Unfortunately, Mr Hitler must have caught sight of the newspaper out of the corner of her eye. As the nanny goat lunged for the parcel, Edie grabbed the pail of milk and saved it just in time. But it was too late to rescue the package. Mr Hitler was tossing it up and down in the air. As the goat munched on the newspaper, two pairs of boys’ grey flannel shorts fell out on to the grass below.
“Kegs! I’ve never seen a girl wear aught like those before!” tittered Perky. “They used to belong to my cousin, Stan. But he’s outgrown ’em.”
“They’re just perfect!” cried Edie. She couldn’t have been more pleased if it had been a velvet dress with new shiny patent-leather shoes like the ones Fliss always bought her for the Christmas pantomime. She didn’t care how much Perky was laughing. “These are just what I need,” she said, picking up a pair of the shorts and holding them against her waist for size.
Gus was cutting across the grass with a saucepan of kitchen scraps for the chickens. Soon he was laughing just as loud as Perky at the sight of Edie holding up the grey boys’ shorts and whirling around in delight.
“They’re not for a girl,” he teased.
“I don’t see why not,” said Edie, but she suddenly stopped mid-whirl to stare at Mr Hitler who was still munching contentedly.
“Oh, boys,” she cried. “It’s not funny. I think Mr Hitler has eaten all the newspaper … and the string as well.”
She watched in horror as the goat swallowed the last dangling strand of twine and belched loudly.
Edie was very worried about goaty Mr Hitler for the next few days. Poor Greta was even more anxious. She asked Uncle Peter (as she and Gus now called him) if they ought to sleep in her stall at night to check she was all right.
“Don’t worry. Goats are tough. They can eat anything,” said Uncle Peter. “You’ll see.”
Sure enough, the nanny goat seemed to show no ill effects whatsoever. The following week, she ate an important-looking form from the Ministry Of Food all about milking quotas and rationing.
Edie was delighted there was no harm done, and she was thrilled with her new shorts too. They were especially useful when the children went on adventures, exploring the countryside around Three Chimneys, criss-crossing back and forwards on the bridges over the railway tracks.
Lessons turned out to be few and far between – in fact, there were hardly any at all. Aunt Roberta was only supposed to be a volunteer at the little hospital over in Stacklepoole, but she was such a good nurse she was always in demand. She often set off on her bicycle at the crack of dawn and wasn’t seen again until nightfall.
“You must be very busy there,” said Edie once.
“Not with anything too serious,” answered Aunt Roberta. “It’s mostly old ladies with sore feet and bad bunions. But with so many doctors away at the front, I suppose that’s all part of the war effort too.”
“I suppose so,” said Edie. At first, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Aunt Roberta was away so much because she was trying to avoid her, still resentful of the fact that Fliss’s illegitimate daughter had come to stay at Three Chimneys at all. But as time passed, she began to feel this couldn’t be true. No matter how late Aunt Roberta got back, she always crept upstairs to kiss Edie goodnight. If it was very late, and Greta was asleep, they’d creep back down to the kitchen where Aunt Roberta would make them both a cup of tea and they’d chat about their day. Or, if it was early enough, there’d be a story for her and Greta all tucked up in bed.
Edie soon found herself listening out for the sound of Aunt Roberta’s bicycle on the gravel outside whenever she was working late. Those evening chats were often one of the best parts of her day.
Meanwhile, an older girl called Maisie Gills came from the village to help with chores and look after Greta when Aunt Roberta was working. But that still didn’t leave Uncle Peter time to teach them lessons either. He was always busy cooking and gardening.
“Digging for victory,” as he liked to say, waving his spade in the air. And when he wasn’t doing that, he was “tinkering” in the old stable he’d set up as a workshop behind the house. He had made a bit of money as an antique restorer before the war, but what he liked most was collecting old bits and pieces related to the railway and returning them to their former glory. Edie loved watching him shine the brass on an old lamp or wind the cogs to restore life to a dusty station clock. He had boxes and baskets filled with a rusty tangle of springs and wheels and screws – and some things which seemed to have no name at all. It mostly looked like old junk to Edie, but Uncle Peter would hum under his breath, plunge his hand into a particular basket and come out with the perfect penny-sized cogwheel he was searching for.
Every once in a while his hands would shake and he would have to sit, trembling uncontrollably for a moment before he could begin again.
“I wanted to be an engineer when I was a boy,” he told her. “But then the Great War came along and … well, I never got the training.”
It was one of the bad days and his hands were shaking a lot. He kept digging them into his pockets and Edie tried not to stare.
“Go on. Run along outside and play,” he said, smiling at her gently. “Otherwise I might just have to set you a test on algebra after all.”
Even if there wasn’t much schoolwork, the children did have chores: feeding the chickens, milking the goat, collecting eggs, helping to dig and
