Peggy's Letters (2 page)

I don't want to go. This is our home.

“Come back in the morning. Sort things out then.” She turns to a short woman with bouncy chins. “Maud, can you take them along to St. Marks.

“Course I can,” says Maud, taking Mum firmly by the arm. She ushers her along, while I follow behind pushing Tommy in the pram.

The church hall seems very bright after the blackness of the street. Maud sits us down at a long table and brings over soup and sandwiches. I swirl my soup into a whirlpool. Mum's messing with hers too. Only Tommy tucks in.

“You enjoy your supper while I set up some beds,” says Maud. “Poor dears, you look tuckered out.”

I'm not hungry, but we never waste food these days, so I start eating. I wish Maud would stop calling me a “poor dear.”

“All finished?” says Maud a bit later. “I'll show you where I've put you for the night.” She leads us to a corner that smells of old hymnbooks and bustles off.

“As long as we are all together,” says Mum sitting on one of the beds. “That's all that matters…” Her voice cracks and fades away. She pulls Tommy onto her knee and rocks him.

I take out my notebook. It's the only paper I have to write to Dad.

Dear Dad

I can't believe everything's gone. Not just the house and all the things we need but our special things too. Mum's lost our photos, and I've lost my biscuit tin of your letters. It was my most treasured possession in the whole world.

Tonight, home is a musty old church hall. There are other families living here too. Will this be our home until the war is over? The question sits inside me like a cold lump.

Little kids are racing about, and a sing-a-long
has started round the piano. How can they act like everything's normal?

Love Peggy

Tommy's asleep at last. A queue forms for the lav. The lights dim. Mum and I lie down in our clothes. Perhaps if I close my eyes I can pretend I'm back in my own bedroom. I imagine the blue flowery bedspread with Old Bear sitting on my pillow. But it's no use. The pictures in my head are of angry flames destroying everything. In the darkness I can hear people coughing and sniffing, wriggling and snoring. Someone near me is sobbing quietly. I suddenly realize it's Mum.

I'm awake. If I don't open my eyes, yesterday may have been a bad dream.

“Morning all,” says a cheery voice. “Looks like it's going to turn out nice, bit chilly mind you.”

No use pretending any longer. That's Maud's voice, and I'm lying on an uncomfortable camp bed in a drafty church hall.

“Hello, Maud. I didn't see you there,” says Mum. Her voice is tired, and her eyes are puffy.

Around us, the church hall bustles with people getting ready for the day. Beds
are being packed up, blankets folded. Tommy's fussing.

“What are we going to do, Mum?”

“Have breakfast,” interrupts Maud. “Can't go making decisions on an empty stomach. There's toast and jam over there. You'll get a nice cuppa tea too.” Maud moves on to the next family.

“Mum?”

“I don't know, luv. I really don't know.”

Tommy jumps into my arms.

“Oooo, he's soaking wet.”

“Peggy luv, everything we own is in the pram. There are no more nappies.” She buries her face in her hands.

“Well, you can't stay like this, Tommy. Hold your arms up. Let's get all these soggy clothes off you.” I pat him dry with the pram sheet, fold it into a triangle and pin it round his bottom.

“You'll have to wear your outdoor coat indoors today. It's a let's-be-silly day.”

Tommy wriggles down on to the floor and scampers around.

“What would Dad do?”

“Let's go and have breakfast,” says Mum, without answering my question.

By the time we have finished eating, Tommy's face, hands, hair and coat are covered in blackberry jam, but at least Mum looks better.

“Do you think you could stay here and watch your brother for me?” she asks as we clean him up and rinse out his clothes.

“I'll keep an eye on them for you, dear,” calls Maud from behind the tea urn.

“I don't need anyone keeping an eye on me,” I whisper loudly to Mum.

Maud hears and laughs. “Course you don't. But I'll be here anyway.”

I wish Maud would go away.

“Where are you going, Mum?”

“I've got to see someone about tonight.”

“Can't we come too? Please don't make me stay here on my own.”

“It's better if I go by myself, Peggy. Won't be long, I promise.”

I look around the hall then back at Mum. “Okay.”

“That's my girl.” We both smile at Dad's favorite expression.

“Keep your fingers crossed for me,” she says, tying a scarf around her head and pulling on her coat. “Be a good boy, Tommy.”

After Mum leaves I hold Tommy's hand, and we toddle slowly round the church hall ending up at the piano. I lift him on to the wide stool, and he pounds away on the yellow keys. A woman joins us with her little boy, and the two of them begin a deafening duet.

Why isn't Mum back yet? She's been gone ages. A panicky feeling twists my insides into knots. Supposing she doesn't come back. The door squeaks. I look up. But it's not Mum. It's a scruffy looking boy trying to get my pram out of the door.

“Stop!”

The pram is stuck half in and half out. I race over and grab the handle.

“Let go.”

“Keep your hair on. I'm not nicking it. I'm going to bring it back,” says the boy.

I don't like his attitude.

“You don't borrow things without asking.”

“Weren't no one to ask, Miss Bossy Boots.”

“My name's Peggy. What do you want my pram for anyway?”

The boy pushes a scraggly ginger curl out of his eyes.

“I found something really big to add to my shrapnel collection. I thought the caretaker's trolley would be around, but I can't find it. Let me use your pram. You can come with me if you like.”

“What makes you think I want some dirty old bit of metal in my pram? Anyway I've got to look after my little brother.”

“Aww, come on. It's only just up the road.”

Sunshine is squeezing through the half-opened door, and I long to get out of the smelly church hall. I look back at Tommy. He's playing happily with the other little boy. Maud is there too, and she did offer to keep an eye on us.

“All right,” I say. “Just for a minute. Hold the door open.”

I steer the pram through the narrow gap and bump it down the steps.

“What's your name?”

“Stanley, but everyone calls me Spud,” he says, taking the handle of the pram. After a few steps Spud sticks his bottom out and walks along on his toes.

“Cootchie cootchie coo, little baby,” he says in a squeaky, posh-lady voice. I start giggling. He looks so silly.

“You're daft.”

Spud starts running with the pram, zigzagging on two wheels round everything in sight while making airplane noises. I fly along beside him.

“You're not daft; you're crazy.”

Suddenly Spud spins the pram on its back wheels and screeches to a halt in front of a recently bombed house. Wisps of smoke are still rising from the ashes.

“Here we are,” he says, abandoning the pram and me and taking off over a mountain of rubble.

I feel like I've turned into a statue.

“This is my house,” I say in a croaky whisper.

Through a teary blur, I look at the black soggy wreck. Our home is just another bomb site. Spud turns and points to a large triangle of metal sticking out of the remaining wall.

“Look,” he calls, his eyes gleaming. “It's part of the tail fin of a V1 bomb.”

“I don't want to look,” I shout up at him. “This isn't a stupid game. This is my home.” Spud turns back to his “find” and starts un-burying it before I've even finished talking. I swing the pram round, nearly knocking Mum off the pavement.

“Mum!”

“Peggy! What's happened? Where's Tommy?” Mum's voice is almost a scream. “Where is he?”

“Nothing's happened. Tommy's back at the hall. Oh, Mum, look at our house.” I burst into tears.

Mum stops being angry and wraps me in her arms. “Poor house,” she says softly.

She undoes her hug and pulls out a handkerchief. “Now dry those tears and have a blow. You were supposed to stay in the hall and look after Tommy.”

“I only meant to go out for a minute. Just to get some air. I didn't know I was coming here.” Tears pour out of my eyes.

“There, there, that's enough crying.”

“But I cccccan't stoppppp,” I say through hiccupy sobs. “I might have to crrry forever.” “I know,” says Mum, hugging me again. “I feel like that too sometimes.”

As we turn back toward St. Marks, the ginger cat appears from behind a pile of broken bricks and purrs round my ankles. I scratch him behind his ears. “Glad you're safe, Puss.”

“Come on. Let's get back to Tommy,” says Mum.

I'm wheeling the pram, but her arm is still round my shoulders.

“What I don't understand is why you brought the pram with you in the first place,” she says as we walk along.

“That boy wanted to borrow it,” I explain, turning to point at Spud who has been joined by several other boys. He's so busy digging in the rubble he doesn't notice us leaving. “He thinks our house is a playground. We must stop him, Mum.”

“No,” says Mum. “It's time for us to think about what we're going to do next.
I've been to see Grandad. He says we can stay with him for a while.”

“Stay at Grandad's!” My memory of Grandad is a tall grumpy man in a black suit. “I don't think he likes us.”

“Of course he likes you.”

“Then why doesn't he ever come and see us?”

“I don't know. Dad's his only son, but they never got on very well. I think he feels sad about that now.”

“But if we live at Grandad's, I'll have to change schools. I won't see Nora.”

A familiar yell pierces the air. We park the pram and race up the church hall steps.

“Oh, there you are,” calls Maud. She's holding a red-faced, wriggling, screaming Tommy. They both look very cross.

Tommy leaps into my arms.

“Sorry about this,” says Mum. “There was a bit of a misunderstanding.”

While Maud goes on and on about how irresponsible it was to leave without telling her, I take Tommy back to our corner.

Mum joins us a few minutes later. “Let's get our things together,” she says.

There's not much to get together, just Tommy's damp clothes.

“Oh dear,” says Mum, “Look at you two. Tommy's practically naked, and you look like you've been through a hedge backward. What will Grandad think if he sees you like this?”

I try smoothing the creases out of my crumpled dress, but it doesn't look much different.

Mum rummages in her handbag and pulls out a comb. “We can't do anything about our clothes, but I can do something with your hair.”

It hurts to have the tangles combed out, but I like having Mum do my hair. It feels so normal. She braids two plaits and looks at her handiwork.

“You'll do,” she says with a smile. “Now go and wash your face.”

On my way back to Mum, Maud stops me. She seems to have got over her Tommy experience. A smile is back on her face,
and a large brown paper bag is in her hands.

“I managed to scrounge up a few nappies and some baby things,” she says. “Give these to your mum.

“Maud, you're a lifesaver,” calls Mum, when she sees the contents of the bag. “This will tide us over nicely.”

Together, we change Tommy's nappy and squeeze him into a romper suit, a size too small, and button on a cardigan, two sizes too big.

I twirl him round. “You look smashing, Tommy. Doesn't he, Mum?”

Tommy claps. Mum just shakes her head and tries to roll up his sleeves. “At least it's better than a coat and a nappy.” She picks up the bag. “Time we made a move.”

“Thanks for all your help, Maud,” calls Mum opening the door. She stops.

“There's just one last thing.”

“Yes, my dear.”

“Do you know anyone who could use a pram? We won't have any room where we're going.”

“No,” I shout. “We're not leaving the pram.”

“Look at it, Peggy. The wheels are wobbly, and all the metal bits are rusty. Anyway, Tommy's nearly grown out of it.

“But it's all we have left.”

Mum sighs and the pram comes with us.

We take the train to Grandad's even though it's only two stops. Tommy loves trains, and the pram is able to go in the guard's van.

“Chuff chuff…whooo whooo,” sings Tommy as we walk up from the station. No one says “hello” to me, and the only cat we pass scoots away into the bushes.

“Here we are,” says Mum. “Railway Lane.” We turn into a long street of narrow, joined-together houses. They all look exactly the same.

“Grandad's is number eighty-nine,” says Mum.

I count off the house numbers in twos. Our steps seem to slow as we reach the eighties.

“Eighty-five, eighty-seven. Here it is eighty-nine.”

This is my new home. The paintwork is gray and so are the bricks. Dingy lace curtains droop across the windows. It doesn't feel like home.

The sun has gone in, and a gust of wind whips my skirt hem up over my bare knees.

“Go on, Peggy, knock on the door. It's too cold to be hanging around outside.”

I knock, and we wait. Perhaps he's not in, I think hopefully.

Grandad opens the door. He's smaller than I remembered, and his hair is whiter. An old beige cardigan hangs loosely off his stooped shoulders. It reminds me of Tommy in his outfit. I want to reach over and roll up Grandad's sleeves.