Peggy's Letters (7 page)

Tommy is struggling to get out. He doesn't understand what's going on, but he's frightened just the same.

“Let go of me, Grandad. We've can't leave Tommy sitting there.”

“Stay back, I'll get him,” orders Grandad.

He goes to the pram and pulls at Tommy. He doesn't know anything about prams and baby things.

“Grandad, he's strapped in. Let me do it. I've un-clipped him hundreds of times.”

Grandad steps aside “Be very very careful,” he says. As if I need telling.

“Up, up,” demands Tommy.

“I know Tom-Tom. Soon have you out.” He needs a hug, but there's no time. The clip is buried under the shrapnel.

“Let's sing a song, Tommy.”

“We haven't time for songs,” yells Grandad.

“It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring,” I sing in a crackly voice.

The hood is going to have to come down even though Tommy will get soaked. He's cold, and now he's going to be wet. The singing doesn't help. His whimpers turn to loud yells.

“Get rid of this, Spud.” I hand him a piece of shrapnel, and he throws it down the dip that was once a post office.

“Be careful,” yells Grandad again. “We don't know what kind of fuse is in that thing. It could go off any minute”

One by one, without jogging the main
pile, I pass out bits of metal from the side of the pram.

“Don't cry, Tommy. Not long now.”

At last the clip is clear. My fingers are wet and slippery, and they won't stop shaking. I push and push with all my strength, but the clip won't open.

“Hurry,” yells Spud.

“It's jammed. It won't move. Spud, try the other one.”

Tommy is bawling louder than ever. Grandad is telling me to be careful for the millionth time, and Spud is yelling too.

I can't think.

“You're doing good, girl,” says Grandad softly.

My heart is pumping so hard I can hardly breathe. Stay calm, I keep telling myself.

“Stuck, stuck,” cries Tommy.

“I know, Tommy. I know.”

Suddenly I remember watching Dad free a rusty bolt. Instead of pulling, he jiggled it sideways. I try the same thing, moving
the clip back and forth, back and forth. I can feel it loosening under my fingers. Another wiggle, a hard squeeze and the clip opens.

“This one's free.”

“I can't find the clip,” calls Spud from the other side of the pram.

Leaning over Tommy, I slide my hand along.

“Where is it?”

“Tom-Tom, up,” cries Tommy. “Up, up, up.” He stretches his little arms toward me, and as he moves the clip appears.

“There it is!” screams Spud.

Luckily this clip is easier than the first. One hard push and the harness is free.

“Let's go, Tommy.”

He climbs into my arms, and we race over to Grandad.

Spud gives the pram a mighty push. It bounces down into the bombsite, hits a wooden beam, turns over and explodes.

There's a crack like thunder and a flash like lightning, but no storm has ever been this scary. The ground shakes, and the rain quivers.

Grandad throws us to the ground and stretches his arms and coat over our heads. His heart is beating louder than mine. Bricks and metal clatter down around us.

Then it's quiet. There's just the sound of the rain.

Tommy wriggles underneath me, and Grandad moves his arm.

“Is everyone all right?” he asks.

Slowly I raise my head. Through a curtain of rain and smoke, I see a pram wheel. It's still turning. There's a piece of pram handle on the pavement, and part of Tommy's blanket has fallen near my hand. The pram is completely destroyed.

Spud lies motionless on the ground. I scramble over to him.

“Spud! Don't be hurt. Please be all right.”

He slowly rolls over. There's pain on his face, but it turns to a grin when he sees me. “What a bang!” he says.

I pound on his chest.

“This isn't a game. You nearly killed my brother. You nearly killed me.”

Grandad pulls me away.

“It's okay, luv. It's all over. Everyone's safe.”

Grandad looks like he's crying, but it may be the rain.

“I don't know what I'd have done if I had lost you two as well,” he says.

“You mean you'd miss us?”

“Very much,” says Grandad. I put my arms around him. His clothes smell of his favorite tobacco, his voice is low and his arms are big enough for Tommy and me.

Suddenly people are all around us.

“Let's get you folks checked over at the hospital,” says a policeman, putting a blanket round my shoulders. As I glance back over the scene, I realize that Dad's letters are gone for good.

Tommy shows off his bandaged knee to everyone who passes as the nurse finishes stitching the cut on my arm. My clothes were soaked right through to my underwear so I'm wearing a hospital gown, but I can't stop shaking even in a warm room with a blanket round my shoulders.

“Where's Spud. Is he okay?”

“Cuts, bruises and a broken arm. Bit shaken up too,” says the nurse. “He's in the next cubicle. I've sent for his mother.”

“We'll stay with him until she comes,” says Grandad.

The nurse finishes with me and pulls aside the curtain. Spud's face is as white as the sheets.

“You don't have to stay,” he says.

“Of course we'll stay.”

He lies back on the pillow, too exhausted to argue.

The door opens. Mum rushes in and surrounds me in a hug that lasts forever. She touches my head and inspects my arms and hands, while Grandad recounts the adventure. He makes Spud and me sound like heroes, but how can we be heroes when it's all our fault?

The door opens again, and in walks Mrs. Mashman.

What's she doing here?

Mrs. Mashman goes straight to Spud's bed. “Stanley,” she says. “What have you been up to this time?”

I look at their matching ginger curls.

“Mashman! Mash potatoes. That's why you're called Spud.”

Spud gives me a coy grin from under his mother's hug.

“Time we were making tracks,” says Grandad.

Behind a screen, Mum helps me change into the dry clothes she's brought. Then we leave.

“Bye, Mrs. Mashman. Bye, Spud. Get well soon.”

“You too,” they call back.

Dear Dad

The “what ifs” won't leave me alone. They fill my dreams and burst in on my thoughts whatever I'm doing. If anything had happened to Tommy it would have been all my fault. From now on I'm going to be the best big sister any brother could ever have.

Grandad was strong and warm and kind. How could I have not liked him? Mrs. Mashman is nice too, when she's not being a headmistress. I'm annoyed at Spud for not telling me the truth about his mum, but I understand. It must be awful hearing people call your mum names every day. My New Year's resolution is to get to know people properly.

Love, Peggy

“What we used to call a pea souper,” says Grandad, joining me at the window. “The good thing is they won't be bombing us and we won't be bombing them today.”

The fog outside is thick and yellow. All I can see are murky shapes. They fill my head.

There's just Grandad and me at home. Mum thought we needed some peace and quiet so she took Tommy to Mrs. Jones's. I'm bored, but I don't feel like doing anything. I'm tired, but I'm not sleepy. Grandad seems to understand. Perhaps he's feeling the same way.

“I've got an idea,” he says at last. “Come on, Peggy, into the kitchen.”

Grandad brings out a large tin and puts it on the table. Inside are paper packets of raisins and currants. There's sugar too.

“I've been saving up my rations. I was going to ask your mother to bake us a Christmas cake. She's a busy woman these days so why don't we make it?”

“Have you ever made a Christmas cake, Grandad?”

“No, have you?

“I always make the icing look like snowy footprints and put the fir trees and the little church on top, but Mum bakes the cake.”

“Oh,” says Grandad. “Never mind. I have your grandma's recipe book. Her cakes were the best.”

Grandad fetches the book and shuffles through the pieces of paper stuffed in between the pages. “Here's your grandmother's recipe,” he says, handing me an ancient scrap of paper with torn edges and faded writing.

“It's very hard to read, Grandad. It says we need twelve eggs. That's a whole month's ration of egg powder.”

“We'll have to adapt it a bit.”

The recipe needs a lot of adapting, but as I sieve and stir and mix and pour, the fog disappears from my head.

“Time for a wish,” says Grandad, handing me the wooden mixing spoon.

“Can I wish for impossible things?”

Grandad hesitates. “Yes,” he says. “But you can't un-wish things. Once something has happened, nothing can change it.”

I sigh for a wish that can't be wished, close my eyes, stir the cake three times and wish for Tommy to find a train at the bottom of his bed on Christmas morning. To make up for yesterday.

“Your turn, Grandad.”

He takes the spoon, stirs and wishes.

That was a quick wish, Grandad.

“I just wished for Peac…”

I clap my hands over my ears. “Don't tell me, or it won't come true.”

He laughs and puts the cake in the oven.

“It's going to take four hours to cook,” says Grandad. “We could put up some decorations while we wait. That is, if I can remember where I put the box. This house hasn't celebrated Christmas in years.”

He goes up to his room and comes down a while later with a dusty cardboard box.

“Decorate away,” he says. “Pin them up wherever you like. I'll just sit here and watch.

The decorations are old and faded, not bright like ours used to be. I stand on a chair and twist streamers along the picture rail. I loop paper chains around the doors. By the time I get to the concertina bells, a warm spicy smell is filling the house.

“Oh, Grandad, it's so Christmasy!”

“You've done a good job, luv,” he says. “You've cheered this house up in more ways than one.”

There's a knock on the door.

It's Mrs. Mashman and Spud with his arm in a sling.

“Good afternoon, Peggy,” she says. “Stanley has something to say to you.” She gives him a nudge. “Go on, Stanley.”

“Er…I'm sorry about nearly blowing you and Tommy up,” he says. Then he groans under his breath. “I'm not allowed to touch another piece of shrapnel as long as I live.”

“It was half my fault,” I say. “We're all okay. That's the main thing.”

Grandad comes into the hall, and I introduce him to Mrs. Mashman.

“Something smells awfully good,” she says.

“I do believe it's our Christmas cake trying to get out of the oven,” jokes Grandad. “Come through to the kitchen.”

Grandad finds the oven mitts, while I clear a space. A mouth-watering smell fills the kitchen as he opens the oven door. The cake is golden brown and has risen to the top of the pan. It looks perfect.

“Stand clear everyone,” says Grandad,
swinging the cake out of the oven and on to the table. He stands back. And right in front of our eyes, the beautiful Christmas cake sinks in the middle.

“Looks like a bomb hit it,” says Spud with a laugh. Mrs. Mashman scowls at him but can't keep a straight face and clamps her hand over her mouth to keep a laugh in.

Grandad and I stare at the disaster.

“On no! We've wasted all that fruit. What's Mum going to say about us using up all the egg and milk rations?”

“She'll skin us alive,” says Grandad.

We look at each other and splutter into laughter. It does look a funny sight.

“You must have got your proportions all wrong,” says Mrs. Mashman. “Never mind, get me a basin and a sixpenny piece.”

Grandad frowns but gives her what she needs. She breaks up the warm cake with a fork, pops the sixpence in the middle and pats it firmly into the basin. You might not have a Christmas cake this year, but
you will have a Christmas pudding.”

“Bravo, Mrs. Mashman,” says Grandad.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” she declares, wiping her hands on the dishcloth. “The important thing is putting things right again.”

She gives me a wink and hands me a dish of warm curranty cake crumbs to share with Spud.

“I have the best adventures when I'm with you,” mumbles Spud through a mouth full of crumbs.

I roll my eyes and smile. “I just seem to get into trouble when I'm with you.”

Dear Dad

Our first Christmas without you is over.

Grandad said we'd be having roast pigeon for Christmas dinner, but he was teasing. He bought us a turkey, although we weren't allowed to ask any questions. Tommy found a beautiful wooden train (made by Grandad) by his bed on Christmas morning, and I found a skipping
rope - no trousers though. I also won the sixpence in the Christmas pudding, so I'm in for a lucky year. I had another treat too. Nora came to visit for a whole day.