THE NEXT MORNING, Phyllie woke, her head splitting as the light from the early dawn poured through the window. For a moment she couldn’t imagine where she was. She eased herself upright. She was at the table, in Miss Featherstone’s kitchen in Myrtle Cottage, and had been sleeping with her head on the table. She remembered then that she had been woken in the early hours by Francois who they had settled on a blanket in this large kitchen. He had clearly disapproved and whined, endlessly. She had wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, lifted the bedroom blackout blind just five inches so she could see her way to her door in the moonlight and joined him downstairs, concerned that he would wake Miss Featherstone.
She looked for him now, and there he was, curled up by the old leather sofa that stood against the wall, at right angles to the Aga. There too, stretched out on the sofa, was Jake, sound asleep, his arm hanging down to touch Francois. The door into the hall opened and Miss Featherstone stood in her tartan wool dressing gown, which looked remarkably like Phyllie’s father’s, viewing them all. Phyllie hoped she hadn’t dribbled onto the oilcloth that covered the table, and surreptitiously wiped it, and her chin.
‘What a sorry little group you are.’ The voice was grumpy but the smile warm. ‘Well, get dressed, and I’ll sort out some breakfast. Joe Bartlett will have been up for hours, getting in the cows for milking, so you can nip off there with Francois. Then, Miss Saunders, you can borrow Maeve, my bicycle, to check on your charges and make sure that all is well. I’ve been thinking of young Ron. I wasn’t paying attention and I see that the Andertons have taken him on. You might want to cast your eye closely over the situation, paying heed to their two ghastly boys. Eddie, in particular, is a ne’er-do-well with a gang. His father’s in prison.’
Phyllie’s heart sank, but Miss Featherstone said no more, just nodded towards the folder on the table that contained Miss Harvey’s notes on who had gone where.
Phyllie and Jake walked through the village with Francois. It was only six o’clock and few others were about. Phyllie had memorised Miss Featherstone’s directions. They turned left just beyond the Church of St James’s and kept going for half a mile along a track heavily rutted by carts and tractors. They carried milk bottles that needed to be left with Joe Bartlett for sterilisation, and which would be exchanged for two fresh pints.
They passed cow parsley growing in the verges and honeysuckle in the hedgerows. Cobwebs shone in the early sun. Larks flew overhead and the sky was a pale blue. Through a gate they saw a field with cut hay still lying in rows. Work would begin later today, Miss Featherstone had said, after Joe Bartlett and his son Andy had cut down pitchforks donated by the villagers. The vicar, Jack Thompson, had decided it would help to integrate evacuees and village children if they all assisted with the hay-making. ‘What’s more, it’ll give us a chance to keep an eye on our Ron and have a quiet chat,’ Miss Featherstone had murmured for Phyllie’s ears only.
As they walked, Phyllie pondered the idea of Miss Featherstone having any such thing as a quiet chat. Somehow her voice had an extraordinary carrying quality.
The lane, however, was quiet. The whole world was quiet in Dorset, compared to the hum and clatter of London, but was it more peaceful? She ground her teeth at the thought of Ron, and the meanness of the villagers. Was Miss Featherstone right, though? Perhaps it was just uncertainty on their part? Beside her, Jake was talking to Francois. Soon the lane opened into a farmyard and Phyllie saw a large stone house covered in roses.
To the left was a long low building from which came the sound of cows mooing, and on from that an old barn with great holes in its corrugated-iron roof. To the right stood a stable block, with buckets at the entrance, a bridle hanging on an upright, and a new barn nearest the house. Geese rushed across the straw-and-muck-strewn cobbles of the yard, their wings back, squawking at the visitors. Francois bared his teeth and growled, straining at the leash. Phyllie reached down and helped Jake to restrain him. A few chickens and a couple of ducks were pecking at the ground near the stable.
Two sheepdogs rose from the kennels outside the front door and slouched towards them. Behind her some of the WI ladies she’d met the night before cycled into the yard, towing carts in which were large preserving pans. They rang their bicycle bells and Phyllie pulled Jake to the side, into the lee of the long low building from which came the lowing of cows, and the clank of pails. Ah, the milking parlour.
Together they watched the chaos as the geese ran at the women, who fearlessly kicked out with their feet, ringing their bells and laughing, before parking outside one end of the farmhouse. They heaved two pans each from the carts, which clanged together. Miss Deacon and Mrs Speedie waved at Phyllie and then disappeared through a doorway. Had she really thought it was quiet? It was a madhouse.
At that moment Joe Bartlett stepped out of the entrance to the milking parlour, wiping his hands on a towel. ‘That be the dog, then? Miss F said you’d be coming when I popped round last night. Partial to a few rabbits, and really partial to pheasant, she be.’
A blond young man, about Sammy’s age, came out of the front door of the house. He was pale, with his arm in a sling, and a blood-stained dressing on the end of his arm where a wrist and hand should be. He limped across the yard towards them, kicking away the geese. ‘I told you we don’t damn well need another dog, Dad,’ he yelled. ‘He’ll never settle, he’s not a farm dog. It’s best to shoot the bugger. It’ll be kinder in the long run. He’ll chase the sheep; you know he damn well will.’ Under his good arm he carried a shotgun.
The women were back at their carts, unloading more pans. Mrs Speedie, called, ‘Don’t be such a grouch, Andy. Miss F’s been filling us in, and the boy’s been bothered enough. We all feel badly.’
The young man looked from Phyllie to the door through which the women were disappearing. ‘And why do we have to have the bloody WI Preservation Centre setting up in the big kitchen?’
Joe walked to meet him, taking the cigarette from behind his ear and fiddling with it. ‘Because we never use the bugger, Andy lad, and the ladies need it for the war effort, which is important, as you well bloody know. They use the odds and sods of fruit that’d only go to waste. Work their fingers to the bone they do, what with that, the salvage they collect, the kids they look after, the vegetables they grow, so less of your lip. We have a good old kitchen in the snug, which your ma was more’n happy with.’
The two men faced up to one another. Next to Phyllie, Jake stirred and called, ‘I won’t leave him here. You’ll kill him, and he’s had enough of that. He was at Dunkirk, brought back by a soldier who wouldn’t leave him. He should be safe, that’s what he should be, like you are now, Mr Andy. He shouldn’t be listening to all this shouting. Here, look at him. He doesn’t understand English. He’s French. You’re loud and mean and he can tell that. I’m taking him away, back to London, anywhere.’ Francois was cowering against the wall and Jake was down by his side, tears threatening.
Andy Bartlett glared at his father, at Jake and finally at Phyllie, before turning on his heel and limping back across the yard, kicking at a goose. He slammed back into the house.
‘Pay him no mind,’ Joe called to Phyllie and Jake. ‘He’s in a bit of a do. Now, lad, my Mollie’ll take care of him. Born mother she is, ain’t ya, girl?’ The sheepdog sat at his feet, looking up. ‘It’ll be best for the dog, being with his own kind, and my boy will calm. He’s not taken things well.’
Phyllie leaned over Jake, saying softly, ‘We’d better give it a try. Miss Featherstone really thinks it’s better for him.’
‘But why?’ shouted Jake, his arms around Francois’ neck.
Joe was with them now. ‘Ah well, dogs like to be with dogs, it’s a pack thing. What’s more, be painful for her to have him, y’see, tiddlin. Looks a tough old nut, our Miss F, but she lost her Sandy a coupla months ago. Nice little dog she were and Miss F said she’d not ever let herself feel like that again. Give us the rope, lad.’
Jake looked at Phyllie, his large dark eyes full of despair. He seemed too vulnerable for all that was happening, and for all that had happened over the past few years. Her mind raced, but what else could they do? She straightened, facing the old farmer. ‘If you let that boy of yours hurt the dog I will hunt you both down.’
She could hear Miss Featherstone’s voice saying, Enough of the dramatics, but she damn well would. Joe took out a match, scratched it on the wall behind Phyllie, and lit his cigarette, speaking through the smoke. ‘Happen you will, lass.’ He took the rope. Francois went to him. Jake rose and clung to Phyllie’s hand.
Together they walked back, neither speaking.
Phyllie cycled around Little Mitherton, Great Mitherton and Forton, then Swanwick where she saw Mrs de Bere’s mansion, and the convoy of taxis that were already taking her family to safety. She would not allow herself to replicate her mother, and sniff in disdain. All morning she checked on her charges, ironing out problems with the foster parents, which often meant just foster mother as the father was away in the forces.
In Great Mitherton she braked outside Ron’s billet. The Andertons’ devastation of a front garden was not reassuring, with its rusty bikes and toys, and a dog chained to the corner of the house. On her approach the dog strained at the leash, barking and growling. She surely didn’t need to knock, as Mrs Anderton must have been forewarned unless she was deaf, which she wasn’t because the door swung open. A middle-aged woman stood there, in a summer dress with a low neckline and too much make-up, or perhaps Phyllie was becoming like her mother. She was invited into the council house. There was lino on the hall floor, but it was ripped and dangerous. Mrs Anderton said, ‘Yon lad’s in there with my two boys. They get on right well.’
The three boys were lounging on the settee. One, Bryan, who was bigger than Ron who was tall for his age, looked at her. ‘You’re the one with the Yid for a neighbour, then?’
She frowned and said, ‘We don’t use that term, ever.’
He said, ‘Maybe Great Mitherton does.’ She made a mental note to move Ron the moment she could find another billet, or was this attitude typical, in spite of Miss Featherstone’s fine words? The other Anderton boy, Eddie, was thirteen and at school in Great Mitherton, while Bryan was eleven, and at Little Mitherton. It had been deemed best to separate them, according to the notes. Eddie ran a gang, but this had not been noted. Yes, Ron must be moved.
That afternoon Miss Featherstone and the young vicar, Jack Thompson, gathered up the evacuees and the village children. Phyllie hiked with them to the hay field, singing ‘This Old Man’. All afternoon they turned the hay with the cut-down pitchforks, the evacuees being shown how by the village children, and Miss Featherstone and Phyllie waited to see what happened between Jake and the Anderton crew. After an hour or so Bryan Anderton and Ron rested on their pitchforks, and as Jake came alongside they turned the hay, but flipped it at him as well. Bryan laughed, ‘Grow horns, do you, like the other Yids, like Ron’s dad says?’
Phyllie darted towards them, as Dan moved to stand alongside Jake, but the Reverend Jack Thompson moved even quicker and caught both boys by the ears. ‘I was a boxer before I was a parson. You are eleven years old, with mouths and minds like guttersnipes. It stops here, do you understand? Ron, you will be living elsewhere from now on. I know just the family. You, Bryan, will go back to your mother with Eddie, and Miss Featherstone will talk to you, very soon.’
Eddie flung down his pitchfork and stalked off, his hands deep in his pockets, kicking at the row of hay as he went. Phyllie could cheerfully have put him over her knee, if he hadn’t been too big.
As the vicar marched the two younger boys through the gate, they passed Andy Bartlett arriving with the horse and haycart. He showed no interest in the lads, but why would he, Phyllie thought, his face creasing in pain as he jolted in and out of ruts, heading for the southern side? It was here that the hay had been turned and dried sufficiently, and where the carting had begun yesterday, according to Joe, who waited with two of the farmhands.
The children continued to turn the hay under the leadership of Phyllie and Miss F who took over Ron and Bryan’s shortened pitchforks. Phyllie was impressed that even with her great height, Miss Featherstone never paused, though her back must feel like breaking, even more than hers did. After an hour, the children stopped for water, and Andy Bartlett passed with a full load, heading out of the field. He called down to Phyllie, ‘Bit of a lightweight, your lad. Couldn’t sort that bit of trouble himself, eh?’
Miss Featherstone caught Phyllie’s arm, but she shrugged her off and ran after him, keeping pace with the cart, and calling up, ‘How dare you? No one should have to put up with bigoted rubbish. You didn’t even hear what was said; that he was asked if he had horns, because he’s a Jew. His mother’s lost in Poland, his father’s in a submarine. Proud of yourself, are you?’
Andy shrugged. ‘You know nothing about anything. Now get out of the way of the cart or you’ll end up—’ The cart slipped into and out of a large rut. The man paled; sweat broke on his face. Phyllie saw his bandage was dripping blood. ‘Oh, never mind,’ he finished.
She marched back, ignoring Miss Featherstone’s raised eyebrows, not wanting to hear about unnecessary dramatics, or any such thing. Even though someone was in such pain it didn’t mean they had to be so foul. She worked on alongside the children, moving from one group to another, wanting to do nothing more than lie in a cool dark room. She pretended, though, that it was the best fun she’d had in years.
At last it was time for tea at the village hall and there were bowls for hand washes, and towels, with Mrs Speedie, Miss Deacon and Miss Harvey in attendance.
‘Do you ever stop?’ Phyllie asked. ‘You must have come straight from the jam making.’
‘It’s the end of our jam shift, and the start of this one. Miss F, our WI president, has things worked out to a T.’ They grimaced and then laughed.
At six o’clock, the children were collected and taken home. Phyllie and Jake stayed, to help clear up. Melanie stayed too with Miss Harvey, and Dan, with Miss Deacon. The children dragged the chairs and benches to the side, and then pulled a face when they were handed tea towels. Melanie now asked Jake if he really would grow horns, and he shrugged and said he didn’t understand what Bryan was talking about, not really, but what he wanted to know was how Francois was getting on.
Miss Featherstone called across from the cupboard in which she was stacking plates. ‘Don’t you worry, he’ll be fine. Mr Joe will keep an eye on things.’
‘How can he?’ Jake countered. ‘He’s doing things in the hayfield or somewhere else, while Mr Andy is driving the cart back to the farm. How do we know what he’s doing when he’s at the farm?’
Phyllie waited for the answer, wanting to know it herself. Miss Featherstone tutted. ‘Regular little worry guts, you are, lad. My WI ladies have been there, on shift, all day, and this continues into the evening. They’re better than guard dogs, you mark my words. Besides, young Mr Andy has a good heart. It’s pain that does it, pain and … Oh well, never mind, we must hurry up.’
They arrived back at Myrtle Cottage at nine, exhausted and covered in hay dust and grass, their hands blistered, their faces burned. All Phyllie and Jake wanted was to crash into bed. Jake asked for a glass of water to take up with him. Miss Featherstone nodded, ‘Of course.’
Phyllie sat at the kitchen table, examining her hands, while Jake started to open the corner cupboard door. ‘Not that one,’ Miss Featherstone shouted, rushing across and slamming the door shut. Not before, however, Phyllie saw bags and bags of sugar neatly stacked.
Miss Featherstone was still shouting, ‘That’s nothing to do with you, and is not to be spoken of, do you understand?’ They both nodded, startled and confused. Phyllie stood now, her sore hands forgotten. Miss Featherstone reached into the next cupboard and handed two glasses to Jake. He filled both with water from the tap, and gave one to Phyllie, who took it and sat down again. ‘Goodnight, Miss Featherstone, and you too, Phyllie. Thank you for having me, Miss Featherstone. I expect Francois is happy, with other dogs and the geese.’ His tone was forlorn as he left the room.
Phyllie stared at her glass of water, and then at Miss Featherstone, who was pulling down the blackout blind at the back of the sink. She then busied herself at the sink, her back firmly to the room.
‘I think it’s time we all turned in. It’s been a long day. We will find out in the morning where the vicar has settled Ron,’ the headmistress said.
Phyllie stood up again, feeling like a jack-in-the-box. ‘You’re right, I’m very tired. Thank you, Miss Featherstone, for your kindness.’
She climbed the stairs, and sat on her bed. So much sugar, when it was so scarce. Had her mother been right, was it being given to the WI and was some being pilfered, and by the WI president? After Jake had been in the bathroom, he called goodnight. Phyllie entered the little boxroom and began to pull down the blackout blind while Jake, in his pyjamas, stared out at the night sky. He said, ‘The world is a very strange place, isn’t it, Phyllie?’
She paused, and let the blind roll back up. She slid her arm around his shoulders. ‘Most peculiar, much of the time, Jake, but I suppose we just have to keep going.’ While they looked out at the rapidly darkening sky, they both heard a noise, then saw a movement in the garden. Jake whispered, ‘Do you think it’s a fox? There won’t be more prowling round the farm, will there? I don’t know if Francois knows what to do with a fox.’
Joe Bartlett stepped out of the shadows at the corner of the house and headed for the back door. Both Phyllie and Jake waited, then Jake whispered, ‘Do you think he’s come calling? You know, how men do, or that’s what Mrs Williams used to say about the lady down the road who had all those men? You know, she’d put that voice on, and squeeze her lips, and say she was no better than she ought to be with all these callers. That lady was young, though. Do old people have callers?’
Phyllie put her finger to her lips. ‘Hush.’
They saw now that Joe held three pheasants on a string. Jake whispered, ‘D’you reckon they’re the black market? You know, the market they talk about in the posters?’
‘Certainly not,’ Phyllie murmured. ‘Pheasants are off ration. Into bed, and I’ll tuck you in.’
Jake shrugged. ‘I’m not a baby.’
She pulled down the blind again, and smiled. ‘I know, but tonight I need someone to tuck in, so be kind.’
Jake grinned and hopped into bed. Phyllie risked a kiss on his forehead. He let her, and as she stood up, he said, ‘I hope Francois is all right.’
‘I’m sure he is.’ She wasn’t but what else could she say?
When she got to the door he murmured, ‘So, when are you going to marry Sammy, Phyllie?’
She laughed quietly. ‘Oh, that was just fun. You know what Sammy’s like.’
Jake raised himself up on his elbow. ‘Oh, I don’t think it was, nor does Melanie, or Dan. We talked about it, and we think Sammy’s eyes looked serious, after he’d kissed you. Didn’t you notice?’
She said, ‘Off to sleep now. I’ll leave the door ajar in case you need me in the night.’
He whispered then, ‘Pheasants are off ration, but sugar is on it. There was such a lot, and it’s a secret cupboard, isn’t it? Is that the black market?’
‘Certainly not,’ Phyllie repeated, ‘and we mustn’t talk about it to anyone. Now off to sleep.’
Once in her own bed across the landing she thought of the sugar. It must be for jam, but why not come out and say it? Surely Miss Featherstone couldn’t be the equivalent of a spiv, not when men were dying to bring the rationed produce across the seas? She ached with tiredness, and a creeping sense of disappointment.
Forcing her mind away from ration books, policemen and cheats, she thought of the hay-making, the children, Francois – his long tongue lolling, his eyes almost smiling. Finally, as she drifted off, she allowed herself to think of Sammy. Was Jake right: had Sammy meant it? Could she ask him? But how, when she didn’t know where he was, or the name of his new submarine so she could trace him through the Navy? But even if she could find him, and she asked him, and he was still just a friend, she ran the risk of losing him entirely, and she couldn’t think of a world without Sammy being in her life. She knew her thoughts were just going round and round but here, in bed, she had no work, no children, to stop them. Until sleep finally claimed her.
In the morning she woke feeling stiff and cold, but this time she knew where she was. She was in Miss Featherstone’s kitchen again with Francois, who had arrived at the back door in the early hours, having chewed through his tether. She turned, and there was Jake asleep on the sofa with Francois on the floor by him. She stared at them both. It wasn’t going to work, here at Miss Featherstone’s.
She’d just have to try to find a cottage to rent after all, because this boy needed the dog, and clearly Francois needed him, and that was that. The door creaked open, and Miss Featherstone entered, wearing her dressing gown, carrying a similar tartan blanket over her arm. She looked from Phyllie to Jake, who was still asleep, and came to sit at the head of the table. ‘This can’t go on,’ she whispered.
Phyllie nodded, and she too spoke in a whisper. ‘I know, and I understand, so I’ll find somewhere. Perhaps in the local town, though I noticed that there’s a little cottage near St James’s Church that looks empty. Do you think I could rent it? I know the windows are broken, and the garden derelict, but I could patch it up. I can’t separate them again, especially with Ron and Bryan …’ She ground to a halt. Miss Featherstone was holding up her hand as though Phyllie was a runaway bus.
‘My turn, Phyllie. One thing a headmistress, or indeed a WI president, should learn is to know when she’s beaten. We will keep Francois. He will sleep in the boxroom on this blanket, but not on the bed.’
There was a noise behind Phyllie. It was Jake running at Miss Featherstone, throwing his arms around her. ‘Thank you, from Francois too. She’s kind, isn’t she, Phyllie, really kind?’
Phyllie grinned. ‘Indeed she is, and I think perhaps you’re rather good at acting fast asleep.’
Miss Featherstone patted Jake’s back, and rested her head on his, just for a moment. ‘Now, I think that’s quite enough of that, young man. Breakfast and then church.’ She stopped. ‘Though perhaps you don’t go to church, Jake?’
Jake shook his head, easing himself back towards Phyllie. ‘No. I don’t go to synagogue either, not until my mum is back. I just sort of can’t.’
Phyllie put her arm around him. ‘Let’s go for a walk instead and thank God for the sky above us all.’ That sounded rather dramatic. She waited for the reprimand but it didn’t come, Miss Featherstone merely nodded, and smiled.
‘Indeed. A similar sentiment got me through the last war, too. One has to hang on to something, hasn’t one.’ It wasn’t a question.
Later Phyllie, Jake and Francois walked along the lanes, breathing in the soft air. Jake threw sticks for Francois to bring back, which he did sometimes, but just as often he chewed them to bits. They came to a pond, or was it a lake? It was huge with the right-hand corner fenced off. She saw that the wire was tied to trees, either side, top and bottom. Ducks and moorhens dithered about amongst the reeds. Yellow irises grew all around the edge. They passed a sign. Mitherton Pond. Ah, so a pond it was.
They stood and stared into the water. Minnows dodged. Phyllie told Jake how she and Sammy used to catch them with bent pins, in the slow-running stream at the bottom of the allotments. They’d put them in jam jars, to release them at the end of the day, and as she said it she could picture Sammy’s face as he peered into the jam jar. The water would run into his rolled-up shirtsleeves, just as it ran into the sleeve of her dress. Now she saw his face, close to hers as he wiped some dirt from her cheek that hot summer of 1932 just before her father died. ‘Your mum will fuss,’ he’d said, then ripped off his socks and waded in.
‘Come in, Phyllie,’ he’d called. She hadn’t because her mother wouldn’t have liked it. Instead, she’d watched as the water swirled around his legs. He’d always loved the water. He could swim like a fish. Oh God. Bring him back. Bring both of them back.
Francois barked, again and again. They swung round, and saw Andy Bartlett walking along the lane, holding the bridles of two shire horses in his one good hand. ‘Hold Francois very tightly,’ Phyllie said as Andy looked up and saw them.
He glowered and yelled, ‘Survived then, the mutt? Dad said he’d come hightailing it back to you so we didn’t come looking.’
Jake gripped Francois’ rope with two hands. ‘You’d have shot him, if he had, I spect. So you just keep away from him, from us. Miss Featherstone said he can stay, so there.’ Phyllie was astonished at Jake’s bravery, then pleased, because now this appalling young man would see how strong Jake could be.
Andy was alongside them now. He glared at Jake, and said, ‘Maybe I should have shot him when I had the chance.’
Well, that was just too much. Phyllie stepped forward. ‘You need to watch your tongue, or grow up. You may be in pain, but if it makes you a bully, stay inside because when you’re well, you’ll be embarrassed at the harm you’ve done. I know you were injured, and we’re grateful to you, and others like—’
‘Shut up until you know what you’re talking about,’ Andy interrupted. He pulled the horses on. Phyllie and Jake set off back to the village, neither speaking because Andy was right, she knew nothing about how it must have been.
Phyllie spent most of the afternoon sitting in the garden knitting khaki socks with Miss Featherstone, Miss Harvey, Mrs Speedie and Miss Deacon. Melanie stayed with the women, but Jake, Dan and Tony, who was staying with Mrs Speedie, headed off to the skittle alley behind the pub. After an hour, as the talk circulated, Phyllie made tea from the mint that Miss Featherstone asked her to pick from the herb bed. As she passed the cupboard with the sugar she opened the door. The sugar had gone.
She returned with a tea tray, on which were homemade biscuits made with honey. Mrs Speedie was speaking of her husband who was a prisoner of war and Miss Deacon told of her eldest nephew who was at Catterick now that he was back from Dunkirk.
Mrs Speedie then said, ‘That Andy’s not much better, tongue like an axe, but not to be wondered at—’
Miss Featherstone sliced across her friend, midsentence, ‘The strawberries are what we should be discussing. Up at five tomorrow to pick them from the allotments, if you please.’
The air was thick with tension, momentarily, but then Miss Harvey placed her drained cup onto the garden table and picked up her needles again. ‘Such a relief that Joe’s kitchen is now officially designated the area’s Preservation Centre. We must keep a close eye out for wasps in the jam as the season progresses; I hooked two out of yesterday’s batch.’
Mrs Speedie slapped the arm of her chair. ‘Wasps, the very idea. You must have a little chat with yesterday’s team, as you’re the one who’s been on the course.’
The afternoon drew on, the shadows lengthened and for this moment of time it was almost as though the war did not exist and all was well with the world. Phyllie sneaked a look at Miss Featherstone. Joe Bartlett’s son had said she knew nothing about anything and Mrs Speedie had been shut up very smartly.