Peggy's Letters (6 page)

Spud holds two fingers up behind Thelma's head giving her rabbit's ears.
The class titters. Mrs. Mashman spins round, but Spud's too quick for her. The ears have disappeared into his pocket.

With a parting glare that freezes everyone in their seats, Mrs. Mashman turns and leaves the room.

“Can you imagine having her for your mother?” says Doreen. Annie and I shudder.

Mrs. Bottomly assigns the new kids their seats, stands up and bangs her desk with a ruler. “From now until the end of term, we're going to do something different. Peggy gave me the idea.”

I did?

“What idea?” mouths Annie.

“Don't know.”

“We're all going to be reporters,” continues Mrs. Bottomly, unrolling a large sheet of paper.

“Where did she get all that paper,” whispers Doreen from behind. “I thought paper was in short supply, and that's not even utility paper.”

“Sshhh,” I tell her. “I want to be a reporter.”

“This paper is going to be our newspaper. It's going to be divided into columns. Each of you can write a true story about your family and the things that are going on around you.

“Now who would like to be our editor?”

“Sounds like extra work to me,” whispers Doreen.

I like the idea, but before my hand is all the way up, Spud shoots his into the air. I didn't know he was keen on writing.

“Well, Stanley and Peggy you can both be our editors.” Spud gives me a wink.

What have I let myself in for?

“Let's talk about what we're going to write about. You must all have lots of stories.”

Doreen puts her hand up. “I haven't got any stories, Miss.”

“Goodness me, child,” says Mrs. Bottomly. “Look around you. Just being in London in 1944 makes you part of history.” She walks into the center of the classroom and waves her sheet of paper. “Just think, everyone, this newspaper could become a historic document.”

I'm part of history? The words buzz round my head. That makes me as important as any king or queen.

“Tom, you start us off. Stand up, and tell us something about yourself or your family,” says Mrs. Bottomly.

“I've got one-hundred-and-thirty-two spent bullet cases,” says Tom.

The boy next to him gives him a shove. “No you 'aven't,” he says. “Half of them's mine.”

The room erupts into a shrapnel shouting-match. I lean back in my chair. I knew the class-newspaper idea was too good to be true.

“QUIET!”

Everyone stops talking and looks up at Spud, who is standing on his desk.

“Thank you, Stanley,” says Mrs. Bottomly. “You can sit down now.”

“I'm the editor, so I get to keep everyone in order.”

Mrs. Bottomly flutters her hands. “I don't know about that, dear. Umm… Let's continue.” She points to Elsie in the front row.

“My story is going to be about how our chimney was blown off by a bomb,” she says.

“That's exactly the sort of story we need in our newspaper. Very good, dear… Now, Thelma.”

“My cousins were evacuated to Canada at the beginning of the war. Mum wouldn't let me go. She wanted us all to stay together. I wonder if I'll ever see them again.”

George sticks his hand up. “Miss, Miss,” he says before Thelma has finished talking. “My brother lied about his age just so that he could be a pilot and fly Spitfires. Dad is so furious he won't talk to him.”

“That's what I'm going to do when I'm old enough,” says Fred. “I'm going to get into dogfights and shoot down enemy planes.” He gives a demonstration with loud sound effects. George joins in. Why do boys always act like little kids?

“Come into land, Fred and George,” says Mrs. Bottomly. For the first time since I've been in this class, everyone's paying attention.

“You're next, Pete.”

“When it rains our Anderson shelter floods, and one day my uncle forgot and fell in.” Everyone bursts out laughing.

Dora's story isn't funny. Her dad is missing. He might be in a prisoner-of-war camp. I'm glad my dad's not a prisoner. He would hate that.

Suddenly everyone has a story. The classroom is a forest of waving arms all wanting to be next.

Is my story going to be about Dad's ship escorting a convoy from Halifax, or our house burning down? No, those stories are not for sharing. I'll stick to Mum folding parachutes.

Mrs. Bottomly points to Spud. “You're next, Stanley.”

He scrapes his chair back and stands up. “I thought I just had to paste the stories on the newspaper.”

“You have to write one too,” says Mrs. Bottomly.

“Oh!” groans Spud.

“Tell us about your family,” encourages Mrs. Bottomly.

I suddenly realize how little I know about Spud.

Spud runs his hand through his hair. The rest of the class fidgets.

“My mum drives a lorry and moves barrage balloons around,” he says with a grin.

I can't believe my ears.

“That's an interesting story, Spud,” says Mrs. Bottomly, raising her eyebrows.

It's not an interesting story; it's a fairy story. Is he lying because he doesn't want everyone to feel sorry for him?

“Peggy.” Mrs. Bottomly points to me, but before I can get to my feet the chilling notes of the air-raid siren set the class into motion.

“Quick as you can, boys and girls.”

We all know what to do because of Mrs. Mashman's daily drills, but my legs still tremble as I grab my gas mask.

“Lead the way, Tom,” says Mrs. Bottomly.

We file across the playground and down the steep steps into the air-raid shelter.
Two wooden benches run along each wall of the underground tunnel-shaped room. It smells of old socks, and we have to squish up really tight to get all the classes in.

Elsie starts crying. “Air raids are so scary. I wish I lived in the country,” she sobs.

“Oh no, you don't,” says Doreen. “I was evacuated to a farm in Devon. It was full of enormous, smelly cows. I was so scared me Mum had to come and fetch me home again.”

“Don't believe you,” says Annie.

“It's true.”

“Quiet everyone,” says Mrs. Mashman clapping her hands. “Stop sniveling, Elsie.” She looks at her watch. “We cut one minute, twenty nine seconds from yesterday's drill. Well done, school. Now let's begin our multiplication tables. We'll start with sevens.”

As planes drone overhead, we chant the familiar numbers in our sing-songy voices. I think about the barrage balloon in its new position and don't feel quite so scared.

School is dismissed as soon as the all-clear sounds. We have the whole afternoon off. Doreen wants all the girls to go down the High Street and look round Woolworth's. It feels great to be included, but I want to talk to Spud. He's nowhere around. Must have raced off. I bet he's gone to his hut. As I don't have to pick up Tommy for ages, I decide to go over to the allotment and find out once and for all. Has he got a mum or hasn't he.

Before I get to the sliding planks, I hear loud voices coming from the allotment. Squatting down, I peer through a knothole. Two men wearing Home Guard armbands are stomping round Spud's hut.

“It's goin' to have to come down, Fred,” says the tall one.

“If it don't fall down first,” laughs the other, holding the door in his hand. “Cor blimey, look at all the scrap metal!”

My biscuit box of letters is not scrap metal. I keep listening. This is awful.

“What you doing, Peg?” Spud appears out of nowhere making me jump out of my skin.

“Ssshhh. Look. They're going to take away your hut and everything in it.”

“They're not getting my shrapnel,” he says.

I grab his jacket to stop him from racing over to them.

“Keep still. They'll see us.”

“Took me ages to collect that lot,” mutters Spud.

“We'll need the large barrow,” says Fred.

“It's back at my house,” says the tall one. “Come on, we'll get the missus to make us a cuppa while we're there.” They tramp over to the gate and leave the allotments.

“We're going to have to move everything before they come back, Spud.”

“Where to?” he says.

“Your house?” I suggest.

“Mum won't let me.”

“Thought you didn't have a mum.”

“I don't,” says Spud quickly. “I've, er, got a stepmum.”

“She must be the one that moves barrage balloons around?”

Spud scowls and disappears into his hut without answering me. I caught him out. He does have a mum. But what's wrong with her? He stomps out with my biscuit tin.

“Here,” he says. “You keep it.”

I take the tin from him. Thank goodness Dad's letters are safe. Suddenly I get an idea.

“We could put your shrapnel in my Grandad's tool shed.”

“Will he let us?” asks Spud.

“It'll only be till we find somewhere else. He won't be doing any more gardening till spring.”

“That's brilliant,” says Spud, a smile back on his face. He dives into the hut and comes out with a piece of metal in each hand.

“This is part of a Bomber. It was lying on our shed one morning, and this is a…”

“Spud, we don't have time for the story of every piece. Fred and his mate will be back soon. Just put the pieces you want to keep over here, and be quick.”

The “keeper pile” grows larger and larger.

“Stop. We can't carry all that.”

“We'll use your old pram to move it,” says Spud.

If I hadn't been holding the biscuit tin of Dad's letters I'd have said no, but special things are special things.

“Okay.”

“Let's go and get it,” says Spud.

It's beginning to rain as we reach Mrs. Jones' house.

“Crouch down, Spud. If Tommy sees me, he'll want to come.”

We creep up to the pram, which is standing outside the front door. The brake sticks as usual, and I need both hands to free it.

Suddenly the front door opens.

“Oh, there you are, dear,” says Mrs Jones. “I was just going to bring the pram in out of the rain. You're nice and early today.”

“Hello, Mrs. Jones. I've…”

“I'll just go and get Tommy,” she says.

“No. No, it's all right. He can stay a little longer.”

Mrs. Jones isn't listening. She turns down the hall.

“We just want to borrow the pram for half an hour,” I say to her back.

“TOM MEE! Your sister's here,” she booms at the top of her voice. Her boys come racing down the hallway, followed by little Tommy. He's one big smile when he sees me.

“Here's his coat,” says Mrs. Jones.

“He'll have to come with us, Spud. He's no trouble, honestly.”

“There won't be enough room for my shrapnel,” grumbles Spud.

“We'll do two trips.”

Spud is still complaining as I clip Tommy into the pram and only shuts up when I threaten to go home.

It's raining harder now, but Tommy is safe and dry sitting under the hood. Spud runs ahead to see if anyone's at the allotment.

“All clear,” he yells. “Come on.”

It's hard pushing through the mud and Spud has to lift the front of the pram to get it out of a rut. Luckily there's still no sign of Fred.

As fast as he can, Spud hands me the pieces of shrapnel. I fill the shopping basket on the back of the pram, then pack other pieces in blankets along the side and around Tommy's feet.

Tommy thinks it's a great game. With hoots of giggles he picks up anything within reach and drops it over the side.

“Stop it, Tommy.” He's getting dirty and wet. I'm getting dirty and wet. How am I
going to explain all this? There's going to be another row. I know there is.

“Spud, that's enough. It's going to be too heavy to push.”

“Just one more bit,” he says, and hands me a thing that looks like a baked bean tin with wings. It just fits on top of the pile.

“That's it. Let's go.”

Spud heaves on the front, and I push on the handle until the pram is through the mud and on the road. Rain is bouncing off the pavement, and Tommy is beginning to whine.

“Let's hurry. I'm getting soaked.” I'm also beginning to wish I hadn't suggested Grandad's shed. I could be at home, warm and dry.

We walk faster. Rain is running down my hair into my eyes, and I can hardly see where I'm going. Nearly there. Just have to pass the bombed-out post office and turn up our road.

Looking up, I see a man limping toward the pram.

“Grandad!”

He comes up to the pram.

“Peggy! What on earth? Stand back, both of you!” Grabbing my arm, he yanks me away from the pram. He points to the winged tin can.

“That's a bomb!” he yells.

My whole body goes tight, and for a moment I can't move. My baby brother is sitting in a pram next to an unexploded bomb, and I'm the one who put it there.