The Evacuee Summer: Heart-warming historical fiction, perfect for summer reading

With deliberately loud sighs to show they weren’t happy, nonetheless the youngsters obediently began to see to their chores, with only one under-the-breath whisper from someone of ‘Sugar? That’s a dog’s mess name,’ to which Peggy had to quickly say ‘Connie, that discussion is over now, remember?’ to stop her niece seizing the moment to defend her suggestion and thereby almost definitely extending the conversation on the blessed names until it degenerated into a right old ding-dong of a squabble.

Chapter Two (#ulink_5ef2c6ae-1744-57cb-89fa-bef25f56028e)

On the Saturday, once they had finished their morning chores to Mabel’s satisfaction, the children hung around waiting for the new arrival.

They swung on the garden gate, causing nearby butterflies to flutter furiously into the air when the plants at the edge of the drive were disturbed. Then the children had a competition throwing chips of gravel from the short drive in front of the house, down the length of the rear garden, to see who could hoof a chip the furthest. And when Tommy won and started to show off, further disturbing the hens who had been set to panicky clucking by a stray chip that bounced off their zinc water trough, Aiden and Jessie had to wrestle him to the ground so that he didn’t get too above himself.

It was a baking-hot morning right at the end of May in 1940, and it seemed an age before the children heard the unmistakeable sound of a pony’s metal horseshoes on the tarmac of the road outside, clip-clopping in their direction, and then slow down to turn into Tall Trees.

‘’E’s a right little tinker, make no mistake,’ said Mrs Hobbs, the homely farmer’s wife, as she pulled the pony to a halt once she had driven into the back yard and hefted herself down to the ground with a dramatic sigh and a final lurch that made the wooden trap creak as if it were about to do itself a mischief.

The children supposed she was talking about the pony and not any of them.

For the moment nobody could think of anything to say, but Mrs Hobbs didn’t seem to notice, adding before too long, ‘Milburn needs watchin’ as ’e’ll nip yer if yer not careful. An’ ’e’s prone ter gettin’ oot if ’e thinks there’s somethin’ more interestin’ goin’ on elsewhere or ’e thinks ’e can get away wi’ it. ’E don’t kick often, but ’e means it when ’e do, so mind yerselves an’ yer all watch out.’

The children all took a step backwards.

The soft-eyed pony looked bigger up close than when turning into the yard, when the looming appearance of both the comfortably rounded farmer’s wife and the battle-weary trap had dwarfed the hairy-looking beast.

Roger bustled out of the kitchen, wiping his hands dry on a holey and faded tea towel that had once proudly extolled the virtues of Harrogate, followed closely by Mabel. Roger paused too and looked suspiciously at the pony who tossed its head insouciantly in his direction as a reply – or was this a challenge? And then Roger stepped back cautiously in a pantomime version of the way the children just had, although not before a little fleck of foam from the corner of the pony’s mouth from camping at the bit, flew through the air and landed ominously on Roger’s hand.

Only Mabel moved forward to pat the pony’s stocky neck, and the pair eyed each other seriously as if each were weighing up an opponent. ‘The children ’ave ’ad a scrabble o’er t’ name,’ Mabel announced to Mrs Hobbs.

The chestnut blinked solemnly in acknowledgement of what the rector’s wife had said.

‘We’ll ’ave ’e back if yer can’t cope, course, bu’ ’e’s too small fer t’ plough or much else that’s useful on t’ farm, an’ our girt chillen are t’ big fer ’e now an’ we ’aven’t time t’ go up ’ill an’ down dale funnin’ aboot in t’ trap, an’ so yer’s doin’ us a niceness puttin’ ’e up ’ere. An’ ’e’ll pay yer back as ’e’s a worker. Once ’e’s mind’s on it, that is,’ Mrs Hobbs went on as if Mabel hadn’t said anything as to the pony’s name, the last comment having a faintly threatening ring about it nonetheless.

The farmer’s wife looked towards the pony, and then Mrs Hobbs turned to stare at everyone else, before she sighed as if one of them had been found wanting and Milburn shook a shaggy mane as if to deny all association with the sigh. Mrs Hobbs sighed dramatically once more and then swiftly demonstrated how the tack came off, and was put on again; told them what the difference between hay and straw was; and how any hard feed (which he wouldn’t need before the cold weather came) should be given after the pony had been allowed to drink. Then Mrs Hobbs addressed the way the trap was connected to the harness and how the trap could be upended when it wasn’t in use to stop it rolling around; after which she outlined in theory the way the pony should be made to go faster or to stop, or to turn left or right. Then she reminded them again – and this was really important, she insisted – that water should be offered before food, and not the other way around to avoid any danger of colic; while if the pony did get colic they’d need to use a drench, which always caused problems. (Everyone looked very serious at this, especially Milburn.) Finally, Mrs Hobbs produced a hoof pick from a pocket at the front of her floral pinny and the children gasped when they saw how the pony’s generous feathers were grasped and then pulled upwards, so that its feet could be lifted up one at a time to rest on Mrs Hobbs’s bent leg in order that each hoof could be picked, with mud and gravel being scraped out.

From somewhere low down, Mrs Hobbs muttered at last as she leant over, her corduroy trews now stretched dangerously over her ample posterior, ‘’E’s bin shod yesterday an’ ’e answers to Milburn up at t’ farm, but yers all call ’e what yer wants, ’e won’t mind, I dare say.’ The pony’s expression seemed to dispute not minding about the name, and then there was a decisive shake of a long, mole-coloured nose as if to drive the point home. ‘’Is feet’ll need doin’ every day, an’ mark yer do it or you’ll be in fer trouble. As long as yer remember to take ’e t’ smithy every two months at least, an’ more if ’e’s on roads a lot as ’e’ll need t’ shoes kept up and they get slippy otherwise. Yer could drive a bus beside ’e, ’e’s so quiet in traffic,’ finished Mrs Hobbs.

‘Sounds like t’ pony is goin’ t’ ’ave new shoes more often than us,’ said Mabel in the sort of rueful voice that made the adults think about the clothes rationing that was just about to start, and made the children understand anew that nobody was to expect much in the way of treats these days.

Aside from the clothing coupon issue, Roger appeared nothing short of pensive in any case; clearly he hadn’t realised that a pony might be spooked by large vehicles near it, and they could all see that he had no idea what to do in the event of the creature taking fright.

Luckily everyone was distracted from these gloomy thoughts by the sound of an approaching vehicle and then the toot of a horn from a van idling out in the road.

Mrs Hobbs thrust the reins at Mabel, and said goodbye to the pony with a firm slap to its rump that caused it to bunch its quarters and clamp its tail flat down, and then with no more ado than a gruff ‘cheero’, the farmer’s wife bustled out of the yard at Tall Trees to get her lift back to the farm without so much as a backwards glance.

The pony watched her leave, and then turned deep-brown shiny eyes with long eyelashes towards Mabel as if enquiring whether some sort of rather unamusing joke had just been made.

Once the vehicle had driven away there was a long silence, broken only by the clucking of the hens over at the other side of the garden, and then the pony pawed the ground once with a front hoof.

Jessie spied a tiny spark shoot out as the clink of a metal shoe struck a flint in the yard.

‘I don’t think any of our names so far suit him,’ said Angela. ‘What about Lightning?’

The pony was thickset with a large belly slung between short but strong legs, and a bushy tail that almost touched the ground, while a wiry mane and forelock gave a top-heavy impression. As ponies go, it neither looked very fast, or very lightning-like. And to judge by the roll of intelligent eyes the pony didn’t think much of Lightning as a name.

‘I know t’ farmer’s wife kept callin’ the pony ’e, but I think it’s a girl, Angela, and I’ve always believed Lightning seems better as a boy’s name,’ said Aiden tactfully.

Making sure he kept a good distance, Tommy leant down and looked under the hairy belly, before moving around to the rear to peer under a slightly raised tail and then he hooted, ‘That’s a lass all right!’ to which Mabel muttered, ‘I’m not even goin’ t’ ask ’ow yers know that, Tommy …’

So the pony was definitely female. Jessie, who hadn’t been quite sure he’d be able to tell the difference between a girl pony and a boy pony, fancied he saw a look of relief flit across the bright eyes now turned in his direction from beneath the golden forelock.

‘Well, that cuts out Brown Jack, and Winston then too,’ Connie pointed out quickly so that she could keep her advantage in the Great Naming Debate. ‘My two of Winnie or Sugar both work well for a girl horse though, don’t you think?’

‘You should describe her as a mare,’ said Jessie, ‘and technically she’s a pony as she is not tall enough to be a horse, given that she’d be measured in hands of four inches, although of course there is a saying that all ponies are horses but not all horses are ponies … ’ He shut up when he saw the bored expressions on his friends’ faces, with Tommy waving a hand in front of his mouth as if stifling a yawn. All faces other than Aiden’s, that was, as he looked quite interested in these technicalities that somehow Jessie seemed to know, despite only occasionally have patted the milkman’s horse and just the once having stroked the shoulder of a huge, gentle-giant Shire horse with hooves the size of plates and extravagant white feathers fluffing down to the ground, that had been pulling a huge dray to bring a delivery of kegs of beer to the Jolly, the public house nearest to Jubilee Street, where they had grown up in south-east London.

‘Well, let’s give her a chance to get used to her stable, and then we can think about it over lunch,’ said Roger in a voice that he tried to make as rallying as he could, but which everyone could recognise was distinctly dubious. ‘You boys, are you strong enough to push the trap over to that bit of the yard out of the way? I’m sure you are! We must remember to take the pony out of the trap when we have got her and it into a position where it won’t be in the way of the car, in case I need to drive off quickly in an emergency, as we don’t want to be pushing the trap around the yard every day and I especially don’t if it’s in the middle of the night.’

His words were lost as Tommy had set about organising himself, Aiden, Jessie and Connie (Connie being right now, an honorary boy) into lugging several bales of hay (or was it straw?) from the trap to add to the others already in the spare stall, and then manhandling the now much lighter trap to where Roger wanted it to be.

Mabel passed her husband the pony’s reins, and in Roger’s hands the determined creature promptly hauled him over to the small patch of grass at the edge of the back yard, where she determinedly stuck her nose down and grabbed several quick munches.

‘Milburn!’ Mabel said sternly, and both Roger and the pony jumped, Milburn raising her head with such a start that it caused her harness to jangle, and then she opened her mouth dramatically to show all of them her yellow teeth and a crud of partially chewed grass, before she dragged Roger in the direction of her open stable door. She seemed to know just where to go.

‘I, er, er – I’ll just put her inside, shall I? Inside her, er, er, stall. In here, that’s the ticket.’ His voice got quieter as Milburn towed him through the door. ‘Now, how again does this thing come off?’ Roger added as he gazed helplessly at the pony’s tack.

‘It’s called a bridle and what you are holding are the reins, Mrs Hobbs said,’ Jessie clarified. ‘Can I take it off her? You just undo that strap under that big bone at the top underneath her chin and pull the whole thing forward over the ears, holding it at the top of her head. You have to do it smoothly and gently so as not to damage her eyes and teeth. And Mrs Hobbs said, I think, that the pony is used to people standing on her left when they do this and so that might be why she is lifting her lip at you.’

With relief Roger almost threw the long leather reins to Jessie and made a hasty exit from the stall, but not before a soft velvety forehead the colour of butterscotch gave Roger a firm push as he brushed past.

The rector gave what could only be described as a squeak, a little later followed by, ‘I’m, er, sure I’ll get the hang of it by the end of today. I shouldn’t think it’s too difficult. Looking after one small pony, that is. Putting on and taking off her bridle, cleaning her teeth and so forth. Feet! Silly me. I mean cleaning her feet… hooves, I mean. No, no, not too tricky at all, I expect.’ He paused. ‘Does she need her teeth cleaning too, do you think? Goodness, her teeth are big, aren’t they, and so I very much hope not.’

Milburn neighed loudly in reply, her belly quivering, making Roger jump visibly for the second time in only a minute or two.

The children tried not to laugh too conspicuously, while Mabel allowed herself a broad grin.

They all knew already who the boss was, and it certainly wasn’t Roger.

Chapter Three (#ulink_907d671e-bb12-5c1f-9581-25f75d9a27cf)

Several streets away, Peggy was making heavy weather of heaving the battered old perambulator she shared with Gracie back towards Tall Trees, despite it being such a lovely day and the sunlight showing the golden tones in Peggy’s shiny hair to best effect. Her green-sprigged cotton summer dress felt looser than it had even a few days before but Peggy barely noticed, although once upon a time she had been very proud of her trim figure, her tiny waist being the envy of sister, Barbara.

While Peggy had slimmed right down since her pregnancy, baby Holly, now a lively five and a half months, had at last almost caught up with other babies of her age, despite being born two months early. Now, as Peggy pushed her through the sun-dappled shade of the tree-lined street, Holly was cheerfully kicking her crocheted blanket away from her now plumply dimpled legs.

Peggy had been helping out at June Blenkinsop’s teashop, as she did most days. She and June had been talking only that morning about the rapid increase in customers now that the toasted teacakes and pots of tea that June had been serving in a colourful array of delicate china teapots had just about totally given way, due in no small part to Peggy’s staunch encouragement, to a menu of simple but filling hot meals of the meat-and-two-veg variety, and tea served in small metal utilitarian teapots to workers from six in the morning until gone ten at night. Such was the demand from people who were often juggling paid shift work alongside voluntary but nonetheless crucial war roles, that June’s business was thriving. As if to prove the saying that every cloud has a silver lining, the outbreak of war had turned June’s café into a rapidly expanding business, with a growing rota of cooks and Women’s Voluntary Service (WVS) helpers, that meant it was going from strength to strength.

And now it looked as if the business could expand even further as Peggy was in midst of looking into setting up at least one, although ideally two, mobile canteens that could be driven from place to place. After nearly nine months of almost no bombs dropping over England since the war had begun, the newspapers were increasingly claiming the long-expected German aerial offensive must at last be drawing near, and so if the anticipated bombs were about to rain down on them all then mobile canteens would be a godsend in fortifying those who had to deal with the aftermath of such terrible events, and this had got Peggy pondering.

‘June, I’ve thought more about the mobile canteens as you wanted, and I think we could make it work. I’ve totted up some rough figures, we could use the café’s kitchen for the prep and we’d need to sort some metal mugs and plates, but I think we’d get these through the NAAFI suppliers. I think we’d get an old vehicle donated from somewhere like the railways. James…’ Peggy had said to her friend earlier as they sat at a table with cups of tea during a swift twenty minutes after the morning rush and before lunchtime really got going. ‘Yes, you can take that look off your face! James said that if we got a van or something bigger, he thought some of the recuperating men at the hospital could help convert it to a canteen.’

June ignored Peggy’s mention of the handsome young doctor at the new field hospital as she said that, actually for the plates and the vehicle and so forth, it might be sensible if she had a word with the people at the authorities she’d be dealing with over expanding her business. ‘They’ll maybe have a stock of old vehicles set aside that they’ve requisitioned for this sort of thing,’ June added, ‘and I think too, if we get this off the ground, then the WVS and maybe the ATS (Auxiliary Territorial Service) will step in with volunteers.’

‘I was talking about it the other day and Gracie said she was keen to be involved, especially if she can drive the canteen,’ Peggy mentioned.

June and Peggy thought a little further on what Peggy had just said, before they shared a raised-eyebrow look even though they were both very fond of Gracie, a young single mother who also lodged at Tall Trees along with baby Jack, after which Peggy added, ‘Seeing how Gracie rattles that pram around with poor Jack inside, we’d definitely better have metal plates and mugs if she’s going to be driving.’