19

Peggy was still talking nineteen-to-the-dozen, as Aunt Myra would say, when they burst into the kitchen just after one. The table was laid, but nobody was there. A man’s voice was booming out from the parlor, steadily rising in excitement. It sounded like a racing commentary, and near the end of the race, too.

All three frowning, fingers on lips, Aunt Myra and June and their mum turned from the wireless in unison as they came in. Then Ernest realized his mistake. The announcer wasn’t getting excited about horses.

“There’s one coming down in flames—there. Somebody’s hit a German … and he’s coming down—there’s a long streak—he’s coming down completely out of control—a long streak of smoke—ah, the man’s baled out by parachute—the pilot’s baled out by parachute—he’s a Junkers 87 and he’s going slap into the sea and there he goes—sma-a-ash …”

“Dover,” whispered Mum. “Attacking a convoy. It happened yesterday evening.”

You could hear bursts of shooting somewhere in the background, not far off—the ack-ack guns on the coast, Ernest supposed—and further away, the occasional explosion of a bomb. As last night’s battle progressed, the five of them bunched closer and closer to the wireless.

“The sky is absolutely patterned now with bursts of anti-aircraft fire and the sea is covered with smoke where the bombs have hit … Ooh boy, I’ve never seen anything so good as this—the RAF fighters have really got these boys taped.”

Aunt Myra thumped her fist in her hand with relish.

“Give it to ’em, boys! That’s the way! Oh yes, we’ll show ’em.”

Ernest glanced at Peggy, who was leaning against an armchair, looking pale and dazed. Their mother switched off the wireless set, and the glowing dial darkened abruptly. For a second afterwards she rested her hand on its polished wooden top, as if feeling it for warmth and life. Aunt Myra was still talking enthusiastically about the battle report, and saying they mustn’t miss the evening news on any account.

“Every night I pray to God to strike Hitler down,” she said, with satisfaction, looking around as if anyone who didn’t do the same was letting the side down.

Ernest thought about the possibility of a well-aimed thunderbolt, and shook his head.

“I think He’d have done it by now if that was His plan.”

“That’s quite enough of your clever remarks.” Aunt Myra swept from the room, the others following in a cowed line. As they passed the baby carriage in the hallway, June quickly bent and snatched up Claudette, even though she was fast asleep. The baby began to whimper.

In the kitchen, Mum was all bustle again.

“Peggy, slice us a few tomatoes, would you, dear? Not too thick, mind. In that bowl, on the draining board.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“By the way, Myra, did you hear about Mrs. Velvick? She was nearly done by one of Cooper’s Snoopers last week.”

“No?!” said Aunt Myra, delighted. “What happened?”

Mrs. Teacup-Whisperer. Ernest wondered if his mother was trying to get on the right side of her sister-in-law. Buttering her up with a tidbit of gossip. Where was Uncle Fred? He’d put a stop to this. Muck-spreading, he called it.

“He sent his daughter in to do the dirty work, it seems.”

“Like a decoy? Well, I never.”

Miss Leaky-Mouth.

“I suppose so, yes. Begging for some extra sugar for her mother-in-law’s birthday cake apparently. Awfully convincing, I heard she was too.”

“And?’”

Their aunt plonked the bread-board down on the table, where it set up a slow circular rattle, like a drum roll. The rattle of doom, thought Ernest.

“Oh, not a hope. Mrs. Velvick wasn’t having any of it.”

“Really?”

“Not even when the girl offered her fourpence a pound. Well, you know how it is these days … she’d have been up before the magistrates like a shot if she’d let her have the sugar.”

“An example to us all!” Aunt Myra glowed with self-righteousness.

“Oh yes.”

“And quite right too. I heard what happened to Mr. Morris in Winchelsea. No more than he deserved. But I can’t see Mrs. Velvick doing anyone a favour, least of all a stranger.”

Strangers, thought Ernest. That’s what the posters meant. It was strangers you had to be careful of.

“Well, she’s had a hard life, specially this year. To lose a son like that …”

“We all have our crosses to bear. How did she know the girl was from the Ministry, anyway?”

“Food Control Office. Apparently there was a man in a mac waiting outside. She recognized him. Nearly fell off her perch. But this isn’t from the horse’s mouth, you know.” Mum hung up her apron. “It’s just what Mrs. Ashbee told me. Hurry up, Peggy.”

Ernest sat down at the table, and remembered not to tip his chair. June had taken no part in this conversation and was gazing out of the window across the farmyard, as though she’d just noticed something frightfully interesting. But when Ernest stood up to look too, there was nothing to see at all. June was thinking about the wireless broadcast, he guessed, and other ships being bombed somewhere else. Troop ships. She was holding Claudette so fiercely against her that the baby began to struggle and moan.

“If the Nazis come here, I’ll kill her myself before I let them take Claudie away from me,” June said, and sat down, very suddenly. “I’d kill myself, too, if I had to.”

Suppose they didn’t hear the church bells? thought Ernest. Suppose there was no time for anything like that? Suppose they killed you first, before anybody could even get to the felty ropes to pull out a warning? Suppose they were already hiding in the church tower itself, ready to strangle you with those very ropes?

“Oh bother,” muttered Peggy into the shocked room. Unable to get a purchase, the knife kept slipping right off the smooth, hard skin of these freshly picked tomatoes. Now it had slipped through her own skin. She sucked her finger, wincing.

“Slice, don’t chop, dear,” Mum reminded her.

“That needs sharpening,” said her aunt, whisking the knife from her hand with a flash of silver. “Used to go through flesh like butter, it did. Pass me the stone.”

A mean, low rectangle of margarine glistened in the dish. Ernest stared at it while he listened to the blade scraping across the whetstone, a rhythmic broken sawing sound that went on and on and on.

RULE THREE: KEEP WATCH. IF YOU SEE ANYTHING SUSPICIOUS, NOTE IT CAREFULLY AND GO AT ONCE TO THE NEAREST POLICE OFFICER OR STATION, OR TO THE NEAREST MILITARY OFFICER. DO NOT RUSH ABOUT SPREADING VAGUE RUMORS. GO QUICKLY TO THE NEAREST AUTHORITY AND GIVE HIM THE FACTS.