A woman with a shawl over her head pushed her way into the room.
‘Who is he?’ the visitor demanded.
‘You know who he is, woman! I told you a man was coming to work in my garden!’
‘I have something to tell you, Clara.’
‘Then tell it. Gaston is deaf. He was a soldier and the big guns did things to his eardrums. You’ve been listening to the wireless, Bernadette?’
‘Yes. The news from the BBC. It seems there is all hell let loose for the Boche in North Africa. A barrage of shells such as this war has never known. I thought you should know.’
‘And that is all?’
‘Isn’t it enough? Now Hitler is getting it on all sides! I’ll listen to the next broadcast.’
‘Then be careful, Bernadette Roche!’
‘What did she say?’ Keth asked when they were alone again.
‘You didn’t hear?’
‘I did, but she spoke too quickly for me. Something has happened?’
‘In North Africa. I have no wireless because I have no electricity. Sometimes I think it is as well. But Bernadette has one – in spite of the fact they are forbidden. She hides it and only brings it out for broadcasts from London.’
‘What if she were caught?’
‘Then someone else would listen. It is essential we do. London sends coded messages for – people, as well. But tonight they tell that there is a great offensive in North Africa and, for once, the Allies seem to have the upper hand!’
‘That’s wonderful news!’ Keth gasped. ‘Do you still have need to visit the bread shop tomorrow?’
‘I do!’
‘Then all at once I am hungry for toast and apricot jam!’
‘So! You are home – at last!’ Olga Petrovska wore her hurt face. ‘You have been out all day and not a living soul do I speak to! Where have you been, all this time?’
‘I’ve been to Creesby, Mama!’
‘That was this morning!’
‘Registering for war work takes time. And I called on Julia.’ She had, but only briefly.
‘Then you will have heard the six o’clock news?’
‘No! What’s happened? I left Rowangarth just before six, and walked home.’
‘There is a battle in the north of Africa. They didn’t say where, but Hitler’s tanks are being pushed back! And serve him right, too, for starting the war!’
‘Have there been heavy losses?’
‘That they didn’t tell us, but I hope many Germans were killed.’
‘Mama! Please don’t! Our soldiers – their soldiers; most of them are young men like Drew and Bas and Keth! Don’t hope for anyone to be killed. Bad thoughts can rebound on the sender!’
‘So you want me to be sorry Germans are being killed when killing is the only way to end a war!’
‘Mama – please …’ Anna closed her eyes wearily. ‘I’m hungry. Have you made anything to eat?’
‘I have not!’
‘Then it will have to be a cheese sandwich and leftover soup. And I’m sorry, Mama, but you’re going to have to learn to look after yourself. I’ve got a job, you see.’
‘So it has come to this! Peter Petrovsky’s daughter in a factory!’
‘No. There was work for me in Holdenby after all. Ewart Pryce needs help at the surgery. I start on Monday.’ She said it almost defiantly.
‘So you not only called at Rowangarth, but at the doctor’s house as well? Never a thought for your mother! And had you realized, Anna, the doctor is a single man!’
‘And I am a widow – and there’s a war on, had you thought?’
‘Is a single man,’ the Countess insisted. ‘What will they say in the village – you and he in that house alone!’
‘I – I don’t …’ Anna shook her head. What was she to say in answer to such an outdated, rather nasty insinuation? ‘I’ll put the soup on,’ she said wearily, quietly closing the door behind her, leaning against it, eyes closed.
Then she set her jaw and marched to the kitchen, holding tightly to her breath because if she did not she would explode! How could her mother cling so tenaciously to the past? Would she never realize that in a country at war everyone was equal; that every man, woman and child was a number on an identity card and without that card no one could buy the food allowed each week in the same exact amounts? War was a great leveller, yet Olga Petrovska lived on the banks of the River Neva still, and spent every summer at Peterhof. And in her faraway dreamings the Czar-God-bless-him still ruled and all was well with her world.
Anna reached for the cheese-grater. The cheese ration seemed to go further if you grated it. Absently she spread margarine thinly on four slices of bread, then set two trays, prettily, the way her mother liked it to be.
Well, whatever her mother said, now, she was going to work! For three pounds a week! Out there was someone who rated her capabilities highly enough to pay her a wage. It was a pleasing prospect, she thought as she carried her mother’s tray to the sitting room.
‘Alice – Mrs Dwerryhouse – has been given war work, Julia told me,’ Anna smiled, in control again.
‘But she already war-works! She sells saving stamps for the war effort and helps run the Mothers’ Union! And she has given her daughter to fight in the Navy! What more do They want of her?’
‘Alice is to work for Morris and Page, that nice shop in Harrogate. Daisy once worked there, in the counting house.’
‘And what is Mrs Dwerryhouse to count?’
‘Alice is to work there Mondays and Thursdays – doing alterations. She was a dressmaker, remember? The rest of the week they will phone her if anything urgent comes in. Julia thinks she will only be busy when the sales are on. People can’t buy a lot of clothes now. Alice is quite pleased about it, I believe. Part time will suit her nicely and the Labour Exchange has agreed to it.’
‘How old is Mrs Dwerryhouse?’
‘A little older than me and a little younger than Julia, I believe. She registered a week ago with the C to Fs.’
‘She gets part-time work yet you, Anna Petrovska, land yourself with a full-time position.’
‘You are right, Mama!’ Anna said as if she had only just thought of it. ‘But we must take what we are given and not complain.’ She hoped her feelings did not betray her because all at once she was looking forward to starting work at the surgery. ‘I must try to remember what Daisy once said when she joined the Wrens; that if anything I can do will shorten the war by even an hour, then I must do it, whether I want to or not.’
She looked down at the tray on her knees to hide the pleasure in her eyes. She hoped she didn’t sound as smug as she felt.
‘After all, Mama,’ she said softly, ‘we must never forget there’s a war on!’
A war that brought Gaston Martin into her life, into her garden, could not be all bad, thought Madame Piccard.
Her woodshed was full in readiness for the cold weather; her paths had been weeded and wayward shrubs and bushes cut back. Each day when Bernadette came to share the good news the BBC was sending