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17

On the first of September 1939, Mr Brunetti called the kitchen staff to a meeting at the end of the day. His usually animated face was grave.

‘You may not have heard the news, but I have to tell you that the Germans have invaded Poland.’

‘This is it,’ someone behind Kath whispered. This is what? she wondered.

‘If they don’t withdraw, then Chamberlain says we will declare war.’

She didn’t understand. Why would Britain go to war over Poland? There had been plenty of speculation but somehow no one really believed it would come to this. Brunetti was still speaking.

‘This is grave news, of course. But there is an added implication for us in this room.’

He seemed to pause, as though for dramatic effect, although afterwards Kath realised that he must have been struggling to contain his emotions. ‘Dr Rowe has told me that should we go to war, all of the non-military personnel at the Manor will be evacuated.’

Oh hell.

‘What will happen to us?’ she heard Ma asking.

‘Catering will be provided by the RAF.’

‘Even for officers?’

‘Even for officers.’

‘What will happen to us?’ Ma repeated.

‘I’m afraid –’ he paused again, his chin working – ‘we are all being made redundant. Me included. With immediate effect.’

Double hell.

An audible ‘oooh’ seemed to suck all the air out of the room, and Kath found it hard to breathe. She turned to her mother, dizzy and disorientated. ‘Whatever shall we do?’

‘We’ll get by, I suppose,’ her mother whispered, pulling her close. ‘Being out of work is going to be the least of our worries, sweetheart.’

It was only once they’d left the building, walking in silence with the rest of the kitchen staff down the driveway, that she looked back at the Manor and remembered the other thing Mr Brunetti had said. All non-military personnel will be evacuated. Would that include the scientists? Would it include Vic?

Despite her earlier misgivings, she’d come to look forward to their walks. She loved his company, his interesting conversation, his knowledge about so many things. He was funny, often making her laugh, and so refreshingly different from most other boys, who seemed to feel the need to brag about their achievements. Vic was modest to a fault. Their kisses were sweet but chaste; he didn’t appear to want anything more and, she had to confess, neither did she. There was none of that stomach-turning swoony recklessness she’d felt when kissing Billy.

She did not consider herself to be in love, although she sensed the possibility of it. But now, there would be no chance. She felt suddenly bereft. It was Friday afternoon and she was not due back at work until Monday, the day after the so-called ultimatum expired, and the country would officially be at war.

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No one had the appetite for Sunday lunch, not after that terrible announcement and the almost immediate sounding of air-raid sirens that had brought everyone out into the streets, anxiously scanning the skies. Pa had built a shelter in the garden, but nobody wanted to sit in its damp darkness. Ma was putting on a brave face, but every now and again would break down in tears.

‘Whatever will become of us?’ she wailed. ‘And Mark, out there in his plane? Oh, I wish he’d just come home and get a safe, ordinary job.’

‘He may not have the choice, dearest,’ Pa said. ‘They’ll be calling all of us up before long.’

‘Not you, too? You’re too old, surely?’

‘Depends how desperate they are.’

And so the conversation went, round and round, until the doorbell rang and Pa went to answer it. Probably Joan, Kath thought.

‘There’s a man on the doorstep asking for Kath,’ he called.

‘Hello there.’ She looked down at Vic’s suitcase. ‘Are you moving in?’

Confusion flooded his face. ‘Mr Brunetti gave me your address. I hope you don’t mind,’ he said, shuffling his feet. ‘We’re all being evacuated. I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.’

‘Sorry, I was just being silly,’ she said, blushing. ‘We’ve all been laid off, too. It’s lovely of you to find me. Will you come in?’

He checked his watch. ‘Sorry, my train goes at three. I’m not sure there’s time.’

‘Then I’ll walk to the station with you.’ It was all so sudden. ‘Let me get my jacket.’

They walked in silence at first. What was there to say? They were not officially girlfriend and boyfriend, and they would probably never see each other again. They rounded the corner, and the station came in sight.

‘Do you know . . .’ she said, and at the same time he started: ‘I hope you . . .’

‘You first,’ she said, laughing.

He paused, then, ‘I don’t want to leave you, now we’ve just met.’

‘Me neither, but we can write, can’t we?’

His face brightened. ‘You’d like to? That’d mean a lot.’

‘Do you know where you’re going?’

‘Not yet, but I’ve got your address now, so I’ll write just as soon as I know.’

The train was steaming up, and the clock above the platform read nearly three o’clock. ‘You’d better get on board.’

He took her hand, lifting it to his lips like an old-fashioned gentleman.

‘I’ll miss you, Kath.’

‘Me too,’ she said. ‘Here, take this.’ She pressed into his hand a small paper bag containing two pieces of the carrot cake she’d baked over the weekend.

‘Is this what I think it is?’

She nodded.

His face, so serious until now, melted into the sweetest smile. At the other end of the platform, she could see the stationmaster lifting the whistle to his lips.

Vic climbed on board and leaned out of the window, waving until the train went around the curve and out of sight. It was only then that Kath realised that she was standing in precisely the same place where she’d first met him. She hoped it wouldn’t be the last time.

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October 1939

Dear Kath,

I hope you are well and pray you and your family are all safe. Please write soon and reassure me.

I’ve just written ‘pray’ although of course I don’t ever really do that in the formal sense. Apart from anything else, my mixed background leaves me confused about who to pray to: the single Christian god, or the several dozen of the Hindu type, each of which has several forms? My favourite is the elephant god, Ganesh, who is famous for removing obstacles. Elephants are immensely strong and used for heavy lifting, so that makes sense. He’s also the patron saint of letters, which is slightly odder, since although they are fabled to be wise and have very long memories I’ve never met an elephant who could wield a pen in his trunk, but I shall dedicate this one to him all the same.

Work is fine but we don’t get out much up here, and anyway there’s not much to get out to. Just the pub inhabited by ancient hobgoblins who speak in an incomprehensible tongue and drink beer so watered down that the description ‘pale ale’ has never been more appropriate. I’ve taken to whisky, following my father’s example.

In these remote, pale-skinned parts they’ve never seen anyone like me before. The children dare each other to run up and touch me, to see if I’m real, and then dash away giggling. They must think I’m some evil wizard or something. For a while I took to telling them my dark skin gives me special powers and I could make their wishes come true. But that backfired when a little lad made me promise to bring his daddy home safe.

My special powers are now producing sweets from behind my ears. It’s safer that way, and just as popular. I pity any other brown people arriving here in future – I’m a hard act to follow.

We are well away from the fray, which leaves me with a conflict of feelings: guilt that I am not doing something more active to fight the Hun, and relief that I don’t have to endure the misery of barracks life, parade grounds and the rest. Can you imagine me, trying to march, when I can barely tell my right from my left? I’d be a disaster as a soldier.

My only real discomfort in this war is the food here, which is worse than awful. My goodness, how I miss your carrot cake. But more than that, Kath, I miss you, and our conversations. Getting to know you has helped me recover from losing Johnnie, and I’m quite miserable now we’ve been parted.

Please write back, c/o the post office number at the top of this letter.

Your friend,

Vic

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November 1939

Dear Vic,

Thank you for your letter. Don’t worry, we are perfectly safe, although the war came pretty close to home when a ship got hit by a mine in Harwich Harbour and more than fifty poor sailors died. Apart from that, nothing exciting is happening here, except for people digging up the parks to plant vegetables. The beaches are off limits, covered with barbed wire and mined, apparently. Pill boxes seem to spring up like mushrooms. They’ve even blown up part of my beloved pier. It’s horrible. I hate this war already.

We have a young Cockney woman with her two-month-old baby billeted with us after being evacuated from London. She’s perfectly nice but the baby cries all night which is making everyone tired and tetchy! She’s sad, of course, because she misses her family and her husband is away in France. Yesterday when we read the news of the latest defeat she said, ‘I wonder what kind of world I’m bringing this lad into.’ At least we only have ourselves to worry about.

Ma and I have been job hunting but there’s nothing around so we do our best, cooking for the Women’s Royal Voluntary Service. They’ve even tried to teach me how to knit socks and woollies for ‘our boys’ but I’m hopeless and keep having to unravel everything and start again. Perhaps crochet is the best thing for me, although the very word makes me feel like an ancient maiden aunt.

Your letter made me laugh. I can just imagine the ‘hobgoblins’ in the pub. The encyclopaedia I looked up in at the library says they’re ‘a mischievous and ugly fairy, sometimes portrayed as small, hairy little men’. Come to think of it, there are plenty of those in the pubs around here, too.

Fondest regards,

Kath

Ever since they’d started corresponding, she had struggled to find the right words for her sign-off. ‘With regards’ was too cool. ‘With love’ was too warm. ‘Best wishes’ was too distant, and sounded like a birthday card. He had cleverly chosen ‘Your friend, Vic’, which seemed to strike exactly the right note. She plumped for ‘Fondest regards’, which also seemed to work well.

Apart from that day on the Cliff Walk, neither of them had ever mentioned love, not in any serious way; but she missed him more than she’d ever imagined.