The War that Saved My Life (7 page)

“Ada!” she said. “Ada, stop it! You’ll hurt him!”

Hurt
him,
when it was him disobeying.

“Bedtime, Jamie!” Miss Smith grabbed his flailing arm. “Bath, then bed!” She pulled him off the floor and carried him kicking and screaming up the stairs.

I’ll kill him, I thought. I’ll murder him for acting this way.

I found my crutches and got to my feet. I picked up the broken pieces of plate, and the food scattered across the floor. I wiped up the water I’d spilled when I knocked over my glass. I could hear Jamie screaming upstairs. Miss Smith was either bathing him or slaughtering him; either was fine by me.

When I finished cleaning the kitchen I climbed the stairs. Dead easy with the crutches. The screaming had stopped. “I put clean water in the bath for you,” Miss Smith said. “Did you finish your supper?”

I nodded. I was still hungry, but my stomach was turning circles and I couldn’t eat.

There was hot water, soap, a towel. I already felt clean, but the water was soothing. Afterward I put on new clothes called pajamas, that were supposed to be just to sleep in. Tops and bottoms, both blue. The fabric was so soft that for a moment I held it against my face. It was all soft, this place. Soft and good and frightening. At home I knew who I was.

When I went into the bedroom Jamie was curled into a little ball, snoring, and Miss Smith was dozing in the chair beside the bed. She’s not a nice person, I reminded myself, and went to sleep.

In the middle of the night I jumped awake, the way I did when Mam brought home guests. I sat up and clutched the blankets to me. My breath came in ragged gasps.

Miss Smith said, “It’s all right, Ada. You’re all right.”

I turned. She was still sitting in the chair beside Jamie. Moonlight came through the window. Miss Smith’s face was in shadow.

My heart hammered. My head whirled.

“You’re all right,” Miss Smith repeated. “Did you have a nightmare?”

Did I? I didn’t know. Jamie lay beside me, his mouth slightly open, his breathing soft and regular.

“Were there bombs?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No. I didn’t hear anything, but I woke up too.” She held her wrist up to a patch of moonlight. “It’s gone three o’clock. I didn’t mean to fall asleep here. I’ve slept in this chair most of the night.”

Somehow I could hear her smiling. “I haven’t slept well for a long time. Since Becky died, I don’t sleep well.”

I asked, “When did she die?”

Miss Smith cleared her throat. “Three years ago. Three years ago next Tuesday.”

She hadn’t slept well for three years?

“It’s part of why I didn’t want to take you,” she continued. “It’s nothing to do with you. I’m always so much worse in the fall. And then the days get so short and—well, I’m never very good in the winter either. Never was, not even when I was your age. I hate the darkness and the cold.”

I nodded. I hated them too. In winter chilblains covered my hands and feet, and they itched and burned like crazy. I asked, “Was Becky your kid?”

“My
kid
?” Miss Smith gave a bark of harsh laughter. “No. She was my friend. My best friend. We were at university together. This was her house, she left it to me.”

“And Butter,” I said, remembering.

“She gave me Butter long before she died. She wanted me to like horses, the way she did. It didn’t take.”

“What killed her?” I asked.

“Pneumonia. That’s a sickness in the lungs.”

I nodded. Talking to Miss Smith had helped my panic subside. I unclenched my hands from the blankets and lay back down. “You could sleep here,” I said to Miss Smith. Jamie was in the middle of the bed, so there was room on her side.

She shook her head. “No, I’ll—well, maybe. Just this once.” She slid in beside Jamie and pulled the blankets over herself. I pulled my end over myself, feeling again the unexpected softness, the warmth.

The next thing I knew the room was full of light, the sound of church bells was coming through the open windows, and Miss Smith was saying, “Oh, Jamie, you wet the bed.”

He never did, at home. I remembered the surly salesman who’d complained about his evacuees’ bedwetting, and I gave Jamie such a glare that he burst into tears.

“No matter,” Miss Smith said, though she looked annoyed. “It’ll all wash. Monday we’ll buy a rubber sheet in case it happens again.”

She was all the time having to buy stuff. I said, mostly to ease my worry, “Of course, you’re rich.” Of course she was, with the posh house and all the food, not to mention a bank to hand her money.

“Far from it,” she replied. “I’ve been living off the sale of Becky’s hunters.” She stood up, stretching. “What’s with those blasted bells? Have we slept that long? I suppose I should be taking you to church, that’s what a decent guardian would do.” She shrugged. “Too late now.”

Downstairs she made tea. She told Jamie to put the radio on. A deep, sonorous voice came out of it, very solemn and slow. Something about it made Jamie and me sit to listen. Miss Smith came in from the kitchen and perched on the edge of the chair.

The Voice said, “As the prime minister announced just a short time ago, England and Germany are now at war.”

The church bells had gone silent. Jamie said, “Will they bomb us now?” and Miss Smith nodded and said, “Yes.”

Up until then, that morning, I’d forgotten about the bombs. They were supposed to be in London, not here at Miss Smith’s house, but even so I’d forgotten them. You wouldn’t think you could forget a thing like bombs.

The squelchy feeling swirled in my stomach again. “What do they mean, we are now at war?” I asked. “Weren’t we already? We’re here.”

“The government evacuated cities ahead of time,” Miss Smith explained. “They knew the war was coming, just not exactly when.”

“If they knew it was coming, they could have stopped it,” I said.

Miss Smith shook her head. “You can’t stop Hitler without a fight. Don’t worry, Ada. You’ll be safe, and your mother will be safe, and I’m sure you’ll be able to go home soon.”

The way she said it, with a fake smile, told me she was lying. I didn’t know why she would lie.

“I hope not,” I said, before I thought. I bit back my next words, which were,
I’d rather be here.

Miss Smith looked startled. She seemed about to say something, but, before she could, Jamie began to cry. “I want to go home,” he said. “I don’t want a war. I don’t want bombs. I’m scared. I want to go home.”

When I thought of going home, I couldn’t breathe. Home was more frightening than bombs. What was Jamie thinking?

Miss Smith sighed. She took her handkerchief and wiped the tears and snot off Jamie’s face. “No one’s asking us what we want,” she said. “Come. Let’s have something to eat.”

After we ate, Miss Smith sat beside the radio, looking distant and unhappy. “Miss?” I said. “Have they started bombing yet?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. The sirens went off in London, but it was just a drill.”

I perched on the edge of the chair beside her. The voice on the radio droned on. “Miss?” I said. “What’re hunters?”

She looked up as though half asleep. “What?”

I repeated the question. “You said you were living off the sale of Becky’s hunters,” I said. I knew about selling things. There was a pawn shop down our lane, and when work at the docks was slow, women took things there.

“Hunters are an expensive type of horse,” she said. “Becky had two of them.”

“We could eat less,” I said. “Jamie and me. We’re used to it.”

Miss Smith’s gaze sharpened. “Of course not,” she said. Her voice took on an edge that made me swallow. “You aren’t to worry about that. I’ll handle it, or Lady Thorton will. You’ll be looked after.”

“It’s just—”

“You’re not to worry,” she said. “It’s a beautiful day. Wouldn’t you like to play outside?”

Jamie was already out there. I nodded, took my crutches, and went. Butter grazed far across the field. “Butter!” I called, sliding over the pasture wall. He raised his head, but didn’t come to me.

I lay down. The field was fascinating. Grass, dirt, flowers. Little flying bugs. I rolled onto my stomach and stroked the grass, sniffed it, pulled it out of the dirt. Scooted forward to examine a white flower.

Eventually I felt a whoosh of breath against my neck. I rolled over, laughing, expecting Jamie, but it was Butter. He sniffed my head, then stepped aside, grazing. I watched his feet and how he moved them, and how his long yellow tail swished flies away.

The sun was high and then it was lower, and the air grew chilly. “Supper!” Miss Smith shouted from the house. When we came in she gave me an eye and said, “Have you been rolling in mud?”

I didn’t know what she meant.

“Never mind,” she said. “Don’t look so stricken. You’ll wash.”

Jamie shouted, “Another BATH?”

“Sit and eat,” Miss Smith said. “Yes, a bath. You can plan on having a bath every night while you’re here.”

“Every
night
?” Mud or not, I felt cleaner than I’d ever been.

“I don’t mind you getting dirty,” Miss Smith said, “but I won’t have mud on my sheets.”

Jamie and I looked around. There were lots of things whose names we didn’t know. And clearly she
did
mind our getting dirty, at least a little. Finally I said, “Miss? What’re sheets?”