look at a man out of uniform.
I arrived at my digs late at night, exhausted. As soon as the landlady realized I was a C.O. she said I’d have to go. It’s her son, she says. He’s due on leave and won’t set foot in the house if I’m there. She let me stay the night, but then I spent a miserable day looking for another place. Several doors slammed on me, but I’m settled here now and it’s not too bad.
The work’s hard for a desk chap like me! I’d imagined myself felling trees, but we’re planting, mostly, putting in tree stakes, erecting fencing, that sort of thing. Only two of us are C.O.s. Most of the men accept us even if they’re not exactly friendly. A few are hostile. (Malcolm, the other C.O., got beaten up one evening. But I haven’t told Ma that – and don’t you.) I like the fresh air and exercise. I’m building up muscles, and the work is useful and I feel good about growing things, taking care of the land.
How’s my little sister? I know I made it hard for you back home. I’m sorry about that, but it had to be done. I have hopes that when this war is over we’ll all come together and make a better world…
Josie folded the letter and put it in her pocket. It had brought Ted close to her and made her feel homesick. More than ever she longed to see him. But not here. Not now.
Next morning Aunty Grace took the girls shopping. Edith was growing out of all her clothes, and her mother had heard there was to be a sale of fire-damaged cloth at a draper’s in the King’s Road.
“We’ll go for lunch at The Pheasantry afterwards,” she said, “for a treat.”
They walked west along the King’s Road. The draper’s had big notices outside advertising the sale, and a large number of women had already gathered. Aunty Grace spent a long time looking at fabrics, some with brown burn marks running right through them, some merely dusty and dirty. She held up a dress length in dark blue wool with an orange fleck in it.
“That’s horrible!” protested Edith.
Her mother sighed. “You can’t be too fussy, dear. How about this brown check? It’s scorched, but if Mrs. Jenks can cut it carefully…”
Mrs. Jenks had been sewing for the Felgates since the children were babies. Even with a war on, it seemed, she was indispensable.
Aunty Grace continued to rummage. All around, women were buying and chatting. Mostly their talk was about prices, or dressmaking, or the difficulty of managing without their servants, but suddenly Josie heard a buzz of conversation in low, shocked voices from a group of women in a nearby queue.
“…broken several windows!”
“And a brick with a message wrapped round it: a swastika and the word ‘Huns’.”
“How dreadful!”
“Of course they were German,” an older woman said. “They changed their name…”
Josie looked at Edith. She had been listening too.
“It’s Hampton’s,” whispered Josie.
“But who – the boys?”
“Yes. That Ray.”
“And Vic. Ray’s not bright enough on his own.”
Josie didn’t like to think that Vic would have done such a thing. But it had to be the boys. And she had told them.
“It’s my fault,” she said. She felt stricken.
“It’s nothing to do with you,” retorted Edith. “We don’t know who did it, do we? Could have been anyone.” She added, with enthusiasm, “We’ll pass Hampton’s if we go to The Pheasantry.”
They did. Aunty Grace settled on the brown cloth, and as they left she said, “They’re saying there’s been an attack on Hampton’s! Quite upsetting. Such pleasant people…”
The shop was a sad sight. Bombing was one thing, Aunty Grace said, but to see deliberate damage like that – well, it undermined the spirit of the Blitz.
Two windows had been broken and were already boarded up. Inside, furniture had been moved to the back of the shop, but the glass had all been swept up and there was no sign of the brick or the message.
The shop was open. To Josie’s alarm, her aunt
I arrived at my digs late at night, exhausted. As soon as the landlady realized I was a C.O. she said I’d have to go. It’s her son, she says. He’s due on leave and won’t set foot in the house if I’m there. She let me stay the night, but then I spent a miserable day looking for another place. Several doors slammed on me, but I’m settled here now and it’s not too bad.
The work’s hard for a desk chap like me! I’d imagined myself felling trees, but we’re planting, mostly, putting in tree stakes, erecting fencing, that sort of thing. Only two of us are C.O.s. Most of the men accept us even if they’re not exactly friendly. A few are hostile. (Malcolm, the other C.O., got beaten up one evening. But I haven’t told Ma that – and don’t you.) I like the fresh air and exercise. I’m building up muscles, and the work is useful and I feel good about growing things, taking care of the land.
How’s my little sister? I know I made it hard for you back home. I’m sorry about that, but it had to be done. I have hopes that when this war is over we’ll all come together and make a better world…
Josie folded the letter and put it in her pocket. It had brought Ted close to her and made her feel homesick. More than ever she longed to see him. But not here. Not now.
Next morning Aunty Grace took the girls shopping. Edith was growing out of all her clothes, and her mother had heard there was to be a sale of fire-damaged cloth at a draper’s in the King’s Road.
“We’ll go for lunch at The Pheasantry afterwards,” she said, “for a treat.”
They walked west along the King’s Road. The draper’s had big notices outside advertising the sale, and a large number of women had already gathered. Aunty Grace spent a long time looking at fabrics, some with brown burn marks running right through them, some merely dusty and dirty. She held up a dress length in dark blue wool with an orange fleck in it.
“That’s horrible!” protested Edith.
Her mother sighed. “You can’t be too fussy, dear. How about this brown check? It’s scorched, but if Mrs. Jenks can cut it carefully…”
Mrs. Jenks had been sewing for the Felgates since the children were babies. Even with a war on, it seemed, she was indispensable.
Aunty Grace continued to rummage. All around, women were buying and chatting. Mostly their talk was about prices, or dressmaking, or the difficulty of managing without their servants, but suddenly Josie heard a buzz of conversation in low, shocked voices from a group of women in a nearby queue.
“…broken several windows!”
“And a brick with a message wrapped round it: a swastika and the word ‘Huns’.”
“How dreadful!”
“Of course they were German,” an older woman said. “They changed their name…”
Josie looked at Edith. She had been listening too.
“It’s Hampton’s,” whispered Josie.
“But who – the boys?”
“Yes. That Ray.”
“And Vic. Ray’s not bright enough on his own.”
Josie didn’t like to think that Vic would have done such a thing. But it had to be the boys. And she had told them.
“It’s my fault,” she said. She felt stricken.
“It’s nothing to do with you,” retorted Edith. “We don’t know who did it, do we? Could have been anyone.” She added, with enthusiasm, “We’ll pass Hampton’s if we go to The Pheasantry.”
They did. Aunty Grace settled on the brown cloth, and as they left she said, “They’re saying there’s been an attack on Hampton’s! Quite upsetting. Such pleasant people…”
The shop was a sad sight. Bombing was one thing, Aunty Grace said, but to see deliberate damage like that – well, it undermined the spirit of the Blitz.
Two windows had been broken and were already boarded up. Inside, furniture had been moved to the back of the shop, but the glass had all been swept up and there was no sign of the brick or the message.
The shop was open. To Josie’s alarm, her aunt
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