to try to sort herself out. She had come here to remember not the war but the lives she and the other evacuees had lived during their sojourn in Devon. Despite the fact that Johnny and Robbo lived at Spindlebush and she and Connie at Drake’s Farm they spent most of their free time together, and now she realised, as perhaps she had not done before, that the war had just been a background to their life and not really a part of it.

  They listened regularly to the wireless which now took pride of place on the kitchen dresser, but somehow nothing that they heard seemed real. Reality was deciding how to cross the stream when it swelled from a summer’s storm; should they wear boots and tackle the ford or should they use the bridge? Even the constant murmurings voiced by the grown-ups that after Dunkirk an invasion must be imminent did not really affect them. They had been warned to watch out for parachutes gliding gently on the summer breeze, had been told that the seeming nuns floating earthward might be stormtroopers in disguise, come to rape and pillage, but somehow they found this quite impossible to believe, even though they promised their seniors to be on the alert for any stranger who might come amongst them with questions, lightly put, which they should on no account answer.

  When a middle-aged couple living on the outskirts of Plymouth were found to have a foreign newspaper in their salvage collection the children were thrilled rather than terrified; even when the couple mysteriously disappeared one dark night, Robbo, Johnny, Eve and Connie simply thought it was just another tall story, put out to make everyone wary.

  What was real was the effort everyone made to provide food for the nation, food which had once been brought by ship from various parts of the world but could be so no longer. Bananas, pineapples and oranges disappeared from the shelves, though rumour had it that the rich still managed to obtain the forbidden delights. But the youngsters living at Spindlebush and Drake’s Farm did not miss what they had never had, for even the Armstrongs had drawn the line at such unnecessary expense.

  What mattered now was gathering in the crops, and as the war entered its second year Mr Faversham told Eve and Connie to tell their teacher that they would shortly be helping to harvest the potato crop from the ten-acre, so
would be unavailable for lessons for some time to come.

  It was hard work, delving amongst the soil loosened by the blade of the big tractor to find every single potato; back-breaking, you could say, for old Mr Smith was smitten by a bad attack of arthritis and had to retire from the fray whilst his wife rubbed goose grease into his aching back and shoulders and scolded him for being a silly old fool. But the youngsters enjoyed what for them was a holiday from school; hard work it might have been, the old lady reflected, but it had also been fun.

  September 1940

  Eve opened an eye to peer round at the other beds as the sunshine crept through the window and lit up the attic room. Lily was on early milking so her bed was empty, and Chrissie and Connie were still asleep. Eve smiled to herself. It was a potato day, and she loved such days with a passion. Not only would she miss school, a treat in itself, but she would spend the day following the tractor, grubbing in the earth for what she thought of as precious pearls, the crop that would not only feed the inhabitants of Drake’s Farm but also help to feed the nation.

  She squiggled round in her bed so that she could see the clock and once more smiled to herself. She could have another lovely half-hour in bed, though judging from the sunshine just peeking above the distant hills everyone but Chrissie and Connie would soon be up and working as hard as they could. There was corn to be harvested, potatoes to be dug up, cleaned and sacked, apples and plums to be picked and preserved, and blackberries and nuts to be gathered in, to say nothing of the acorns that the pigs so adored.

  Eve sat up on one elbow and contemplated her roommates. Chrissie was fast asleep on his back, giving little purring snores, but Connie had turned her face away from the light and now muttered a protest.