2

London, Fall 1940: The Blitz

THE PIECES THAT made up Katherine Bateson’s world were scattered across the landscape and over the ocean, far and wide, blown about by the winds of war. Kat herself felt like one of the clocks in Father’s workshop, all wheels and plates and springs and pins strewn across the table, waiting.

But she squared her shoulders and told herself to hold her wits together. That’s what her father would want, and what her brother and sister needed. Especially given the urgency in Father’s letter to Mum, the letter sending the children away.

“Are you sure?” Robbie pressed against Kat’s left arm. She tilted the photograph so he could see. “Wow, it is,” he said, sounding awed. “A castle.”

More like a not-so-majestic ruin, a shadowy box with peaky turrets rising out of the ivy, but maybe the photo didn’t do justice to the name: Rookskill Castle.

“I bet it’s got battlements,” Rob went on. “And ramparts. I’ll bet there are dungeons. Secret passageways and hidden rooms. And ghosts.”

“Ghosts?” Amelie popped up from the floor like a bobbin, round eyes in her round face, curls bouncing.

“All castles have ghosts,” Rob said. “They moan. And carry clanking chains”—he raised his arms straight forward and stiffened his body—“that they rattle at night when they’re coming for you!”

“Robbie,” Kat said, a low warning.

“I can’t wait to learn more sword fighting,” he said. “I’m already a whiz.” He took a stance.

“I doubt we’ll be fiddling with swords,” Kat answered. “They’ll have us at regular lessons.”

“Lessons! You’re being stodgy again. It’s a castle,” Rob answered. “Who in a castle gives regular lessons during wartime?”

“Read Father’s letter, Rob. Rookskill Castle Children’s Academy, that’s what he says.” She unfolded the letter.

Aunt Margaret’s cousin Gregor is the eleventh Earl of Craig, and a good man, recently married. They need the income, as Lord Craig has taken ill. I met with Lady Craig at the castle not long ago, and she seems devoted to children, having none of her own. As I was thinking of sending the children here, I helped her secure instructors of my acquaintance. And I have reason to be back in Scotland from time to time. A sound choice for the children, under the circumstances.

Kat paused. “So there you have it. Father secured instructors. We’ll be learning.”

“You are dull, Miss Stodginess. Of course we’ll be learning. But it won’t be sums and history and Latin. We’ll be learning how to parry and form up and shoot arrows. Practical things we can use against the Jerries.” Rob thrust his imaginary sword, made an imaginary block. “I’ve heard that the Jerries are planning a landing on the beaches in Scotland. We’d best be ready.”

Kat folded Father’s letter around the photo, tucking both back into her pocket. Amelie’s eyes slipped from Kat to Robbie and back. “I like ghosts,” Amelie said. She still held her drawing pencil clutched tight in her fist. “Maybe there’ll be a ghost like Mr. Pudge.”

Kat smiled. “Ame, it’s an old place that looks like a castle, and we’ll be in school. And it’s Great-Aunt Margaret’s cousin. And Father may visit. I’m quite sure there won’t be any ghosts.”

Kat had plenty of real things to worry about. For one, Robbie might be right: the Germans could land on their shores at any time. Kat worried about Father and his reasons for being in Scotland, and about Mum and Great-Aunt Margaret being left in London while the Germans continued their incessant bombing. And at twelve, Kat had started in a new school and was trying to sort out where she belonged and who her friends might be, and now she had to leave. She twisted the watch that wrapped her left wrist.

Ghosts ranked low on Kat’s list of worries.

“You must look after Rob and Ame,” Father had said. “I’m counting on you.” It was what seemed ages ago, in midsummer, and he was readying to leave. His tools lay on the bench before he fitted them one by one into the sleeves in the felted fabric. The clock he was done fixing tick-tocked on the table behind them.

She wondered how he could do two such different things—the one, mend clocks, and the other, so dangerous. He didn’t even look the sort for the other, and she said so straight out.

He smiled, pushing his glasses on top of his head and resting his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t judge a book by its cover, Kitty. There’s often much going on inside. I do what I’m good at. And I do it for you, and your mum and Rob and Ame, and everyone who loves ‘this precious stone set in the silver sea.’” His voice lifted a little with the quote. “Your mum has many cares. So you must promise to do your bit.”

Kat had promised, yes, but she wished her father wasn’t so noble. She wasn’t sure she could bear it if he should be caught.

Now she was sure about only one thing. That castle in Scotland to which he wanted them sent would be cold. Warm clothes essential. And she would be head of the three young Batesons.

Father’s parting words to her were, “Remember, my dear. Keep calm.”

And biting down the swell of tears, she’d whispered back, “And carry on.”

As Kat was packing, Great-Aunt Margaret called her to the library.

“Your father is wise to send you to Gregor’s,” Aunt Margaret said. “Well away from this dreadful noise and strife.” She paused. “Although I must say Scotland is a bit dodgy. An umbrella is of no avail against a Scotch mist.” She, like Father, liked aphorisms. Mum had once said it was the way Great-Aunt Margaret kept her mind sharp; Father had whispered that if Kat’s great-aunt’s mind was any sharper, she’d impale her pillow.

Yes, she used to be so sharp, so logical and precise. But, to Kat’s dismay, Great-Aunt Margaret had lately gone a little dotty, perhaps more now with the bombing and the stress of war.

Mum stood at the tall window, her hands clasped behind her, her fingers weaving patterns, in and out, in and out, like she was kneading dough.

Great-Aunt Margaret rose from her thronelike chair. “Now, come over here, dear. ‘Time and tide wait for no man.’ I have something for you. To keep you safe.” She took Kat’s chin in the fingers of her right hand and laid the finger of her left alongside her nose while she widened her eyes. Kat knew the gesture: it meant, This is our secret.

How it could be with Mum there, Kat couldn’t imagine. She glanced at Mum, who raised her eyebrows as if to say, Be kind. So Kat played along, forcing down a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

Great-Aunt Margaret dropped Kat’s chin and took a step back, and her hands went to her waist, to her belt of soft leather. Pinned to it, dangling from it as it had every day in all the years of Kat’s memory, was her great-aunt’s chatelaine.

The chatelaine had been a gift to Margaret from her mother upon Margaret’s marriage, and Kat knew it to be a precious family heirloom. Wrought of silver and marked with the smith’s stamp, the chatelaine contained three useful items that hung from slender silver chains joined on a silver hoop. “Yes,” said her great-aunt. “This will keep you safe.” She was removing the chatelaine from her belt.

To give to Kat.

“Oh, Auntie, no. I couldn’t.” Kat raised both hands in protest and looked to her mother, who pursed her lips. What if it should be lost?

“Nonsense.” Her great-aunt’s response was firm even as her stiff fingers fumbled. “I’m having a bit of trouble. . . .” She lifted watery eyes to Kat. “Help me, my dear,” she said. “Come, now. I insist.”

Kat stepped forward, hesitant. She unclasped the chatelaine and held it up. The three items—pen, scissors, thimble—swayed as they dangled from her fingers.

Aunt Margaret leaned toward Kat, her lips close to Kat’s ear, and dropped her voice to a whisper. “It’s quite magical, you know.”

“I’m sorry?” Kat whispered back. “Did you say magical?” Oh, goodness. Kat saw worry in the set of Mum’s face.

Aunt Margaret straightened. “Yes, my dear. I shall explain. But do remember this: be careful with magic.” She fixed her eyes on Kat’s. “Do you hear me, Katherine? Magic is tricky. There is always a price to pay for its use.”

Mum went with them to King’s Cross Station to catch the train. Kat turned in the seat of the hackney as they pulled away from the curb, catching a glimpse of Great-Aunt Margaret standing at one of the tall windows with her hand in solemn salute.

The cab splashed through deep puddles and rain pelted the roof. They passed mounds of rubble, men in their clinging wet work clothes clearing flattened homes with picks and shovels and barrows. They passed St. Paul’s, rising stately and seemingly untouched from the ruins around it. Pride surged in Kat. The bustle of London—motors and buses and black umbrellas—continued as if there was no war. Londoners described the bombings as “blitzy,” as if they were some kind of nasty weather.

Most of the kids she knew were staying put, working after school hours to help clear roads of broken bricks and glass, and here she was, fleeing. She shut her eyes. No, she didn’t like the bombings one bit, the sirens wailing, the dark root cellar, the shuddering blasts, the plaster raining down, Ame crying out. She didn’t like shaking so hard her teeth chattered. Still, Kat would rather stay. Stay with Mum, stay in London, stay and be strong.

She felt anything but strong as the station grew close and home slipped farther away.

Mum, squeezed between Kat and Amelie, cleared her throat over the splish-splosh-rumble of the cab. “Kitty, I must tell you. In the Service office with me there’s a couple with a son about your age. They want him out of London, too, so I thought to recommend this place. He’ll be on your train.”

Kat twisted sideways. “Oh, Mum, you didn’t.”

Kat’s mum was always trying to fix her up with friends. She didn’t think it was good for her eldest daughter to spend more time with facts and figures and puzzles and Father’s clocks than with people.

“I’m not happy sending you off. It’s because your father wants it.” Mum fiddled with the buttons of her coat. “Please don’t fuss. It’s only for a little while. Just until the war is over.”

Nothing that Kat had heard or read convinced her that the war would be over in a little while. “Why can’t we all stay together? Why can’t you and Aunt Margaret come away?” Kat bit her lip. Her words sounded small and selfish.

Mum frowned. “Kat. I’m needed here. And your great-aunt insists upon staying. You understand.”

Yes, Kat understood. But she needed her mum, too, and with Father on a mission so delicate he couldn’t reveal his whereabouts even to Mum, what if . . . Kat swallowed her protests past the lump in her throat.

Mum reached for Kat’s hand, holding it tight. She said softly, “You have your great-aunt’s gift? I’d hate for you to lose it.”

Kat nodded. The chatelaine was pinned to her waistband and stuck inside her pocket.

Mum’s face relaxed into a smile, and she sighed. “I’ll miss you all, my little sweets.”

Robbie, sitting across, looked up from his reading. “When we get back, we won’t be little or sweets. We’ll be knights.” He was putting on a brave front.

“I’ll still be sweet,” said Ame, her voice plaintive, “and I wish we didn’t have to leave.”

In the station they jostled among the troops and travelers, lugging their trunks behind. Thick steam twined hissing around them, shuddering engines roared to life, brakes squealed, whistles sounded, and the ground shook with the thunder of trains coming and going. Kat clutched her sister’s small hand tight.

“Ah, there they are!” Mum said, and walked forward, waving.

“Ow! Kat, you’re squeezing,” said Amelie.

The boy stood with his parents. He wore a tweedy jacket, his hands jammed in his pockets. His hair, browner than Kat’s, was straight and brushed to one side, where it rebelled from its slicked-back situation. He had a narrow face and brown eyes, and was taller than Kat, which was a comfort, as she was usually the tallest in her grade.

“All here, then,” Mum said with forced cheer. “Kat, Rob, Amelie, meet Mr. and Mrs. Williams. And you must be Peter.”

“Hello, there.” Mr. Williams stuck his hand straight out at Kat. “Pleased to meet you all.”

“Ruddy Americans!” said Robbie, catching the accent at once. “Wow!”

Mr. Williams let out a deep laugh. “I am, anyway, and Pete’s spent most of his life stateside.”

Kat tried not to stare at Peter. She shook hands with his father and nodded to Mrs. Williams.

Mrs. Williams sniffled, and her eyes were rimmed with red. “Here we are in London because I insisted, although who could have known the war would come to this? And now to have to send him away. . . . Oh, I know it’s for the best, but I do so wish . . .”

“Mom. It’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”

Kat didn’t know what she’d expected, especially of an American boy, but Peter’s voice, despite its flat twang, was gentle and soothing. She straightened and lifted her arm to place it over Amelie’s shoulder.

“Besides, my dear,” said Mr. Williams. “This whole war business will be over in no time, and we’ll all be back together again. Think of this as a little holiday for the children. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Bateson?”

“Why, yes, of course,” Mum murmured.

The conductor approached. “Need help with the trunks?”

Mr. Williams stowed the trunks, and the conductor helped them into their car, latching the door behind. They all leaned out the windows, hands reaching down. Kat held Amelie by the waist so that she could grasp Mum’s uplifted hands. Ame stifled a sob, and Kat’s throat swelled. Rob’s eyes glistened as he pressed against the glass.

“Bye, my loves, bye!” Mum called as the train lurched away. “Stay safe!”

Mrs. Williams burst into tears and buried her face in her husband’s shoulder. The train tunnel closed in and curved away from the platform, and their parents slipped out of sight.

Long after the others had settled into their seats, Kat pressed her face to the rain-streaked window as the warehouses and rugged outskirts of London melted into a gray haze. The multiple tracks skinned down to one and the city thinned away. Kat clutched the watch on her wrist, pressing the snapshots of home into her memory.

The three Batesons sat on one bench in the rocking train car; Peter sat across from them, jacket off now and shirtsleeves rolled up, his hair trying to fall from stiff confinement.

“So!” Robbie rubbed his eyes hard, then bounced up and crossed to perch next to Peter. “You’re a ruddy American! Do you know any cowboys?”

Peter grinned.

The boys talked (well, Robbie jabbered on and Peter responded in friendly fashion), and the train pulled north into the creeping shadows of a countryside blacked out in the face of war.

Kat shoved her hand into her pocket and clutched her great-aunt’s chatelaine. Her fingers kneaded and worked at it, the three items rubbing against one another like the bones of a bird, and she squeezed so they made imprints in her palm.

In times like these, according to Great-Aunt Margaret, magic bubbled up, rising out of the confusion and strife of war. Troubled times stirred up magic like dumplings in a stew. “And one must be prepared,” she’d said, folding Kat’s fingers over the chatelaine, “with appropriate countermeasures.”

In times like these, thought Kat, magic—if such a thing were real—wouldn’t help. War was a dark fog covering everything. Kat could wish for the war to end all she wanted, and it wouldn’t do any good. Really, even Robbie’s attempt at swordplay was more useful than this chatelaine. Kat sighed. Poor Aunt Margaret, spouting nonsense. Her sharp mind was withering away.

This chatelaine was just one more thing for Kat to worry over.

She stood, swaying with the train’s motion, clutched the edge of the brass luggage rack above, and pulled down her valise. With her back turned, Rob and Peter and Amelie couldn’t see Kat as she unfastened the chatelaine from her waistband and dropped it into the dark well of the open valise, watching as it disappeared underneath the more practical things, the sweaters and hats and mittens, that Kat believed were truly important to their well-being.

For an instant, she caught a dim light emanating from the chatelaine, a soft blue glow, but then decided it was only a reflection off the silver.

Cold. At that moment Katherine Bateson was certain that the chill and drafts of a Scottish castle would be their greatest threat.