We Must Be Brave. Frances Liardet

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СКАЧАТЬ Filling hay nets. Scampering back and forth.’

      Then he put his cap back on, wiped his eyes, and turned to take up his journey again. The Colonel clucked at Beeston who leaned into his harness, and the cart moved off. We swayed in our seats. The woman pied by brick dust clutched her baby’s foot in her filthy hand.

      Colonel Daventry let us down at our turning. We began to walk along the embanked track that ran between two low fields to our mill. It was dusk and the people couldn’t see the mill – they hesitated, wondering if they were heading on a long trek out into the countryside. I encouraged them onward, and soon the mill was in sight.

      Elizabeth opened the door. ‘Oh, Mrs Parr. What a thing. Oh, look at that little mite.’ She glanced behind me at the crowd with an anxious housekeeper’s eye. ‘I’ve got all the rugs and cushions out. I hope they’ll be all right.’

      ‘Well done, Elizabeth.’ I stepped inside and set Pamela down on the hall chair. ‘Mr Parr’s following.’ Pamela drooped sideways against the wooden arm, eyes tightly shut. ‘This little one’s mislaid her mother,’ I told Elizabeth in a low voice. ‘We’ll put her upstairs, with us.’

      The women filed past us in a draught of icy air with gasps of relief. When they reached the sitting room the pair of girls lay down immediately, straight onto the floor, refusing offers of tea. One slipped off a single shoe, covered her face with her hands, and lay still. Now they were in an enclosed space I could smell the charred stink again, coming off their coats. I still couldn’t identify it. Perhaps it was something that wasn’t usually burned.

      Elizabeth and I brought tea, and cut a loaf of bread thickly to make dry toast. Those women still awake devoured it. ‘There’s a bit of dripping, but not enough for all of them,’ Elizabeth whispered.

      ‘Keep the dripping for the little girl. We’ve got bread, that’s the main thing.’

      When they’d finished their tea and toast we helped our guests arrange the sitting room to their liking. The young women drowsily accepted a blanket. Then I went upstairs to see the boys.

      We had three evacuees from Southampton: two young brothers and their older cousin. They’d been with us a year and a quarter, since the beginning of the war. Very obedient at first, more unsettled since the September raid which had destroyed the Spitfire factory a few hundred yards away from their homes.

      ‘It was a big’un last night, wasn’t it, Mrs Parr,’ said Donald, the youngest boy.

      They’d all slept through the bombing, but playground gossip had done its work, and his pudgy little face was pale. I wished, for the dozenth time, that his father hadn’t promised to telephone after each raid. I opened my arms and he shuffled over and sat close at my side – too grown-up, at seven, to clamber onto my lap.

      ‘Yes, Donald.’ I squeezed his shoulders. ‘I’m sure everyone’s quite well, but the telephone lines are down. Daddy might not get through until tomorrow or the next day. Now, tonight’s going to be a bit of an adventure.’ I addressed them all. ‘We’ve got visitors. I’m going to put three of them up here, in your bedroom, and you can make a bivouac on the landing, like Scouts do. How does that sound? And you’ll have to eat your tea very quietly in the kitchen – go in through the hall door. Whatever you do, don’t go into the sitting room.’

      ‘Why?’ asked Hawley, the cousin. ‘Are they spies?’

      ‘No.’ I smiled. ‘They just need peace and quiet.’

      Under my direction the boys pitched camp, laying out some old bedding rolls and unused velvet curtains.

      ‘Pooh, this stinks,’ said Donald, and threw the curtain across the floor.

      ‘It may be a little musty,’ I said. ‘It’s been kept in a chest—’

      ‘Put it back on the mattress, Donald, you twit,’ said his older brother.

      ‘Shut your gob, Jack.’

      The two boys fell into a frenzy of pulling, kicking and thumping, comical because wordless. Hawley folded his arms. ‘Oi. Lads. Do you want to sleep in the hen house?’

      They went still. I looked at Hawley gratefully.

      ‘They need a tight rein, Mrs Parr,’ he said.

      They came down for their supper, stopping short at Pamela who was still enthroned, dozing, on the hall chair. It was an ancient chair, with a low seat and a tall back, designed for kneeling on and praying: Pamela, pale, with her eyes sombrely downcast, could have been a child of the Middle Ages. I put my finger to my lips and the boys passed by silently into the kitchen. I went into the sitting room and invited three ladies upstairs to spend the night on the boys’ beds. ‘Mrs Berrow, I insist you come. I will find you a damp flannel for your eye.’

      Obediently Mrs Berrow followed me, along with two others, up to the boys’ bedroom. I brought the flannel, told them where the bathroom was, and left them to sleep. None of them spoke. They were hungry, I knew, but their tiredness was of a kind to conquer hunger. They rolled onto the beds and lay like dead-weights.

      I spread a slice of bread with the dripping and brought it to Pamela.

      ‘Pamela?’

      She opened her eyes and regarded me, blinking. She took the slice of bread, dropped it on the floor. I kneeled in front of her and retrieved it and tore off a dusty piece. She chewed without haste, her jaw moving roundly like a small calf. ‘Excuse me,’ she said through her mouthful. ‘Are we in a village?’

      ‘Yes. A village called Upton.’

      ‘So is this village bread?’

      I smiled. ‘I made it, and I’m a villager. So I suppose it is. It’s a little stale, darling, that’s all. My fresh bread is much softer.’

      She continued chewing, eyes steadily on me, not the least reassured. The front door opened and Selwyn came in. He took his coat off, and smiled at me. ‘You look like a supplicant, and she your princess. It’s the high-backed chair, I suppose. What is there to eat?’

      ‘Bread, and a sausage. About three ounces of tea. Plenty of oats.’

      Pamela had been looking from one of us to the other. Now she stopped chewing. ‘Horses eat oats.’

      ‘Yes, they do.’ Selwyn bent over her. ‘Are you warm enough?’ She nodded. He patted her on the head, absently, as if she were his good dog. ‘Now I think about it, I haven’t got much of an appetite. I’ll sleep on the little bed in the dressing room. You put her with you, in our bed.’

      The buttons on the back of Pamela’s dirty little dress were tiny. One of them was broken, a shard which slipped under my nail and stabbed me. I pulled the puffed sleeves down off her shoulders. Her arms were as cold as china.

      ‘Didn’t Mummy give you a coat, Pamela?’

      ‘It was so hot in the hotel, she said, “Let’s take our coats and cardigans off.” So we did that.’

      ‘What hotel?’

      She turned her head to look up at me. ‘The hotel that we were inside,’ she said patiently. ‘I want to keep my knickers on.’

      She СКАЧАТЬ