Edie’s heart was pumping as she sat there hugging her knees. She had never heard any grown-up shout terrible things like that before, especially not kind, gentle Uncle Peter. He must have had a terrifying nightmare to make him scream like that.
She glanced over at Greta. She was still fast asleep, her thumb in her mouth and her fingers gripping Mr Churchill’s woolly grey ear. How could she have slept through all that noise? The soft yellowy bulb of the electric night light Greta always insisted on was glowing gently between their beds, but the rest of the room was pitch dark from the thick blackout curtains drawn across the windows. Even out here in the middle of the countryside, they weren’t allowed to show a chink of light. It would only take one stray German bomber to see a tiny glow and they might just decide to unload one of those deadly bombs on Three Chimneys. Edie had heard they often dropped them anywhere they could on the way back home, just to be rid of the extra weight.
Her heart was still thumping, but the house was quiet again. Uncle Peter had stopped screaming. Edie leant over and turned the night light off. She slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the window in the pitch dark. She lifted the corner of the heavy curtain and saw that there was a pale moon shining over the meadow. She wanted to open the window and breathe in the fresh air, but didn’t dare in case she woke Greta with the noise. The latch was stiff and creaky and it always needed a good, hard thump to make it budge. She pulled the curtain tight again and tiptoed back to the bed, stubbing her toe in the dark. She switched the little night light back on and lay down, staring at the ceiling. She was still tense, half-listening out for another cry. It felt like those awful nights in London, where she used lie awake waiting for the air-raid siren to scream.
She closed her eyes and tried counting sheep – that was supposed to make you fall asleep. The trouble was, she couldn’t decide what sort of sheep they should be. In London when she’d counted sheep they were always white and fluffy. But that was before she’d come to Yorkshire and realized there was such a variety to choose from. Should they be white sheep or grey ones, black ones or speckle-faces? And should they jump over a gate, or a fence, or perhaps a lovely dry-stone wall like the ones that criss-crossed the fields here? It was no good. She was never going to get back to sleep like this. Her chest felt tight and she was hot and restless.
She slid out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown and slippers, and eased the door open. She stood on the dark landing for a moment, listening. She could see a crack of light under Uncle Peter’s door and heard the murmur of voices as he and Aunt Roberta talked. She turned as quietly as she could and crept downstairs. It was pitch dark with the shutters closed and she stumbled for a moment, forgetting the extra little step between the hall and the kitchen. She kicked the empty milk pail over and it clattered across the tiled floor.
“Whoops!” She fumbled for it in the dark, set it upright again, and froze, her heart pounding louder than ever. Would someone shout out? Would Aunt Roberta come down to see what had happened?
She held her breath and counted to a hundred in her head before she dared to move. Perhaps they hadn’t heard her after all.
For a moment Edie wondered about just getting a glass of water and going back upstairs. But she felt too wide awake and restless. She’d been scared by Uncle Peter’s shouting and she couldn’t bear the thought of staying in bed. The night light wasn’t bright enough to read by, and she knew she’d just lie there worrying about things. About Fliss. And the war. And poor Uncle Peter now too.
No. She didn’t want that. She wanted fresh air. Before she could change her mind, she slipped out through the garden door, darted round the side of the stables and ran across the moonlit meadow. She lost her slippers in the first few steps, but stopped to pick them up, and scampered on barefoot, clutching them in her hand. The moon was bright in the sky, its silvery light clear enough to see by. Everything looked black and white like a photograph to Edie. A bomber’s moon, as everyone had always called it on bad nights for air raids in London, because the enemy planes made the most of bright light and the chance to see their targets down below. But she was sure she’d be all right out here in the middle of the countryside.
At first Edie just ran. It felt wonderful to feel so free with the cold night air on her face. But as she reached the bottom of the meadow, she stopped running and put her slippers on again. She picked her way over the stony ground at the edge of the grass. She knew, without having stopped to make the decision, that she was heading to the railway line.
As she slithered towards the fence, her heart gave a leap. There was someone else there, sitting on the railings.
“Hello, Edie,” said Gus. He didn’t even look round. “I wondered if you’d turn up.”
Edie felt a great rush of relief. “Oh, it’s you!” she said, still keeping her voice to a whisper. It seemed wrong to talk loudly in the dark. “If I’d known you were here, I’d have brought a midnight feast.” She clambered on to the fence and sat beside him. Neither of them asked why the other one was awake.
“Five minutes,” said Gus, tapping his watch.
“Five minutes till what?” whispered Edie. “Till midnight?” Perhaps he thought she was serious about
