It was a beautiful spring that year. Even the intensified ferocity of the Liverpool Blitz could not completely spoil it, except, of course, for those brave survivors who had seen their homes wrecked, shops and businesses ruined, friends and relatives killed or injured.
The Russells’ departure from the district had been accomplished so swiftly and quietly that hardly anyone noticed the removal van parked in the drive outside their house, and their final exodus. Mrs Russell did call in one last time to say goodbye to Mum; a visit that reduced them both to tears.
For Joan it was a huge relief when the school term ended and the Easter holidays began. She missed Doreen terribly and hated having to turn up to class every day to find her no longer there. She had plenty of other friends, of course, but no one to amble home with after school, or share confidences, or make her laugh as Doreen did.
They spoke on the telephone sometimes.
“It’s like a morgue here,” Doreen told her. “Pine trees, sand hills, lots of houses with big gates and notices saying, ‘Beware of the dog!’ We can’t very well have one on our gate because Raffles is much too daft and friendly to pick a fight with anything, not even a Nazi parachutist – well, especially not a Nazi parachutist.”
Their plans to meet in Liverpool were out of the question at the moment. It was far too dangerous, even in the daytime.
Joan spent a lot of time in her attic studio. She was trying her hand at fashion drawing now, much influenced by the effortlessly flowing lines of the drawings that she pored over in old copies of Vogue. It was exciting to try to draw the kind of clothes that were now quite impossible to buy, even if she had the money. And if one day in the far future she could afford them, the fashions would certainly have changed by then.
Audrey was so depressed about this situation that she could hardly bear to look at fashion ads. To her, gifts of clothing coupons from generous family members – Mum, mostly – were like manna from heaven. Joan mostly made do with school uniform or hand-me-downs, but she didn’t let it bother her unduly.
When the first fine spring weather arrived, so did Lukasz, turning up on their doorstep whenever he had time off, armed with a garden fork and spade. Ania came with him. They both turned out to be natural gardeners, and enthused Mum with the idea of making over the back garden into a vegetable patch.
This required an enormous amount of heavy digging. Mum joined in with them whenever she could, and took to poring over seed catalogues in the evenings. Joan helped, and even Judy did too, pottering about with her bucket and spade. But Ania seemed to know more than any of them about planting and growing. Wearing an old pair of men’s trousers and her hair tied up in a scarf, she worked untiringly.
Brian popped out from time to time and looked on encouragingly, but when it came to joining in on Saturday mornings, he usually seemed to find a pressing need to get on with his homework. And Audrey opted out altogether on account of ruining her carefully preserved nail varnish. Nevertheless, there was a huge sense of achievement when the planting was done and the first green shoots began to appear.
“The carrots seem to be coming up splendidly,” said Mum. “Perhaps we could even try for some runner beans?”
“Maybe,” said Lukasz judiciously, sipping a cup of tea. “It is possible. We ‘dig for victory’, as the posters tell us, yes?”
“Oh, yes!”
Dai had only one short leave that spring, and it was over all too soon. Audrey had built up to it with such an intensity of vital choices about hairdos, and what to wear, and whether she could get hold of some really good nylons that when the time came to say goodbye, the aftermath was all the more gloomy. She had taken to playing “Goodnight Sweetheart”, sung by Al Bowlly, on her portable gramophone in her bedroom over and over again until the rest of the family were sick to death of hearing it.
“Can’t you play some Glenn Miller for a change?” Brian complained. “Or Harry James?”
The trial of Mr Russell was a lengthy one. It was reported in all the national newspapers, but Joan didn’t follow it. She and Doreen simply avoided talking about it altogether in their telephone conversations. At last, the proceedings came to an end.
The two main culprits were given a four-year prison sentence, but Mr Russell got off more lightly with two years’ imprisonment. Mum said that it was because of his excellent track record and the fact that he’d been such a vital part of the community.
Happily, his punishment was later amended to a suspended sentence, which Mum explained meant that he would be allowed out on parole, providing that he regularly reported to the local police. Mum heard from Mrs Russell that he had since involved himself wholeheartedly in voluntary work, helping to re-house families who had been rendered homeless by the Blitz.
But, according to Doreen, things were very tight for them financially now. “Mum’s thinking of doing a secretarial course in shorthand and typing, and giving up her voluntary work to get a paid job,” she told Joan. “We need the money really badly. She’s never worked in an office in her life, and heaven knows how she’ll get on in the typing pool. But at least there are plenty of jobs for women of her age now, because so many younger women have gone into the services.”
“You’ll have to get your own tea now, when you come in from school,” said Joan.
“David and Dad’s too,” said Doreen gloomily, “knowing how hopeless they are at knocking up a decent meal, and then blaming it all on rationing. But at least there’s one bit of good news. The history teacher at David’s new school has persuaded him to try for the Cambridge scholarship after all.”
“Oh, good,” said Joan. She nearly added, “Give him my love,” but then didn’t, in case it sounded soppy.