Whirl of the Wheel

  The stairs clattered to the sound of his arrival.

  ‘His dad might’ve chucked him out,’ he said, scraping his chair to the table.

  ‘I don’t reckon,’ Connie replied. ‘He’s all he has. Mrs Mollet got shot of them both.’

  ‘OK so they had a fight about something and he crashed out here.’ He crunched into his toast.

  ‘Makes a change from the pottery,’ Connie said. ‘The Wendlewitch must be sick of him.’

  ‘You’re joking aren’t you! He won’t set foot inside. He thinks she’s a total crackpot.’

  ‘Then do you suppose he went home?’

  ‘S’pect. He’ll probably go and hang out at the green with his gang. Not that they like him either. They only stick with him because their dads worship his dad,’ Charlie-Mouse sneered.

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘I’ve heard it from the bus crowd. Will Long and those older boys dare him to be rude to everyone, then jeer behind his back.’

  ‘That’s a bit sad.’

  ‘He’s sad.’ Charlie-Mouse tipped his orange juice into his mouth. ‘But to be honest I don’t give a stuff about any of them.’

  Connie slammed the fridge door. ‘Good, then you’re ready to come with me,’ she said.

  The tang of hot blueberry tea tippled in and out of Connie’s nose with the gentle gust circulating the maze of potted plants sitting on the floor of the conservatory at the back of the pottery shop. A peculiar purr curled around her head and was swallowed up into an enormous ‘A . . . tish . . . shoo!!’

  The Wendlewitch brought her purple handkerchief to her nose. ‘Typical,’ she complained, ‘On a luddly suddy mornig.’

  ‘Can we get you anything?’ Connie asked.

  ‘Do, danks,’ replied the Wendlewitch. ‘I’ve taken a dose of lincdus and now I feel quite woozy.’ She tried to draw air through her nose, then fluttered her lids and exhaled as a dragon would breathe fire, sinking with a ‘phew’ into the cushions on her rattan sofa. Connie was sure she glimpsed a sweep of purple sparks following behind.

  ‘Waid the hour the magig wanes, and time will brig you back again,’ the Wendlewitch burbled cryptically, waving her arm past the leaves of a gargantuan cheese plant towards the door to her pottery workshop.

  ‘Are you saying that’s how we come back?’ questioned Connie.

  No answer returned – the Wendlewitch’s eyebrows twitched, her lids fluttered and a succession of lightly stuffed-up snores resounded.

  ‘That doesn’t seem very definite,’ said Charlie-Mouse. ‘I’m not sure if I trust this magic.

  Connie ignored him. She rolled her wheelchair wheels back and forth and pointed firmly at the door to the workshop.

  There he was again! Malcolm Mollet with his sticky forehead and greasy nose splayed tightly on the window glass in front of her. He eyeballed her then pulled his face away leaving a larger and a smaller splodge. ‘Yuk!’ she exclaimed, hoping he might hear. The boy thrust his chin into the air. ‘Go home!’ she mouthed. Malcolm turned his head and disappeared out of sight. She huffed, edging up to the potter’s wheel. ‘Now keep close, Charlie,’ she said.

  Chapter Thirteen Christmas is coming

  Claybridge Farm

  Tuesday, 17th December 1940

  Dear Mummy,

  We have been spending the morning helping to paint the edges of the window glass with black paint and sticking on some more tape. Auntie Evie says that we need to make sure our blackouts are good because there are so many windows here. It was very funny, Mummy, Bert got his arms and his hair completely covered in paint and had to have a bath to soak for more than three-quarters of an hour. I didn’t want to go in after him this time!

  This afternoon we started to make some extra decorations for the tree. Auntie Evie gave us some coloured paper and scraps of material. I have sewn a star especially for you in case you can’t come to see us next week after all. Uncle Geoff has dug the tree from the garden already and says he’ll bring it inside tomorrow, a day earlier than usual. We can’t wait!

  Daddy wrote to us this week! He drew a beautiful picture of Father Christmas laden with a sack of presents. The woman at the Post Office was almost as excited as we were. We are taking it in turns to keep the letter by our beds. It’s been the best time ever.

  With lots and lots of love and Christmas kisses from Kit xxxxxxxxxx

  P.S. I am so very thankful that Margerie has returned to Dorset. I think she will be pleased to be able to go to school again in the New Year.

  P.P.S. Auntie E. has some important news to tell you when she telephones.

  Winter 1940

  Chapter Fourteen Winter arrival

  ‘Whoa!’ Bert shouted out, careering into Connie at the bottom of the stairs. His Wellington boots went flying from his hands and into her lap. He straightened up, blinking his eyes from underneath a woolly hat and a fringe of curls. ‘Hello stranger,’ he said. ‘Thought I wouldn’t see you again.’

  ‘Ditto,’ she said, laughing with shock.

  ‘Wow!’ shivered Charlie-Mouse, his body quaking. ‘I didn’t . . . expect . . . this.’

  ‘Come into the kitchen,’ Kit said from the doorway. A look of motherly concern crossed her face and she relaxed her arm around him, pressing his loosely dressed figure into her duffle coat. ‘Gosh, where have you been? It must be six months since.’

  ‘But how can it have been?’ Charlie-Mouse asked, his cheeks starting to redden. ‘It’s only . . .’

  ‘It’s nearly Christmas,’ she said.

  ‘Christmas!’

  ‘And there’s snow . . .’ said Connie.

  ‘It came yesterday evening,’ said Kit. ‘We haven’t been outside yet.’

  ‘Time’s moved on,’ Connie said. ‘In a single day.’

  ‘We didn’t tell a soul that you’d come,’ Kit whispered. ‘We knew you’d be back.’

  ‘Did you?’ Connie answered.

  ‘We hoped,’ Kit said.

  ‘You faded into the dusk,’ Bert said.

  ‘The wheel pulled us back, we couldn’t say goodbye,’ Connie said.

  ‘I called,’ Kit said.

  Connie pondered. ‘I heard you.’

  ‘The clouds blew over – it was as if you had never been.’ Bert said.

  ‘But we were here, weren’t we?’ Charlie-Mouse said.

  Bert nodded. ‘Four fish – remember?’

  ‘Like yesterday,’ said Charlie-Mouse.

  Connie watched the snow stacking itself on every available surface. Tracks and footprints rose and fell as a web over the yard. Three cars waited – crouching, half-buried. Suddenly, Bert hurtled past. He stooped as he ran, casting snowballs back at Charlie-Mouse as he stumbled to do up his coat buttons. Charlie-Mouse ran for shelter around the back of the cars. Connie watched him take off again to follow Bert over the stile. She laughed, pulling one of Kit's bobble hats over her head and tucking in her hair.

  Kit finished wrapping her scarf. ‘Look at all this snow!’ she said, pushing Connie across the yard to the stile. ‘Makes you feel . . .’ Her voice came through in muffled tones. She pulled the scarf away from her lips. ‘Makes you feel safe from the enemy,’ she said.

  Her heart crushed with shame. She had almost forgotten the threat of the war. She waited – snow fell into the boys’ footprints on the other side of the fence, then lifted over her in a fine spray. She turned her face away and followed the forlorn contours of the snow-covered house. ‘I’ve something to tell you,’ she said.

  ‘Then it’s utterly disgraceful!’ Kit’s voice grew angrier as they took shelter in the barn doorway. ‘That someone could even think of doing that to Claybridge.’ Her scarf slipped – she grabbed at it and started to shake away the ice drops. ‘They can’t possibly take it away. Mummy and Auntie Evie grew up here. Besides . . .’

  Connie ripped her eyes from her wheel tracks.

  Kit pointed at the cars. ‘The officials,’ she said. ‘I used to think they came from the airfi
eld but Bert says they’re from all directions – some from London.’ Suddenly she looked as if she might cry – her lids and lashes flashing with snow crystals. ‘I’m not sure I should say this,’ she continued, her voice wavering. ‘But they’re setting it up right now.’

  Shivers exploded inside Connie’s chest. ‘What . . . what are they setting up?’ ‘We’re sworn to secrecy,’ Kit whispered. ‘And when I tell you, you must promise not to speak of it while you’re here – if Mrs Pritchard ever got to know, it would be round the village in a flash.’

  ‘I promise,’ Connie replied, her heart pounding.

  ‘Claybridge is to be used for special training,’ she said.

  The wind turned again and a flurry of excitement and hope flew straight at Connie with the wintry wet flakes hitting at her face and mouth.

  ‘Secret operations,’ Kit squeaked.

  The mantle swirled and loose powder sprayed down from the barn roof. Connie fumbled at the collar of her coat, folding it over in an attempt to stop the snowflakes from slipping in.

  ‘I heard Auntie Evie say they want agents to stay here as they wait to fly abroad,’ Kit said.

  ‘Out of Castle Camps?’

  Kit nodded. ‘I imagine so. Bert says they’ll parachute into Europe from a Lysander because it’s less of a target and the plane can land on rough ground.’

  ‘Wow,’ Connie said. ‘I read of this.’

  ‘And about Claybridge?’

  ‘No.’ Connie let her feet fall from her footrest.

  Kit fell silent, then bubbled with excitement. ‘So you’ll have to tell . . .’ She took off her hat and sparkled. ‘Uncle Geoff has a letter from Whitehall – I caught a glimpse of it’

  ‘Do you mean that?’

  ‘Of course. And we’ll find it.’

  Kit shook her auburn hair, as threads of voices weaved their way through the falling snow. Men in a mix of RAF uniforms and dark overcoats trudged across the patterns beneath their feet. They ushered the man in the peaked cap into his car.

  Connie couldn’t see clearly enough. And if the military officials did notice the girls in the barn, they didn’t seem to show it. They wiped their headlamps, cleared their windscreens, and guided their cars silently away.

  Winter 1940

  Chapter Fifteen The unexpected visitor

  In the glow of the farmhouse kitchen, Connie’s cheeks tingled with excitement and she started to wiggle her toes. She was enjoying the feeling of putting a warm cup to her cheek when the back door flew open and Uncle Geoff stooped in from the gloom  with a snowy Malcolm Mollet in tow. Charlie-Mouse and Bert followed.

  How on earth . . . How could he be here? He was the cause of it all. How she wanted to blurt out the news to Charlie, but now she couldn’t. Not with him here.

  Malcolm’s shivering face stared back. Was it Malcolm? Yes, she was sure of it – even with his dark-ringed eyes shallowed with tears and his nose rubbed to red-raw. The cold and the fear had buried into his complexion, making him look even more pale and pathetic.

  ‘The dog found the lad shivering in school,’ said Uncle Geoff. He stamped several times on the mat and bent to ease his feet from his wet and snowy boots. ‘Wouldn’t stop ‘is barking ‘til I went to see what it was ‘e’d found. Staring out of the window at us, the boy was. ‘Asn’t said a word to me though.’

  To Connie’s surprise, Charlie-Mouse spoke up. ‘He’s with us,’ he said.

  ‘Decent clothes and a proper coat,’ said Uncle Geoff. ‘That’s what ‘e needs. I don’t know, and on a day like today.’ The man hung up his own coat and hat. ‘Sit down lad. You look like you could do with some ‘ot milk.’

  Malcolm gave a nod amidst a stifling of sobs and a struggle to draw breath.

  ‘There y’are,’ said Uncle Geoff. ‘Drink that and get back some of the colour. We must see about getting you into something warmer and off ‘ome. Corberley, ain’t it? Who are you staying with?’

  Connie winced.

  ‘We’ll make sure he gets there,’ Charlie-Mouse fired, breaking the silence.

  Connie pitched a frown.

  ‘Right y’are.’ Uncle Geoff tutted as he pushed the kitchen door tight shut and steered the draught excluder over the gap with his foot.

  Malcolm coughed his tears to a stop and jerked his head semi-upright. He lifted his fringe from his bloodshot eyes. Although he appeared to be looking on, he didn’t talk. The farmer turned up the volume of the wireless broadcast and Malcolm listened.

  ‘. . . and the Prime Minister finished his speech from the House of Commons by expressing gratitude on behalf of the Government to all those keeping the country running in these very difficult circumstances.’

  ‘Cheer up lad, things aren’t s’bad,’ said Uncle Geoff, as the newsreader brought the bulletin to a close.

  ‘Well there’s good news for us all,’ Bert said. ‘Perhaps we can all go home soon.’

  ‘Take each day as it comes, sonny – things change overnight and yer mothers won’t want you in any danger, that’s for sure.’

  Malcolm stumbled over his words. ‘Don’t have . . . one.’

  ‘Sorry lad, didn’t mean to offend. If you’ve lost yer ma, I’m sorry for yer.’

  ‘She’s not . . . dead . . . she left.’

  ‘There’s no explaining some folks, ‘ said the farmer.

  ‘Doesn’t wanna know . . . s’what Dad says.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Charlie-Mouse. ‘It might not be like that.’

  ‘Malcolm rubbed at his mottled cheekbones and stared blindly.

  ‘But it ain’t your fault lad. Remember that.’

  Connie studied Malcolm’s reaction. His streetwise arrogance was shot – he’d cried it away. He was trying to make sense of something that displayed no sense to him, including the man’s kindness.

  Uncle Geoff patted Malcolm on the back. ‘It’s ‘igh time you got yourselves changed. Off upstairs . . . go on, all of yer – you’ll feel better after,’ he rallied. He fetched his hat and gloves from the hotplate. ‘I’ve errands to run.’

  Malcolm stood alone near the top of the stairs. Looking at her. Wearing Bert’s shirt, pullover and trousers, he seemed different with his face washed and his ash-blonde hair combed down.

  ‘I wanna go home,’ he said.

  How can you say that to me?’ Connie replied.

  ‘I just wanna go home.’

  ‘Well you’ll have to wait.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I can’t say because I don’t know.’

  He held on tight at the banisters – his nerves pulsing in his forehead and she was taken aback by a momentary pang of sympathy. But still she didn’t like him.

  ‘You watched us, didn’t you!’ she said.

  ‘I had nothing to do. Dad threw a wobbly at me.’

  ‘Why weren’t you with your big mates?’

  ‘We were hanging out at the coffee cellar in Corberley – the manager phoned Dad, s’why he threw one.’

  ‘You mean you got chucked out the coffee shop then your mates ditched you.’

  Malcolm slid his shoe up and down the edge of the runner on the floorboards.

  ‘So you followed us and spun the wheel,’ she drummed. ‘You realise if something goes wrong it’ll be because of you.’

  ‘You don’t . . . understand,’ he said, recoiling. ‘I’m meant to be back there . . . in town . . . with Mum . . . ‘til Friday.’

  ‘So.’

  ‘So,’ he said, pulling at his hair. ‘I didn’t wanna stay. I hate my mum even more than my dad. They both hate me.’

  ‘Then you don’t want to go home, do you!’ she shouted. ‘And they probably won’t miss you if that’s what you think.’

  ‘You hate me too.’

  She knew how to reply to this one. ‘You don’t help yourself.’

  ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘You never do, do you.’

  Malcolm put his hand towards his glistening eyes. r />
  ‘Tell me why I should feel sorry for you.’ she said.

  ‘I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me.’

  ‘That’s all right then.’

  She propped her elbows on the windowsill and cast her attention on the church. She calmed herself by imagining her dad down in the porchway, greeting the villagers one by one as they arrived for Christmas service with a brushing of hats and a shaking of snowy umbrellas. ‘If we’re here we have to pull together,’ she breathed into the window glass.

  ‘What’s here?’

  ‘Christmas 1940.’

  ‘This isn’t a trick?’ he spluttered. ‘The war and everything?’

  ‘No, it’s very real.’

  ‘And . . . you don’t live here . . . the farmer does.’

  ‘That’s right. And Bert and Kit – they’re all good people.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Nothing in particular.’

  She meant everything in particular.

  Malcolm let go of the banister and she resisted the sharp urge to move away from him as he came close. The boy bowed his head as he wiped away the condensation to see out of the window and warmed his wet palm on the radiator beneath.

  ‘Perhaps things can make people change,’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps things can – like when they find themselves in strange places and can’t do anything about it,’ she replied.

  The silence drifted like overpowering smog until the sound of a heavy wardrobe door being squeezed shut and the squealing of a cistern in the bathroom blew some of the atmosphere away. Connie pressed her nose harder against the window to see the time on the icicled church tower. Eleven forty-five.

  Malcolm rubbed the window again. ‘Never been in a church.’

  Good job, she thought. ‘Quiet, calm, and cold,’ she said.

  ‘Boring.’

  ‘No, it’s cool – you can see for miles at the top of the tower.’

  Malcolm knocked into her shoulder as he attempted to pull at his fringe. ‘If you say so,’ he said, giving another sniff.

  ‘I can get up there,’ she asserted. ‘If I want.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘So, your chair downstairs?’

  ‘I don’t need it all the time, if I want to walk I use calipers.’ She waited to see what he might say next.

  ‘Some sort of hi-tech stuff it’s built of, your chair?’

  ‘Titanium – and I’m sure your dad could buy you one if you wanted.’ Now she struggled hard against the guilt switching between her head and her heart.