Peggy's Letters (3 page)

“Hello, Grandad.”

Grandad doesn't smile as he grunts back a hello.

“Say hello to Grandad, Tommy.” Tommy ducks round the back of me and clutches my legs so I can't move. I know how he feels. I want to hide too.

“You'd best come in,” says Grandad. Mum always says his bark is worse than his bite, and that is just how he sounds, like a grumpy old dog.

“What shall I do with the pram?” I whisper to Mum.

“Leave the blessed thing outside,” she whispers back crossly. Then she turns to Grandad. “It's really good of you to put us up like this.” She gives him a peck on the cheek.

Grandad growls again and mumbles something about duty and there being a war on.

“We'll take our coats upstairs. Then shall I put the kettle on, and make us all a nice cup of tea?” asks Mum in her too cheery voice.

“Haven't got much milk. Hope you've brought your rations books,” is Grandad's reply.

I climb the narrow stairs with Tommy still glued to my leg.

A large bed, a narrow bed and a dressing table with a cracked mirror are all squeezed into the front bedroom. On the wall a cross-stitched sampler declares
Home Is Where the Heart Is
. Where is my heart?

“I'll sleep with Tommy,” says Mum. “You take the little bed under the window.”

I have to climb over the big bed to reach my bed. I plonk down on it. The bed has no bounce. Tommy thinks climbing from one bed to the other is the best game ever.

“Tommy's not going to like it here,” I say, pulling him on to my lap. He wriggles free and leaps back on to Mum's bed.

Mum looks at me. Her eyes are serious, and her lips are thin and tight. She lowers her voice.

“Peggy, we've nowhere else to go. If Grandad won't have us, I don't know what we're going to do.”

I didn't realize that this was only a maybe home.

“We're all going to have to try very hard to make this work. So I want you to be on your best behavior. Don't race around, and don't touch anything. Try and be quiet…”

Mum's list of don'ts goes on and on.

“And most important of all,” says Mum. “Please help me watch Tommy. He's at a very busy stage.”

“I'll try.”

“Good girl, let's go and put that kettle on.” She catches Tommy. “Come on, young man. It's time you made friends with your grandfather.”

“I'll be down in a minute, Mum.” I take my notebook out of my coat pocket. I have to write to Dad.

Dear Dad

It's so scary not belonging anywhere.

I can tell by Grandad's face that he doesn't want us to stay here for long. But if he turns us out, where will we go? Not back to Maud and the horrid church hall, I hope. I wish you were here. You'd work something out. I know you would.

Love Peggy

Grandad is sitting in the armchair lighting his pipe when I come into the room. I sit on the edge of my chair watching the blue circles of smoke curl up to the ceiling. The silence is louder than the tick of the mantelpiece clock.

A train goes by. Tommy scurries into the room and runs over to the window making chuffa chuffa noises.

Is this too much noise? I wonder. Should I make him be quiet? I look over at Grandad.

He takes his pipe out of his mouth. “I used to like trains when I was a boy,” he says. “Just a blinkin' noisy nuisance
now.” He puffs more stinky smoke into the room.

Mum comes in with the tea. While we sip, Tommy takes off his shoe and chuffs it over the rug and under the table. His shoe-train is heading for Grandad's feet. I hold my breath. What's Grandad going to do?

At the last moment Tommy's train changes direction and chuffs round the back of Grandad's chair. My breath comes out in a great woosh.

Mum chatters, Grandad grunts, Tommy chuffs and I sit. The afternoon is as long as a wet week of Sundays, as my old teacher used to say.

At last the clock chimes five. Grandad levers himself out of his chair and limps over to the window. He pulls the blackout curtains across.

“Haven't much for tea,” he mumbles.

My stomach is growling. I often feel hungry these days, and today we missed lunch. I jump up. “We've got sausages. They're in the bottom of the pram.”

“Sausages!” says Grandad.

“I'd forgotten all about them,” says Mum.

“There are some potatoes in the cellar,” says Grandad. “And I can cut us a cabbage from the garden.”

“Bubble and Squeak and sausages. Yum!”

Soon the sausages are sizzling under the grill, and the potatoes and cabbage, mushed up into a hash, are turning golden-brown in the frying pan. The kitchen smells delicious. Grandad gets the plates, and Mum has just finished serving up when the air-raid siren starts whining.

A cold shiver runs up my back. Please not this house too. I remember my chant. Don't fall on us today. Don't fall on us today, but the words have lost their magic.

“Move girl. This way. Quick.”

I suddenly realize that Grandad is talking to me.

“Quick,” he says again. His forehead is
creased into a worried frown, and I see why. His air-raid shelter is a narrow bed in a reinforced cupboard under the stairs. It's made for one person.

“We can all fit in if we squish up really tight,” I say picking up Tommy.

“I'll stay out,” says Grandad.

“No, look. Tommy, we're going to play sardines under the stairs. That means we have to squeeze in tight. Like this.” I give him a bear hug. “Bubble, bubble, bubble.” I carry him over to the cupboard and push him under the slanty part.

“Bub, bub, bub,” says Tommy.

“Tommy, you're the best sardine I've ever seen.” I slide in next to him. The ceiling is so low that I have to sit with my head on one side. Mum squishes up next to me, and there's just enough room for Grandad on the end.

“There, we all fit,” says Mum.

My ears strain to catch the first drone of bomber planes or the sound of the ack-ack guns, but all I can hear is our breathing. The smell of sausages drifts into
the under-the-stairs shelter. Our food is getting cold.

Is there time?

“Stay here, Tommy.”

I duck out of the cupboard and make a dash for the kitchen.

“Come back,” calls Mum

“What do you think you're doing, girl? Get under the stairs!” yells Grandad.

I pick up two plates of dinner and carry them as fast and as carefully as I can back to Grandad and Mum.

Mum cheers, and Tommy claps his hands.

“Good for you, girl,” says Grandad.

I race back for my plate and Tommy's dish

“We have sausages for tea, and it's going to take more than Mr. Hitler and his blinkin' bombs to stop us eating them,” says Grandad.

I squeeze back into my space. Mum hands me a spoon so that I can feed Tommy. This is going to be messy.

Moments later the single note of the all-clear sounds. It was a false alarm.

Grandad moves to stand up. It's hard for him with his bad hip, but I don't think he'd like me giving him a boost.

“Tommy and I are going to finish our picnic here,” I declare.

“Me too,” says Mum.

“Well, I'd better stay as well,” says Grandad leaning back against the wall.

When he smiles, he looks like Dad.

“If you think about it, those sausages saved your lives,” he says.

“Saved by a sausage,” I announce with a giggle. Mum joins in. I feel cozy and safe. Maybe it's not going to be so bad living here after all.

Dear Dad

Mum said my under-the-stairs sausage picnic broke the ice, but I'm not sure. We've been at Grandad's for two weeks, and I can't seem to do anything without Grandad grumbling and Mum fussing.

Yesterday Mum picked up our utility coupons. We now have extra points to replace the clothes we lost. She thought
we'd get the best deal down the market. So we spent a lovely morning looking at all the stalls. I now have a navy gymslip, a gray blouse and cardigan, two nighties and some underwear. Mum found herself a new dress. She looks really pretty in it. I still feel like a visitor. Being good is awfully hard work.

Tomorrow I start my new school. I wish Nora was coming with me.

Love Peggy

Mum finishes filling in the form and hands it back to Mrs. Mashman, the headmistress.

“We'd better go now,” Mum says to me.

I'm hugging Tommy tight. I want them both to stay. Mum holds out her arms, and Tommy jumps into them. Babies are so lucky.

“See you this afternoon,” I say in a small voice. “Bye, Tommy. Bye, Mum.”

“Bye, luv.”

“Good-bye, Mrs. Fisher,” says the headmistress firmly.

Mum turns toward the door, and Mrs. Mashman turns toward me. Her beady
eyes peer at me through thick round glasses.

“Follow me, Peggy Fisher. Your classroom is this way.” She marches out of the office.

Through the window, I can see Mum and Tommy walking across the playground. I wave, but they have their backs to me so they don't wave back.

“Come along,” calls Mrs. Mashman. “We haven't got all day.”

I follow her down a long corridor to a noisy classroom. Mrs. Mashman flings open the door. There's instant silence.

“What is going on, Mrs. Bottomly?” she booms.

Mrs. Bottomly is a little old lady with snowy curls and bright pink cheeks.

“Everything is, is fine, Mrs. Mashman,” she stammers. “Just some high spirits in class today.”

The headmistress glares at both the class and the teacher. “Save your high spirits for the playground. This is Peggy Fisher, your new pupil.”

I can feel the room staring at my mousy plaits, my snubby nose, my skinny legs and my uniform, which isn't quite the same as everyone else's. I want to crawl under Mrs. Bottomly's desk.

The headmistress turns on her heels and leaves the room. I stand frozen to the spot listening to her footsteps echoing down the corridor. Nora would have said something funny and the whole class would have instantly laughed and loved her. I just stand there looking at my shoes.

“Hang your coat and gas mask on the hook and sit next to Annie,” says my new teacher, pointing to an empty desk. “Perhaps Annie can show you around at recess.”

Annie is older than me and hardly gives me a glance before turning back to her friend. The classroom is getting noisy again.

“Settle down children,” says Mrs. Bottomly, fluttering her hands. “Lets get out our math books….No, stop that….Quiet now.” Her pink cheeks get even pinker.

The room smells of chalk dust just like my old classroom, but nothing else is the same. Instead of pictures on the walls, war posters tell everybody not to waste anything. The only books on the shelves are ratty old textbooks; nothing that looks fun to read.

An eraser flies across the room, then a piece of chalk. But no one seems to care. Out the window the playground waits for recess. My old playground had grass. This one is all concrete.

At last the bell rings, and the whole class runs for the door in a swirling mass of shrieks. Mrs. Bottomly straightens her books, takes off her glasses and, with a gasp, leaves the classroom too.

Annie doesn't stay behind to show me around. No one does.

Grabbing my coat, I find my own way outside. There's nothing to do but wander round the hopscotch squares and marble games. Mrs. Mashman is at her office window, watching the playground like a hawk. A football flies over and hits me on the leg.

“Ouch.”

“Give us our ball back.”

Oh, no. It's that Spud boy. What's he doing here? He looks different from the last time I saw him. His clothes are neat, and his curls are plastered down with grease.

“Hello, Peg,” he says looking as surprised as I am.

“My name's Peggy, and your ball's over there.”

I turn my back on him. Why is the only person who talks to me someone I don't want to talk to, ever? I walk away and end up leaning against a wall watching the skippers. Annie and another girl are turning a long length of rope. As it thwacks the ground, I automatically sway in rhythm, getting ready for the perfect moment to run in.

“I like coffee, I like tea. I want Doreen to jump in with me,” chants one of the girls.

I ache to join in, but no one calls my name.

Dear Dad

I am invisible. I really am. It only happens at school. As soon as I go through the gate, poof - no one can see me. I have been at this school for one whole week, and it happens every day.

I've looked in every girl's face to see who I would like for a friend. Nobody looks at me. Don't they know I'd be a very nice friend if only they would give me a try?

Love, Peggy

I am sick. I have a cough, a stomach-ache, an earache and a sore foot. Mum still makes me go to school, off to another boring Monday sitting next to snooty Annie.