Honesty in WW2

Chris-Jean Clarke

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Published in 2015 by FeedARead.com Publishing

Copyright ©  The author as named on the book cover.

First Edition

The author has asserted their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identifiedas the author of this work.

All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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Acknowledgements

Many thanks, to my parents who wittingly or unwittingly provided the inspiration for my story.

 I would also like to give a special mention to the

following people, who have tirelessly devoted their time to read and offer their expertise:

 Gabrielle Rollinson: Personal Tutor - Oxford Open

Learning Course - Writing for Children for editing my first draft of 5,000 words.

 Valerie Byron: author of 'No Ordinary Woman' and

other works for editing my extended version. Trish Reeb: author of 'Death by Default' and other

works for proofreading.

Patrick Sean Lee: author of 'One Year on Meade Street' and other works for advising me re. my opening chapter.

     Dave Ardent: for critiquing my opening chapter. Geoffrey Clarke for research material.

Ann-Marie Bellerson for research material.

Tatyana Black: for her support.

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Dedication

I wrote this book for my children, Nathan and Kyrsten and for all the young children who have started to learn about World War 2. I hope they have as much fun reading it as I did writing it. 

 I am also dedicating this book in loving memory of my

beloved Mum and Dad. Thank you, for sharing your childhood experiences.

 

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Chapter One

It was mid-summer 1944, and the air at Waterloo station was filled with smoke billowing from the steam trains, officials shouting orders to the masses and families, friends and neighbours chatting nervously, hugging each other or begging officials (or anyone who would listen to them) for more information.

Doris, a lone traveller who was very sprightly

considering her advanced years, wandered up and down the train station, checking the name tags pinned to each person's coat in an effort to find out their destination.

 More often than not, she would address the person

by their first name and say something like, “Hi Maureen! I’m Doris … oh; that’s a shame yer tag says your heading for Meadow Brook Valley. I’m hoping to find someone who will be my neighbour in Honesty Brook Dale. It’s been nice chatting to you. Have a safe journey, dear.”

 As Doris bustled around the platform, she recognised

a red haired girl holding her younger brother’s hand, and looking intently at their parents. Doris paused, instinctively and listened to their conversation.

 “I’ve asked the officials to house you and Luke

together, Marianne … I just pray to God; they keep their promise,” said the mother, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief.

 

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 Marianne Senior bit her lower lip and swallowed hard in order to stop herself from crying. Looking down at her daughter, and in a no-nonsense voice, she continued, “Marianne, I am relying on you to make sure Luke minds his manners at all times, and says please and thank you. Just be grateful for everything that is put on the table … and eat it whether you like it or not. Furthermore, don’t wait to be asked! Remember to offer to help yer new family with the chores and do everything that is asked of ya - without complaining and last but not least, don't forget to check that Luke washes behind his ears and brushes his teeth and hair.”

 Her husband gently placed a reassuring hand on her

shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, Marianne. I’m sure the Women’s Voluntary Service will keep families together wherever possible but if not, I’ve heard tell that Honesty Brook Dale is just a small village, so I’m sure our Marianne will still be able to keep ‘an eye’ on him.”

  Doris smiled with compassion at the young girl and

turning to her parents, said, “Excuse me. I couldn’t help but overhear that your children will be staying in Honesty Brook Dale. I used to attend the local chapel and have noticed them in the congregation several times. They are very well mannered. I don’t mind watching over them, if you would like me to?”

 The youngsters’ parents couldn’t thank Doris enough

for putting their minds at ease.

On the far side of the platform, a young dark-haired boy, who had been severely scarred during the war, was clinging to his mother, crying and pleading with her,

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“Please, Mum, don’t make me go without ya. Simon and Samuel are in the class below me at school, and they say their mum has been allowed to travel with them – so why can’t ya come with me?”

 His mother shook her head, tears coursing down her

cheeks, as she held him close and said, “Graham, I don’t want you to leave … but it’s not safe for you to stay here … and believe me when I say I’ve begged the officials to let me travel with you. I have also spoken to the twins' mother, Madge, on more than one occasion when we sought refuge in the communal air raid shelters, and I know she has three other girls, one of whom is only two years of age … and in another two or three months, she will have a new addition to the family.”

 A sudden commotion to the right of them helped

momentarily to ease the situation. An elderly man was jigging around, shouting thanks to God for his new home and family. As they watched, they noticed a member of the Women’s Voluntary Service (WVS) approach and point him in the direction of one of the trains.

 “Excuse me,” Graham’s mother shouted to her,

“whom should we speak to about Graham being escorted to Honesty Brook Dale.”

 “Only those who are on the list will be allowed to

travel,” the WVS shouted dismissive. “If your child is going to Honesty Brook Dale, he will need to catch this train and then alight at Endlea Brook Dale. He will be given further directions when he gets there. I should

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hurry up and say your goodbyes as you don’t have long before the train departs.”

At this precise moment, the guard blew his whistle and a sea of hands and faces pressed either side of the windows in desperation. As the train started to pull away from the station Graham's mother resigned herself to step back on the platform with a throng of other parents. The windows were smudged with tears, fingerprints and lipstick. However, Marianne's parents, along with a few others, ran alongside the train hoping to gain a few more invaluable seconds with their loved ones.

   

During the journey, the elderly man wandered up and down the corridor between the carriages, amusing the youngsters with childish jokes. He finally settled in Graham’s carriage and introduced himself to anyone who was in the least bit interested, as Malcolm.

 “Does anyone know why we are fighting this time?”

he asked, but swiftly continued before anyone could answer. “I thought we had all made back friends, but ya can never tell. I thought the last war was over ... in 1914 or was it 1915 ... I can't remember now - but I do know it were Christmas Day. I remember having fun playing football with the enemy one day and then having to fight them the next. ”

Graham tugged at his sleeve and said, “I know what

ya mean. I was sent away from me mum for a short while at the beginning of this war … but as nothing

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much were happening I was sent back home. Me mum was glad to see me and we thought the war had ended ...  until our house got bombed ....”

“Is that when ya got hurt?” Malcolm asked.

Graham tugged at his sleeve and said, “I know what ya mean. I was sent away with a few of me friends for a short while at the beginning of this war. I thought it was all over when we were sent back home ... but then our house got bombed ....”

“Did ya manage to save ya pet?”

Graham shook his head solemnly, “I didn’t want to leave me mum again and pleaded with her to stay … but she insisted she was doing it for me own good. I think she was terrified about the new bombs they’re using because I overheard her talking to one of me neighbours.”

“That’ll be the doodlebugs ….”  Further along the train, Doris was making small talk

with Madge, but made her excuse to leave as soon as the children became restless and showed signs of unruliness.

  Standing up, Doris smiled at Madge and said, “I

won’t be long I’m just going to stretch my legs,” whereas, in reality, she was going in search of Marianne and Luke.

 

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She found the young girl smiling and whispering words of comfort to her brother at the far end of the train.

 “Are you both all right?” Doris enquired. Although, Marianne nodded confidently and politely

responded, “Yes, thank you,” she could not hide the fear in her eyes from Doris.

 “Would you mind if I join you? I’m feeling a bit

lonely … and if I am honest, a little scared at the moment. It doesn’t seem so long ago when I had to wave goodbye to my two sons when they were evacuated during the last war. It’s hard being away from your parents, isn’t it?”

 Marianne nodded and hugged her brother. She liked

Doris.   

The train pulled into Endlea Brook station six hours later and the evacuees alighted, feeling tired and hungry. However, their journey was not over … the next part had to be covered by foot.

 The WVS swiftly instructed them to form two

smaller groups - one for Meadow Brook Valley and the other for Honesty Brook Dale, depending on the location they had been designated.

 Madge carried her youngest child on her bump,

whilst the older children helped by carrying their brown

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paper parcels and gas masks. Doris assisted the family as best she could. Marianne followed behind and held onto Luke's hand. In her other hand, she carried a small leather suitcase.

 Every so often, the WVS would stop and count their

heads to check no one was missing. It was at one such point that they noticed the dark-haired boy had begun to lag behind.

 They waited for him to catch up and then Malcolm

fell in step beside him and said, “I hope it’s not much longer. Me bones are hurting … are yours, Graham?”

 Graham didn’t have chance to answer as Malcolm

continued talking. “I don’t care if I have to sleep on the floor. At least, I

will have a roof over me head and not have to worry about them bombs.”

 Graham nodded and said, “I’m frightened. What if

they don’t like us?” Malcolm was at a loss for words. He had never

contemplated this possibility. 

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Chapter 2

Earlier that day the children of Honesty Brook Dale had attended school, which was located in the church hall. The room was separated into two areas: one section for the five to seven-year olds, and the other for the eight to twelve-year olds. 

 The older children chanted their times tables in

unison while their teacher, Mrs. Brown, tapped the blackboard with her thinnest cane. No one dared talk or turn their head for fear of the board rubber being thrown in their direction. Each child, regardless of age, had been taught to respect their elders and never to question their ruling. Even if the adult was wrong, the child would still have been disciplined for being disrespectful.

 Mrs. Brown suddenly noticed ten-year old Cyril

Blessum fidgeting at his desk. She raised her hand to halt the class. The board rubber was poised in her other hand, ready to be thrown.

 "Am I boring you, Master Blessum? Do you think

you're too clever to learn these formulas?" Cyril started to shift uneasily in his seat. 

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"No ma'am! I just don't understand why they say the three Rs stand for reading, writing and arithmetic. I would have thought -"

 "I haven't asked you to reason things out. I have

simply asked you to show you have learnt the formulas – understood?"

 "Yes, ma'am." "Louder - I can't hear you when you mutter."

"Yes, ma'am!"    "Good ... then we will continue! Class will be

dismissed before lunch today, but first it is important that I talk to you about the war. These times have led to new beginnings for many ...."

 Mrs. Brown's voice droned on … about friendships,

comradeship and sharing. However, the only formula Cyril could conjure up was war equalled devastation and loss.

 As the morning’s lessons came to a close, Mrs.

Brown told the children that their school day would end as soon as they had each placed their chair onto their desk. Following this task, the children stood in an orderly line by the door waiting to file out of the classroom.

 After what seemed like an eternity Mrs. Brown

stated, “Class dismissed - not you Cyril Blessum. I want a word with you.”

 

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Her manner softened as the last child closed the door. "Cyril, I know it’s hard times. Your father was a brave man who was proud to fight for his country. He loved his family."

 "He wasn't being brave, ma’am. He was sent one of

them pieces of paper telling him he had to fight in the war. I used to see him crying in the back yard when I looked through me bedroom window," the child sniffled.

  "That makes him all the braver in my book, Cyril,

and that's why it is important for you to make your father proud in return. Tomorrow is a new day, and you will meet others who are in a worse situation than yourself."

 Cyril blinked back tears and muttered his apologies

and then shuffled out of the classroom. 

As he walked across the churchyard, he kicked the loose pebbles, deep in thought: She doesn’t understand. I don’t want a hero who can’t hug you, or be there for you ... I just want me Dad. 

Even the shrill voices of his fellow classmates failed to cut through his thoughts. It wasn’t until a ball almost hit him on the head that he stopped in his tracks and looked across the green, which was the heart of the village. He smiled when he recognized the ball as one of Farmer Townsend’s creations. It was made from a pig’s bladder.

 Cyril recalled how his dad had often said, “The only

thing ya can’t use on a pig is its squeal.”

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    “Over here Cyril!”   “Pass it to me –”   “No to me!”“Come on, buddy,” his mates pleaded.   Cyril’s initial reaction was to sidestep the ball and

continue walking, but deep down he knew what his dad would have done. So he turned on his heel and booted the ball back to his friends.   

  

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Chapter 3

“Mam, I’m home!” Cyril shouted as he dropped his satchel on the lounge floor. “Mrs Brown says we can have the rest of the day off.”    

 A gaunt looking woman appeared from the kitchen,

dusting flour from her hands down her pinafore. “Good! Ya can pop ‘round ya Aunty Gladys’s and fetch me a couple of eggs for the pie. Be quick, mind, as I need ya to run another errand, before the shops shut.”    

 Cyril was chuckling so loudly on his return, Rachel,

his mother, had to rush to retrieve the small cereal bowl his Aunty Gladys had loaned him, wherein three hen’s eggs rattled.    

 “What’s tickled yer fancy, Master Blessum? Ya

sound like one of them birds Mr Townsend gave yer Aunty Gladys.”

 “Ooh Mam, ya should see where Aunty Gladys and

Uncle Reuben have put the chickens! They’ve fixed some wire netting around the table legs in the kitchen and put them under there because they kept chasing Scamp 'round the yard. He was pecked so many times

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she thinks he has no bark left in him … but that can’t be right Mam; I heard Scamp barking only this morning.”     

“I hope you didn’t let her see you giggling? I didn’t bring you up to be rude … people matter, not things - items can be replaced. ‘Please and thank you’ don't hurt anyone. Besides Aunty Gladys and Uncle Reuben have been good to us since yer dad died.”     

“Sorry, Mam, I didn’t mean to upset her. I did say 'thank you' – honest. Do ya want me to go back ‘round and say sorry for being rude about her birds, Henny Penny and Peckham?”     

 His mother tutted and then said, “I’ll pop ‘round and

see her when I’ve finished here, and if you’ve upset her; you will have to go ‘round and apologise. First of all, though I need ya to pop to the grocers to fetch me a pound of onions. I couldn’t fetch them this morning as Mr Williams still needed to go to his allotment. Be quick mind, as the shops are closing early today, and I need to finish the pie before our George comes home from the farm.” 

 As Cyril stepped out of his front door, he was

surprised to see a group of strangers on the far side of the common. He couldn’t make his mind up if they were heading for PC Roberts' house or Dr Brown’s surgery, as they seemed to be propping each other up. He started to walk in the opposite direction towards Mr and Mrs Williams’ grocery shop, but stopped after a few steps to crane his neck. Everyone knew everyone, and most were related to each other as they had married cousins of cousins. It was rare for strangers to pass through, and even solitary ones stood out like a boil on the end of your nose - so a group was something to be reckoned with.    

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 By the time he had reached the Miners' Brook

Tavern, he was puzzled to see that the strangers didn’t need medical or police help.

Perhaps, they will head down the main track towards the opencast mines to ask for work, he pondered. I’ll ask Reuben when I pop ‘round to Aunty Gladys’s. He'll know as he was made to work them mines. Perhaps they have also been conscripted as Bev … Bevin's boys the same as me Uncle Reuben and his son, Reuben.    

 By the time he had reached the door of the grocer’s

shop, his curiosity had virtually reached bursting point as the group had finally reached their destination. They were heading into the very building he had been taught in, earlier that day.

 As he turned back towards the shop, Peggy Williams

was just about to pull the lead bolt across the door. Cyril tapped the pane of glass and politely mouthed, “Please.”     

 She beckoned him to stay where he was and walked

back into the shop. When she returned she held a small brown paper bag and offered it to Cyril.    

 “Tell yer Mam that Harold … Mr Williams … has

only been able to allow her one onion as he has had a bad crop this year. He has given her one of his best, though.”    

 “Thank you,” Cyril murmured as he held out a

halfpenny to Mrs Williams.     

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“It’s ok, Cyril, tell yer Mam, there will be no charge. She’s promised me a piece of pie when she’s finished baking it. Mind ya put that money safe, now. I will ask yer Mam if you've given it to her.”    

Cyril nodded and pushed the money into his shoe for safekeeping. “Thank you,” he muttered again. “In fact, young man, I’m going your way, so I’ll walk with ya. Time passes quicker if you have someone to natter to. Mr Williams had to go back up to his allotment and won’t be able to join me until later.”    

 Cyril seized the opportunity and said, “I saw a lot of

strange people walking on the other side of the common. I think they went into the hall … well that’s what it looked like when I was outside your shop.”    

 “I’m surprised your teacher, Mrs Brown, didn’t

explain to you so that you were prepared for their arrival.”

 “She said something about meeting people tomorrow

… but nothing about today. I hope they are nice -” “I shouldn’t worry, Cyril. They probably think the

same of us. Go straight into your house. Yer mam will be waiting for the onion – and don’t forget to give her the money. Also tell her Mr and Mrs Williams say, ‘Hello.’”

 “How long will they be staying for? I don’t think

they have any beds in the hall. Least I haven’t seen any.”

 

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“Ooh, I do believe that’s Mr and Mrs Bailey from the Miners Brook Tavern. Excuse me Cyril. If I can catch up with them, it will save me having to go in by myself - Beryl!"

"Oh Beryl, I’m glad I caught you,” she gasped as she drew level with them.

   The women duly dropped behind Mr Bailey and

started chatting together.   “I didn’t expect to see you and Ron this evening,

otherwise, I would have suggested walking down to the hall together. What’s made you have a change of heart about looking after someone else’s kid?”       

 “No change of heart, Peggy. I can understand that

you and Harold may be desperate for a child to call your own. It must have been hard losing your little one, especially after having so many miscarriages, but with Ron and me, it’s different. We never planned to have little ones of our own. You see we both feel the pub is no place for kids. I’m only going to the hall this afternoon because I’ve been told there may be a few older people among them that need housing. We are just looking for now and keeping our options open.”      

 Cyril listened in astonishment to his neighbours'

chatter. Thankfully, the women hadn’t realized that he had decided to follow them and was straining to overhear their conversation; otherwise, they would have sent him straight home with a sore ear.       

 As they neared the hall, Cyril stepped into the

shadow of the adjoining chapel. It was the ideal spot to

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observe the comings and goings of the village hall. His curiosity, however, started to bubble over when he recognized Father Tyne standing in the doorway, greeting each of the villagers in turn. The only times he had seen Father Tyne in the village was when he opened the chapel for one hour on alternate Sunday mornings, or every third Sunday evening of each month for Holy Communion.

Mam says he is very caring, and that he gives generously of his time as he has already held a service in our sister church in Endlea Brook prior to visiting us and on the weeks we don’t see him he is holding a service in Meadow Brook Valley … and me Uncle Reuben says he never rushes to leave when the service ends. Instead, he kindly takes time to visit the Miners Brook Tavern to have a drink with the villagers who could not make it to the chapel that day, Cyril contemplated.

He waited until he saw the door shut, then walked across to the window to take a closer look.

He held onto the window ledge and pulled himself up onto his tiptoes. The little he could see only served to whet his appetite. The strangers had been grouped on a stage at the far end of the room, and the villagers seemed to be standing in clusters observing them.       

 Cyril stepped back from the window and glanced

towards the direction of his house and then to the entrance of the hall.       

 “Oh, what to do?” he muttered.    

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A peek shouldn’t hurt as long as I run back home afterwards. Mam should still have time to cook the pie before George gets home.   

 He walked carefully across the grassy area to the

doorway and cautiously pushed it open, looking for a hidey hole to observe the strangers. However, he soon realised there was no need to worry as many of the villagers were too absorbed listening to Father Tyne introducing an official-looking lady clad in a green coat, green and burgundy scarf and a felt hat as Doreen Matthews, a member of the Women’s Voluntary Service.

Afterwards, when Father Tyne and the lady mingled among the groups, thanking them for their support, Cyril strained to listen. He managed to catch a snippet of their conversation with his teacher, Mrs Brown and her husband, Dr Brown.   

 “Eric and I would love to house all the younger

children. They will want for nothing health wise or educational – I promise.”    

 “I am sure any child will prosper under your roof,

Edith, but if possible, Doreen doesn’t want to split families. She feels it is important for the younger children to stay with their older brothers and sisters or, in one case, their mother … and I tend to agree with her.”    

 “The trouble is … the older children will already

have learned bad ways and will be harder to control,” she replied.     

 

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“I believe I have the ideal child for you,” Doreen said, reassuringly. “Graham is one of our older children. He is a very bright young man, but he lost a lot of schooling after his home was bombed. He was lucky to survive. His face and body are badly scarred, and he needs to use a stick to walk. He will need a lot of help to mix with the other children, but I am sure he will flourish in the right hands.”      

 The doctor and his wife swapped glances whilst

Cyril sat in awe.      “I thank the good Lord, Mrs Matthews, that he has

guided you to us. I will see to it personally that Graham settles into the school and gets the education he deserves,” Edith replied. ‘Mark my words, no one, old or young, will say a bad thing – not in my presence.”

    Cyril smiled. He knew Mrs Brown was a woman of

her word, and she would do everything in her power to make sure her promise was carried out.     

 “I am sure Graham will grow in confidence and

spirit thanks to yourself and the good doctor. Would you like to meet him?” Mrs Matthews asked.

   Before either Edith or Eric could reply Peggy

Williams came bustling up and asked, “Has anyone offered to take in the young woman carrying the small child?”

   “She also has two other girls and twin boys, with

another child on the way. If possible they would like to be re-housed together,” Doreen stated. “Would you be able to accommodate them?”

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   “We will manage somehow - even if it means

someone has to sleep on the settee.”   Cyril perched on the edge of one of the writing desks

and strained his neck to follow their path through the congregation to check out which of the children Doreen Matthews had been referring to.    

 His mood, however, suddenly took a down turn

when he spotted Aunty Gladys and Uncle Reuben walking briskly towards the entrance. He could feel the sweat starting to drip from his brow in case they saw him, but thankfully they seemed too absorbed talking to an elderly lady to consider his presence.   

 Aunty Gladys and Uncle Reuben were closely

followed by Mrs Williams’ party. Cyril thought he was in trouble for sure this time as Mrs Williams seemed to pause slightly and glare at him. He half expected to be rousted out of his seat by his ear and hollered at all the way home.

 As they left the building, Cyril started to relax again

and his attention returned to the stage. His eyes lit up, and the corners of his mouth twitched into a smile as he caught sight of the prettiest young girl for miles around. He could feel his cheeks burning and was certain they matched the shade of her plaits. He was so flabbergasted when she returned his smile that he became flustered and stared at his feet. When he next looked up, he was delighted to see that she and a smaller boy were being helped off the stage by Farmer Townsend.     

 

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“I might have known you would be here, Cyril," said a familiar voice. "Mam has been pulling her hair out with worry. When I couldn’t see you on the Green, I must have cycled every inch of the fields at the back of our house. Mam was at her wits end when I returned to the house without you. Thankfully, I was heading for PC Roberts house to report ya missing when I bumped into Aunty Gladys and Uncle Reuben. Aunty Gladys didn’t want to get ya in trouble, but Uncle Reuben could see how worried I was. He told me to try in here. In fact, he told me the exact spot you were sitting in.”

“Sorry, George, I didn’t think -”      “That’s yer trouble, Cyril. You just don’t think. Have

you even thought to buy the cooking onions?”       Cyril looked sheepish and said, “Oh no … the onion.

I must have left it under the window … outside.”       George lightly cuffed his ear, “Ya had better hope

it’s still there our kid, or ya will be going to bed without any tea tonight.”       

 Cyril was so shocked and embarrassed by George’s

outburst that he had to try very hard not to cry. George had taken it on himself to become the man of the house since their dad’s departure, and although Cyril hadn’t asked him to, he had still respected it. It wasn’t so long ago he could rely on George to help him to clear up any mess he had made. Like the time he let the water boil dry in the copper kettle. The deafening bang had sent his mam screaming and running from the living room into the kitchen, thinking the house had been bombed.  

 

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George had taken care of everything back then … so what's changed?

 “After you, George,” gestured Farmer Townsend, as

both groups had reached the doorway at the same time.

“Hello, Cyril, hope you’re being good for yer mam

and yer brother?”      Cyril gulped hard and muttered, “Yes, sir … I do

try, honest.”   “Very trying,” George muttered.   “Excuse me,” Cyril stuttered. “I dropped something

on my way in, and I have to try and find it.”   “I hope it’s nothing valuable, young man?” Farmer

Townsend asked.   “Me Mam thinks it’s valuable,” George replied.   As Cyril started to exit the building, George tapped

him on the shoulder and warned him, “Be quick about it! I’ll wait by the bike.”     

 “I dread to think what will happen when the time

comes for him to be the man of the house,” George said, turning back to the farmer and shaking his head.      

As Cyril looked for the brown paper bag, he pondered George’s comment to the farmer: Imagine - me being able to tell our George what he can and cannot do. As if he’s ever going to let that happen?     

 

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Cyril finally found what he was looking for. He picked up the bag and gave a huge sigh of relief. He ran across to George and held out the crumpled dirty paper bag for him to see.    

 “I lost my balance when I stepped down from the

window. I just thought I had stepped on a stone - honest. I had forgotten all about the onion,” he apologized.     

George opened the bag and inspected the onion and then raised his eyebrows at Cyril.     

 “I was only allowed one. Mrs Williams has sent our

money back as Mam’s promised her a piece of pie.”      “Well, it won’t be any thanks to you if

Mam manages to bake it today.”      As they walked back to the house, the only words

George uttered were to acknowledge Mr and Mrs Bailey and their new acquaintance - an elderly man in his late seventies.    

 “Sorry Mam,” Cyril blurted out even before he had

stepped into the doorway.     “Where do you think you have been until now? Me

and our George have been worried sick. I’ve a good mind to send ya back to the shop with the onions to teach ya a lesson. I’ve had to make the pie without them.”    

 “Mrs Williams only gave him one onion, Mam, but

she has sent your money back - hasn’t she Cyril?”     

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Cyril stooped down and eased the money out of his shoe and passed it to his mother.     

 “Do you want to tell Mam where you’ve been … or

do you want me to?” George continued.     

“It’s ok, George. I don’t need to listen to his nonsense. Mrs Williams has already dropped by and told me what’s happened. He can go straight to his bedroom and stay there for the rest of the evening.”     

 Cyril knew it was pointless arguing. Instead, he took

his frustration out on the wooden stairs by kicking his shoes as hard as he could against each step. The stairs, skirting board, wardrobe and chest of drawers all bore witness to Cyril’s moods as they had more scratches than wood.

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Chapter 4

Filled with self-pity, Cyril slunk onto his bed and felt the tears running down his cheeks. He brushed them briskly away with the back of his hand and said between sniffles, “I know I should have come straight home, but I did fetch the onion - even though Mam didn’t really need it. I also said sorry - not once, but twice. I wonder if Mam has said anything to our George about Aunty Gladys … if so that’s another telling off I’ve got to look forward to.

   “George has changed since Dad left,” he moaned as

he slowly climbed off the bed and made his way to the bedroom window. “We used to spend hours in the yard or over the fields, laughing … me, Dad and George, but that’s all stopped. Mam says George gets really tired now as he has to get up early to help with the animals on the farm. She even reckons it’s thanks to the farmer that George can bring in the bread, but I know for a fact we get our bread from Mr and Mrs Williams’ corner shop - as I have to fetch it every day.

   “If only me Dad were able to come home, George,

wouldn’t have to be so tired from working long hours

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… and we could have fun again,” he added as new tears threatened to spill down his cheeks.

   Unbeknownst to Cyril, George had been standing at

their bedroom door, listening.   “Nobody wants change, our kid, but we have to

make the best of what we've got,” George said as he joined Cyril by the window.

He gently squeezed Cyril’s shoulder and continued, “Remember when we used to walk for miles over the fields. We would play by the brook and go as far as the entrance to the coalmines or walk across the fields in the opposite direction towards the cottage hospital. That’s how far I biked today looking for ya. I was real worried, our kid. I thought something bad had happened to ya … that’s why I got so mad.”

    Cyril slipped his hand into George’s and said, “I am

sorry, honest … but I don’t know what to do to make things right with Mam.”

   “Ya know I was thinking Cyril. Mam used to love it

when we picked a few flowers for her while we were over the fields. Her favourite is honesty because she loves the delicate shades of pinks and purples. I remember she always managed to find a spare jam jar to put them in. We can pick a few at the weekend, if ya want?”

   “Yeah, it will be just like old times … only without

Dad.”   “Ya know what Dad would do if he was here? He

would take the empty potato bag and get some coal

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from the slag heap at the same time. What’s say we do the same?”

   Cyril simply nodded; there were no need for words.   “There’s a piece of pie on the dressing table for ya

by the candle, our kid. Ya can eat it while I put the blackout curtain up, then I can take the plate back down with me.”

In between bites of the pie, Cyril asked, “Do ya remember when we used to play ball with Dad in our backyard?”

   “Of course. You would nip to the lavatory at half-

time without fail. You took so long making airplanes out of the squares of newspaper meant for cleaning ourselves that Dad had time to hide the ball and have a quick nap.”

   “Really? I thought he was only pretending to be

asleep on the wooden lid of the coal bunker. That’s why I used to wake him up by throwing the paper planes at him, shouting he was under attack. You used to join in the fun back then … so what changed? You get grumpy and yell at me now if I make even one plane.”

   “Simply because we don’t have the money to throw

‘round, our kid … now that Dad's ….”   “Do ya think Dad would have been safer working the

mines?”   “It’s hard to tell, our kid. Bad things have also

happened down them mines -”   

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“George – Cyril - we need to get to the air-raid shelter,” Mam shouted.

   Cyril and George grabbed the coats off their beds

and ran down the stairs.   “What’s happened, Mam?” George started to ask

even before his feet had touched the kitchen floor.    “I was listening to the radio when a news flash came

on. Fighter planes are heading our way, and they are dropping bombs randomly.”

    “So, them people I saw earlier today may have come

all this way for nothing?” Cyril questioned.   George and his mother exchanged glances.   “Ya can get that crazy idea out of your head, our

Cyril. Many of them had nothing to stay for even if they had wanted to. Everything, and I mean everything, went up in smoke when their homes were bombed. They only have the clothes they came in,” Mam said as she grabbed the remainder of the pie and a knife from the table.

    “Is that why only a few of them had parcels or cases

with them?”     “Yeah, the lucky ones – which they refer to

themselves as - could bring one change of clothes … nothing more," said George, taking charge of the situation.  "Now stop wittering, our kid – time is running out. In fact, what little time we have left could be put to better use by you fetching the spare candles.

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They're in a paper bag in the cupboard under the stairs. Then ya can carry on to the shelter with Mam. I'll bring the radio and the coats.” 

    “Thanks, George … I’ll leave you to blow out the

candles on your way out? I've already done the ones in the front room,” Mam said.

    Their trek across the yard was made easier by the

moonlight, but as soon as they walked through the wooden door of the shelter everything went pitch black.

    Their mother felt for the wooden seating that was

affixed to the brick wall and carefully placed the pie down.

   “Pass the candles here, Cyril. It will feel better once

we’ve got light” she said.   Cyril obeyed and passed her a handful of candles.   “Where’s the bag?” she asked, taking them from

him.   “In the cupboard, but I brought all the candles –

honest.”   “Well they’re no use to us without any matches -”   “Everything all right, Mam?” George asked as he

joined them in the shelter.   “We have no matches to light the candles with as

they were in the bottom of the paper bag … and guess

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who decided to take the candles out - and leave the bag behind?”

   They were interrupted by the soft aroma of tobacco

filling the air.   “Need a match, Rachel? Here ya are … allow me,”

said their neighbour, Reuben Senior.   They hadn't heard the Coopers - Aunty Gladys,

Uncle Reuben, their son Reuben Junior and the elderly lady they had re-housed - enter the shelter from their side of the yard.

 In the candlelight, Cyril could make out Uncle

Reuben, puffing on his pipe. Next to him was a pile of blankets that Cyril reasoned his uncle must have dropped when he went to his mum’s aid.

   “That pie looks nice enough to eat, Rachel. Young

Reuben has filled some pop bottles with water, in case we get thirsty. They'll go down a treat together,” said Reuben Senior with a wink.

   Cyril looked across at Reuben junior and saw him

place four large glass bottles on the ground. He was thankful that the mood had started to lighten and was even more delighted when there was a yapping sound followed by a lot of scuffling.

    “Cyril, pick up Scamp for me before she gets her fur

singed by the candles. The daft dog must have seen ya sitting there because she suddenly jumped out of me arms. Either that or she smelled yer Mam’s pie,” Aunty Gladys said.

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   “Now ya can see why I drew a line at the dog and

wouldn’t let ya bring them hens or the budgie. If the animals weren’t slowly baked they could have knocked the candles over which in turn would have meant us having to waste our water supply to douse the flames,” Uncle Reuben stressed.

   “Hi Gladys - how are ya? Would ya like a piece of

pie? Would you also like a piece, love?” Rachel asked the two women.

   “Oh, Rachel this is Doris Tanner. Doris this is your

new neighbour, Rachel. She is a very good friend of mine.”

   Rachel shook Doris’s hand and welcomed her to the

village and then instructed Cyril to say hello. He was also to refer to Doris as ‘Aunty’ out of respect.

   Doris offered to help Rachel hand out the pie, whilst

Gladys took the opportunity to talk to Cyril.   “I was cutting some squares of paper for the lav

when the announcement came on the radio. So I brought the crossword for me and yer Mam and a couple of extra squares for you to make some planes. Don’t throw them ‘round in here though - or I’ll be in trouble.”  

 As his Aunty Gladys handed him the newspaper she

gave him a knowing wink.   Simultaneously, Reuben junior leaned over, nudged

Cyril and whispered loudly into his ear, “Mam can’t

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really do the crosswords. She uses them to take her mind off them spiders crawling ‘round the brickwork. Me mam says if she were to bottle them creepy crawlies and sell them as a cure for constipation, we would be worth a bob or two.”

   The two young men giggled wholeheartedly and had

to dig their heels hard into the soil to stop from slipping off the bench.

“Don’t ya be leading young Cyril into bad ways, now. I am sure he can get into enough trouble on his own,” Aunty Gladys lightly scolded.

    “George, switch the radio on low. We need to know

when it’s safe to return to our homes,” Rachel said.   While the men strained to listen to the radio, Cyril

strained to listen to his Mam and Aunty Gladys asking Doris questions about the newcomers and discussing ways in which they could help the schoolteacher, Edith Brown.

    As the time dragged by, Cyril nestled his face in

Scamp’s fur, and his thoughts started to drift. He dreamed he was walking across a battlefield amidst gunshot when he discovered his Dad lying in one of the trenches. Instinctively, he leaned over and lay the warm furry bundle he had been holding next to his Dad. He then felt himself being lifted to safety as the soothing voices of his saviours, George and Reuben junior, comforted him.  After what seemed an age, he felt himself being placed down on marshy ground. His guardian angel, Mam, gently stroked his cheek and

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instructed his saviours to put a coat over him and leave him there overnight. 

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