Read Online Amy's Children by Olga Masters - Free Book Online
Authors: Olga Masters
Tags: Fiction classic
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class of eight-year-olds in the afternoon. He thought (providing he passed his medical) he would start training pretty soon at a camp in Liverpool. He was told that he might not have the rank of private for too long with his higher education.
âI want to get stuck into the fighting though,â he told Amy, his voice from the phone booth sounding as if he were speaking from inside an empty petrol drum. She stored this away in her mind to tell him when she saw him, hoping she could imitate the hollow ring his words had and make him laugh. She couldnât say much at the switchboard, particularly with Miss Sheldon tending to behave as if she had not yet mastered the art of operating it, and checking on her more than ever.
âLittle she knows but I donât want the greasy-skinned thing within a bullâs roar of me,â Amy muttered to herself one day after both Lance and Miss Sheldon had paid unnecessary visits. The phrase was one borrowed from May and Daphne.
Lance had removed the rack of clothes and taken down the sign from the front door. He didnât want her burdened with clothing coupons, which had been introduced with wartime rationing, and the factory was making long johns for servicemen, khaki jumpers and greatcoats, and fewer civilian things. Amy was glad. She felt guilty whenever she saw the great piles of childrenâs clothes on the factory tables, or read details of their manufacture from invoices. She had sent home two or three parcels to May, unhappy that she was no longer familiar with the girlsâ measurements, imagining Mayâs scorn if they couldnât be worn. It was more than a year now since she had sent anything.
May and Daphne exchanged more letters than May and Amy. Amy did not know what excuses Daphne used when she had moved out of the Coxes. She thought about asking Peter what Daphne said about her, or what references there were to her in Mayâs letters, or for fresh news of the little girls, but her time with Peter was always so short it seemed a shame to spoil it with any unpleasant topic.
On his last leave from training he got away from the house in Annandale as soon as he could and took Amy to Bondi. She smiled when she heard, remembering her mind picture of Bondi Beach when she was at the hotel, thinking how much better it was seeing it with Peter. He wanted to show her the school where he taught and show her where shells had fallen, for it was only a week after the attack by Japanese submarines on Sydney Harbour, and people were taking the trams to walk about the streets in the wild wintry weather, disappointed that everything looked much the same as when theyâd seen it last. A few air raid wardens in caps with badges were standing about, looking as if they would like to be questioned but daring anyone to have such gall.
Amy was proud of Peter and clung to his arm, and imagined people thinking look at that nice young soldier and his pretty girlfriend. She did not look older than him, she was sure. Her cheeks were pink with the cold and she knew the tip of her nose was pink too, but her hair did not blow about too much, since it was bound with a navy blue ribbon matching a navy jumper bought cheaply from Lincoln Knitwear because the seams did not meet properly under one arm. Sitting on her bed with her ankles crossed she had darned the hole so neatly no one could possibly detect it.
She had a deep green blazer over the jumper and a navy skirt with pleats that flew out when she turned quickly. He took her into a cafe for tea and toast. It was a long time since she had eaten properly made toast. In her room she had a wire and metal contraption comprising two sides that clapped together with the bread between them. When held over a gas flame the result was usually scorched bread not toast, and no matter how much care was taken there was always a burnt taste.
The toast the waitress served was beautifully brown, the melting butter putting a shine on the
âI want to get stuck into the fighting though,â he told Amy, his voice from the phone booth sounding as if he were speaking from inside an empty petrol drum. She stored this away in her mind to tell him when she saw him, hoping she could imitate the hollow ring his words had and make him laugh. She couldnât say much at the switchboard, particularly with Miss Sheldon tending to behave as if she had not yet mastered the art of operating it, and checking on her more than ever.
âLittle she knows but I donât want the greasy-skinned thing within a bullâs roar of me,â Amy muttered to herself one day after both Lance and Miss Sheldon had paid unnecessary visits. The phrase was one borrowed from May and Daphne.
Lance had removed the rack of clothes and taken down the sign from the front door. He didnât want her burdened with clothing coupons, which had been introduced with wartime rationing, and the factory was making long johns for servicemen, khaki jumpers and greatcoats, and fewer civilian things. Amy was glad. She felt guilty whenever she saw the great piles of childrenâs clothes on the factory tables, or read details of their manufacture from invoices. She had sent home two or three parcels to May, unhappy that she was no longer familiar with the girlsâ measurements, imagining Mayâs scorn if they couldnât be worn. It was more than a year now since she had sent anything.
May and Daphne exchanged more letters than May and Amy. Amy did not know what excuses Daphne used when she had moved out of the Coxes. She thought about asking Peter what Daphne said about her, or what references there were to her in Mayâs letters, or for fresh news of the little girls, but her time with Peter was always so short it seemed a shame to spoil it with any unpleasant topic.
On his last leave from training he got away from the house in Annandale as soon as he could and took Amy to Bondi. She smiled when she heard, remembering her mind picture of Bondi Beach when she was at the hotel, thinking how much better it was seeing it with Peter. He wanted to show her the school where he taught and show her where shells had fallen, for it was only a week after the attack by Japanese submarines on Sydney Harbour, and people were taking the trams to walk about the streets in the wild wintry weather, disappointed that everything looked much the same as when theyâd seen it last. A few air raid wardens in caps with badges were standing about, looking as if they would like to be questioned but daring anyone to have such gall.
Amy was proud of Peter and clung to his arm, and imagined people thinking look at that nice young soldier and his pretty girlfriend. She did not look older than him, she was sure. Her cheeks were pink with the cold and she knew the tip of her nose was pink too, but her hair did not blow about too much, since it was bound with a navy blue ribbon matching a navy jumper bought cheaply from Lincoln Knitwear because the seams did not meet properly under one arm. Sitting on her bed with her ankles crossed she had darned the hole so neatly no one could possibly detect it.
She had a deep green blazer over the jumper and a navy skirt with pleats that flew out when she turned quickly. He took her into a cafe for tea and toast. It was a long time since she had eaten properly made toast. In her room she had a wire and metal contraption comprising two sides that clapped together with the bread between them. When held over a gas flame the result was usually scorched bread not toast, and no matter how much care was taken there was always a burnt taste.
The toast the waitress served was beautifully brown, the melting butter putting a shine on the
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