Peggy's Letters

Jacqueline Halsey

Copyright © 2005 Jacqueline Helsey

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and
retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in
writing from the publisher.

National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data:

First Published in the United States 2005

Library of Congress Control Number:
2005930965

Summary:
In the devastation of London in WWII, a ten-year-old girl
loses everything only to make a surprising new friend.

Free teachers' guide available. www.orcabook.com

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support
for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies:
the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry
Development Program (BPIDP), the Canada Council for the Arts,
and the British Columbia Arts Council.

Typesetting and cover design by Lynn O'Rourke
Cover & interior illustrations by Susan Rielly

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Printed and bound in Canada.

For Mum.
And for children living in war
zones around the world.
A heart felt thank you to
everyone who helped make a
dream come true.

Some words and terms in this story may be unfamiliar.

Allotments: Community garden plots for growing vegetables.

Anderson shelters: A family air-raid shelter. It was dug into the ground and had a semi-circular corrugated metal roof.

Barrage balloons: Hot-air blimps. Their purpose was to stop enemy planes from flying low over large cities.

Blackouts: Thick black curtains or shutters put up at night to keep light from showing outside. Lights would give away the position of towns and cities to enemy aircraft.

The Blitz: A period of fifty-nine consecutive nights of bombing raids on London.

Doodlebug: The nickname given to the V1 rocket. These unmanned rocket bombs were launched from the coast of occupied France in 1944. About half a million homes were destroyed by Doodlebugs, and many Londoners lost their lives.

Lav: Toilet

Marmite: A thick, strong-tasting savory spread.

Nappy: Diaper

Nicking: A slang word for stealing.

Postman: Letter carrier

Pram: Baby carriage

Queue: Line up

Rationing: Basic foods were rationed so that everyone, rich or poor, had enough to eat. As the war continued more foods were added to the ration list.

Shrapnel: Pieces of metal debris from bombs or aircraft.

Sixpence: A small silver coin about the size of a dime.

Tea: The family evening meal served with a hot drink.

News travels fast on our street. It flies over garden fences and zings along washing lines.

“Coooeeee…Peggy luv. Run and tell your Mum, Keddy's got sausages, one per ration book. But hurry, dear. There'll be ever such a long queue.”

“Mum…Mum…There's sausages.”

“I heard,” calls Mum from the back door. “Thanks for letting us know, Mrs. P.”

Pulling on my coat, I grab the strings of our gas-mask boxes and hurry into the kitchen. Last week the greengrocer had oranges in, but we were too late, and they were gone by the time it was our turn.

“Pee hew, Tommy.” I hold my nose and he copies me. He's so funny.

“It's no good. I'm going to have to change him,” says Mum.

“But we'll be too late again.”

Mum gives me a stop-whining look, and I know we're not going anywhere until my baby brother's in a clean nappy.

At last he's ready. I clip the straps of his harness to each side of the pram, and off we go, down the hill to the High Street.

My friend, Nora, is skipping on the other side of the road.

“Keddy's got sausages,” I yell.

“Mum's already in the queue,” she yells back. “Come and call for me this afternoon. Bring your skipping rope.”

“Right-oh.”

A bit farther along we bump into the postman.

“Nothing for you today, Peggy,” he says.

I sigh and bend down to stroke the airraid warden's ginger cat.

“Keddy's got sausages,” I purr.

“Don't dawdle, there's a luv,” calls Mum.

The queue outside Keddy's butcher shop stretches all the way along the High Street to the bomb-damaged house with the missing wall. I can see the wallpaper in the different rooms just like a doll's house. We join the end of the line. It's going to be another long, long wait.

“What a lovely boy you are,” coos the woman in front of us, patting Tommy on the head.

“He's only seventeen months old, but he's really smart,” I tell her.

“I'm sure he is,” says the woman, laughing and tickling Tommy under the chin. She and Mum start grumbling about the weather and the war and how the caterpillars ate most of the cabbages. I'm bored with listening, so I twirl Tommy's pram beads and make him giggle.

The queue shuffles up to the butcher's shop window.

“Nearly our turn,” says Mum.

At last I see the circle of sausages. Tonight they'll be sizzling in our frying pan. Mmmmm. I can almost taste them.

Tommy claps his hands over his ears, and before I can say, “What's the matter?” I hear the whistling shriek of a Doodlebug too.

Mr. Keddy runs out of his shop waving his arms. “In here,” he yells. “Quick everybody.”

“Go on, Peggy,” shouts Mum as she gets Tommy out of his pram.

I want to stay with Mum, but she nudges me forward, so I follow the other customers to the back of the shop and down the steps into the cellar. There's sawdust on the floor, and it smells of blood. My legs turn to jelly, and my heart feels like it's going to jump out of my body. Mum pushes her way through and stands next to me. Tommy is screaming at the top of his lungs, but I can still hear the bomb's whine over all his noise. I know when the engine stops, it will fall out of the sky and explode on whatever's below.

“Don't fall on us today. Don't fall on us today.” I chant the magic words under my breath. They always keep me safe.

“I hate Doodlebugs,” says Mum. “They're worse than the Blitz.” Her lip is trembling like she's going to cry. She cries a lot these days.

“There there, dear,” says Mr. Keddy, patting Mum on the shoulder. “Stiff upper lip, girl, that's the way. Got to be brave in front of the kiddies.”

Mum looks really frightened. I thought it was just kids that got scared. Tommy is still crying.

“There there, dear,” I say. “Stiff upper lip, that's the way.” My voice is all shaky. It doesn't sound like me at all, and Tommy's lips are wobblier than ever. But I know how to make him laugh.

“Look, Tommy.” I uncurl his fingers and tickle his hand. “Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear. One step.” Tommy watches my fingers marching up his arm.

The cellar is quiet now that Tommy has stopped crying.

“Two steps…”

Why am I the only one talking? Looking up, I see frightened eyes all around me.

“Mum!” I cry. “I can't hear the bomb anymore.”

There's a loud crack, and a rumble of thuds shakes the floor. Flakes of plaster and dust flutter down on us like snow.

No one moves.

“Tiggle,” says Tommy.

“Oh, Tommy! Tickle you under there.”

Tommy bursts into giggles, and everyone breathes again. We're laughing. We're safe. I hug Tommy tight, and Mum hugs both of us.

“Cor blimey! Bit too close for comfort, that one,” says Mr. Keddy, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. He pulls out a barley sugar and gives it to me. I stare at it. Sweets are rationed.

“Go on, take it,” he says.

I pop the sweet in my mouth and mumble a sticky thank you.

At last, the single note of the all-clear siren sounds, and we climb up into the daylight. The shop window is a spider's web of cracks.

“Could be worse,” says Mr Keddy with a sigh. “Now who was next in line?”

Outside there's dust and smoke and something really strange. The tree in front of the butcher's shop is covered with dresses, all waving their sleeves in the breeze.

People are everywhere.

“Three of 'em nasty rocket bombs came over at once,” I hear someone say.

“Poor Miss Rose,” says another. “Looks like her shop took a direct hit.”

“Give us a hand, Peggy,” calls Mum. “I've got our sausages.”

After clipping Tommy into the pram and packing the sausages at his feet, we start for home. A fire engine races by. It's going in our direction.

“Ding, ding, ding” says Tommy, ringing a pretend fire-engine bell.

Just as we get to the corner, Nora races up.

“Peggy, come quick. Your house got hit!”

Mum and I start running at the exact same moment, bumping Tommy up and down in the pram as we go. Nora runs alongside.

Our house is in flames.

“Stand back there!” cries the Fire Chief.

“But it's our house.”

“Is that right, missus?”

Mum nods.

“Sorry to hear that, luv.” He turns to the small crowd that's forming. “Stand back. Let my men do their job.” With outspread arms, he herds everyone onto the far curb.

I watch the flames eat our house. The roof has fallen in, and the front wall is down. Now everyone can see our home in its underwear. The neighbors pat me on the shoulder then talk as if I'm not there.

“Blinkin' war…lucky escape…poor dears…”

Their pity is almost worse than the fire.

There's a gasp. Another wall crumples to the ground. Nora puts her arm round me. She is talking, but her words are snatched away with the sparks and the smoke. I can only hear the fire. A cup of tea grows cold in my hands. I don't even know how it got there.

The gray sky darkens into night. The fire is out. Everyone goes. Even Nora says good-bye. I picture families in their homes, putting up the blackouts, making supper and listening to the wireless. I want to go home too.

“Come on dears,” says a Red Cross lady. “Nothing more you can do here. They've
set up a rest-center in St. Mark's church hall. If you've nowhere else to go, you can spend the night there.”