Tuesday 21st January, 1941

Is there any better way to wake up than to the smell of smoky bacon sizzling in the pan? I intended to write yesterday, but I was simply too exhausted. Another day of high drama in the village. I hardly know where to begin, but I do feel better after a good night’s sleep. I write wrapped in my eiderdown, looking out of the frosted window over the snowy meadow. It’s almost magically white. With every new day comes a clean page, ready to be written on.

Monday started with a fateful trip into town. The road was deemed too treacherous for Ivor to take out the truck, so Glynis asked if I’d mind awfully cycling into the village to collect our rations. She produced a trusty red pushbike from a shed and, although I thought the journey unwise, I felt unable to refuse. ‘Just take the path slowly,’ she told me, stating the obvious.

As it was, the forest had largely shielded the path from the worst of the snow, so the ride wasn’t as deadly as I’d feared.

I went directly to the grocer’s, ration books in hand. As we have our own supply of meat, butter and milk, I was to collect sugar, tinned fruit and cereals. I confess I was daydreaming as I waited in line and it took me a few minutes to tune into the hum of conversation. I gradually picked up on the salacious, outraged tone. ‘Well, this is what happens, isn’t it?’ said Hilda Llewellyn, her hair still in plastic rollers, which I thought a touch uncouth.

‘Aye, you can’t trust them, that’s what I’ve always said.’ That came from Ted Morgan, the grocer himself.

‘It’s just basic science, isn’t it, like? They’re a primitive people.’

My ears pricked up. I hadn’t heard talk of ‘the colonials’ since Grandfather died. ‘Let’s hope he swings for it.’ Ted tutted.

‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘am I to take it someone’s been arrested over the death of the little boy in the woods?’

‘Aye,’ said Morgan. ‘That nigger staying with Pam and Lloyd.’

My stomach kicked violently, threatening to regurgitate my breakfast. ‘You mean Reg?’

‘Is that his name? Aye.’

I know that I had only met him once at the market, but, as a fellow-Londoner, I felt some sort of kinship with him. I mean, I grant you murderers don’t go around advertising their homicidal tendencies, but all I had sensed from Reg was a quiet warmth. ‘Oh my gosh,’ I managed to say. ‘Do you know what happened?’

Hilda was only too ready to share, her pop-eyed thirst for gossip bordering on frenzied. ‘People are saying they saw them go into the woods together. Only poor Stanley never came out, did he?’

So Stanley was his name. ‘That’s hardly evidence though, is it?’ The others weren’t expecting such impertinence and stared in shock. ‘Well, it isn’t.’ I collected our rations with as much haughtiness as I could muster and flounced out of the shop with indignation. As soon as I was clear, I shoved the rations into the basket and pedalled home like I’d never pedalled before.

I crashed into the kitchen half frozen and dishevelled like Scott of the Antarctic. ‘Good heavens!’ said Glynis. ‘What on earth happened here? You look like you’ve returned from the front line.’

‘Glynis,’ I gasped, ‘they’ve arrested Reg for the murder!’

‘Pam and Lloyd’s boy? What? Why?’

‘Oh, why do you think?’ I snapped. ‘I’m sorry … It’s just …’

‘I see … Margot, I’ll get to the bottom of it, I promise.’ Glynis’s face had taken on a determined air as she set out to make some enquiries, leaving me, Peter and Jane to help Ivor clear as much snow as possible from the farm and the road. The animals took care of themselves, huddling for warmth in the cosiest corners of the barns.

When Glynis returned some time later, it was with a deep frown. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked, placing a steaming mug of tea before her.

‘Peter, Jane,’ she said, ‘go and play upstairs, please.’ They left the warm kitchen begrudgingly and as soon as they were out of earshot she continued. ‘It’s all true. Reg was seen going into the woods with Stanley, although he’s denying it.’

There was something else, I could tell. Glynis’s eyes were stormy.

‘Glynis, sweetheart, what’s wrong?’ Ivor asked, shrugging off his filthy overcoat and hanging it on the stand.

Glynis shared a pointed look with her husband. ‘Well, what about the other boy who was staying with Geraint Tibbet?’

Even Ivor, man of granite, flinched at that. ‘He ran away.’

‘What? Who? What boy?’ I threw my hands up, exasperated.

Glynis stood and downed her tea in a single gulp. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘But—’

‘No, Margot, enough. There’s enough rumour-mongering without me adding to it. I shouldn’t have said anything at all.’

Maybe Glynis was satisfied, but I was not. There’s more than one way to skin the proverbial cat and so I set off to Bess’s house. By that time a meek sun was out and the worst of the snow was receding at the field’s edges.

‘Oh, Margot, it’s terrible!’ Bess wailed as soon as I walked through the door. Bess, her mother and Doreen lived in a humble but immaculately kept terrace in the heart of the village: no surface without a doily, no cup without a saucer. ‘People are saying they’ll hang him!’

‘Not without a trial they won’t.’ I tried to calm her, offering to put the kettle on. ‘What have you heard?’

‘Only what Geraint Tibbet told the constables, and that’s only because Gethin Williams told Mam at the post office. Stan went into the woods with Reg a couple of days ago and just never came home, so Geraint says.’

One heaped spoon of tea leaves would stretch to the three of us to save on rations and we split a slightly sad-looking scone between us. ‘Well, I’m no Miss Marple, but that body seemed like it had been there for more than a couple of days.’

‘Tell her what you told me, Bess,’ Doreen said, her hair up in rags.

‘Well! That Geraint Tibbet is a dirty old man and everyone knows it.’

This might explain Glynis and Ivor’s meaningful glances. ‘Really? What do people say?’

Bess shrugged inside her chunky cable-knit cardigan. ‘You know, that he’s a … pervert. I can’t say it, Margot, it’s too terrible!’

I didn’t pursue it further. In my experience, every street has an oddball. If they’re men they’re perverts, and if they’re women they’re witches. I’m usually inclined to take it all with a pinch of salt, but this was something else when there was so much at stake. ‘Did you know the other boy who lived with him? The one who ran away?’

‘Yes!’ Doreen exclaimed. ‘We came on the same train! He was called Roger and he tried to get back to the south coast. Brighton, I think.’

‘Why?’

‘Lots of evacuees try to go home,’ Bess said, pouring the tea. ‘I suppose they’re homesick, like.’

I arched a brow. ‘Something of a coincidence, don’t you think? One boy runs away, another dies in the forest.’

‘You think Geraint killed him?’

‘I don’t rightly know. Maybe. Perhaps Stanley hid in the cave and died from the cold. After all, the nights are bitter. No one could survive that.’

Bess’s eyes widened. ‘You saw the body, Margot. Do you think he died of cold?’

‘I’m not a physician, Bess, I have no idea, but there’s no way they can blame Reg. I think it’s purely because he’s a Negro.’ I took their silence to be agreement.

‘What can we do?’ Bess said glumly.

I’ll be honest – did I trust the police in this backwards little town to give Reg a fair hearing? No, not for a second. I thought what Mother would do. Admittedly I suspect she’d look to Father to intervene first, but in his absence I think she’d stand up for what she believed to be right. And I would do the same. ‘I think we need to voice our suspicions, however scurrilous they are. I don’t see them as being any less substantial than the evidence they have against Reg.’

And so that was what we did. We finished our tea and scone and marched right down to the constabulary – a thatched building not much bigger than a cottage next to the post office. Bess trundled alongside, her short legs struggling to match my stride. Doreen stayed at home, refusing to come out with her hair in rags.

Mother once told me that an illusion of confidence is often enough and so, with head high and shoulders square, I strode to the front desk and rang the bell with a firm hand.

A glass hatch slid open, from which the hollow-cheeked young constable who’d come to the farm emerged, and I wondered how he’d avoided being called up. Essential services, I suppose. ‘Bore da, Bess … girls. What can I do for you?’

‘Hello, Huw,’ Bess said, blushing fuchsia.

‘Good day, sir,’ I said. ‘We need to speak to someone about the wrongful arrest of Reg …’ I had no idea what his surname was.

‘Bawden,’ finished Bess. ‘Reg Bawden.’

At least Huw didn’t laugh us out of the police station. Instead, he frowned deeply. ‘What do you girls know about Reg Bawden?’

‘Enough to know he didn’t murder that boy in the forest.’

Apparently I said it loud enough to alert a more senior officer. A ruddy-faced man appeared behind Huw at the glass hatch. ‘What’s going on, Huw?’

‘Dad … I mean Sergeant Thomas … this girl says she knows something about the murder.’

‘And who might you be?’

‘I’m Margot Stanford, sir, and I’d like to know on what grounds you’re holding Reg Bawden.’

His face suggested he was far from impressed at having his detective work called into question. ‘Oh, is that right, is it?’

‘Yes, sir. Unless you have a witness, it’s rather Reg’s word against that of Mr Tebbit, isn’t it?’

‘Look here, missy, it’s no business of yours. Go you on home.’

Sergeant Thomas went to close the hatch, but I reached out and blocked it with a gloved hand.

‘Absolutely not. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what evidence you have against Reg beyond the colour of his skin. Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t another young man abscond from Mr Tebbit’s care? Doesn’t that pique your interest even slightly? Why two boys would invite such danger rather than remain in the house of a strange old man for a second longer?’

Red blotches began to spread from Thomas’s collar towards his jowls. ‘Oh, you want to be mighty careful with what you’re saying, girly …’

I fixed him dead in the eye. ‘He a friend of yours?’

The crimson mist reached his forehead. ‘I’ll say it again in case you’re deaf. Go home.’

‘No.’ My tone left little room for debate. Sometimes progress is saying no and meaning it.

‘How dare you, the flamin’ cheek of it—’

‘Now what’s going on here?’

We all turned to see Ivor’s bulk filling the doorway.

‘What are you doing, Margot? Gethin said he saw you stormin’ in here.’

I felt as if I’d been caught red-handed. ‘Ivor. It’s not right. They can’t keep Reg without any evidence. They just can’t.’

‘Oh, is she yours, Ivor?’ Thomas cut in. ‘Take her home, will you?’

Ivor lumbered to the desk. ‘See here, Dave, why are you holding this boy Reg?’

‘Oh, don’t you start, Ivor.’

‘I mean it though. People in town are talking, Dave. Talking about Geraint Tebbit.’

‘Aw, you’re as bad as she is! Just keep your nose out!’

With Ivor at my side, I felt stronger. ‘Have you actually spoken to the other boy who ran away?’ I asked. ‘I believe his name was Roger.’

Thomas said nothing, instead sighing like a steam train.

‘It’s a valid question, Dave,’ Ivor agreed.

‘No. No, we haven’t.’

‘I saw that body, Sergeant Thomas,’ I said. ‘He wasn’t murdered; he died from cold, I’d venture. He ran away and froze to death. I’m right, aren’t I?’

‘Ivor,’ Thomas said gravely, ‘you need to take her home right now.’

‘Come on, Margot. You’ve made your point. Dave … you can’t try this boy without evidence. You better be sure before you do, you better be sure as eggs.’

Thomas glowered up at him. ‘I’ll thank you for your assistance when you come to me for advice on farming, how about that?’

Ivor’s nostrils flared and the bull in the next field over from the farm was called to mind. ‘Girls. Go wait in the van. Now.’

Too scared to disagree, Bess and I hurried out of the police station, Ivor taking over the battle. ‘What now?’ Bess asked.

I thought I was fresh out of ideas until it occurred to me, in such a small station, the cells were probably on the ground floor. ‘Follow me,’ I told her. Checking the coast was clear, we crept around the perimeter of the police station. A narrow snicket led to a damp paved backyard. We had to clamber over some dustbins to get to them, but it was pretty simple to deduce the high, narrow windows covered by iron bars were probably the cells.

‘Do you think he’s in there?’ said Bess hopefully.

‘I suppose he must be. Say, help me with the bin.’ Together we tipped a metal dustbin upside down, and I hitched my skirts and climbed atop it with Bess’s help. I tapped ever so quietly on the glass through the bars. ‘Reg? Reg, are you in there?’

I heard activity on the other side of the window – furniture shifting. The glass was frosted, but a distorted face soon appeared at the window. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Reg, it’s me, Margot Stanford.’

‘Margot! What on earth you think you’re doing?’ His voice was muffled but I heard him well enough.

‘I’m here with Bess. We came to see if you were all right?’

He paused. ‘I’ve been better.’

‘Are they looking after you? Are you warm and fed?’ He assured us he was. ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘tell me honestly – did you do what they’re saying you did?’

‘No! I done nothing. I only met Stanley once or twice for a kick-about. I wasn’t nowhere near him when he went missing.’

I breathed a sigh of relief. I believed him with all my heart. ‘Good. Tell them that. If they have no evidence, they can’t do a thing.’

He looked over his shoulder. ‘I better go. I’m standing on my bed and someone’s gonna see.’

‘Let me talk to him!’ Bess tugged on my skirt.

‘Bess wants a word,’ I said, and clung to a drainpipe to help myself down.

I gave Bess a hand up and steadied the dustbin. ‘Oh, Reg! I miss you!’

I heard Reg chuckle. ‘Miss you too, Bess. I’ll be out soon.’

I wished I was as confident. ‘I’ll wait for you!’ Bess said tearfully, pressing a hand to the window. I stifled a smile at how melodramatic she sounded, positively cinematic in fact.

‘Oi!’ We both froze, Bess almost tumbling off her perch. I didn’t dare look up. We’d been caught red-handed. ‘Thought I told you to wait in the truck. What you doin’?’ Ivor loomed at the end of the alleyway.

Bess hopped into my waiting arms. ‘Nothing,’ I said guiltily, quite clearly up to something.

‘Think you should come with me right now before they put you on the other side of that wall.’

We shuffled past, shamefaced. ‘Thank you for helping,’ I muttered as I passed him.

‘Hmmm.’ And that was all he said on the matter.

By the afternoon, news had already spread. Word of a spirited English evacuee descending on the police station like a virago and giving Sergeant Thomas a piece of her mind was all anyone in town could speak of. I know because already Bess’s mother and Hilda Llewellyn had stopped by the farm to truffle out further facts like hungry pigs.

By supper, word reached us that Geraint Tibbet had been taken in for questioning. That was the last I’ve heard, but I feel a swell of optimism. I don’t claim full responsibility for the victory. I wonder if town gossip was tightening around the sergeant like finger screws until he had to act. I can only hope that they are in the process of tracking down the other little boy and he’ll confirm the dark and horrible truth I fear.

I must push that ugliness aside. Proving Reg’s innocence is a fight worth fighting. I think Mother would be proud.