‘This is Grace,’ Hannah said, ‘Remember? She saved us from Miss Prince last summer.’
‘Is Myra unwell?’
‘No, miss,’ I said. ‘She’s down in the village, working at the station. On account of the war.’
Hannah raised an eyebrow. ‘I pity the unsuspecting passenger who misplaces his ticket.’
‘Yes, miss,’ I said.
‘Grace will be dressing us when Myra’s at the station,’ Hannah said to Emmeline. ‘Won’t it be a nice change to have someone our own age?’
I curtseyed and left the room, my heart singing. And a part of me hoped the war would never end.
It was crisp, the March morning we saw Alfred off to war. The sky was clear and the air heady with the promise of excitement. I felt oddly infused with purpose as we walked to town from Riverton. While Mr Hamilton and Mrs Townsend kept the home fires burning, Myra, Katie and I had been given special permission, on condition our duties were complete, to accompany Alfred to the station. It was our national duty, Mr Hamilton said, to offer morale to Britain’s fine young men as they dedicated themselves to their country.
Morale was to have its limits, however; under no circumstances were we to engage in conversation with any of the soldiers for whom young ladies such as ourselves might represent easy prey.
How important I felt, striding down the High Street in my best dress, accompanied by one of the King’s Army. I am certain I was not alone in feeling this rush of excitement. Myra, I noticed, had made special efforts with her hair, her long black ponytail looped into a fancy chignon, much like the Mistress wore. Even Katie had made attempts to tame her wayward curls.
When we arrived, the station was brimming with other soldiers and their well-wishers. Sweethearts embraced, mothers straightened shiny new uniforms, and puffed-up fathers swallowed great lumps of pride. The Saffron Green recruiting depot, refusing to be outdone in such matters, had organised an enlisting drive the month before and posters of Lord Kitchener’s pointed finger could still be found on every lamppost. They were to form a special battalion, Alfred said, the Saffron Lads, and would all be going in together. It was better that way, he said, to already know and like the fellows he’d be living with, fighting with.
The waiting train glistened, black and brass, punctuating the occasion from time to time with a great, impatient puff of self-important steam. Alfred carried his kit midway along the platform then stopped. ‘Well girls,’ he said, easing the kit to the floor and gazing about. ‘This looks as good a spot as any.’
We nodded, drinking in the carnival atmosphere. Somewhere at the far end of the platform, up where the officers gathered, a band was playing. Myra waved officially to a stern conductor who nodded a curt reply.
‘Alfred,’ said Katie coyly, ‘I’ve got something for you.’
‘Do you, Katie,’ said Alfred. ‘That’s mighty nice of you.’ He presented his cheek.
‘Oh Alfred,’ said Katie, blushing like a ripe tomato. ‘I never meant a
Alfred winked at Myra and me. ‘Well now, that’s a disappointment, Katie. Here I was, thinking you were going to leave me with a little something to remember home by, when I’m far away across the sea.’
‘I am.’ Katie held out a crumpled tea towel. ‘Here.’
Alfred raised an eyebrow. ‘A tea towel? Why, thank you Katie. That’ll certainly remind me of home.’
‘It’s not a tea towel,’ said Katie. ‘Well, it is. But that’s just the wrapping. Look inside.’
Alfred peeled open the package to reveal three slices of Mrs Townsend’s Victoria sponge cake.
‘There’s no butter or cream, on account of the shortages,’ said Katie. ‘But it’s not bad.’
‘And just how do you know that, Katie?’ snapped Myra. ‘Mrs Townsend won’t be happy you’ve been in her larder again.’
Katie’s bottom lip folded. ‘I just wanted to send something with Alfred.’
‘Yes,’ Myra’s expression softened. ‘Well, I suppose that’s all right then. Just this once: for the sake of the war effort.’ She turned her attention to Alfred. ‘Grace and I have something for you, too, Alfred. Don’t we Grace? Grace?’
Up at the far end of the platform I had noticed a couple of familiar faces: Emmeline, standing near Dawkins, Lord Ashbury’s chauffeur, amid a sea of young officers in smart new uniforms.
‘Grace?’ Myra shook my arm. ‘I was telling Alfred about our gift.’
‘Oh. Yes.’ I reached into my bag and handed Alfred a small package wrapped in brown paper.
He unwrapped it carefully, smiling at its contents.
‘I knitted the socks and Myra the scarf,’ I said.
‘Well,’ said Alfred, inspecting the items. ‘They look mighty fine.’ He closed his hand around the socks, looked at me. ‘I’ll be sure to think of you-all three of you-when I’m snug as a bug and all the other boys are going cold. They’ll envy me my three girls: the best in all of England.’
He tucked the gifts into his kit then folded the paper neatly and handed it back to me. ‘Here you are, Grace. Mrs T will be on the warpath as it is, looking for the rest of her cake. Don’t want her missing her baking paper too.’
I nodded, pressed the paper into my bag; felt his eyes on me.
‘You won’t forget to write to me, will you Gracie?’
I shook my head, met his gaze. ‘No, Alfred. I won’t forget you.’
‘You’d better not,’ he said, smiling at me. ‘Or there’ll be trouble when I’m back.’ He sobered. ‘I’m going to miss you.’ He looked then at Myra and Katie. ‘All of you.’
‘Oh, Alfred,’ said Katie excitedly. ‘Look at the other fellows. Ever so smart in their new uniforms. Are they all Saffron Lads?’
As Alfred pointed out some of the other young men he’d met at the recruiting depot, I looked up the track again, watched as Emmeline waved to another group and ran off. Two of the young officers turned to watch her go and I saw their faces. David, and Robbie Hunter. Where was Hannah? I craned to see. She had avoided David and Robbie as best she could over winter, but surely she wouldn’t miss seeing David off to war?
‘… and that’s Rufus,’ said Alfred, pointing out a skinny soldier with long teeth. ‘His father’s the ragman. Rufus used to help him but he reckons he’s more chance of a regular meal in the army.’
‘That may be,’ Myra said. ‘If you’re a ragman. But you can’t say you don’t do very well for yourself at Riverton.’
‘Oh no,’ said Alfred. ‘I’ve no complaints in that department. Mrs T, and the Master and Mistress, they keep us well-fed.’ He smiled then said, ‘I must say I get sick of being cooped up inside, though. I’m looking forward to living the open-air life for a bit.’
