‘We’re underneath the barn,’ Kit said. ‘Uncle Geoff dug into the old tunnel.’ She pushed the gas lamps onto the table in the middle of the shelter.
‘I never knew,’ Connie said. She sat on a small wooden chair and hugged her shins.
Kit put a blanket around Connie’s shoulders. ‘There,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry – we’ll be quite safe. And Uncle Geoff will be back soon.’
‘Does it usually last long?’ Connie asked.
‘It depends – we’re used to night raids. I hope it won’t be too long ‘til the all-clear.’
The hatch lifted overhead and Connie recognised Charlie-Mouse’s socks and shoes climbing downwards.
‘Charlie!’ she cried.
He sat on the bottom bunk and blinked across the lit room, his face dusty and scared. ‘We can’t find Malcolm,’ he said.
Another pair of feet came down, and Bert sat by her brother’s side. ‘Uncle Geoff is making a final check, but we think he’s gone.’
Connie blinked hard. ‘Gone? Where could he have gone to?’
‘We don’t know. He took the letter to . . . to . . .’ Charlie-Mouse replied, teeth chattering. ‘I mean, one minute he was there . . . up in the belfry – we called madly to say we were going down – that we had to come to the shelter – bbbbut . . . he didn’t answer.’
‘Uncle Geoff will surely find him and bring him back.’ Kit said. She passed him a hot water bottle and wrapped a blanket around him.
Connie kept looking at her watch, and hoping. After five minutes, Uncle Geoff appeared. He gave a bedroll to Bert and took off his cap to scratch his head. ‘Couldn’t find the blighter,’ he said. ‘Caused me a kindly worry, this day ‘e ‘as.’
‘He wasn’t in the church at all?’ Bert asked.
Uncle Geoff shook his head. ‘Climbed right up that tower I did – nothing there, not even on top. There’s nowhere ‘e could’ve ‘idden ‘imself – a boy that age.’
Connie’s forehead quivered. She was surprised at her fear for him.
‘If ‘e’s run off . . .’ Uncle Geoff said, ‘should know better. I just ‘ope someone in the village has taken ‘im in.’
The drone of aircraft echoed into the void of the barn above. Heavy lines bunched close on Uncle Geoff’s face.
Connie held out her hand. ‘Is that?’
Uncle Geoff nodded. ‘Not our planes, this time,’ he said.
She held her breath. She held it longer than she had ever done before. Then she let go. Her eyes were heavy with tears, and they were waiting to fall. Charlie-Mouse pinned his back against the wall of the shelter and stared at her. She couldn’t pull her eyes from him. Her mum’s voice pounded her head.
The drone died away and a single tear dropped into her lap.
‘It’s all right, folks,’ Uncle Geoff said. ‘It’s a scare, that’s all – they can’t see a dickie bird in all this snow.’
The noise came again. This time with a whiz and a whirr and the sound of something falling. Somewhere, not far away at all, glass smashed and stone blasted.
‘Something’s ‘it,’ Uncle Geoff said.
Winter 1940
Chapter Twenty A lucky escape
When the signal for the all-clear rolled out, Connie didn’t stir. The numbness, from sitting tightly still for well over an hour, pricked deep within her body. It hurt her as she forced her limbs into a stretch.
Charlie-Mouse gave her a heavy-handed high five.
‘You’re being brave,’ she told him.
‘I get it from you,’ he answered.
‘But I’m not brave now.’
‘You’re dealing with it.’
‘I’m not dealing with everything,’ she said, remembering the sight of the boy dragging his sleeping bag down from Dracula’s Castle. She imagined his panic at the siren. ‘Are you sure Malcolm wasn’t in the tower?’
‘Certain,’ Charlie-Mouse replied. ‘He must have climbed down.’
‘If he didn’t come back to the house, he must have wanted to run away.’
‘You mean so he could stay.’
‘I suppose I mean that.’
‘Nah,’ Charlie-Mouse said. ‘He wouldn’t run off – not in this weather – he’s nowhere to go. Besides, he knows he doesn’t belong.’
‘Then I don’t know.’ She gained the determination to crawl. ‘I need to shift my legs,’ she said, lifting the remaining gaslight. Before she could, a call from the house bowled along the dark passageway . . .
‘It’s the tower – they ‘it the tower!’
Uncle Geoff huddled with the small crowd gathered around the Victorian lamplight.
‘It was a stray one – knocked sideways into the belfry,’ she overheard the warden say. She was conscious of her nails digging into her cheeks. ‘Doesn’t look too severe.’
‘We’ll call the lads from the Camps,’ said another man, poking his walking stick into the tufts of green now showing through the snow. ‘They know what to do with unexploded bombs.’
‘There’ll be no church on Sunday,’ said the warden.
‘We’ll use the village hall,’ a woman said.
‘Did anyone see a boy?’ Uncle Geoff shouted.
‘Goodness gracious me, was there a boy in there?’ the woman exclaimed.
‘No, I checked the tower m’self . . . but we don’t know for certain.’
‘Whose is he?’ she asked.
Uncle Geoff turned. ‘These children ‘ere know,’ he said.
‘Mrs Pritchard’s boy again is it?’ said the man accusing his walking stick in Connie’s direction. ‘Up to no good – he should know better.’
About a minute later, the red-faced warden jostled his way back with a large length of rope aloft. ‘We can cordon it off,’ he panted.
Their shouts and calls lessened. Connie took in the piercing air. It shifted to her lungs and made her cough. ‘You were in there,’ she said, moving back from the open French doors.
Charlie-Mouse didn’t speak. He clutched at the heavy curtain fringe and continued to stare.
‘I know,’ Bert replied.
‘I don’t feel safe anymore,’ Kit said – her face patched with worry. ‘Right now, I’d rather be in London with Mummy.’
Bert nudged her in the ribs. ‘Nothing’s happened though, has it, Pretty Kitty? We’re all here.’
‘We’re not – Malcolm’s gone,’ she said.
‘We’ll find him,’ he replied, winding his arm around her.
‘He wasn’t in the tower when the bomb hit, I’m sure of it,’ said Charlie-Mouse. ‘Anyway, I bet he turns up at home he’ll be laughing at us for making such a fuss.’
The sound of aircraft hit the wind as Charlie-Mouse brought the French doors to a close. Connie looked out to see the bundle of villagers pointing into the sky. Three Spitfires tailed a Lysander, heading in the direction of the airfield. She held the curtain and watched the Lysander pull from its course to soar over the house. She had heard the sound before.
‘No, we can’t go now . . .’ she said.
The table lamp flickered and faded to grey. And as her reality swirled around her, feelings of emptiness and loss overpowered her head and her heart – she could do nothing to stop any of it.
Chapter Twenty One Where is Malcolm?
The winter chill of Christmas 1940 softened into comfortable purple warmth, and the sound of the plane fell away – Connie’s ears met with the sustained and uncomfortable scream of the potter’s wheel in its final few revolutions. Its pull slipped away – leaving her feeling sick and dizzy.
She opened her eyes and gulped. The horrible greasy mark she had seen Malcolm make so many hours ago, looked exactly as it should – only a moment old. She so wanted to believe he was still standing at the open gate to kick stones to clank against the Wendlewitch’s metal dustbins. But the yard was empty and the gate was swinging back and forth – its corner edge tracing and retracing an arc in the ground.
‘I think a touch of oil is
required,’ called a voice from the darkened conservatory.
The Wendlewitch stood like a peculiar apparition in a frizzy purple aura, with a pair of earphones draped around her neck and a small can in her hand. The aura paled as she came into the light. ‘Just . . . here,’ she said, twisting the wheel from left to right. ‘. . . and here. There, that should do it.’ A smile creased into her shining face.
‘But you’re not . . . your hayfever . . . you couldn’t . . . and you are,’ said Charlie-Mouse.
‘Completely,’ the Wendlewitch finished. ‘Time is a magical healer, don’t you think?’
Connie snatched at her watch. It was still ten o’clock. ‘It’s impossible to get well that quick,’ she said, perplexed. ‘You were quite ill.’
‘Almost impossible,’ the Wendlewitch said. ‘I don’t do impossible.’ She peered further into Connie’s face,’ But my dear, are you well?’
The sickness gone, her mouth dried up. ‘It’s Malcolm,’ she said, before her voice went hoarse.
Charlie-Mouse rescued her. ‘He came through after us. Now he’s lost,’ he said.
She kept swallowing, and pulling at the pendant around her neck – she scraped the thin chain from side to side. ‘He just . . . vanished,’ she said.
The Wendlewitch shut her eyes, and when Connie had finished she pulled her glasses up to sit on the crook of her nose. ‘Then I need to think – about the boy and the letter. It changes things,’ she said, rocking her flowery flip-flopped foot backwards and forwards on the floor. ‘Goodness, that young man has been a challenge. I only wish his father could have let me—’ She stopped, throwing her attention to the mantelpiece, where a handful of old photographs and postcards peered from behind a row of unfired pots.
‘What is it?’ Connie asked.
The Wendlewitch pulled out a brown faded picture postcard and stood for some time, staring closely. ‘Mmmm dear? Oh . . . nothing that will make a difference right now.’ She slipped the picture back between the pots.
‘Do you think he will follow us here? ‘Connie said. ‘Say he will.’
‘The Wendlewitch caressed the dimple in her chin with her purple fingertips. ‘It all depends,’ she said. ‘I fear that Malcolm has slipped through.’
‘Slipped through?’ said Charlie-Mouse, wearing his most serious expression.
‘With a whirl of the wheel, springs magic more powerful than the grace of time herself. Magic to pull us to the past, or push us to the future. But time is a funny thing. It has a habit of moving on and losing track of where it once was.’
‘God, he is lost.’ Charlie-Mouse said.
‘But I’m not worried . . . not yet anyway,’ the Wendlewitch continued. She placed her palm on the wheel and smiled.
‘So where is he?’ Connie asked.
‘Ah well – that I don’t know . . . exactly. The Wendlewitch shrugged and her earphones fell straight off her shoulders. ‘It’s all quite complicated – my guess is he may have gone backwards an incy bit, or forwards, or . . .’ She tilted her head from side to side and when her thoughts appeared to be of no consequence, proceeded to glide by, leaving an almost indescribable burst of blueberry perfume and lubricating oil in her wake. ‘I really should be more reassuring, shouldn’t I,’ she muttered.
‘We’re in a mess if you ask me,’ said Charlie-Mouse.
The Wendlewitch spun full circle. ‘No!’ she replied. ‘You must trust me.’ She swept her glossy head from Charlie-Mouse to Connie, and back to Charlie-Mouse. ‘You have to carry on. Come back after the midnight – when the magic is strong.’
‘You must be joking!’ said Charlie-Mouse. ‘Not if—’
‘Not if what?’ Connie shouted.
‘Not if there’s a chance of never coming home,’ he answered.
Chapter Twenty Two In the quiet of the night
Connie lay in bed, cradling her ear to every one of the twelve chimes of the church clock. She had been dreaming of the delight of running up the steps of the tower to the clock room, of finding Malcolm sitting waiting for her on the polished oak of the study desk. He leaned over the blue and gold china cat to pass her a small white envelope, then vanished. Her magical dream became a waking dream, and their last conversation drifted casually by. The words echoed from left to right, changing like bells ringing a tune in perfect time.
‘Where will you put it?’
‘Oh no, we’re not telling you – you could ruin everything.’
‘No, it’s not like that . . . you can trust me.’
Her bedroom door creaked and she heard a murmur from the hallway. ‘Charlie?
She pulled herself upright, automatically throwing all her covers off the bed. They half-covered the cat. She smiled. ‘You’ll come with me instead, won’t you Honeycomb?’ The cat stretched his legs and clawed into the quilt. ‘I hate to say this, and I know just how many times he’s shot at you with his pea-shooter, but I have to try and find him.’
She pushed a crutch at one of the pottery doors and put a foot inside. Honeycomb brushed his silky smooth coat over her ankle. She shuddered.
The moon shone into her eyes through the expanse of glass, kissing the pots with touches of silver light and shadow. Connie looked up to the top shelf, expecting to see four more green eyes shining down. But there were just two, and a dark empty space. One of the china cats was missing. Where was it? Out on the prowl somewhere? She faltered in her step. The stillness of the night swirled over her senses as the moon covered over, closeting the room over her head with the darkness. Don’t be silly, she told herself. Turn on the light if you’re scared.
Purple wisps of cloud chased across the sky – and as moonlight fell onto the potter’s wheel, a moving pool of shadow cast itself over the fire screen and lifted again to paint the room in mauve. To her relief, she saw Charlie-Mouse’s figure silhouetting its way along the glass. Not long after, his athletic strides sounded on the wood floor.
‘Don’t say a word,’ he said, putting a firm hand on her shoulder.
She unlocked her calipers and sat herself at the lion stool. She slid her hand across the wheel, clasped hold of the edge and pulled it round with as much force as she could.
A glittering, dancing lasso picked up from the spin. In the dim light, it seemed to tighten its grip on the room as it spun faster and faster around them before crashing down in the centre of the wheel to extinguish itself in a final flash of energy.
Chapter Twenty Three Make do and mend
Claybridge Farm
Friday, 3rd January 1941
Dear Mummy,
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
We read the papers this week. The pictures of London looked very sad. Fifteen hundred fires! We didn’t really want to read about any more firebombing in the City. Just when the man on the wireless told us that good news was on the horizon.
Thank you for calling again. We were so pleased to hear your voice twice in one week. We know that you will come to visit as soon as you can re-arrange your transport.
It is freezing today. I have put on almost all my pairs of socks at once and I am wearing two vests and two blouses under my pullover. Now that they’re rationing clothes, I hope you have enough.
Bert has been learning to sew. It’s quite funny; he says he isn’t that good but he is. I’m sure he won’t mind me telling you. We’ve been making new shoe bags for when we go back to school out of some old dress material that Auntie Evie says belonged to you. They are our lucky tokens.
We are so looking forward to the Spring. But it will be strange to move from here. We visited Golden Hill Farm yesterday. I like it very much. It’s only a few miles from Corberley.
Please tell Margerie’s Mummy to write that I am thinking about her.
Sending you all our love and kisses,
Kit xxxxxxxxxxx
Spring 1941
Chapter Twenty Four The stranger
Midnight lifted and the spring tumbled at her – blossom puffed over the tops of the fruit trees, spilling to
carpet the tufty ground in pink and white. She picked up a small bunch and tucked it into her hair. ‘Time’s moved on again,’ she said.
There was no sign of anyone – no cars parked along the driveway and the large three-bar gate to the lane remained closed. The hole in the church tower gaped wide. Down below, the rope barrier had gone. ‘What if we’re too late?’
The French doors to the study rocked gently against their hooks on the outside wall. They slipped inside – the scent of fresh daffodils tempting each step she took. But the room wasn’t empty. The young airman occupied the writing desk. His weighty brown flying jacket hugged the back of his chair. He stretched his lean body awkwardly over the desktop as he wrote.
‘Oh, we’re sorry,’ apologised Connie. ‘We didn’t know you were here.’
The airman put his inkpen into the top of the neatly glued blue and gold spotted cat and pushed it back to its corner. ‘It’s fine, I’m alone,’ he said, in a low and controlled tone, ‘Really, don’t worry – I’m almost finished here, please stay.’
The young man didn’t appear to be surprised by their entrance. He stood to put on his flying jacket. ‘The house is yours for a few weeks more,’ he said. ‘And it’s my job as envoy to thank you.’ He brushed lightly at the ends of his ash-blonde moustache.
‘Oh no, but this isn’t . . . and we don’t—’ Connie attempted.
The airman stepped forward to shake their hands in turn, and with a strangely familiar cough and a quick salute he was gone.
She wavered – there was something instantly recognisable in his mannerisms, the asthmatic cough and the crooked smile. No, it wouldn’t be possible – this man must surely be in his twenties.
‘Wait a minute!’ she called out after him. Don’t you want to speak to Mr and Mrs . . .’
Kit and Bert burst through the open doors.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘Did you see—’
‘A fine greeting!’ Bert said, lifting a curly lock from his eyes.