No one moved at first, but then there was a mad dash to look at Uncle Leo’s discovery.
‘It’s Mother’s!’ cried Aunt Minnie, grasping the ancient handbag. ‘I’d recognise it anywhere! She’s had it for years!’
‘You’re right,’ agreed Mother. ‘She never let it out of her sight.’
Will pointed to the half inch of white paper sticking out of the clasp. ‘It’s a ransom note from the Germans.’
This time no one told Will to shut up. Daisy watched Uncle Leo lift the bag gently. Shaking off the ash, he turned the rusty brass catch. With a click it opened. Inside was a pristine white sheet of Grandma’s favourite notepaper.
‘What is it?’ Aunt Minnie demanded as Uncle Leo drew it out with the tips of his dirty fingers. ‘What does it say?’
Slowly he looked up, his face expressionless. ‘They’re alive,’ he whispered. ‘Those tracks were left by a tractor - they’re with the Webbers.
‘Told you,’ said Will, looking smug. ‘But no one ever listens to me.’
Seconds later, it was another mad scramble to the car. This time, after piling in, Uncle Leo drove furiously back along the lane. As if, Daisy thought, they were being chased by Will’s imaginary tank. Mother and Aunt Betty insisted on supposing what might have happened to Grandma and Aunt Pat while Aunt Minnie lit a cigarette for Uncle Leo. Then Mother, who rarely ever smoked shook one from the packet too.
‘Did the note say they were both safe?’ Aunt Betty said again to Uncle Leo.
‘Was there anything about injuries?’ demanded Aunt Minnie.
‘Where’s the handbag? Did we leave it behind?’
Uncle Leo was about to answer but swerved the car to avoid a rabbit. Everyone flew forward, until they careered off again.
‘Is this the way to the farm?’
‘I think we missed the turning.’
‘I’m sure it was the other way … ’
‘We’d better turn back - ‘
‘It can’t be far from here!’
When Daisy saw the field where Vesta and Ida and Harry Lauder were still grazing, she remembered how she and Bobby had almost got lost in this very spot.
‘That’s the lane to the farm,’ she cried, pointing to the sandy track.
There was a united sigh of relief when the Webber’s farmhouse came into view.
CHAPTER 62
THERE WERE TEARS, embraces, sighs and tears again as Grandma and Aunt Pat were hugged and kissed to within an inch of their lives.
‘It was a stray bomb from an aircraft two nights ago,’ Grandma explained as she tottered her way with Aunt Pat and Mrs Webber into the farmhouse parlour. ‘No one saw the culprit. We suppose the pilot must have been on his way back to Germany.’
‘Sit yourselves down,’ interrupted Mrs Webber as she fussed with the fire, piling on more logs. ‘You must be frozen. I’ll put on the kettle.’
‘It was the stove that saved our lives,’ explained Aunt Pat. ‘It broke down again and we’ve been living here at the farm ever since. Had we been inside the cottage, well, we shouldn’t be alive to tell the tale.’
‘But all your personal items, clothes and books?’ Aunt Betty asked sadly. ‘All gone, I suppose?’
Grandma nodded. ‘All gone. But bricks and mortar are replaceable. Lives aren’t.’
‘Mother kept our ration books and identity cards and a little money in her handbag,’ said Aunt Pat practically. ‘Though we emptied it of course before leaving it at the cottage with the note inside. We knew you’d be thinking of us and might even go against the government’s advice and risk driving down for Christmas. Bill tried to telephone Minnie just after the raid happened but there was no answer from the studio.’
‘We must have been at Betty’s,’ explained Aunt Minnie. ‘Our studio isn’t deemed safe to return to after a bomb dropped close by.’
‘London is having a frightful time,’ said Grandma with a little shudder. ‘I worry about you girls living in the city.’
‘But look at what’s happened to the cottage,’ pointed out Mother gently. ‘It’s not safe down here either.’
‘I’ve no intention of leaving Wattcombe,’ Grandma replied in an alarmed voice. ‘Pat and I will find a place to rent. Wattcombe is our home and I refuse to be forced out of it.’
‘But that won’t be easy in wartime,’ persevered Mother. ‘Nor will it be cheap. Won’t you give some thought to coming back to Betty’s?’
‘Heavens no!’ exclaimed Grandma indignantly. ‘It’s my belief that everyone should save for a rainy day. I have enough put by to see me and Pat all right.’
‘Do think again,’ pleaded Aunt Betty. ‘We’d love to have you with us - ’
Grandma shook her head fiercely. ’Very nice of you dear, but I don’t care for the city. Bill knows of a place to rent in the village. A small two-bedroom mews at the back of the shops. I’ve asked him to make enquiries on my behalf.’
Daisy watched keenly as her aunts all looked at one another in dismay.
‘Now, I’m sure we could do with another cuppa,’ suggested Mrs Webber. ‘I’ll top up the teapot.’
More tea was drunk and it was finally agreed - not at all to Daisy’s surprise - that for better or worse, Grandma should have her own way.
When Mr Webber returned from the dairy, a hearty supper was served in the kitchen. ‘Eat up, my dears,’ Mrs Webber invited as they sat down to yet another farm feast.
Daisy piled her plate high - almost as much as Will and Bobby piled theirs; thick slices of cold pork and hot boiled potatoes with a knob of butter. Crusty slices of real, home baked bread and Mrs Webber’s creamy trifle. Made with thick, buttery cow’s cream, probably Vesta’s or Marie’s or even Harry Lauder’s, the spongy, fruity flavoured jelly was lost under the fluffy white topping. Trifles were unheard of in London, but here on the farm, Daisy reflected, life seemed to have changed very little.
‘Now, we’ll sort out the sleeping arrangements,’ said Mrs Webber, getting up from the table and slipping off her pinny,
