by Lizzie Lane
‘I would appreciate that.’
He lingered, eyeing her with a mix of personal interest and sympathetic concern. ‘I’m sorry about your husband, Mrs Malin. It’s a shame after losing your house in London. I can only offer my sympathy and hope you do decide to settle here permanently once the war is over. It’s not a bad place. Cosy and friendly. P’raps in time you’ll grow to love it.’
She knew he was only trying to be friendly and it wasn’t in her nature to be so testy. Losing Ray had changed a number of things in her life, the most surprising of which was her reluctance to be too friendly with anyone. It would be some time before she allowed anyone to break through the barrier she’d erected around herself since arriving in the village.
‘You’ll find it a lovely village,’ he said to her before swinging his leg over his bicycle saddle and bidding her goodbye.
‘I can see it is,’ she responded, though without any genuine enthusiasm.
Upper Standwick was a village where little had changed in centuries. Thatched cottages huddled around a Saxon church that was said to have been built by Edgar the Peaceful, the grandfather of Edward the Confessor. The village store sold everything from buckets to beans. A red pillar box stood sentry on the pavement alongside a red telephone box. Locally grown vegetables and fruit were displayed in wooden packing cases outside. So were cabbage and carrot seedlings in case you preferred to grow your own. But although the village was idyllic and peaceful, except for the drone of aircraft from the American airbase close by, Lily did not respond as Meg had hoped she would.
Once the policeman had gone, Meg stood in the middle of her living room shaking her head frenziedly and hugging herself. Her gaze stayed fixed on a fuzzy photograph of her husband proudly wearing his Royal Air Force uniform. Raymond had been the only man she’d loved. They’d met when he was eighteen and she was sixteen, and had been inseparable ever since. She’d never foreseen losing him like this. Like having her house bombed, such things only happened to other people. She’d never expected him to be shot down and still couldn’t believe he was dead. Other people got killed, not the people she loved. Tears spilled from the corners of her eyes.
‘I want you back, Raymond, not your bloody dog!’ Her voice was a mixture of despair and anger. He had mentioned the dog in his letters. With what was almost fatherly pride, he had also told her the dog warned them of enemy bombers heading for the airbase even before the sirens wailed.
Every night once Lily was in bed, she reread Ray’s last letter. The village policeman had unsettled her, reopening the hurt she felt at losing her husband. She needed to hear his voice and the only way she could do that was by reading his words. As Lily scribbled away with her crayons, Meg took the letter from the old oak bureau sitting just in front of the window and read it again and again. He mentioned the dog’s name was Rudy. She’d never really taken it in before.
Controlling her sobs she swiped at her tears, pasting on a smile that hinted at a happiness she did not feel. ‘Would you like some lunch now, Lily?’
The little girl gave no sign that she’d heard her. Lily continued to live in her own private world. Of late she’d begun whispering to herself. Sometimes Meg fancied she was talking to somebody she could not see, an imagined friend with whom the child could confide. Not me, thought Meg, and it cut her deeply.
Meg forced a smile as she leaned over Lily’s shoulder. As usual, she was drawing pictures with red and black crayons. The subject of the pictures was always the same: red flames sprouting skyward from blackened buildings.
‘You’re going to wear those two colours out. How about using pink and green for a change? You could draw some flowers like the pinks and carnations out in the garden?’
The little girl gave no response but carried on scribbling with the red and black crayons, which she dug fiercely into the paper until there was no blank whiteness; nothing except the redness of flames and the darkness of destruction.
Meg sucked in her bottom lip in an effort to hold back a threatening sob. Although she still held on to the hope that Lily would recover, it seemed a long time coming. She was unchanged to how she had been in London, rarely speaking or playing with toys, never reading a book as she’d used to do. All she did was draw scenes of that night, the scenario playing out in her brain, again and again and again.
Meg told Lily to put her things away. ‘It’s lunchtime.’
Lily never made a sound. Never made a move but sat there like stone.
Meg sighed. ‘I’ll help you put your things away …’
Her hands paused. The pictures were different. Still red and black but not a fire. Not a building. Rather, a pyramid of bodies, black as night, each one outlined in red. Another depicted a train, the carriages completely lacking windows. A third caused a cold shiver to shoot down her spine: an adult figure, legs akimbo, and a blob of red that looked like a baby.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Meg was one of the few people in the village not to dwell on the death of Mrs Dando, though it did strike her as strange that the old lady should lie about having a daughter in London. Was it just so Meg would take the dog? Probably. What other reason could there be?
It was Lily’s first day at school. Concerned about how she’d react, Meg explained everything about the village school to her; the fact that there were only forty pupils and that she could take her time settling in. As usual, she got no response. If Lily was worried at all, it didn’t show. Meg carried the worry for both of them. She couldn’t help it.
‘They said it was a heart attack,’ said Alice Wickes, one of the young mothers Meg had seen around during the last couple of months since they’d moved into the village. They’d kept bumping into each other at the village store, which doubled as a post office. Meg wasn’t interested in starting up a friendship but Alice was the sort who wasn’t easily rebuffed. It was as though Meg was a challenge to be overcome. Meg was also from London and in Alice’s eyes that somehow made her exotic.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know her very well, but she seemed a kind woman.’
‘She was.’
Meg went on to tell her about the day she’d come to the door with the dog. ‘She told me she had a daughter in London and was going to live with her. She said there wasn’t enough room for the dog.’
Alice frowned. ‘Ivy didn’t have a daughter.’ She giggled. ‘Not unless there was a guilty secret from her youth, but I doubt it. She never left the village. There was only her son Bert and the further he stays away from here the better!’
Meg noted her attitude echoed that of PC John Carter. She couldn’t be sure but she also thought Alice looked very uncomfortable at the mention of Bert Dando’s name.
‘I expect she said it purely to get me to take the dog.’
‘Will you take him?’
Meg shook her head vehemently. ‘Certainly not. I’ve got enough to cope with.’
‘Of course you do.’ Alice nodded in understanding. ‘How’s Lily?’ she whispered, cupping her hand over her mouth and glancing at the silent little girl.
‘About the same,’ Meg pronounced through gritted teeth. She didn’t like people continually asking after Lily’s condition. Everyone in the village did it. Nosiness, she decided. They didn’t really care. They were just nosy. She could imagine how the matter was discussed behind her back.
‘Poor little mite. Should have been evacuated. Now look at her. Lost her wits. Best for her to be in a place where they take care of kids like her …’
It wasn’t apparent that Alice noticed her discomfiture. ‘Perhaps being at school will help,’ she suggested. ‘You know. All the other kids around her.’
Meg nodded stiffly. The suggestion had been made before. ‘Perhaps.’
In her heart of hearts, she really hoped it would, but how was Lily going to learn anything if she refused to speak and only scribbled in black and red?
‘Still, there’s such a lot they can do nowadays …’
Meg didn’t respo
nd but squeezed the little girl’s hand in an effort to reassure both of them. ‘Your first day at a new school,’ she directed at Lily. ‘It looks very nice, don’t you think?’
‘How about we meet up soon with the kids?’ suggested Alice. Your little girl needs to make friends around here and not just in school. What do you think?’
Meg had to admit it was a good idea and found herself gradually warming to Alice’s open attitude. ‘I think it would do her good.’
Alice nudged her with her elbow. ‘I think it will do you good too.’
Meg felt the barrier she’d built round herself gradually falling down. She needed a friend and so did Lily. They had to get on with things and live again.
Lily continued to silently ogle the old village school with eyes as big as saucers. Beyond its iron gate a set of steep steps led upwards. To the left the arched windows of the main schoolroom looked out on to School Lane and the golden fields, shorn of their harvest, sloping down to the valley floor.
As this was her first day, Meg was allowed to take Lily to her classroom. She also had a chance to speak to the teacher and briefly outline the reason for Lily’s odd behaviour.
‘I’m hoping that making new friends at a new school will bring her out of herself.’
Miss Pringle, a colourless person as grey in face and hair as the clothes she wore, eyed Meg over the top of a pair of wire-framed spectacles. She appeared to listen but it was hard to tell whether she was sympathetic. Her long thin face showed no sign of emotion.
‘We’ll see about that,’ she finally stated. ‘I’ve been a teacher at this school for over thirty years. I do know quite a lot about difficult children.’
Her manner made Meg feel as though she were a child. She felt herself colouring up.
Miss Pringle ordered one of the older girls to take Lily’s hand and sit next to her. ‘Cecily! You will be her monitor.’
It was a terrible wrench on Meg’s part to leave Lily there. Once or twice she looked round, fancying she heard the little girl running after her, not wanting to be left in the care of strangers. Each time it was another little girl or boy, never Lily.
Feeling unsettled and unhappy, Meg made her way through the throng of chattering children. Bluebell Cottage was going to feel very empty without Lily being there during the day. But I’ll have time to clean the place from top to bottom, she reminded herself. Just as I did at Andover Avenue before Lily arrived. At one time she would have looked forward to making her home sparkle, but that was then and this was now.
Once outside, Meg met up with Alice again. ‘Will you be going to the funeral?’ Alice asked.
‘Mrs Dando’s?’
‘Who else?’
Meg thought of the woman who had come to her door and the dog reputed to have belonged to her husband, and she suddenly felt regret at the way she’d spoken to her. ‘I hardly knew her. But I suppose I should.’
‘She was kindly but a bit of a busybody. Still, nobody’s perfect. The whole village will be there. That’s how it is here. Christenings, weddings and funerals. The whole village turns out.’
And I’m certainly not perfect, Meg thought to herself. She began to wonder if leaving the poor old dear to look after her husband’s dog might have contributed to Mrs Dando’s demise.
Alice suddenly doubled over with laughter. ‘Forgot to tell you. The dog escaped. That daft John Carter took him for a walk – the dog doing the walking and him riding his bicycle. The lead got tangled in the front wheel, John fell off and the dog ran away. Isn’t that funny?’
Meg had to admit that it was. ‘So where is it now?’
‘It’s hanging around the village. He said he’ll capture it when he can, but seeing as it’s got four legs, it runs faster than he does and the front wheel of his bicycle is bent. It seems a nice animal. Somebody should give it a home. Will you reconsider?’
Meg shook her head. ‘I’ve Lily to think about.’
‘He’s not really daft,’ Alice ventured suddenly. ‘In fact, he’s quite good-looking in a country boy kind of way.’
Meg knew she was talking about the village policeman and her stomach tightened. She knew very well where this was going. ‘So why isn’t he married?’
‘Hasn’t found the right girl. He’s in his late thirties, you know.’
‘I didn’t know.’ She felt Alice’s eyes regarding her sidelong. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ she snapped. ‘I’m going to remain a widow for a very long time. Perhaps for life!’
‘Sorry, I’m sure.’ Alice took on a hurt look that wasn’t repeated in her tone of voice. Although they barely knew each other, Meg had sensed from the first that she wasn’t the type to be out of sorts for long.
‘It sounds as though your husband was the love of your life,’ Alice went on. ‘Lucky you.’
‘Yes,’ said Meg. ‘Lucky me.’
Yet she didn’t feel lucky. She felt deflated and confused. There was no doubt in her mind that she and Ray had been physically compatible. Lovemaking was the one time when they’d been completely at one. But what about those other times when she was throwing all her energy into their home, doing all she could to encourage him to be just as enthusiastic? How close to that imagined idyll had their love truly been?
Overhead, a cloud blotted out the sun.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
In his youth, before London and the prospect of greater fortune had called him away, Bert Dando had prowled the countryside at night, poaching from the river and the woods, and stealing the odd lamb for selling on to a crooked butcher in town. He was good at skulking in the darkness, a skill that would come in very handy in the days ahead. For a start he had to figure out a way to get more food now his mother was dead and the supplies in the larder were running out, and all the cigarettes nearly smoked. That would come later. Top of his list was avenging his mother’s death – and his leg injury – on that bloody dog! Once he’d located it, that is.
The spectacle of PC Carter getting the dog’s lead tangled around his front wheel had sent him into fits of laughter. It had been even funnier to see the village bobby running after it, finally panting to a standstill, hands resting on bent knees as the dog sped away.
The dog had not left the village. He’d seen it lurking around, people giving it scraps to eat. Stupid sods, the lot of them. Soft in the heart and soft in the head. The dog was a vagrant, not a pet. Couldn’t be a pet seeing as it depended on peoples’ kind hearts to keep it alive.
Bert Dando had never been famous for having a kind heart. Quite the opposite, in fact. The sooner that dog was disposed of, the better. Revenge simmered in him like a firework – light the blue touchpaper and stand well back. In time he would explode. In the meantime he studied the dog’s habits, peering down at it from his attic room.
The dog slept under the bench next to the duck pond. Perhaps it hunted the paddling ducks. He couldn’t tell. He didn’t care. In time he might be hunting them himself if he didn’t soon find some money and head for London. He’d searched every drawer and every china teapot for money. His mother had hidden it everywhere, some for food kept in the teapot, some for coal in a tin decorated with the heads of King George V and his wife, Queen Mary. It was something, though hardly enough. If all else failed, he’d have to hitch-hike his way to London – there were plenty of army trucks going that way. Hopefully his misdemeanour was forgotten, or those who would have his guts were dead. He hoped for the latter.
Yep! His mind was made up.
‘I’ll get the better of that mangy hound yet,’ he vowed, as he puffed on one of the few cigarettes he had left. The dog might be clever, but so was he. All he had to do was wait until the small hours when the village was asleep, and even the air-raid warden was tucked up snugly in his sandbagged bunker next to the village hall.
Supper was bread and cheese accompanied by a mug of cider drawn from the barrel kept in the scullery. There was always a barrel of cider in the scullery and another in the outhouse. His father had drunk cider and
so did he. ‘Cider gives you courage,’ his old man had said. Not that his father had seemed to have much of that. He’d been a soft touch, even though he’d tried to keep Bert in line when his mother couldn’t. Women! They’re the ones who need to be kept in line – by any means necessary, Bert thought.
After that was consumed, he had a little nod. ‘Got to rest before you do the job,’ he muttered to himself as he settled down on the narrow bed his mother had helped him drag up into the attic.
It was dark when he awoke and there was no moon and no lights in cottage windows. The village was in blackout. He heard the church clock strike midnight. The time was ripe. Dressed from head to toe in dark colours, he took the stairs two at a time, uncaring that they squeaked under his weight. Nobody was around to hear. He’d spotted a tin of corned beef in the larder. He hated opening the thing with its stupid little key, but needs must. Once he’d done it, he cut it in half. One piece was enticement for the dog. The other would serve as his supper the following night. Rather than chance the front door – just in case some old biddy couldn’t sleep and was peering out from behind her curtains – he went out the back door and closed it behind him.
Sniffing the night air gave him great satisfaction after being stuck in the attic. He’d always loved the night: the darkness, the excitement of being out on the prowl and up to no good. He’d poached rabbits and skinned them where he found them. He’d done the same with stolen spring lambs. His prey tonight was a bit different but he’d do the same, imagining the faces of those who fed the dog seeing its naked flesh without that thick fur coat. Smiling into the night, he padded away from the cottage on tiptoe towards the village green, the bench and the duck pond.
In his right hand he held a long piece of wire that would serve as a leash. Once it was round the dog’s neck, he would pull it tight, drag the creature off and keep tightening it until the last breath had left its body and the wire was cutting into its flesh. But first, he had to capture it. Having seen and felt the damage those fangs could do, he would be extremely careful. The corned beef was the lure. Despite the scraps he was being fed, it couldn’t possibly be enough for such a large dog. The corned beef would be irresistible. Once the dog took the bait, he would quickly tie another piece of wire he had with him around its back legs, then pass a loop from the long piece over its head. The dog, preoccupied with trying to free its back legs, would be taken by surprise.
