Octavia's War (8 page)

‘It's a gorgeous day,' Lizzie Meriton said, leaning out of the bedroom window. ‘Come and have a look, Poppy. You can see for miles.'

Poppy groaned and turned over in her unfamiliar bed. ‘It's all very well for you,' she complained, ‘you were asleep all night.'

‘Comes of having a clear conscience,' Lizzie told her. It wasn't true. She'd been awake off and on all night too, worrying because she hadn't kissed her mother goodbye, but you have to keep the side up. ‘There's a common over there. I can see the trees. Tell you what, when we've had our breakfast, let's go and explore.'

‘I'm exhausted,' Poppy said, struggling to sit up. ‘Oh God! You're dressed.'

‘Clean, clothed and in my right mind,' Lizzie agreed. She was surprising herself by how much better she felt now that it was morning. Smithie was right. It was all a matter of accepting things.

‘You've even brushed your hair,' Poppy complained, admiring Lizzie's long blonde mane. It really wasn't fair for anyone to look that pretty first thing in the morning. She was so slim and she had such lovely long legs and such white teeth, and such beautiful grey eyes and long black eyelashes
and everything. She hadn't even got spots.

‘It's what I do,' Lizzie said carelessly. ‘Fifty strokes both sides, every morning.'

Poppy's hair was thin and mouse-brown, and had to be put in curlers every night and combed and arranged in the morning so that it didn't look too bad, which took a very long time. She lumped from the bed and went to look for her dressing gown. It was in her bag somewhere. She remembered packing it. ‘I wonder what's for breakfast,' she said.

‘Bacon.'

‘How do you know?'

‘I can smell it cooking.'

She's such a brick, Poppy thought, tugging the dressing gown out of her bag – along with two pairs of knickers and the sleeve of her spare blouse. She takes everything in her stride, even this. I'm glad we're together. And she took out the first curler and began to start her day.

Emmeline was shaking a Beecham's powder into a glass of water, watching as the mixture fizzed and bubbled. ‘There you are, Uncle,' she said, handing it to J-J, ‘drink that down while it's fizzy. We can't have you with a cold.'

‘I'm not at death's door, Emmeline,' J-J protested, sitting up in bed with his white hair sleep-tousled and his glasses on the end of his nose. ‘It's only a cough.'

‘Um,' Emmeline said, dubiously, ‘well, there's no need to put up with it, whatever it is. What do you fancy for breakfast?'

‘Porridge would be nice.'

‘Porridge it shall be,' Emmeline promised and turned her head towards the bedroom door, listening. ‘There's the phone ringing. I shall have to go and attend to it. You'll be all right, won't you?'

He smiled at her concern. ‘Perfectly,' he said.

Emmeline went puffing down the stairs as fast as she could. The call would be from one or other of her daughters and she was eager for news of her grandchildren, who'd all been evacuated the previous day too.

It was Dora, sounding very calm and collected. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘He arrived safely. I had a card from him this morning.'

‘Dear little man,' Emmeline said. ‘What does he say?'

Dora read the card. ‘He's in a village called Bracknell, wherever that is – and he's staying with a nice lady called Mrs – what is it? – Weather – that can't be right – and he's with Martin and Bob Cavendish. So you don't need to worry about him.'

Emmeline went on worrying. It was all very well for Dora to say what a big boy he was and how grown up he was getting, but he
was
only eight when all was said and done, poor little mite, and eight's no age to be sent off to the country without your mother. ‘Did he say anything else?'

‘No. It was only a postcard. I have got another bit of news for you though. I'm going to join the ARP. They want people to drive their ambulances. It was in the paper this morning.'

‘But you've got a job,' Emmeline protested. She worked for an estate agent just down the road from her flat.

‘This is extra,' Dora said firmly. ‘When there are air raids. It won't stop me working. Anyway, I don't reckon there'll be much work for me to do now. I mean who's going to buy a property in Balham? It might be bombed. Nobody'll move to London with a war on. They're all moving out.'

‘Don't talk like that,' Emmeline said. It made her flesh creep. Bad enough to have to think they might be bombed, without actually saying it.

‘That's the way we've got to talk now, Ma,' Dora said. ‘It's no good pretending. We're in it now. We've got to face things.
Anyway, must rush. The pips are going. I'll phone you tonight and let you know how I get on.'

Emmeline put the telephone back on its hook, feeling stricken. Her world was being turned upside down for the second time in her life and she couldn't bear it. Her nice comfortable order was wrecked and now look where they all were. Poor little David all on his own out in the country somewhere, her dear Dotty Dora driving an ambulance – and just think how dangerous that's going to be if they start bombing – no Tavy to talk to, and her dear, dear Johnnie flying his Spitfire with all those dreadful bombers in the air. Sighing, she stomped off to the kitchen to cook the porridge.

It was just thickening nicely when the phone rang again. She took it off the gas and set it aside so that it didn't burn and went off to see who it was this time.

It was Edie and she sounded upset and unsure of herself.

‘Mum? Is that you?'

‘Yes,' Emmeline said. ‘Where are you?'

‘I'm in the phone box at the end of the road.'

‘What road?'

‘My road. Where I live.'

‘Didn't you go then? Have they put it off?'

‘Oh no. Nothing like that. The girls went. They're in Guildford. I got a postcard this morning. I stayed here with Joanie.'

‘I thought you were all going together.'

‘Yes – well – we were,' Edie said, and then there was a long pause before she went on. ‘Arthur's being sent to France, he got the letter yesterday, and I couldn't very well go off and leave him with that going on, could I? Not knowing where we were or having an address to write to or anything. Anyway, I've stayed. Me and baby'll go down later, when he's gone. I
couldn't do anything else could I?'

Emmeline supposed not, since that was what Edie wanted her to say, but her chest ached with pity for those two children out in the country somewhere without their mother.

‘I'll have to go,' Edith said. ‘Lots to do.' And hung up.

Emmeline went back to the porridge, which had thickened in her absence and needed re-warming. Then she made a pot of tea and toiled upstairs to tell Uncle his breakfast was ready and to give him the news about her grandchildren. She was upset to find that he was lying down and looked rather flushed.

‘I don't feel quite the thing,' he confessed. ‘I might just stay here for a bit longer. Would you mind?'

She reassured him at once. Poor old Uncle. He was overtired. ‘No, of course not. There's no necessity for you to get up yet awhile. You just have a little rest and I'll make you up a nice little tray and bring it up for you. I shan't be long.'

She took special pains over the tray, setting it with the best tray cloth and the prettiest china, and as a finishing touch she went out into the garden and cut the last of the roses so that he could have a little vase of flowers to cheer him too. It was quite a shock when she went back upstairs to find that he'd grown worse in the short time she'd been working on it. He was lying on his back with his eyes shut and looked really poorly. She put the tray down on the dressing table and went to sit beside him.

‘Would you like me to get the doctor?' she asked when he opened his eyes.

He had to make an effort to answer her. ‘I shall be better presently.'

‘I'll phone him,' she said. And did.

Dr Mullinger was an old man and a thorough one. He didn't arrive until late in the morning but he examined his patient most carefully, took his pulse and temperature, looked down his throat, sounded his lungs and asked him how old he was.

The question caused some distress because J-J had forgotten and was reduced to saying ‘Um – um' and coughing while he struggled to remember.

‘Eighty-six,' Emmeline said, patting her uncle's hand to reassure him.

Now it was Doctor Mullinger's turn to say ‘Um', which he did thoughtfully as he put his stethoscope back in his little black bag and snapped it shut. ‘I'm afraid your uncle is suffering from bronchitis,' he said to Emmeline. ‘Keep him in bed and warm. Don't worry about feeding him. He's not up to food at the moment. Just give him plenty of fluids. That's most important. That, and keeping him warm. I'll call in again tomorrow.'

Emmeline thanked him as she escorted him downstairs and saw him out, but her mind was spinning. What a thing to happen. Now of all times, with everything at sixes and sevens and everybody all over the place. Well, there'll be no rushing off to Woking now, what with Edie and Joan still here and Uncle ill. I shall have to phone Tavy and let her know. Mustn't alarm her though. She's got enough on her plate without that. And she picked up the receiver.

Octavia was in the middle of what Elizabeth Fennimore called the first staff meeting of the evacuation and the news she'd had for her colleagues wasn't good. She and Maggie had been hard at work since six o'clock, and now there was a huge map of their new area hanging from the picture rail on the drawing room wall, with every street neatly labelled and
coloured pins marking the houses where their pupils could be found, and a pile of typed lists on the coffee table detailing all their addresses. Her staff were sitting in a variety of chairs all round the room, smoking and drinking coffee and listening to her outline of what they had to expect in the next few days.

‘As soon as we know exactly where they all are,' she said, ‘we'll have named flags attached to those pins. And in the meantime if you could sign the list that's going the rounds so that I know where you are too… With phone numbers if you're lucky enough to have one. Then Maggie will get that circulated to you too.'

It made them all feel better to be organised. But the news of the school they were to share was nowhere near so good.

‘I've seen Miss Jones, the headmistress, this morning,' Octavia told them, ‘and been shown over the school, which as I told you yesterday – the day before – I've rather lost track – is not a school building, but a line of huts. She and her staff are very kind and I'm sure they'll make us welcome, but the premises are just not big enough to contain us, especially if we're to have an area for private study, and especially as we're only going to be allowed the use of the place on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. The two schools have got to share it, Box and Cox style. There is some space for storing text books but class libraries will be a problem. And even if we doubled up some classes we still wouldn't all fit in. I've written to our Chairman of Governors to tell him we need at least two large buildings as supplementary accommodation and I've sent him details of seven that might be suitable.'

That provoked laughter. It was so typical of their Smithie. She smiled in answer to it and went on. ‘However, that is only one of our problems. According to Miss Jones, nobody is going to be allowed to use her building at all until the local
authority has built air raid shelters in the grounds. So we've all got to wait. I don't suppose the girls will mind an extension to their summer holiday, especially as it's good weather, but it will make it difficult for all of us if we're delayed too long.'

‘We ought to try to meet the examination girls and at least give them their syllabuses,' Elizabeth said. ‘It's a short term and it'll be even shorter if they take a long time over these shelters.'

‘We could hold some classes here for the time being,' Octavia said. ‘There are two empty rooms in the attic and the dining room, of course.' The phone shrilled into her thoughts. ‘Excuse me a minute,' she said, as she picked up the receiver. ‘Octavia Smith.'

‘Ah!' Emmeline's voice said. ‘Yes.' And then paused.

The odd hesitancy was an alert. ‘Is there something the matter?' Octavia asked.

‘Um – not really – I mean it's nothing to worry about. Nothing important. Not really. It's just…Uncle's got bronchitis.'

‘Have you had the doctor to him?'

‘He's just this minute left.'

‘And?'

‘Nothing more than I've told you, really. He's got bronchitis and to give him lots of water and let him rest and he's going to call in again tomorrow. Only I thought you ought to know.'

‘Would you like Janet to come back and help you?'

‘No, no. I'm fine. He's no trouble. I mean, it's not much more than a chesty cough really. We shall manage.'

‘I shall come back and see him tomorrow afternoon,' Octavia decided. She could visit Mr Chivers too and talk about those extra premises. Kill two birds with one stone. Or three, if she brought back some more books. ‘Give him
my love, and don't worry too much.'

‘I'm not worrying,' Emmeline said. ‘I mean he's no trouble. I just thought you ought to know.' And she put the phone down and went worrying off to the kitchen. If only the house wasn't so empty. It was horrid having to cope with everything all on her own. And Arthur going to France, and Johnnie waiting for the bombers, and those three poor little children out in the depths of the country all on their own.

Lizzie and Poppy had discovered a canal. Their landlady had made sandwiches for them and given them an apple each which they'd packed in Poppy's shoe-bag, they'd made sure they had sufficient pocket money for drinks and since then they'd been happily exploring the territory. They'd found the common almost at once because it was at the end of their road, and when they'd walked right across it they'd turned south along a track called Well Lane and there was the canal.