he will!’
‘You think so? Oh, I don’t think he will – me bein’ a servant, I mean.’
‘You’re not a servant. You’re Candlefold’s home help, and I’d miss you if you left. It’s my guess he’ll ask you out once Davie and I have gone to Oxford. Don’t be so prim, Meg. Say you’ll go!’
‘He hasn’t asked, yet.’ Mind, it might be fun for the heck of it, whispered a voice in her ear nothing at all like Nell Shaw’s. ‘Let’s wait and see, shall we, Polly?’
It was then they heard the bell and ran laughing down the lane to the far archway, then across the yard to arrive breathless in the kitchen.
‘All safely gathered in. Armitage says there’s the best part of a ton, and all good stuff for the war effort, and I’m starving!’ Polly gasped.
‘Then off upstairs, the pair of you, for a wash. It’ll be on the table in two minutes. Roast rabbit, and gooseberries and custard for pudding. Away with you now!’ Mary Kenworthy smiled, feeling almost contented. Mind, there was always the war out there, ready to take all your waking thoughts if you let it, but on the credit side was a wagonload of good hay, and Mark and Davie coming home on Friday.
It was because of her relaxed mood that they decided to play gramophone records in Mrs Kenworthy’s room instead of listening to the nine o’clock news. Had they listened, maybe the shock of what Mrs Potter was to push through the letter box next morning might have been less acute. And since Polly always waited for the morning mail it was she who burst into the kitchen, eyes wide.
‘My God! Hitler’s invaded Russia! Go on – read it!’
‘Russia!’ Mary Kenworthy reached for her reading glasses. ‘Oh my goodness, let me see!’
The headlines in the Telegraph were large and unmistakable: ‘RUSSIA ATTACKED ON 1,800 MILE FRONT’. Agitated, she spread the paper on the kitchen table so they might read it together. ‘Yesterday, it was. Early in the morning. More than three million soldiers! And Mr Churchill was on the wireless last night. The one time we miss the evening news, and he’s on!’
‘It says he said we’d give Russia all the help we can; said he’d warned Stalin about it. Will our troops be sent there to fight?’
‘I – I wouldn’t think so, Polly. After all, we’ve never got on very well with the Communists, have we?’
‘But they are fighting Hitler now, so that makes them our ally!’
‘It says,’ Meg jabbed a finger, ‘that Mr Churchill offered any technical or economic assistance. There’s nuthink about sending troops.’
‘Oh, I hope not. And had you thought – Davie and Mark’s leave might be cancelled now?’
‘Darling, don’t upset yourself before we know what it’s all about,’ Mary Kenworthy soothed, ‘and I think we should spare a thought for the Russian people. It seems they’ve been terribly bombed and weren’t able to put up much resistance.’
‘Then Stalin should’ve listened to what Mr Churchill told him,’ Meg said matter-of-factly. ‘An’ if all Hitler’s soldiers and bombers are attacking Russia, they’ll maybe leave us alone.’ She remembered the seven-night bombing of Liverpool and was instantly contrite. ‘Mind, it isn’t very nice for them, gettin’ bombed.’
‘What shall we tell Gran and Nanny?’
‘I think we’d better switch on for the eight o’clock news, hear what the BBC has to say about it, then when we take up the breakfasts we’ll know better what to say.’
‘Gran’ll be all right, but how Nanny is going to take it is anybody’s guess,’ Polly shrugged.
‘Then it’s my guess that she’ll pull up the drawbridge and pretend none of it is happening,’ Meg offered.
‘So how about we get ourselves a cup of tea and a slice of toast and jam,’ Mary Kenworthy smiled brightly, ‘and listen to the news? Switch on, will you, Meg? Polly, cut the bread, please. And let’s all think how lucky we are safe here at Candlefold.’
‘And let’s hope them – those – Russians’ll give Hitler the shock of his life, ’cause he’s invaded whichever country he thought fit,’ Meg muttered. ‘About time someone stood up to him!’
Then she wondered what Nell and Tommy were thinking and saying about it back in Tippet’s Yard, and all at once she missed them and wished she could be with them – just for a little while …
Next morning low clouds blotted out the sun and not long afterwards it began to rain; drops the size of halfpennies making dark circles on the flags and cobbles of the yard.
‘Rain!’ Meg was dismayed, because it shouldn’t rain at Candlefold! Since she’d come here the sky had been blue, the sun constant. Now, all was gloomy and rain fell steadily. ‘It looks as if it’s set in for the day!’
‘We did need it, Meg. The ground was getting very dry.’ Mrs John said. ‘Armitage said that once the farmers had got their hay in, it could rain as soon as it liked.’
‘There’ll be no work done in the garden now,’ Polly shrugged, ‘so tell me what needs doing inside.’
‘If you wouldn’t mind, you and Meg can make up the beds ready for Mark and Davie, and give the rooms a clean – put out towels.’
‘If they come,’ Polly sighed, taking sheets from the linen cupboard.
‘Of course they’ll come. Give me one good reason why they shouldn’t!’
‘We-e-ll, Russia, for a start.’
‘Them Russians can look after themselves. Mr Churchill as good as said we wouldn’t be sending troops. But how about Nanny – sayin’ the Tsar would send the Cossacks in and soon put paid to the Germans?’
‘Nanny’s in another world. She just doesn’t want to know!’
‘So what would happen if everybody did the same, then? What if our lads in the Forces acted like she did? “Stick yer ’eads in the sand, lads! Pretend it isn’t happening!”’
‘Meg – don’t. It isn’t like you to be vindictive!’
‘All right! I’ll say no more! Let’s talk about Davie. Had you thought that when you wake up in the morning, there’ll only be three days to go?’
‘Go-to-beds, I used to call them. Y’know – how many more go-to-beds before Father Christmas comes.’
‘Then it’s four go-to-beds, and your Davie’ll be here and you’ll be wondering why you worried! Now chuck them pillows over, will you?’
‘Meg – don’t ever leave, will you?’
‘I won’t. And that’s a promise!’ A promise, she thought as she stuffed pillows into cases, she would do her utmost to keep. ‘Had you thought,’ she smiled, ‘that this rain will do the strawberries a whole lot of good – make them swell?’
‘So it will. You’re getting to be quite a country girl, Meg Blundell! Mind, enough is enough. If it rains too much they’ll rot, then Mr Potter will hit the roof. All our work wasted. Now, let’s get these rooms seen to, then we’ll have a chat with Gran. Being in bed watching it rain must be awful, and cold wet weather makes her joints ache more.’
‘Then we’ll try to cheer her up a bit.’ Meg liked Mrs Kenworthy, who was so grateful for even the smallest attention and hardly ever tugged on the bell pull at her bedside. And the old lady had remembered Ma, so it was almost certain she knew what had happened to her and even, Meg brooded, who the feller was. Yet Meg had insisted her mother’s name was Hilda and that her father died at sea, because she’d known instinctively the time had not been right for questions. Nor for answers either, because the Kenworthys might