The children dipped their inkpens. As they drew the pens across the page, the background hiss of silence changed its tone and the invasive sound of a low-altitude propeller aircraft took hold. A girl with bobbed auburn hair looked up with apprehension, only to be waved down by the lady with the chalk. ‘One of ours,’ the teacher said.
‘Do something!’ hissed Charlie-Mouse.
‘I can’t.’ Now Connie wanted to cry, or to laugh. Charlie-Mouse pulled harder at her hair. Her head was spinning . . . then she heard a clash of teacups.
Connie found herself back in the pottery, at the potter’s wheel, and with her brother by her side.
Nothing had changed from the moment they had left, except that three steaming cups of strong smelling tea enticed her from the trolley and, strangely, she could still hear the sound of the propeller aircraft. It had followed them into the present day – its sound gradually melding with the quiet whirr and the click from the wheel as it slowed to a stop.
‘Sssshhh,’ breathed the Wendlewitch, with one artistic finger placed to her lips. ‘I have something to confess.’
Chapter Four Of magic and history
‘Ouch!’ Connie howled, wincing at several sharp pulls to her temple as Charlie-Mouse released the final few strands of hair.
The Wendlewitch passed two cups of tea over the top of the potter’s wheel and took up her own. She crash-closed her eyelids and sipped. With a tilt of her head she swallowed, and appeared to stretch her thoughts to the top of the chimney breast. Connie fixed upon the flickering concentration in the mauve creases of her eyeshadow.
‘My oh my, and after all this time,’ the Wendlewitch muttered. ‘No wonder the whispers were spinning me a merry dance.’
‘Where did we go to?’ Connie demanded.
‘That’s for you to say, my dear.’
Connie sent the Wendlewitch her hardest stare. ‘You knew it would happen. You planned it. You wanted Charlie and me to spin the wheel!’
The Wendlewitch put down her cup and held up her hands in surrender. ‘Can you admit you wished for something extra special, in your heart, my dear?’
Connie thought of the house – her mother’s tear-stained face and her dad’s anxious expression. ‘Yes,’ she conceded.
A click sounded from one of Charlie-Mouse’s knees. ‘OK, so are you a witch?’ he said.
The Wendlewitch peered over the top of her purple-rimmed glasses then threw back her head, laughing. ‘Goodness gracious me, no, my dear! But you can call me the guardian of the wheel. And I suppose over the years some of her magic has rubbed off on me.’
The Wendlewitch cast her hand over the top of the potter’s wheel, picking up a bright purple flash of electrostatic energy and drew it through the air with her fingertips. Everything around her jumped to life – the wood in the woodstove burst into flame, the copper kettles steamed, the pencils, pens and brushes danced themselves into an empty pot, and the spotted cats began to play.
‘None of it’s very . . . funny . . . whoa . . .’ Charlie-Mouse said, backing into a pile of packing cases.
Connie kept one hand gripped to her wheelchair and grabbed his T-shirt to pull him forward.
‘Not funny,’ said the Wendlewitch, clicking her fingers. ‘Useful, maybe.’ The purple glow about her dimmed and all fell still.
The last warming drops of radiance awakened Connie’s hopes. ‘We were here,’ she said, letting go of Charlie-Mouse. ‘In this room . . . and it was 1939.’
‘Aha,’ the Wendlewitch replied. ‘When the world changed again and people were displaced.’
‘What has that got to do with anything?’ Charlie-Mouse said.
‘Sssshhh!’ said Connie, shoving her hand over his mouth.
‘My dears, your house is whispering of it too. What I can say is, not long into the war, the owners had to move. It was a standard military thing, they said. But the rumours spread fast.’
‘Rumours?’ whispered Connie. She caught sight of her mum collecting in the last of the washing. She pictured bulldozers advancing across the lawn with menacing speed – it twisted her insides and stabbed at her heart. She tempted her fingers over the wheel. ‘Then we need to know what they were about.’
A look of fear folded its way into her brother’s expression. ‘Hang on. These things are written in record books, aren’t they?’
The Wendlewitch shook her head. ‘You would think so . . .’
‘No. The house is calling for help. We have to go back,’ said Connie.
‘But . . .’ said Charlie-Mouse.
‘But not today,’ said the Wendlewitch. ‘The wheel’s energy is truly spent – anything might happen. You sleep on it – we’ll meet again soon enough.’
Chapter Five Rewind 1939
Claybridge Farm
Wednesday, 13th September, 1939
Dear Mummy and Daddy,
It is exactly as we remembered it. Claybridge Farm is so very big! Bert got lost when we played hide and seek yesterday. I found him in the end; he was in the attic room. He said he would like it for his bedroom when Auntie Evie moves her sewing machine and the trunks full of old clothes. (She says she is going to send the clothes to the Red Cross because then other people can use them.) Bert likes the view from up there, he says he gets a good look at the planes going over to the airfield at Castle Camps, but I’m more than happy to stay in the guest bedroom because it used to be yours. It has the highest ceiling I’ve seen. I sometimes have to pull the light cord over my head in the middle of the night because I don’t know where I am. Bert always gets cross and turns the light off again. It’s funny that you are not in the room next to me but I imagine that you are.
Thank you for our going-away presents. My lovely doll is sitting on my bedspread right now. Bert is delighted with his matchstick cannon. He keeps firing matchstick pieces along the windowsills and out of the window at Uncle Geoffrey.
Daddy, I hope you have done your packing. Please write to us soon because we want to know what you are doing and where you are sleeping. I hope there isn’t going to be any bombing or fighting where you are.
It is quite exciting here. We started school this week. Miss Regent is an excellent teacher. She is kind and funny, and sometimes strict! She lives in the village too, so Auntie Evie says.
Auntie Evie is going to teach us some first aid. She wants to make sure that everyone in the village knows what to do in case of an emergency. I’m quite glad she is a nurse.
We miss you loads and loads and will write as often as we possibly can.
Lots of love from Kit and Bert xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
BON VOYAGE DADDY !!!!
P.S. Daddy, Bert has drawn you a picture of the view from the attic room to take with you. You can see the whole village from up there.
P.P.S. Mummy, Bert says please could you send his slippers. They are at the back of his wardrobe.
Chapter Six In Dracula’s Castle
A cloud haze covered the morning sky and the sun strained to break through. As Connie tapped a mass of wartime search words into her laptop, a wet and sticky paper pellet shot through the open window of the large treehouse, landing between the keys.
‘I don’t know how he even dares!’ she seethed. ‘He wants attention – he doesn’t get enough of it at home.’ She poked her scowling sun-freckled face out of the window to see Malcolm Mollet’s lanky figure scuttling off down the public pathway towards the pottery. ‘Ugh, so vile!’ She screwed up her face harder. ‘I feel sorry for the Wendlewitch. Fancy having him as a nephew.’ Piercing the sticky pellet with a pencil, she huffed and shook it violently out of the gap it came through.
She froze. Malcolm Mollet’s dad was parading his awkward six-foot figure up their bricked garden path. She watched him wander along the back of the house, checking his designer suit every now and again in the window panes. ‘They’re not in,’ she said, in a harsh whisper. ‘Go away.’
But Malcolm Mollet’s dad didn’t go away. It seemed he wasn’t both
ered whether there was anyone in or not. As the church clock chimed he began to nose around the outside of the house, making scribblings in a large black portfolio. Drawing out an enormous tape measure, he trounced over lawn and shrub beds to get from one side of her dad’s beautifully kept garden to the other. He shoved his file onto the side of a large terracotta pot brimming with lavender and extracted his mobile phone, wobbling as he stood with one polished toe resting on their doorstep. ‘Is that the planning office? Good, yes. No time to chat – take this down,’ he said. ‘Forty houses. Terraced. Courtyard gardens. No, no, I’ve changed my mind – fill in the stream and make it eighty. Scrap the courtyard gardens, just give them an outside cupboard for a dustbin – we don’t want the new residents to leave a mess.’ Malcolm Mollet’s dad tossed his head towards Dracula’s Castle. Connie fell back from the window. ‘Shame about the church,’ he continued, giving its patchworked tower a torrid glance. ‘It’s always in the way. But I’ll pray for it to fall down.’ He snorted a laugh before regaining his self-control.
Connie’s eyes widened until they moved no more. She put her hand over her mouth to stop herself from calling out.
‘Perfect business strategy – we are to be congratulated.’ Malcolm Mollet’s dad snapped his phone shut and flicked again at his perfectly plucked moustache. ‘Out with the old and in with the new, lots of money for me and you!’ he crooned in a cringeworthy caterwauling of tunelessness, and disappeared around the corner.
Connie groaned. ‘He thinks he’s won.’
Mollet the Wallet strikes again.’
‘This is no time for jokes, Charlie,’ she said, pushing her laptop into a bag and thrusting it at him.
‘Let’s put it off a bit longer.’
‘No! It’s late enough,’ she called.
She slid down the ramp in defiance of her weak leg muscles. She hadn’t forgotten the ladder burn on her hands and knees from the last time they raced each other down. Her hands had stung every time she turned her wheels.
This time, the Wendlewitch didn’t lean out of her top window. They waited for several minutes but nobody came.
‘Look, it says it's open,’ said Connie. ‘It’ll be OK.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Come on, Charlie – where’s your on-field courage now?’
She flung the pottery shop door wide open and wiggled her nose at the smell of blueberry burst body lotion. It drew her right across the room, her wheels hardly making a sound on the old boards. She looked fearfully at the laden shelves climbing upwards and over her head. The flickering turquoise in the eyes of the china cats made her jump. ‘Oh,’ she exclaimed, pushing Charlie-Mouse ahead.
To her shock, he knelt on the lion stool, gripped the wheel with both hands and started using it as a steering wheel.
‘Dodgems,’ he said, forcing a grin.
She slapped her hands on his. ‘Time travellers don’t do dodgems. Be sensible,’ she hissed.
He huffed. ‘All right, which way does it spin?’
‘Anti-clockwise of course. Use the motor.’
He put his foot on the pedal. ‘Bet nothing happens.’
The wheel started circling and Charlie-Mouse pressed his foot all the way down. Connie shuddered as its magical energy began to encompass her body.
Chapter Seven The kitchen front
Claybridge Farm
Saturday, 11th May, 1940
Dear Mummy,
We bought sweets with our ration books yesterday. It was quite exciting. I haven’t eaten them all yet. We are having a competition to see who can save the most sweets for the longest time. I am not doing as well as Bert! Uncle Geoff told us that even Princess Elizabeth has a ration book! I wonder if she has competitions with Princess Margaret. Bert says he’s going to buy hundreds and thousands next time because they’ll last longer. I’m not sure I will, I much prefer pear drops. I wouldn’t mind finding out whether or not Princess Elizabeth likes pear drops.
We have been helping in the gardens, converting some of the rose beds into vegetable patches. I planted onions and radishes. Bert planted runner beans. Uncle Geoff didn’t risk potatoes this year; he is using the fields for wheat and barley. He is hoping for a good supply of apples and damsons from the orchard. So are we.
There’s been talk in the village about a Local Defence Volunteers group. It will be a mini army, I think, and will make us all feel safer. Bert wants to join but he is too young.
Lots of love from Kit xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
P.S. Some important visitors came here yesterday. They all wore uniforms and badges and arrived in several big cars.
Summer 1940
Chapter Eight ‘Spitfire Summer’
The outdoors rushed at her, crashing into her face and over her bare knees. She opened her eyes to see a surprisingly more fragile Claybridge reaching out through the heat haze – its walls paled, windows darkened. The door to the kitchen tipped open and a warm wafting of baking and a comforting clink of china brought life to her senses.
Her eyes drifted past Charlie-Mouse to follow the long winding driveway to the road – a collection of barns and a cart-shed confused her. She looked for the pottery shop. ‘Thank goodness,’ she said, releasing her brother’s damp hand from hers. She pulled her wheelchair back, and tried to relax from the tension stressing her from head to toe.
‘Scary,’ Charlie-Mouse whispered. ‘I mean more than before.’
‘Sssh,’ she said.
Through a low stile, not far away, a boy and a girl of about her age lazed on the soft grass. The boy rolled over and looked at the sky. The girl she recognised from the schoolroom pored over the front-page of the newspaper, her bobbed auburn hair dropping over her face.
‘France falls, now the battle for Britain,’ the girl said aloud. She folded up the newspaper with a sigh. ‘Whatever is going to happen?’ The girl sat up. ‘Hello there!’ she cried in welcome delight. ‘Wait, I’m coming over.’ She grabbed the paper and her gas mask box. ‘Have you come from abroad?’ She looked them up and down with clear uncertainty.
In a worrying moment, Connie straightened the hem of the blue lycra T-shirt she was wearing. ‘Er, yes, no, well it’s the latest fashion . . .’ she said, thinking of her cousins. ‘Er . . . in Canada.’
The girl in red and white skipped with delight. ‘How lucky to go to Canada. I’ve never been on a liner.’
Charlie-Mouse swayed uneasily.
The girl talked on merrily. ‘We don’t know anyone here yet, apart from Uncle Geoff and Auntie Evie, that is. Do you know them? We’ve been evacuated from North London. We were so lucky to come together. ‘Our whole school has been evacuated to Dorset. Mummy thought about it but Auntie Evie wouldn’t hear of us going. So here we are. Are you thirsty . . . there’s apple juice in the larder.’ She climbed through the stile, the pleats of her cotton skirt blowing in the breeze.
The boy in long shorts jumped to his feet.
‘They’ve been abroad,’ said the girl.
‘Good show,’ he said, offering his hand. I’m Albert Arthur Tyler, Bert for short, and this is Kathleen Rose, my sister.
‘Do call me Kit,’ the girl invited, her red hair ribbon shining.
Connie offered her hand. ‘I’m Connie and this is Charlie although everyone calls him Charlie-Mouse.’
‘A school joke,’ Charlie-Mouse explained.
‘He’s not a mouse, as you can see!’ said Connie, raising her eyes to meet his.
Kit smiled – her face animated with interest and her eyes alive. Bert mirrored her fun, standing as tall as Charlie-Mouse but a contrast in looks. Bert’s porcelain skin shone brighter than any boy’s she had ever seen, and he didn’t have that all-together serious expression like Charlie-Mouse often did.
‘You will stay awhile, won’t you?’ Kit continued. ‘We’ll get that drink.’
She took hold of Connie’s wheelchair by the handles. ‘I know a boy in our street at home but his wheelchair doesn’t look as handy a
s this. In fact I’m not sure where he is right now. Do you know, Bert? He might be in Dorset. I do hope he’s OK.’
‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ nodded Bert. ‘His mother went too.’
‘Yes, you’re right.’ Kit opened her arms and surprised Connie with a flourishing embrace. ‘Well, this is certainly the nicest surprise we’ve had for absolutely ages,’ she said.
Connie’s heart pattered as they went into the cool of the kitchen. The array of scones and biscuits on the cooling trays along the counter set her mouth watering. She turned her face from one wall to the other – the room had hardly changed – the glass-moulded lampshade, the light switches, the colour of the doors, and even the chairs under the kitchen table stood out with haunting familiarity.
‘Hello,’ Auntie Evie said, glancing curiously at the top of Charlie-Mouse’s head.
Her brother made a quick attempt to flatten his spiked hair.
Auntie Evie dropped the heavy glasses from her face to hang over her bosom and washed her hands before going into the larder. She reappeared smiling with a large jug of juice – her fresh-featured face and smooth apple-rosy cheeks aglow. Her wavy hair – the same auburn shade as Kit’s – was tied loosely behind. Her patterned dress was buttoned and simple, and covered on top with a sleeveless housecoat. Her dark shoes laced and her legs bare.
‘This is what’s needed, isn’t it,’ she beamed. ‘I’m expecting Uncle Geoff to come in soon – we’ve things to talk about.’ Her cheeks dimpled with anxiety then bloomed once again. ‘I’ll bargain he can smell fresh-baked biscuits from five miles.’ She smiled as she poured. ‘So what have you got planned for this hot afternoon? Something cooling?’
‘We could go to the stream,’ Kit said. ‘Now that we have such good company.’
‘Sounds the best idea of all. You can ask your uncle to help you find the fishing nets.’
‘That’s a perfect plan,’ Kit said.
Connie only smiled while her insides churned – she wasn’t sure they should go too far away.
As her eyes adjusted to the shade of the barn, Connie made out several baskets of plums laid out on a stony earth floor adorned with stray lengths of straw. Sunlight filtered like golden raindrops through the wooden rafters, creating shimmering pools of light. Gradually a large mound of straw loomed into view.
Whirl of the Wheel Page 2
