Maddy was staying with Grandma Mills, who helped Uncle George run The Feathers, just off the East Lancs Road in Chadley. They were her guardians now that Mummy and Daddy were abroad.
‘Take no notice of her, George. She’ll soon change her tune when she sees what’s in store at Broad Street Junior School.’ Grandma’s gruff northern voice soon poured cold water on Maddy’s plans. ‘I’m more interested in what’s come in the morning post, Madeleine.’ Grandma paused as if delivering bad news on stage, shoving a letter in front of her young granddaughter. ‘What have you to say about this, young lady? It appears there are new orders to evacuate your school to the countryside, but not for you.’
There was the dreaded handwritten note from Miss Connaught, the Head of Junior School attached to her school report.
It is with regret that I am forced to write again to express my displeasure at the continuing misbehaviour of your daughter, Madeleine Angela Belfield. At a time of National Emergency,
my staff must put the safety of hundreds of girls foremost, not spend valuable prep evenings searching for one ambulatory child, only to find her hiding up a tree, making a nuisance of herself again.We cannot take responsibility for her continuing disobedience and therefore suggest that she be withdrawn from this school forthwith. Perhaps she is more suited to a local authority school.
Millicent Mills leaned across the table and threw the letter in Maddy’s direction, her eyes fixed on the child, who sat with her head bent. She looked like butter wouldn’t melt but the effect was spoiled by those lips twitching with mischief. ‘What have you to say for yourself? And why aren’t you wearing your eye patch?’
It wasn’t Maddy’s fault that she was always in trouble at school. It wasn’t that she was mean or careless or dull even but somehow she didn’t fit into the strait-jacket that St Hilda’s liked to wrap around their pupils. Perhaps it was something to do with having to wear an eye patch on her good eye and glasses to correct her lazy left eye.
If there was one word that summed up her problem it was disobedience. Tell her to do one thing and she did the opposite, always had and always would.
‘You can take that grin off your face!’ yelled Granny in her drama queen voice. ‘George, you tell her,’ she sighed, deferring to her son, though everyone knew he was a soft touch and couldn’t squash a flea. ‘What will
your mother say when she hears you’ve been expelled? They’ve been footing the bills for months. Is this our reward?’
That wasn’t strictly true, as her parents’ money came in dribs and drabs and never on time. Her school fees were coming out of the pub profits and it was a struggle.
‘Don’t worry, it’ll save you money if I stay here,’ Maddy offered, sensing a storm was brewing up fast. ‘I’ll get a job.’
‘No granddaughter of mine gets expelled! You’ve got to be fourteen to get work. After all we’ve sacrificed for your education. I promised yer mam…’
When Granny was worked up her vowels flattened and the gruffness of her Yorkshire upbringing rose to the fore. She puffed up her chest into a heaving bosom of indignation. ‘I’ve not forked out all these years for you to let us down like this…I’m so disappointed in you.’
‘But I hate school,’ whined Maddy. ‘It’s so boring. I’m not good at anything and I’ll never be a prefect. Anyway, I don’t want to be vacuated. I like it in The Feathers. I want to stay here.’
‘What you like or don’t like is of no consequence. In my day children were seen and not heard,’ Grandma continued. ‘Where’s your eye patch? You’ll never straighten that eye if you take it off.’
‘I hate wearing it. They keep calling me one of Long John Silver’s pirates, the Black Spot, at school and I hate the stupid uniform. How would you like to wear donkey-brown serge and a winceyette shirt with baggy
knickers every day? They itch me. I hate the scratchy stockings, and Sandra Bowles pings my garters on the back of my knees and calls my shoes coal barges. Everything is second-hand and too big for me and they call me names. It’s a stupid school.’
‘St Hilda’s is the best girls’ school in the district. Think yourself lucky to have clothes to wear. Some little East End kiddies haven’t a stitch to their backs after the blitz. There’s a war on,’ Granny replied with her usual explanation for everything horrid going on in Maddy’s life.
‘Those gymslips look scratchy to me, Mother, and she is a bit small for some of that old stuff you bought,’ offered Uncle George in her defence. He was busy stocktaking but he looked up at his niece with concern.
‘Everyone has to make sacrifices, and school uniforms will have to last for the duration.’ Grandma Mills was riding on her high horse now. ‘I don’t stand on my feet for twelve hours a day to have her gadding off where she pleases. It’s bad enough having Arthur and Dolly so far away—’
‘Enough, Mother,’ Uncle George interrupted. ‘My sister’ll always be grateful for you taking in the girl. Now come on, we’ve a business to run and stock to count, and Maddy can see that the air-raid precautions are in place. All hands to the stirrup pump, eh?’
Mother’s brother was kindness itself, and all the rules and regulations never seemed to get him down: the petrol rationing and food restrictions. He found ways to get round them. There were always pear drops in his pocket to share when her sweets were gone. He was
even busy renovating the old pony trap so they could trot off to town in style, and the droppings would feed the vegetable plot outside. Nothing must be wasted.
The subject of the war was banned in the bar, though. It was as if there was a notice hanging from the ceiling: ‘Don’t talk about the war in here.’ Maddy knew Uncle George pored over the
Telegraph
each day with a glum face before opening time and then pinned on his cheery grin to those boys in airforce blue. He had wanted to join up but with no toes from an old war wound, and a limp, he failed his medical. Maddy was secretly glad. She loved Uncle George.
Daddy was gassed in the last war too and his chest was too weak for battle. Touring and entertaining the troops was his way of making an effort.
Now everyone followed events over the Channel with dismay, waiting for the worst. England was on alert and evacuation was starting in earnest. It was Maddy’s job to check that the Anderson shelter was stocked with flasks and blankets and that the planks weren’t slippy for the customers and the curtain closed. She helped put the blackout shutters over the windows at dusk every night and made sure the torch was handy if it was a rush to the shelter in the night across what once was the bowling green.
The Feathers was one of five old inns strung along the corners of two main roads between Liverpool and Manchester on the edge of the city in Chadley. It was the only one left with a quaint thatched roof, courtyard and stable block, where their car was bricked up for want of petrol coupons There was a bar for the
locals and a snug for married couples and commercial tradesmen.
The bowling green at the back had been turned into an allotment with a shelter hidden away in a pit with turf over the corrugated roof. It was damp and smelly but Maddy felt safe in there.
Maddy had her own bedroom in the eaves of the thatched pub. They were close to a new RAF aerodrome, and men from the station came crowding into the bar, singing and fooling around until all hours. It was a war-free cocoon of smoke and noise and rowdy games. She wasn’t allowed in the bar but sometimes she caught a glimpse of the pilots jumping over the chairs and leapfrogging over one another. It looked like PE in the playground.
She often counted the planes out and in during the small hours when the noise of bombs in the distance kept her awake. They’d heard about the terrible fires over London and listened to the ack-ack guns blasting into the night sky to protect Liverpool and Manchester from raiders. She wished her parents were back in the country entertaining the troops and factory workers close by, not out of reach on the other side of the world and their letters coming all in a rush.
She was glad her parents were together but it seemed years since they had been a proper family and most of that time they’d all lived out of a theatrical trunk. No wonder she balked at leaving the only place she called home, to be evacuated. That was why she’d pushed her luck in class, even though she was on her final warning
Being small, though, meant she felt useless–too
young to help in the bar, too old for silly games–sand not sure when she’d be old enough to join up and do something herself. There had to be something she could do besides look after Bertie, the cocker spaniel.
When her chores were done Maddy raced to the apple tree at the far end of the field. It was stripped of fruit and the leaves were curling up. It was her lookout post where she did plane spotting. She could tell the Jerries’ from the Spitfires blindfolded by now. The enemy planes had a slow throb, throb on its engine but the home planes were one continuous drone. She liked to watch the planes taking off from the distant runway and dreamed of flying off across the world to see Mummy and Daddy. It wasn’t fair. They had each other and she had no one.
Granny was OK, in a bossy no-nonsense sort of way, but she was always hovering behind her, making her do boring prep and home reading. It wasn’t as if Maddy planned anything naughty, it just sort of happened–like last week in assembly in the parish church when she sat behind Sandra Bowles.
Sandra had the thickest long ropes of plaits reaching down to her waist and she was always tossing them over her shoulder to show how thick and glossy they were. Her ribbons were crisp and made of gold satin to match the stripes on their blazers.
Maddy’s own plaits were weedy little wiry things because she had curly black hair that didn’t grow very fast and it was a struggle to stop bits spilling out.
Sandy was showing off as usual, and Maddy couldn’t resist clasping the two ropes in a vice grip as they
dangled into her thick hymn book, so that when they all rose to sing ‘Lord dismiss us with thy blessing’, Sandra yelped and her head was yanked back.
Maddy didn’t know where to hide her satisfaction, but Miss Connaught saw the dirty deed and it was the last straw after a list of detentions and lines. Nobody listened to her side of the tale–how she’d been the object of Sandra’s tormenting for months. No, she would not miss St Hilda’s one bit.
It wasn’t her fault she was born with a funny eye that didn’t follow her other. Mummy explained that she must wait until she was older and fully grown before the surgeon would be able to correct it properly but that was years away. There’d been one operation when she was younger but it hadn’t worked. Being pretty in the first place would have helped but when Mummy looked at her she always sighed and said she must come from the horsy side of the Belfield family, being good at sport, with long legs.
They never talked much about Daddy’s family, the Belfields, and never visited them. They lived in Yorkshire somewhere. There were no cards or presents exchanged at Christmas either.
Daddy met Mummy when he was recovering after the Great War and she was a singer and dancer in a troupe. He was musical too and spent hours playing the piano in the hospital. They’d fallen in love when Mummy went to sing to them. It was all very romantic.
Maddy’s first memories were of singing and laughter and dancing when they visited Granny and Grandpa’s pub near Preston. She’d stayed with them when the
Bellaires were on tour. Grandpa died and Granny came to work with George when Auntie Kath ran away with the cellar man.
Now everything was changed because of this war and everyone was on the move here and there. She just wanted to sit in the tree with Bertie, the cocker spaniel, sitting guard at the base. He was her best friend and keeper of all her secrets.
When it was getting dusk it was time to do her evening chores, closing curtains and making sure that Bertie and the hens got fed for the evening. Now that she’d been expelled, Maddy wasn’t so sure about going to a new school after all. What if it was worse than St Hilda’s?
‘Go and get us some fish and chips,’ yelled Granny from the doorway. ‘I’m too whacked to make tea tonight. The books are making my eyes ache. Here’s my purse. The one in Entwistle Street will be open tonight. And no vinegar on mine…’
Maddy jumped down and shot off for her mac. There was no time to call Bertie in from the field. Fish and chips were always a treat. St Hilda’s would call them ‘common’ but she didn’t care.
She heard Moaning Minnie, the siren, cranking up the air-raid warning as the queue for fish and chips shuffled slowly through the door. Maddy looked up at the night sky, leaning on the gleaming chrome and black and green façade of the fish bar.
Outside, little torches flickered in an arc of light on the pavements as people scurried by.
‘Looks as if Manchester is getting another pasting
tonight!’ sighed an old man as he sprinkled salt all over his battered fish.
‘Go easy with that, Stan. There’s a war on,’ shouted the fish fryer.
Maddy could feel her stomach rumbling. The smell of the batter, salt and pea broth was tempting. This was a rare treat as Gran liked to cook her own dishes. If only the sirens would stop screaming.
Chadley was getting off lightly in the recent air raids as there was nothing but a few mills and shops and an aviation supply factory. The Jerries preferred the docks. As she looked up into the sky she saw dark droning shapes and knew she’d have to find shelter–but not before she got their supper wrapped in newspaper. There was something brave about queuing in an air raid.