Daisy and Bobby put up their hands.
‘Daisy, you will be in Class Two, Bobby in Class Four. Please school, make sure you bring your outside shoes with you, as well as plimsoles. Packed lunches too, since the school no longer has catering facilities.’
‘I hope we’ve still got Mr Pine and Mr Fraser as our teachers,’ Daisy said as she and Bobby made their way inside.
‘Sit where you can find a space,’ said the teacher of Class Two who bore no resemblance at all to Mr Pine, a young man who loved to take the children on nature rambles. Mrs Gardiner was white-haired and stood with the aid of a walking stick. ‘Daisy Purbright?’
Daisy stood up.
‘You are the oldest pupil. It’s up to you to monitor the class.’
Daisy looked around at the very young children, some of them clutching battered teddy bears, or dolls. ’Please Mrs Gardiner, what do I have to do?’
Mrs Gardiner sank with a heavy sigh on the chair behind the desk. ‘You look like an intelligent child. Start with reading to the children and then go on to numbers. The books are on the shelf there.’
Daisy could not believe her instructions. Was she to teach the children?
‘I want to wee,’ said a timid voice behind her.
Daisy looked round at the little girl.
‘Too late,’ muttered Mrs Gardiner. ‘There’s a mop in the cupboard. Clean up the mess immediately.’
CHAPTER 25
‘I HAVE TO LOOK AFTER BABIES,’ Daisy complained to Aunt Pat and Grandma that evening as they ate supper. ‘Some of them can’t even count to five.’
‘Poor souls,’ said Grandma sadly.
‘None of our old friends are there. The children are all evacuees from different places.’
‘Like you, my dear,’ said Grandma, dolling out the mash potatoes.
’Mrs Gardiner is very old. Older than you, Grandma.’
‘Well, that’s a comfort. There’s hope for me yet,’ smiled Grandma.
Daisy found her complaints, unlike at home, fell on deaf ears. Bobby, she discovered, had his own problems. He was almost the youngest in a group of older, rougher boys. His teacher was not Mr Fraser but a Mr Musgrave who relied heavily on a faulty hearing aid and spectacles with very thick lenses, one clear and one opaque.
‘It’s not a proper school,’ Daisy decided that night as they lay in their beds. ‘I wish we had Mr Pine back.’
‘War changes everything,’ Bobby agreed. ‘As we’ve found out.’
‘I wonder what Matt’s up to?’
‘He’s having a much more exciting time, flying planes and shooting down enemy aircraft.’
Daisy shook her head fiercely. ‘Matt wouldn’t kill anyone.’
’Don’t you know anything?’ Bobby demanded. ‘In war, people get killed. It’s not like you’ve seen at the pictures where everyone gets saved.’
Daisy felt very upset. She had got used to the idea of Matt being in the airforce, and wearing a smart uniform, but not to actually shoot bullets into something or someone. Or worse, the enemy shooting at Matt. ‘Do you think we’ll all be together for Christmas?’ she moped.
‘Aunt Pat and Grandma have never missed coming to London for the holiday,’ Bobby replied. ‘Pops can’t leave us behind.’
Daisy felt better. Perhaps Bobby was right.
‘C an we go out?’ Daisy asked after lunch on Saturday. ‘We’ve cleaned our room and made our beds.’
‘Be careful of the traffic,’warned Aunt Pat. ‘The village can get very busy at weekends.’
‘There’s never any traffic in Wattcombe,’ Daisy giggled. ‘And I don’t want to go to the village.’
‘Neither do I,’ agreed Bobby. ‘Let’s walk to our old house instead.’
Daisy nodded eagerly. ‘I wonder if it’s just the same?’
After half an hour’s trudge down a narrow lane, a large notice came into view.
‘What’s that long word?’ Daisy pointed to the board in the hedgerow with bright red lettering.
’Demolition,’ said Bobby. ‘It means something’s being torn down.’
As they rounded the corner, Daisy gasped. ‘Oh, Bobby, what have they done to our old home?’
The pretty garden that Mother had created, full of roses and flower beds was now overgrown. The old front door and windows were boarded. A blackish shadow crept over the red bricks as though they had been dusted with soot. The smell of burning hung in the air.
They walked slowly round to the kitchen garden and stood with their mouths open. Daisy had planted some of the herbs and vegetables herself; she remembered Mother showing her how to sow the fragile little seeds in tidy rows. Beyond, the chicken coop netting had fallen away and the hens’ house was just a pile of old wood. Now everything had been eaten up by slugs, weeds and waist-high grass. The pretty stone path where Daisy loved to play hop-scotch was covered by slippery green moss. The most shocking thing of all was the vast black hole in the roof which wasn’t an ordinary hole either, but a charred, gaping void into which the thatch had collapsed.
‘There’s been a fire,’ said Bobby.
Daisy felt sad too. ‘Can’t it be mended?’
Bobby shook his head. ‘No. That’s why they’re demolishing it.’
Daisy looked up at her bedroom window, now covered by pieces of board. A torn, burned piece of curtain squeezed out as if trying to escape. ‘I used to see the bats fly against the glass,’ she mumbled. ‘And the swifts used to nest in the eaves.’
‘That’s why Grandma and Aunt Pat didn’t tell us,’ Bobby said firmly. ‘They knew how upset we’d be.’
They stood for a while, staring at the pitiful sight, inhaling the bitter smell of charred wood. Daisy saw that even the pigeons were reluctant to land on the remains of the chimney stack. It was Bobby who turned away, as if unable to bear the scene any longer.
‘Come on, let’s go. Perhaps we’ll watch the parade after all.’
Daisy followed, her heart heavy as they made their way towards the lane. She was deep in thought when she heard a faint rumbling noise. She stopped. ‘What’s that?’
Bobby stood still, listening. He turned and peered up at the sky. ‘Look!’
Daisy followed his gaze.
