A Sweet Blitz
By David Bond
Copyright 2014 David Bond
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Table of Contents
Title Page
A Sweet Blitz
About David Bond
Other books by David Bond
The Blitz, 1940. Mankind had brought the world to its knees, but this story does not focus on the war itself. Even in the years of darkness there were dapples of sunlight, and this story concerns a little girl living in the big city who learnt a valuable lesson.
‘You’re not going to forget what I said now, are you Sarah?’ Her mother was strict at the best of times, but this time she appeared even more stern than usual.
‘Yes mother, loud and clear’. Sarah replied. She had listened neither loudly nor clearly.
‘OK, what did I say?’ Gladys retorted quickly, as she bore down upon her daughter. There was no room for mistakes here.
Sarah anxiously hesitated, and mumbled something about thanking people who bring gifts. The words jumbled themselves out of her mouth unconfidently, and Sarah knew she was going to be punished. One swift, sharp slap later, the young girl immediately regretted not paying attention earlier.
‘I’ll tell you again Sarah, and this time you will listen. Never, ever, accept gifts when you do somebody a favour. A few polite words and nothing more will be quite alright. Accepting a gift makes you greedy, and you’ll lose all of the goodwill in your original act. Do you understand me?’
For a nine year old, this was heavy stuff, but this time Sarah got the message.
*
Stepping out of the house into the brisk cold air, Sarah was greeted by a yawning sky patched with perfectly still clouds, lying high above the rows upon rows of little terraced houses crammed along winding streets. Before she had a chance to fashion a fitting description for the beautiful urban scene that lay before her, the tranquility was obliterated by the deafening roar of a passing warplane.
Sarah’s head and heart sank at the sight of the warplane, but she was used to the sight by now. Living close to a major industrial estate, Sarah’s house was within range of frequent bombing raids. The spectre of death was an unwelcome but familiar visitor to the area. Sometimes Sarah wandered why her mother was so keen to teach lessons all the time; her cynical side suggested that she was trying to get all her mothering in quickly, before it was too late.
Trying to cast aside the dark thoughts, Sarah continued to the postbox where she was to deliver a letter for her mother. On express orders from home, Sarah was strictly told not to dilly-dally, no playing around. ‘Place the letter in the postbox, and come straight home.’
Her mission was going well until she ran into an elderly widower and friend of the family who was tending to her garden. Sarah greeted the frail old lady cheerfully, not expecting to stop.
‘Hi Mrs Owens!’
Mrs Owens struggled up and leaned upon the garden wall so she could greet the young girl, who duly stopped and waited politely.
‘Hello there Sarah!’ The old lady replied, puffing and panting after her exertions. ‘Call me Betty now why don’t you?’
Small talk ensued, occasionally interrupted by passing warplanes. Just as Sarah began to tire of the idle chit-chat, Mrs Owens revealed her hand, politely asking Sarah to post her a letter.
‘You wouldn’t refuse an old timer like me a little favour would you? I’ll make it worth your while!’ Mrs Owens had a twinkle in her eye, indicating that the promise was not a hollow one.
In the Blitz, a comment such as that was sure to raise interest, especially in a young child. Hope of any kind was greeted with feverish excitement. Sarah accepted the offer gleefully, and set off for the postbox as quickly as possible, knowing that her mother was sure to ask questions if she came home late.
When she returned, Sarah was puffing and panting. Mrs Owens puffed and panted also as she struggled up from her garden tending to greet the young girl. She was extremely grateful.
‘That was quick! Thanks so much, I can’t get out and about myself much these days - even my beloved garden’s going to waste.’ Mrs Owens gestured to her pristine front garden, containing not a single weed.
Sarah politely but firmly reassured the old woman that her garden was not going to waste. She was ready to say a quick goodbye and go on her way, having forgotten about the offer, until the old lady called her back.
‘Now just a moment before you leave, I need to give you something nice!’
A flash of excitement for Sarah as she remembered the deal, and although half-tempted by the small offering of thanks she immediately refused. Mrs Owens, however, wasn’t listening. She continued to rummage around in her purse, and proceeded to place both hands behind her back.
‘OK now, what is it going to be? You have a choice - a few little pennies, or a little bar of chocolate?’
A wave of temptation instantly crashed upon Sarah’s mind with the simple offer of chocolate. Money would have been nice, but the sight, smell and ultimately the taste of chocolate was a rare bounty that could not be resisted. It would be a momentary but sweetly exotic trip for the taste buds, briefly transporting the young girl away from the grudging monotony and fear of city life during the war.
However, following this wave of temptation was the lull - the realisation that she could not accept the generous offer. Her mother’s warnings, for a second obscured by the sweet promise of chocolate, gained prominence in her head once more. She could not, would not, accept the gift in return for a simple favour. It was not right.
Whilst Sarah’s conscience stood resilient, her taste buds had other ideas, relishing the idea of such an exotic food on the palette; and in the battle between ethics and chocolate, there was only going to be one winner. For a short while longer Sarah earnestly but feebly attempted to reject Mrs Owens’s kind offer, but the fight was already over. Mrs Owens knew it. Sarah knew it. Finally, she caved in.
‘OK. . . if you insist. . . I guess I’m going to have to take the chocolate!’
Mrs Owens smiled as she handed over the small bar of chocolate to Sarah over the wall.
‘Off with you now back home to your mother’ cheerily waving the young girl away.
‘Thanks so much again! Bye now!’
‘Thank you’. Mrs Owens had barely assumed her position behind the garden wall as Sarah bolted for home, keen not to arouse any suspicions in her mother.
The problems mounted instantly. What was she going to do with the forbidden treasure? Filled with an instant and unpleasant bout of paranoia that brought her gleeful run down to a slow tread, Sarah pictured her mother finding her with the offending item in the street, or even searching her pockets upon arrival. Sarah’s mother had never followed her before, or searched her pockets, but just then it seemed like a certainty.
Sarah’s rational side knew that the search was not going to happen, but the paranoia took over, as it often does. Convinced that she was to be imminently caught, her anxiety-addled brain quickly sought out a solution. Sarah decided that she would pocket the chocolate, run down by the side of the house, undetected, enter the back yard and bury the thing in an old flowerpot. The bar was well wrapped, and would be fine in the soil, for a short while at least. She would then return to the front of the house and enter later, as if nothing untoward had happened.
Buoyed slightly by her planning, she sprinted the last block.
*