The Caxley Chronicles (26 page)

Nevertheless, for Edward and his friends, hearts beat a little faster as action appeared imminent. What if Hitler had annexed an alarming amount of Europe? The Low Countries and France would resist to a man, and the English Channel presented almost as great an obstacle to an invader today as it did to Napoleon. This year had given England time to get ahead with preparations. The uneasy peace, bought by Mr Chamberlain at Munich a year earlier, may have been a bad thing, but at least it had provided a breathing space.

'Thank God I'm trained for something!' cried Edward to his mother. 'Think of all those poor devils who will be shunted into the army and sent foot-slogging all over Europe! At least I shall have some idea of what I'm to do.'

He spent as much time training now as he could possibly manage. He had a purpose. It was a sober one, but it gave him inward courage. Whatever happened, he intended to be as ready and fit as youth, good health and steady application to his flying would allow.

Edward, most certainly, was the happiest man in the family despite the fact that he was the most vulnerable.

During the last week of August it became known that all hope of an alliance with Russia had gone. Triumphantly the Nazis announced a pact with the Soviet Union. Things looked black indeed for England and her allies, but assurances went out again. Whatever happened, Britain would stand by her obligations to Poland. After a period of anxiety over Russia's negotiations, it was good to know the truth.

On August 24th the Emergency Powers Bill was passed, together with various formalities for calling up the armed forces. Edward's spirits rose when he heard the news at six o'clock. How soon, he wondered, before he set off?

It was a few days later that the House of Commons met again. The question facing the country, said one speaker, was: 'Shall one man or one country be allowed to dominate Europe?' To that question there could be only one answer.

People in Caxley now prepared to receive evacuees from London and another nearby vulnerable town into their midst. No one could pretend that this move was whole-heartedly welcome. The genuine desire to help people in danger and to afford them a port in a storm, was tempered with doubts. Would strangers fit into the home? Would they be content? Would they be co-operative?

Sep and Edna had offered to take in six boys of school age. If they could have squeezed in more they would have done. Frankly, Edna welcomed the idea of children in the house again. The thought that they might be unruly, disobedient or difficult to handle, simply did not enter her head or Sep's.

'It is the least we can do,' said Sep gravely. 'How should we
feel if we had ever had to send our children to strangers?'

Bertie and Kathy expected a mother and baby to be billeted with them in the house by the river. The fate of Edward's flat was undecided at the moment, and the future of Rose Lodge hung in the balance. There was talk of its being requisitioned as a nurses' hostel, in which case Winnie and her mother might move back to Edward's new domain in the market square.

'Proper ol' muddle, ennit?' observed the dustman to Edward. 'Still, we've got to show that Hitler.' He sighed gustily.

'Wicked ol' rat,' continued the dustman, 'getting 'is planes filled up with gas bombs, no doubt. You see, that's what'll 'appen first go off. You wants to keep your gas mask 'andy as soon as the balloon goes up. Can't think what them Germans were playing at ever to vote 'im in.'

He replaced the dustbin lid with a resounding clang.

'Ah well,' he said indulgently, 'they're easy taken in—foreigners !'

And with true British superiority he mounted the rear step of the dust lorry and rode away.

It was on Friday, September ist that evacuation began and Caxley prepared for the invasion. Beds were aired, toys brought down from attics, welcoming nosegays lodged on bedroom mantelpieces and pies and cakes baked for the doubtless starving visitors.

'Isn't it odd,' remarked Joan Howard to her mother, as she staggered from the doorstep with a double supply of milk, 'how we expect evacuees to be extra cold and extra hungry.
We've put twice as many blankets on their beds as ours, and we've got in enough food to feed an army.'

'I know,' agreed Winnie. 'It's on a par with woollies and shoes. Have you noticed how everyone is buying one or two stout pairs of walking shoes and knitting thick sweaters like mad? I suppose we subconsciously think we'll be marching away westward when war comes, with only a good thick sweater to keep out the cold when we're asleep under a hedge at night.'

'Very sensible,' approved old Mrs North, who was busy repairing a dilapidated golliwog which had once been Joan's. 'I can't think why you two don't take my advice and stock up with Chilprufe underclothes. You'll regret it this time next year. Why, I remember asking Grandpa North for five pounds when war broke out in 1914, and I laid it out on vests, combinations, stockings, tea towels and pillow slips—and never ceased to be thankful!'

Joan laughed. Despite the horrors which must surely lie ahead, life was very good at the moment. She had just obtained a teaching post at an infants' school in the town and was glad to be living at home to keep an eye on her mother and grandmother. As soon as things were more settled, however, she secretly hoped to join the W.A.A.F. or the A.T.S. Who knows? She might be posted somewhere near Edward.

It was not yet known if Rose Lodge would be wanted to house an influx of nurses. Meanwhile, the three women had prepared two bedrooms for their evacuees.

Winnie and Joan left the house in charge of old Mrs North and made their way towards the station. The local Reception Officer was in charge there, assisted by a dozen or so local
teachers. Winnie and her daughter were bound for a school which stood nearby. Here the children would come with their teachers to collect their rations for forty-eight hours and to rest before setting off for their new homes. Winnie was attached to the Women's Voluntary Service Corps and as Joan's school was closed for the time being she had offered to go and help.

A train had just arrived at the station, and the children were being marshalled into some semblance of order by harassed teachers. The children looked pathetic, Joan thought, clutching bundles and cases, and each wearing a label. A gas mask, in a neat cardboard box, bounced on every back or front, and one's first impression was of a band of refugees, pale and shabby.

But, on looking more closely, Joan noticed the cheeks which bulged with sweets, the occasional smile which lightened a tired face and the efficient mothering by little girls of children smaller than themselves. Given a good night's rest, Joan decided, these young ones would turn out to be as cheerful and resilient a lot as she had ever met during her training in London.

Inside the school hall an army of helpers coped with earlier arrivals. To Joan's secret delight, and her mother's obvious consternation, she saw that Miss Mobbs was in charge. This formidable individual had once been a hospital sister in the Midlands but retired to Caxley to look after a bachelor brother some years before.

'Poor man,' Caxley said. 'Heaven knows what he's done to deserve it! There's no peace now for him.'

But running a home and cowing a brother were not enough for Miss Mobbs. Within a few weeks she was a driving force in
several local organisations, and the scourge of those who preferred a quiet life.

At the moment she was in her element. Clad in nurse's costume, her fourteen-stone figure dominated the room as she swept from table to table and queue to queue, rallying her forces.

'That's the way, kiddies,' she boomed. 'Hurry along. Put your tins in your carrier bags and don't keep the ladies waiting!'

'Old boss-pot,' muttered one eight-year-old to her companion, much to Joan's joy. "Ope 'Itler gets 'er.'

Miss Mobbs bore down upon Winnie.

'We've been looking for you, Mrs Howard. This way. A tin of meat for every child and your daughter can do the packets of sugar.'

Joan observed, with mingled annoyance and amusement, that her mother looked as flustered and apologetic as any little probationer nurse and then remembered that, of course, years ago her mother really had been one. Obviously the voice of authority still twanged long-silent chords.

'Better late than never,' remarked Miss Mobbs with false heartiness. But her strongly disapproving countenance made it quite apparent that the Howards were in disgrace.

Glasses flashing, she sailed briskly across the room to chivvy two exhausted teachers into line, leaving Joan wondering how many more women were adding thus odiously to the horrors of warfare.

She and her mother worked steadily from ten until four, handing out rations to schoolchildren and their teachers and to mothers with babies. A brief lull midday enabled them to sip a cup of very unpleasant coffee and to eat a thinly spread fish-paste sandwich. Joan, whose youthful appetite was lusty, thought wistfully of the toothsome little chicken casserole her mother had left in the oven for Grandma North, and was unwise enough to mention it in Miss Mobbs' hearing.

'It wont hurt some of us to tighten our belts,' claimed that redoubtable lady, clapping a large hand over her own stiff leather one. Joan noticed, uncharitably, that it was fastened at the last hole already.

'We shan't beat Hitler without a few sacrifices,' she continued, putting three spoonsful of sugar into her coffee, 'and we must be glad of this chance of doing our bit.'

Really, thought Joan, speechless with nausea, it was surprising that Miss Mobbs had not been lynched, and could only suppose that the preoccupation of those present, and perhaps a more tolerant attitude towards this ghastly specimen than her own, accounted for Miss Mobbs' preservation.

At four o'clock they returned to Rose Lodge to find that their own evacuees had arrived and were already unpacking. Two women teachers, one a middle-aged widow, and the other a girl not much older than Joan, were sharing Edward's former room, and a young mother with a toddler and a six-weeks-old baby occupied the larger bedroom at the back of the house which had been Joan's until recently.

Grandmother North, trim and neat, her silver hair carefully waved and her gold locket pinned upon her dark silk blouse, was preparing tea. She looked as serene and competent as if she were entertaining one or two of her old Caxley friends. Only the flush upon her cheeks gave any hint of her excitement at this invasion.

'Where are we having it?' asked Joan, lifting the tray.

'In the drawing-room, of course,' responded her grandmother. 'Where else?'

'I thought—with so many of us,' faltered Joan, 'that we might have it here, or set it in the dining-room.'

'Just because we're about to go to war,' said Grandma North with hauteur, 'it doesn't follow that we have to lower our standards.'

She poured boiling water into the silver tea pot, and Joan could not help remembering the advertisement which she had read in
The Caxley Chronicle
that morning. Side by side with injunctions to do without, and to tackle one's own repairs in order to leave men free for war work, was the usual story from a local employment agency.

'Patronised by the Nobility and Gentry,' ran the heading, followed by:

'Titled lady requires reliable butler and housekeeper. 4 in family. 3 resident staff.'

There was a touch of this divine lunacy about her grandmother, thought Joan with amusement, and gave her a quick peck of appreciation.

'Mind my hair, dear,' said Mrs North automatically, and picking up the teapot she advanced to meet her guests.

'We're going to be a pretty rum household,' was Joan's private and unspoken comment as she surveyed the party when they were gathered together. Grandma North sat very upright behind the tea tray. Her mother, plump and kindly, carried food to the visitors, while she herself did her best to put the young mother at her ease and to cope with Bobby's insatiable
demands for attention. This fat two-year-old was going to cause more damage at Rose Lodge than the rest of them put together, Joan surmised.

Already he had wiped a wet chocolate biscuit along the cream chintz of the armchair, and tipped a generous dollop of milk into his mother's lap, his own shoes and Joan's. Now he was busy hammering bread and butter into the carpet with a small, greasy and powerful fist. His mother made pathetic and ineffectual attempts to control him.

'Oh, you are a naughty boy, Bobby! Look at the lady's floor! Give over now!'

'Please don't worry,' said Grandma North, a shade frostily. 'We can easily clean it up later.'

Joan felt sorry for the young mother. Exhausted with travelling, parted from a husband who had rejoined his ship the day before, and wholly overwhelmed by all that had befallen her, she seemed near to tears. As soon as was decently possible, she hurried Bobby upstairs to bed and made her escape.

Mrs Forbes, the older teacher, seemed a sensible pleasant person, though from the glint in her eye as she surveyed Bobby's tea-time activities, it was plain that she would have made use of a sharp slap or two to restrain that young gentleman. Her companion, Maisie Hunter, was a fresh-faced curly-haired individual whose appetite, Joan noticed, was as healthy as her own.

How would they all shake down together, she wondered, six women, and two babies—well, one baby and a two-year-old fiend might be a more precise definition—under the roof of Rose Lodge? Time alone would tell.

B
Y SUNDAY MORNING
, the visitors at Rose Lodge appeared to have settled down. This was by no means general in Caxley. Already, much to the billeting authorities' dismay, some mothers and children were making their way back to the danger zone in preference to the dullness of country living. Others were making plans to be fetched back to civilisation during the week. Their hosts were torn between relief and the guilty feeling that they had failed in their allotted task of welcoming those in need.

The early news on the wireless said that the Prime Minister would speak at eleven-fifteen, and Mrs North invited the household to assemble in the drawing-room.