The September Garden (5 page)

Spotting Uncle Marcus and Auntie Mollie through the open dining room window, lingering over breakfast, Sylvie tapped on the pane and gave a feeble wave. Uncle Marcus came to the casement. Auntie Mollie was hunched close to the wireless, her manicured fingertips tenderly on the dial.

‘How are you this morning, Sylvie?’ he asked, wiping toast crumbs from his fingers, his ear still cocked to the clipped tones of the announcer on the radio behind him.

Please don’t ask me, she thought. She told him she missed home. But, really, all she could think about was her mother.

‘You’re bound to,’ he said, cheerfully, as if he had barely heard her. ‘It’s all very worrying, isn’t it, but you’ll be safe with us here.’

‘But, Uncle Marcus, is
Maman
safe …?’

‘What’s that?’ He was distracted.

Auntie Mollie cried out, ‘Marcus, quickly! It’s Chamberlain.’

Marcus turned abruptly away from her.

Sylvie stood open-mouthed, insulted, for a moment but then hurried around and through the front door nearly bumping into Nell and Mrs Bunting who were also darting in from kitchen to dining room, drawn by Auntie Mollie’s shouting.

The radiogram crackled. And the newscaster spoke his grave, measured words.

Mrs Bunting backed into the corner, her face wide with 
shock. Mr Pudifoot, in his green gardening overalls, came in and stood to attention by the dining table, his chin tilted as if he was on parade. Nell impatiently jiggled on the spot. Sylvie, sensing the seriousness, held her breath and listened.

‘
… now at war with Germany
,’ came the voice from the radio, small and tinny in the hushed silence of the room. ‘
We are ready
.’

‘By golly we
are
,’ Auntie Mollie said stoutly. ‘No more shilly-shallying around. This is it.’

The room suddenly seemed darker, as if the sun was snuffed out. Sylvie pondered on how the paper strips on the windows blocked so much light. And then the words from the radio sank deeper. Her uncle sat down as if suddenly exhausted, drooping over the table, shoulders hunched.

‘Not again,’ he muttered. ‘Here we go again.’

Mr Pudifoot cleared his throat. ‘National honour is upheld at last,’ he announced curtly. ‘We’ll show the Bosch. They can’t do it again.’

‘Looks like they’ll give it a bloody good try,’ replied Mrs Bunting, rolling her forearms in and out of her apron.

Sylvie looked from one perturbed face to another and a bewildering wave swung through her body, making her dizzy. She fought it hard but it beat her, made her cry. Uncle Marcus got up from the table and walked over to her to put his arm around her shoulder.

‘What does it mean? What does it mean for
Maman
and
me
?’ Sylvie cried, her sobs muffled by her uncle’s shirtsleeve.

‘Oh dear, dear,’ muttered Auntie Mollie, biting the corner of her handkerchief. ‘What will they
do
?’

‘Who?’ Nell piped up. ‘Who, Mother, what will
who
do?’

‘Uncle Claude and Auntie Beth, of course. Oh my God, my poor Beth. War in Europe
again
. It’s too bloody for words.’

‘Really, Mollie,’ Uncle Marcus barked. ‘Keep a lid on it! For Sylvie’s sake.’

The beast of reality bit Sylvie, suddenly, with brutality. Her mother was so far away, in that instance, so out of her reach, that she could not remember what her face looked like. Panic gripped her, like a cramp. She should have come with her.

‘She should have come with me,’ she said out loud, but no one heard her.

‘Well,’ Mr Pudifoot boomed, making her jump. ‘I’m going straight out there to turn those beds over. Got to keep myself busy. We’ve all got to.’ He slung his cap back onto his head. ‘Either that or we’ll all go raving mad.’

Sylvie took a breath. There was only one way to fight this, she decided. She would harden her skin, keep herself upright, fix a smile firmly on her face.

Nell drew close to her and put her hand on her arm, but Sylvie couldn’t bear to look at her. She knew her face would be sweet and forgiving, despite everything. She resolved that she would change; she would try hard, try especially hard to be her friend. She thought of the
Little Wooden Horse
and the way Nell told her that he’d kept trundling on through adversity, through terrible things. But of course, she hadn’t read the damn book. She’d ripped it to shreds.

Her mother stood in front of the hallway mirror, applying red lipstick. She perched her best hat, the one she wore for shopping in London, over her neatly rolled hair. Tugging at the hem of her jacket, she stepped back to appraise herself.

Nell sat on the bottom stair with Sylvie, thinking that her mother looked just like Rita Hayworth. She asked her where she was going.

‘Great Lednor village hall. I am now billeting officer. They are arriving by the trainload at Aylesbury and the buses will be bringing them out to the villages. Lots of them. They’ve all got to go somewhere.’

‘Not here, surely?’

Mollie turned her bright stare on her.

‘Yes,
here
, Nell. How can you be so selfish?’

‘We have Sylvie,’ Nell nudged her cousin. ‘She’s our evacuee.’

Mollie pouted at herself in the mirror and reminded them that they also had four other empty bedrooms. ‘But don’t worry, we’ll get two nice girls, from Marylebone or Mayfair. Not boys. We don’t really want
boys
, do we?’

Nell shrugged. ‘But the war only started yesterday.’

Mollie checked her teeth in her compact. ‘Yes, and we’re all going to have to get used to it. To rally round, aren’t we, Sylvie?’

Mollie glanced at her niece and Nell followed suit. Sylvie was miles away, staring beyond the hallway, beyond the house. Nell nudged her and Sylvie seemed to draw herself together with a slow weakling smile.

‘That’s more like it,’ said Mollie. ‘Now,’ she snapped her handbag shut, ‘according to
Public Information Leaflet Number Three
, petrol will be the first thing to be rationed, so I will do my duty and cycle down to the village.’

‘In that suit, Mother?’ said Nell.

Mollie paused and brushed her hands over the padded shoulders. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘But we must keep up appearances, even though there’s a war on. I’ll get Mr Pudifoot to back the car out. Use a bit of petrol. Just this once. This is my national duty, after all.’

The girls had had their tea hours ago and, as evening fell, Nell went up to the bedroom. Outside the open landing window, the birds changed their key, settling down for the night. Sylvie was lying on her side on her bed, chin propped on her palm staring at
Rebecca
. Nell began to sort out a pile of school books.

‘Your school had better be nice. They’d better put me in the right class,’ said Sylvie, closing the book and throwing
it onto the nightstand. ‘I’ve tried to read that page about a dozen times.’

‘Are you all right today?’

Sylvie told her to stop asking. ‘You’re making it worse.’

‘It’s just a school, an ordinary school. We have to get the early bus from Great Lednor to Aylesbury. You’ll be top of the French class, at least.’ Nell made a pile of exercise books from last term and began to sharpen her pencils. ‘Girls only. I wonder who Mother will bring back from the village hall. What would you prefer?’

‘Boys, definitely boys.’ Sylvie yawned. ‘Then we won’t be expected to play with them. And we can flirt with them if they are handsome enough.
Merde
, is that the time? It’s getting dark. I don’t know how you can see what you are doing.’ She reached to put on the lamp.

‘Sylvie! The blackout!’ cried Nell.

‘Oh, this is going to be such a bore.’ She hauled herself up off the bed to pull the curtains. ‘Whatever happens, I want to be home for Christmas. Adele makes the best Christmas dinner ever, with
Maman
’s help, and sometimes mine. We have goose. Have you ever tasted goose skin? And Calvados apple sauce. Oh look, Auntie Mollie’s coming up the drive.’

The Ford rumbled over the gravel, its dipped headlights two feeble beacons in the near darkness.

‘Boys or girls? Boys or girls?’ wondered Nell.

Her mother parked the car and emerged, her suit rather crumpled. Then the passenger door opened and both girls gasped in surprise. There was a woman – youngish and bookish – with a drooping hat and saggy skirt. She stopped, perplexed, and gazed up at the front of the house. 
Nell could see her mouthing as she counted the windows, a hand pressed with surprise over her throat.

Mollie sounded cheery, even though Nell knew she’d be all in. ‘Come on, miss. Do come on. Here we are. Meet my husband. Meet the family. Welcome to Lednor.’

The girls hurried downstairs and passed a dented cardboard suitcase, tied with rope, that had been left at the bottom of the stairs. They followed the sound of voices from the drawing room where her father was just getting to his feet to shake hands with the stranger, while Mollie stood next to him, her hand proprietarily on his arm. He towered over the younger woman, who, Nell noticed, almost did a curtsey.

‘Ah, and here are the girls,’ Marcus said. He introduced them. ‘This is Miss Blanford.’

‘Please,
Diana
,’ said the woman, blushing and flicking her eyes sideways and up to Marcus’s face.

‘She’s the teacher,’ announced Mollie, still relishing her billeting officer authority. ‘The school has been evacuated from Harrow to Great Lednor. And she is billeted with us. Isn’t that nice, girls? Say hello to Miss Blanford.’

‘So no boys and no girls,’ Nell observed.

‘What? Oh, my daughter is so fanciful sometimes, Miss Blanford. You might have to ask her to repeat herself many a time before you actually understand her. Head in the clouds. As for my darling niece, Sylvie. She’s all rather sad, having to stay here with us. She came over for her summer holiday and now she’s our evacuee. Our
other
evacuee.’

Diana Blanford said how very pleased she was to meet them and what lovely girls they were. Her gushing made Nell positively twitch.

Nell appraised her flattish shoes, heavy calves and large behind. She was rather short standing there next to her mother and father. Miss Blanford’s pale face, tired and angular but verging on pretty, was framed by a softly dishevelled hairdo of glossy brown hair. Her smile was nervy but her eyes sparkled.

‘Oh, you can have the Lavender room then, Miss Blanford,’ said Nell. ‘That’s the nicest room.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ interjected Mollie. ‘I was expecting at worst some ruffians from the city so made up bunk beds in the Blue room, but I think things have worked out rather well, haven’t they? Ah, here’s Mrs Bunting.’

The housekeeper gave Miss Blanford a blunt good evening.

‘I hear from Margery Trenton that the children are having the shock of their life,’ said Mrs Bunting. ‘Some of them have never gone further than ten streets and now they’re right out here. Going to have to get used to us and our country ways.’

‘Poor lambs,’ offered Miss Blanford. ‘Some of my children—’

Mollie interrupted, ‘I hear that some of them are regular little criminals. Only tonight the Olivers in the village reported shenanigans already with their three from Wembley …’

‘And
lice
!
’ said Mrs Bunting.

Marcus interjected. ‘Thank you, Mrs Bunting. Shall we have some tea? Miss Blanford here … oh sorry … Diana, will be parched and famished. Maybe even a nightcap, Diana? As for you girls,’ he said, ‘bedtime.’

Nell pronounced that she wanted to stay up. After all, Miss Blanford was here.

And her mother wearily reminded her, unlit cigarette between her now unrouged lips, that it had been a long day, that they were all very tired.

‘Can’t we just show miss the Lavender room?’ asked Nell.

Mollie conceded with an exhausted shrug that said, ‘I’m too beat up to argue with you,’ and bent her face to her lighter.

Within moments, the two girls and Miss Blanford stood on the threshold of the best spare room.

‘Is this for me? On my own?’ The teacher’s face billowed out, round and happy, as she stared into the softly lamplit room.

Nell wondered if it was all right for her.

‘It’s a palace,’ she breathed. ‘We were warned that we would have to share. That we might be put up in draughty attics, or garrets or suchlike. But this is just heaven.’

Diana Blanford walked over the cream rag rug and sat down on the edge of the bed where the satin eiderdown created a gleaming expanse of luxury in the lamplight. Mrs Bunting came in with a vase of Mr Pudifoot’s purple chrysanths and set them down on the side table, next to the wash bowl and jug.

‘You are all so very kind.’ Miss Blanford’s middle seemed to collapse and she looked quite teary. ‘It’s been a long rotten day. You girls must call me Diana. I insist. And you, Mrs Bunting,’ she said, ‘what may I call you?’

‘Mrs Bunting,’ the housekeeper replied.

Diana plucked out her tiny pearl earrings and placed them in the porcelain dish on the bedside table. ‘Everything’s so pretty,’ she yawned and pulled her blouse over her head. 
‘I’ll just change out of these things and be downstairs in a jiffy.’

‘Don’t you have a dressing gown, miss?’ Mrs Bunting asked hurriedly, evidently outraged.

‘Why no.’

‘If … if you need more clothes,’ said Nell, trying not to look at Diana’s bosoms spilling out of her stained bra – such a large chest for such a little woman. ‘Miss Trenton might have a pile of jumble. She’s the matron at the boys’ school.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t go anywhere near her jumble,’ observed Sylvie dreamily.

Nell, fearful that Diana was going to peel off her brassiere too, grabbed Sylvie’s arm and headed for the door.

Bright and early, Nell ate breakfast in the kitchen. The start of school was delayed by one day because of the evacuees’ arrival, and the hours lengthened ahead of her like a curving Chiltern lane, enticing and full of mystery.

‘Did I hear the kettle? Time for a cup of tea, is it?’ Mr Pudifoot was at the back door, slipping off his cap and settling beside Nell at the table. ‘Where’s our French miss? And where’s them refugees?’

‘
Evacuees
, Mr Pudifoot,’ Mrs Bunting at the range corrected him. ‘And
evacuee
, actually. Just one. A lady teacher. Strange sort. Bit over the top if you ask me. Still fast asleep.’

‘Strange you say?’ Mr Pudifoot said, nudging Nell. ‘If she’s strange it’s cos she’s a
stranger
. Make her a boiled egg, Mrs B. Make her feel at home. Perk her up.’

Muttering, Mrs Bunting reached for Miss Blanford’s ration book on the dresser.

Nell piped up, ‘When are you two going to get married?’

‘The cheek of it.’ Mrs Bunting tried to look cross but her face turned an extraordinary shade of red as she flicked through the buff empty pages of the ration book as if fascinated.

‘Lost count the amount of times I’ve asked ’er,’ stated Mr Pudifoot, sipping his tea from his saucer. ‘Still, there’s always the next time.’

‘Oh, I wanted an egg,’ said Nell, looking hopefully at Mrs Bunting.

‘You’ll be lucky, Miss Nell.’

Mollie appeared at the kitchen door, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, searching her long dressing gown pockets for her cigarettes. Nell wondered idly if her father had spent the night in her room last night. She always looked vividly happy and beautiful on those rare occasions.

‘Morning, all,’ said Mollie, languidly lighting a cigarette.

‘Sorry to intrude, Mrs Garland, just ’avin me tea,’ Mr Pudifoot said.

‘Oh, think nothing of it. I’m just desperate for coffee. Anything on the go, Mrs B?’

‘There’s always
something
on the go.’

Nell saw her throw a whisper of a smile at Mr Pudifoot.

Mr Pudifoot got noisily to his feet and doffed his hat to Mollie. ‘That spud bed won’t dig itself, Mrs Garland.’ And he left with a badly disguised wink in Mrs Bunting’s direction.

‘Shame about the hollyhocks.’ Mollie drifted through and reached for an ashtray from the dresser. ‘But that’s what this war is all about. Veg has to come first. Oh, and next time you see grouchy Trenton, Mrs Bunting, tell her 
I’ve resigned as billeting officer. I’m not putting myself through that again. You can serve me coffee in the drawing room. Where is Miss Blanford? I thought I—’

She was cut short by an inhuman wailing. It pierced the glass in the windows and the plaster in the ceiling and just about penetrated the bones of Nell’s skull. She ducked, pressing her hands to her ears.

‘Oh, Mother! Dad!’ she cried.

‘Oh, Christmas!’ shrieked Mrs Bunting, grabbing Nell by the arm and tugging her down. ‘Quickly under the table. Everyone, quickly. Where’s Sylvie?’

Nell ducked under the table, crouching as tight as she could, followed by her mother and Mrs Bunting.

She heard Sylvie call out excitedly, ‘
Merde
! Our first air raid!’ as she burst into the kitchen and dived under the table.

Knees and elbows bumped painfully. Nell cracked her head on the underside of the table. Mrs Bunting shuffled her behind towards her, exposing an unflattering glimpse of her white gusset. And all the while, the siren continued its strange unearthly scream.

‘I can’t get used to this,’ uttered Sylvie.

‘Heads down, everyone,’ cried Mrs Bunting.

Mollie wondered where on earth Marcus was. Then Nell saw, through a gap in the confusion of table legs and bodies, her father, shirtless and in his underpants, with socks and gaiters over tanned spindly legs, squeeze into the cupboard under the stairs, followed by Miss Blanford in a nightie with a threadbare cardigan thrown over the top. They shut the door.

‘Are we all here?’ asked Mrs Bunting. ‘Pudifoot’s 
outside.’ She was breathless and more frightened, Nell could sense, than she was letting on. ‘Oh, I see Mr Garland and Miss Blanford have used their head. We must get a proper shelter, Mrs Garland. An Anderson for the garden. We must be the last people in the whole of Great Lednor not to have one. Mr P won’t mind if we dig a hole in the lawn.’

‘Oh, but I will,’ muttered Mollie, holding her hands over her ears.

‘I thought the war came first over the garden,’ Nell observed and her mother hissed at her not to be so pedantic.

‘What about the September Garden?’ she protested with a trembling voice, her mouth pressed close to her knees. ‘Don’t let him dig that up.’

‘
Merde
, Nell,’ Sylvie muttered. ‘Your elbow is right in my—’