The Blitz (8 page)

 

 

The Dragon more or less forced Tom to go to school this morning, accusing him of being a malingerer. I had to explain to Tom she wasn't saying he'd got a dreadful disease, just that he was lazy! The poor boy sat and shivered by the stove in the schoolroom all day, and even Miss Williams and the other children could see he wasn't up to working and left him alone.

In the evening the Dragon came up to my room to call me for dinner, and sort of hung about as if she was trying to find the words to say something important to me. Maybe she'd decided she actually wanted a conversation after two weeks of shouting. I'd been reading my
Jane Eyre
and she eyed my little row of books suspiciously, up and down, up and down. For a moment I was afraid she was going to tell me reading was a waste of time (which was obviously what she was thinking) and confiscate the books and their hidden hoard of treasure. But she contented herself with a tetchy shake of the head, as if she pitied me, and turned on her heels.

 

 

I've never done anything really bad in my life before, but I think I might be about to, and I feel all tied up in knots about it.

When I think about it, even in the mornings when I'm at my most cheerful, the last fortnight's been horrible. After that bother with Philip Morgan, the other kids at school have just ignored us. I'd say they've sent us to Coventry, but since we're in Wales that doesn't seem quite right, does it? Maybe they've sent us to Cardiff then! (You can see I haven't completely lost my sense of humour!)

After the first day or so, we just stopped bothering about it, talked to each other, and got on with what Miss Williams gave us to do. She's gone all stand-offish too, but perhaps that's just in my imagination. That's the trouble, you see: keeping things in proportion.

The final straw came today. It's a week since I said to Tom I was sure things would improve, and I was wondering what I was going to say to him after school today because I knew they hadn't. Anyway, that's when it happened. I wasn't there, mind. I only saw the results.

For the last couple of days now, Mr and Mrs Dragon have been pushing Tom outside to help with small things on the farm, even though he's not really better – pulling up vegetables for supper, piling silage on to the wagon, watching how the cows are milked and so on. That's all right, I suppose. The fresh air's probably good for him, and it's better than him hanging round the house getting bullied along with me.

Anyway, Mr James had Tom in his workshop this afternoon, supposedly teaching him some woodwork. Tom told me he'd been practising knocking nails into a bit of wood with one of Mr James's hammers when he missed the nail and hit his thumb hard.

I don't know what Tom said because he won't tell me, and I can't think it can have been too awful, because I don't think he knows many really bad words, but whatever it was shocked old James. I don't think Chapel folk swear very much, though it doesn't prevent them being as rude as they like.

So Mr James comes back in the house literally holding Tom by the ear, and tells the Dragon what he's said. Now once or twice I've heard Mum use the expression “
Wash your mouth out with soap and water
” when someone's said a rude word, but I never dreamed anyone would really do it. But that's exactly what they did. Mr James held Tom down, and she applied the soap. None too gently either.

I was shocked. As Tom began to howl I started to say they should leave him alone, but the Dragon roughly told me to be quiet or I'd be next for the high jump.

When they'd finished it was the usual thing. Tom was sent upstairs and told not to come down till he was called. I went with him and dared them to stop me.

Anyway, I've made my mind up. We can't stay here. Not after that! We've given it our best shot, and things aren't going to get any better.

 

 

I've thought about this very carefully, and we're not going to get two chances. We've got to make our escape work first time.

Thank heavens for the money Shirl gave me. If ever there was a “rainy day” this has got to be it!

After school today, Tom and I went to spy out the land at Llantrisant station. The timetable on the platform says there's just two trains a day to Cardiff, but the good news is one of them's at 8.25.

If we say we're going down to school ten minutes early tomorrow morning we can be on that train. Most of our luggage will have to stay here: all we can carry is our school bags.

I said a special prayer tonight for the train not to be cancelled. What'll happen when we get home I've got no idea, but the only way to convince Mum and Dad about this is face to face. A letter won't do.

 

 

The man in the ticket office peered over his glasses very suspiciously when we bought two singles for Paddington. It was exactly 8.22 and down the platform the little tank engine was already champing at the bit in front of the three carriages that made up the 8.25 for Cardiff.

We had the money, didn't we? I looked him straight in the eye when I handed it over, as if this was what we did every day of the week.

He stared right back, knowing he'd seen us before, but not quite able to make the right connection. I held my breath and waited for him to say something, but then he dropped his gaze and slowly, oh so slowly, gave me the change. This time there were some other passengers on the train so he couldn't keep them waiting just because we looked a bit dodgy, could he?

All the way to Cardiff I think we both expected the train to creak to a halt any minute, and a copper to come and haul us off. But it rumbled on into the grey stone suburbs, and just after ten we were standing scanning the destination board inside the station canopy.

There was an express for Paddington at 10.45. If we made that, we were safe. Once in London, even if by chance they rounded us up, I reasoned they'd have to take us home and not back to Llantrisant.

Every time a ticket collector banged his way down the corridor on the express, every time the door of our compartment slid back, every time someone in uniform passed down the train, I thought the game was up. Now I know what it must feel like to be a spy behind enemy lines.

Whenever the train pulled up at a signal, our hearts began to beat faster. At Swindon, wherever that is, it stopped for a full fifteen minutes though it wasn't meant to, and I thought we'd had it. But no one came, and eventually the train wheezed back into life.

Every chance I got I talked quietly to Tom, encouraging him, telling him why we were doing what we were doing and how well we were getting on. He was as scared as I was.
I
knew he didn't normally look that pale and wan, but nobody else did so that was all right. As the day went on, hunger made us even more edgy, but I didn't want to spend any of our precious cash till we were safely in London. Food could wait. We weren't going to die of starvation.

Finally, after hours of sitting on the edge of our seats, the train drew slowly into Paddington. As we handed our tickets in at the barrier I felt like doing a dance, but of course the worst bit was still to come. Facing the music at number 47!

Tom must have been reading my mind.

“Food?” I said. “Or home first?”

“Home,” he said decisively.

 

 

I was dog tired last night, and almost fell asleep over the diary. And there was a miracle! No air-raid sirens. No bombs! I slept through till nine in the morning, and I don't remember a thing.

Now where was I in the story?

Well, we caught the tube to Charing Cross, and then the Southern Electric to Lewisham. It was easier than working out which buses were running. I haven't been in the tube for months. The Circle line runs only just underground, not like the Northern where you have to go down hundreds of stairs, so it isn't great as a shelter. Even so, tonnes of people move in every night from the look of things. They're supposed to clean up every morning, but there's still lots of stuff left around. And the disgusting smell hits you in the face the minute you walk inside. I don't know how the people who camp out there don't catch dreadful diseases.

When we walked in the back door of number 47, Mum was doing the washing. When she saw us her face was a picture. In an instant the colour bleached out of her, and I thought she was going to faint. She caught hold of the mangle for support, and then without a word the three of us hugged till we cried.

She knew. Just from the fact we were there, she knew. “You're a truthful girl, Edie,” she said later in the evening, when I'd stopped explaining. “I know you wouldn't have done it unless you had to.” Finally, she relaxed and leaned back slightly in her chair. Pursing her lips in a half-smile, she said, “So what are we going to say to Mr and Mrs Dragon, then?”

Tom had been subdued and serious all through the evening, but as he caught the twinkle in Mum's eye, he laughed and laughed with relief until his sides ached. I'd forgotten the smell of home, of cosiness and baking and polish, and now I want to stay here for ever.

As I was falling asleep last night, Shirl came and put her arms around me and planted a kiss on my forehead “Good on you, girl,” she said. “I hope I'd have done exactly the same.”

 

 

We came back at the right time. Jerry's leaving London alone now, but from what I read in the paper yesterday, that means other people are having it even worse than we did. Last weekend they say Coventry was badly hit, and pretty well burned to a cinder. And today they've sent all the Lewisham regular firemen and a lot of the auxiliaries up to Birmingham. The fires there are burning right out of control. Who knows when Dad'll be home!

Mum says perhaps Hitler's seeing sense. He thought he could bomb the spirit out of the British people, but now he knows he can't. It makes me feel sort of proud. Back in September, when the RAF won the “Battle of Britain” by seeing off the German bombers, Mr Churchill said never had so much been owed by so many to so few, and I thought of how our Frank was one of those few. Well someone has to keep the planes flying, don't they! Not everyone can get the glory of shooting down Messerschmitts.

And now we've all done our bit by not giving in. Maybe even Tom and me, by not staying in Wales.

The fact the bombing's stopped made it easier for Mum and Dad not to send us back to the Dragons, though we've had some old-fashioned looks from a few people who knew we'd gone. Mr Lineham, for one. He didn't mind having me back to help with the papers, though. (By the way, newspapers are shrinking every week. The government wants all the paper it can lay its hands on for the war effort.)

On the other hand, I've heard they're opening the elementary schools again next month. I'm too old now, but Tom'll have to go. I think Mum's relieved. Now at least she'll know where Tom is every day.

 

 

Dad's still in Birmingham and there's been no news. I'm not used to Dad being away, and when I think about it the hairs on the back of my neck go all hot with worry.

One of the main reasons I'm glad to be back at number 47 is the food. I didn't realize till I went away how good a cook Mum is, and Shirl too come to that.

What with the shortages and the rationing, it's getting harder to make do, but Mum says that's where a good cook can really shine. Bacon's rationed, and so is butter and margarine of course, and now tea. I suppose that's obvious since it comes to England in ships, and the German U-boats are blowing up so many of them. There's not much chance of proper meat anymore, so we have to put up with liver and kidneys. And ox tongue. Actually, I'm starting to really like that. Tinned salmon's nice, too. We eat a lot more veg than we used to, and Mum makes us keep up our vitamins by drinking tomato juice, which I can't say I like. It's far too slimy!

We can still get fresh eggs, but Mum reckons we'll be lucky if they're not rationed too before long. She wants us to keep chickens, so at least we'll have the eggs from them.

It's Mum's puddings I like best: jam roly-poly and honey-and-walnut cake are my favourites. If
I
try to make them they just aren't the same.

The queues at shops are getting longer now that people are starting to think about Christmas, so I expect I'll be doing a lot of hanging around in the cold. Everyone tries it on to get more than their fair share. When the war started you heard some dreadful stories about rich people turning up in their chauffeur-driven cars and cleaning out shops far away from where they lived. That's why rationing was brought in, and why we can only get rationed goods from the shop where we're registered – in our case, Nuttall's for the meat, and Harrold's for the groceries.

You can't always trust shopkeepers either. They might seem as nice as pie, but a bloke in Deptford was had up for watering down his milk the other day and selling eggs that were smaller than they were supposed to be.

Of course, if you're in with the shopkeepers there's always the chance you can get something “under the counter”, on the black market. It's funny how some people always seem to have cigarettes, and other people can't get them for love nor money. Not that I want them, only Shirl!

 

 

It's rained cats and dogs for the last 24 hours, and the River Ravensbourne's flooded. Half a mile away there's mud and rubbish all over people's houses, as if things haven't been bad enough.

Dad's back from the Midlands, and I've never seen him like this. Even when the Blitz here was at its worst, he usually came up smiling, but this is different. He came home and went to bed without saying a word. He must have slept twelve hours solid.