down the table at her but said nothing.
“And what if the Germans get this far?”
Mary’s question hung in the air. Maggie shot her a look as if to say, not now, not yet. Menna whispered, “Oh God,” into her handkerchief.
“Well, I’ve got to think of Bethan,” Mary continued, and for the first time her eyes weakened and filled, like groundwater rising through waterlogged moss.
Maggie rose from her chair and went over to the dresser where she picked out a leaflet from between two framed photos of herboys. It was dull green with “Stand Fast” printed across the cover. All of them had seen it before, propped on shelves and on sideboards in their own houses. It was the leaflet the Home Guard officer handed out the previous week. Returning to the table Maggie took her reading glasses out of her apron pocket and sitting down beside Menna again, read from the leaflet:
German troops moving across the country would not stop to attack a single house.… The public must stay indoors as long as there is fighting around them.… A slit trench in the garden may be dug for added protection. Diagrams to assist with the construction and buttressing of such trenches can be obtained from your local Women’s Institute.…
(a snort of derision from Mary)
The civilian must not attempt independent acts of armed resistance, but must also do nothing which would be of the slightest help to the enemy.… On the contrary, the enemy should be hindered and frustrated whenever possible.… If a civilian’s help is asked for by friendly military, as it may well be, it is his duty to answer wholeheartedly any call, however exacting, that may be made upon him.… Hide your maps. Hide your food. See that the enemy gets no petrol.
The leaflet ended with a simple statement in capital letters:
THINK BEFORE YOU ACT. BUT ALWAYS THINK OF YOUR COUNTRY BEFORE YOU THINK OF YOURSELF.
The four women sat in silence when Maggie finished. The single bird ticking outside the window was replaced by the rise and fall of a song thrush, repeating its melody again and again. The twigs of an overgrown bush brushed against the glass. And it wasthen Sarah fell. She was looking at a framed piece of needlework hung beside Maggie’s dresser. It had been made by Maggie’s mother when she was a girl. A simple house and garden in bright primary colours; animals around the house, a woman feeding the animals, and Maggie’s mother’s name neatly picked out in red thread above the picture, “Catrin Roderick—1862.” Everything Maggie had just read to them seemed to threaten that needlework picture. It was like the bomber again. The war had finally come to them. Even here in the valley, where events just over the hill could go unknown, unnoticed for months. And Tom had left. They’d all left. Now, just when the German guns were firing on English soil, when the German army was marching towards them.
Sarah had never known Tom to keep anything from her before, and as she sat there she began to work through all he must have done to keep this secret. That was why Mary was angry. She understood that now. The men had abandoned them, now of all times. And they’d planned it, behind their backs. Together and without them.
“Why have they gone? Why now, Maggie? And where? You said it’s t’do with the invasion. How?”
All three of the other women looked up at Sarah in surprise. Maggie let out a heavy sigh. She recognised the falling.
“Well?” Sarah asked again, looking at the other women, her voice urgent, “Where d’you think they’ve gone? Hereford? Brecon?”
Menna began crying again and Mary’s face was drawn with worry. Sarah stood up and paced to the window. Looking out onto Maggie’s yard, she half expected to see a German troop carrier coming up the lane.
“What do you know, Maggie?” she asked, her back to the room.
“Nothing, bach,” Maggie replied. “Only … I suppose … well, that it must be to protect us.”
Sarah turned from
“And what if the Germans get this far?”
Mary’s question hung in the air. Maggie shot her a look as if to say, not now, not yet. Menna whispered, “Oh God,” into her handkerchief.
“Well, I’ve got to think of Bethan,” Mary continued, and for the first time her eyes weakened and filled, like groundwater rising through waterlogged moss.
Maggie rose from her chair and went over to the dresser where she picked out a leaflet from between two framed photos of herboys. It was dull green with “Stand Fast” printed across the cover. All of them had seen it before, propped on shelves and on sideboards in their own houses. It was the leaflet the Home Guard officer handed out the previous week. Returning to the table Maggie took her reading glasses out of her apron pocket and sitting down beside Menna again, read from the leaflet:
German troops moving across the country would not stop to attack a single house.… The public must stay indoors as long as there is fighting around them.… A slit trench in the garden may be dug for added protection. Diagrams to assist with the construction and buttressing of such trenches can be obtained from your local Women’s Institute.…
(a snort of derision from Mary)
The civilian must not attempt independent acts of armed resistance, but must also do nothing which would be of the slightest help to the enemy.… On the contrary, the enemy should be hindered and frustrated whenever possible.… If a civilian’s help is asked for by friendly military, as it may well be, it is his duty to answer wholeheartedly any call, however exacting, that may be made upon him.… Hide your maps. Hide your food. See that the enemy gets no petrol.
The leaflet ended with a simple statement in capital letters:
THINK BEFORE YOU ACT. BUT ALWAYS THINK OF YOUR COUNTRY BEFORE YOU THINK OF YOURSELF.
The four women sat in silence when Maggie finished. The single bird ticking outside the window was replaced by the rise and fall of a song thrush, repeating its melody again and again. The twigs of an overgrown bush brushed against the glass. And it wasthen Sarah fell. She was looking at a framed piece of needlework hung beside Maggie’s dresser. It had been made by Maggie’s mother when she was a girl. A simple house and garden in bright primary colours; animals around the house, a woman feeding the animals, and Maggie’s mother’s name neatly picked out in red thread above the picture, “Catrin Roderick—1862.” Everything Maggie had just read to them seemed to threaten that needlework picture. It was like the bomber again. The war had finally come to them. Even here in the valley, where events just over the hill could go unknown, unnoticed for months. And Tom had left. They’d all left. Now, just when the German guns were firing on English soil, when the German army was marching towards them.
Sarah had never known Tom to keep anything from her before, and as she sat there she began to work through all he must have done to keep this secret. That was why Mary was angry. She understood that now. The men had abandoned them, now of all times. And they’d planned it, behind their backs. Together and without them.
“Why have they gone? Why now, Maggie? And where? You said it’s t’do with the invasion. How?”
All three of the other women looked up at Sarah in surprise. Maggie let out a heavy sigh. She recognised the falling.
“Well?” Sarah asked again, looking at the other women, her voice urgent, “Where d’you think they’ve gone? Hereford? Brecon?”
Menna began crying again and Mary’s face was drawn with worry. Sarah stood up and paced to the window. Looking out onto Maggie’s yard, she half expected to see a German troop carrier coming up the lane.
“What do you know, Maggie?” she asked, her back to the room.
“Nothing, bach,” Maggie replied. “Only … I suppose … well, that it must be to protect us.”
Sarah turned from
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