Where Bluebells Chime

Only talk, maybe, but it lifted people’s hearts. Because we were not only going to put a stop to German air raids, Mr Churchill had growled in one of his broadcasts to the nation; we were going to win the war, as well! Even though we might have to fight on the beaches and in the streets we would never give in. And such was his confidence, his tenacity, his utter loathing for Hitler, that people believed him completely – about not surrendering, that was – though how we were going to win the war and when, took a little more time to digest. And as farmers and land girls cut wheat and barley and oats, battles raged in the sky above them – dogfights, with fields in the south littered with crippled German bombers. They became so familiar a sight that small boys stopped taking pieces as souvenirs and returned to more absorbing things such as searching for conkers, raiding apple orchards and queueing at the sweet shops when rumours of a delivery of gobstoppers circulated the streets.

Yet hadn’t Mr Churchill warned, years ago, that Germany was becoming too strong and too arrogant and no one took a bit of notice of him, except to call him a warmonger? He’d been right, though, people reluctantly admitted.

So now the entire country listened to what he said and believed every word he uttered. We would win this war, no matter what, because good old Winston said so. One day, that was.

11 (#ulink_39a16111-dd8c-5e1b-a762-2aa99c57c176)

My darling Daisy,

Thank you for the birthday card. I did as you told me and didn’t open it until the twelfth.

Once, we thought we would be together for my twenty-third birthday and the two of us house hunting and planning a wedding. Instead, you are going into the Forces and it seems immoral, almost, that I am away from it all and that we who need each other so much cannot be together. So I promise you this my lovely girl – somehow I will get home. There has got to be a way.

‘Keth, no!’ Daisy whispered. ‘Don’t do anything stupid – oh, please.’

She screwed up her eyes tightly, refusing to weep. There were thousands of women whose man had gone away and might never come home again; at least Keth was not in uniform and was safe in a neutral country, though Dada said it was a peculiar kind of neutrality that sent us tanks and guns and food and asked no payment in return. The Americans would get their fingers burned taking such risks, if anybody was interested in what he thought, and it would need only one incident at sea and before they knew it, America would be drawn into the war. Remember the Lusitania last time?

‘But would it be such a bad thing for us to have an ally?’ Mam had wanted to know, and Daisy supposed that for us, beleaguered as we were, to have someone on our side would be nothing short of a miracle.

But why should the United States become involved again? They had the wide span of the Atlantic between them and Europe. They were far enough away from Hitler so why should Bas, even though he was half-English, help fight our war?

Daisy jumped impatiently to her feet to stand at the wide-open window, gazing out into the August evening.

At least the weather was kind. There had been little rain for weeks. A farmer who hadn’t got his harvest in wasn’t trying, Dada said. And why, she demanded irritably, had she been so stupid; why was she leaving her home, her parents? Why had she lost her temper that dinnertime because an arrogant woman and her totally unimportant account upset her?

Because she was her father’s daughter, Mam said; because she had the same stubborn streak in her and his quick temper, too.

Mam understood about being in love. Mam was silly and sentimental, too; had buttercups pressed in her Bible, still, just as her daughter pressed a daisychain between the pages of the Song of Solomon beside words written for a lover, by a lover. ‘Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away’; words about winter being past and flowers appearing and birds singing, yet now it sometimes seemed as if flowers had never bloomed and birds would never sing again. But nothing lasted, Mam said; neither bad times nor, sadly, good.

‘Our time will come, Keth,’ she whispered. ‘We’ll be together again, one day …’

The telephone began to ring, calling her back from her dreamings.

‘For you,’ Alice called. ‘It’s Tatiana.’

‘Hi, Tatty,’ Daisy smiled into the receiver. ‘What’s news?’

‘The dance tomorrow night at Creesby – okay?’ Tatiana Sutton’s voice was low and husky as if she were whispering into the mouthpiece. ‘I’m going with you and Gracie – all right?’

‘But I’m not going.’

‘That doesn’t matter. I don’t suppose Tim and I will be there, either. But if he isn’t on ops. – and there’s a good chance he won’t be – I’ll need an alibi.’

‘But couldn’t you just say you were coming over to Keeper’s?’

‘And have Mother ring me to check up? She might. She’s getting suspicious.’

‘Okay. It’s Creesby, then. But be careful, Tatty – you know what I mean? ‘Bye …’

‘And what did Tatiana want, or shouldn’t I ask?’ Alice fixed her daughter with a stare, one eyebrow raised.

‘No you shouldn’t ask, Mam, but I’ll tell you. She’s meeting Tim Thomson and she wanted to know if I’ll be at the Creesby dance on Wednesday. Her mother’s a bit stuffy about her going there.’

‘So she told her mother that you were going?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you aren’t, Daisy. It’s your medical the day after. Now you mustn’t get drawn into things!’

‘Mam, Tatty knows what she’s doing. And I don’t know why her mother tries to wrap her in cotton wool all the time.’

‘Happen it’s the way Russian mothers do it.’

‘Well, it’s stupid of her because Tatty’s as English as I am! And Tim’s a decent sort, though I don’t suppose Grandmother Petrovska would approve of him.’

‘What do you mean – approve?’ Alice looked alarmed. ‘Are things getting serious between them?’

‘Don’t think so, but you know what Tatty’s like. If it’s got anything to do with aeroplanes or aircrew, she’s mad about it. And Tim’s a good dancer, too.’

She turned to fidget with the cutlery on the table, straightening it, shifting the cruet so her mother should not see the flush that stained her cheeks. Mam knew she always went red when she told a lie, and Tatty was serious about Tim. Head over heels, truth known.

‘I still think she’s too young to be out alone.’

‘She’s eighteen, Mam!’

‘Yes, but she’s so – so unworldly to my way of thinking. They should have sent her to school instead of having that governess teach her; let her see how the other half lives!’

‘There’s nothing wrong with Tatty. And what’s that? Smells good.’ Deftly she steered the conversation into safer channels as her mother took a pie from the oven.

‘Woolton pie. Again.’ Once she’d have been ashamed to serve such a poor dish, but needs must these days. There had been a small piece of meat left over from Sunday dinner and a jug of good gravy, so a little meat, gravy, and a lot of vegetables were covered with a suet crust and heaven only knew what they would do if suet went on the ration! She glanced towards the window as the barking of dogs told her her husband was home. ‘Get the plates out of the oven, there’s a good girl, whilst I strain the carrots. And, Daisy – tell Tatiana to be careful. You know what I mean …?’

‘She is careful, Mam.’

‘Yes – well that’s as maybe.’ Alice had not forgotten what it was like to be eighteen and in love. She offered her cheek, smiling, for Tom’s kiss.

Come to think of it, she was still in love.

‘Sorry I’m late, Mr Catchpole.’ Gracie arrived, breathless, pulling her bounty behind her. ‘Found it in Brattocks Wood. It looks good and dry – thought it would do for the fire. Hope it was all right to take it?’

‘Course it was, as long as nobody saw you with it.’ Jack regarded the branch of fallen wood. ‘Get it stuck behind the shed and us’ll get the saw to it later. And Miss Julia was asking for you.’

‘I’ve seen her. Home Farm is letting her have six pullets so she’s going into Creesby to the Food Office and getting their egg coupons changed to hen-meal coupons. Seems there’s a shed at the back of Keeper’s Cottage that no one uses. Said it needs a bit of repairing and she asked me to – er – mention it to you.’

‘And I suppose her expects me to see to it? Well, I’m a gardener; no good with hammer and nails. You’d best see Will Stubbs – he’s the handyman.’ Jack shook his head mournfully. ‘I mind the time when there was an estate carpenter here, but not any longer. And when you see Will Stubbs, tell him as how Miss Julia’ll need chicken wire and posts for them birds. I suppose Alice Dwerryhouse doesn’t mind having hens in the shed at the back?’

‘Don’t think so, Mr C. Mrs Sutton said that Daisy’s mam would be saving her scraps and peelings for me.’

‘And where are you goin’ to boil the stuff for the hen mash, then?’