Girl with Secrets: a coming of age war story and family saga full of romance, mystery and danger in by Carol Rivers (to read list .txt) 📗

spectacles had been. He drew his fingers over his face and mopped the soot from his hair with a rag. His white teeth appeared as he beamed a smile. ‘Success!’

‘Is it working?’

‘Of course!’ The white smile grew even wider.

They giggled all the more at the unrecognisable man who slightly resembled their father.

That evening, Daisy told everyone the story. There was laughter and pats on the back. Pops had mended the stove and was congratulated many times over.

‘Now we can go home,’ said Grandma with relief, but Mrs Webber looked doubtful.

‘No harm in waiting a few days, my dear.’

‘No time like the present,’ replied Grandma, obstinately folding her arms across her chest.

Daisy knew Grandma wouldn’t change her mind. Her stubborn expression told everyone she was going home come what may - and in her very own words, that was that!

‘G oodbye!’ Mother waved from the car window as they left the farmhouse the next day. ‘And thank you!’

Daisy knew that as much as she loved London, Wattcombe would always hold a special place in her heart. Living with the Webbers had reminded her of what it had been like to grow up in the country. The war had not been talked about much and true neighbourliness had been shown to those in trouble. She would always remember the farmer and his wife’s kindness.

Now, as they all crammed into the back of the car, with Grandma and Aunt Pat wrapped in blankets, it was an unexpectedly sad moment.

Mrs Webber stood tearfully on the doorstep. Mr Webber saluted goodbye as Daisy looked out of the window.

The Webbers soon disappeared and, as was the plan, Pops drove carefully towards Grandma’s house. The car was stuffy and the windows soon wet with condensation. Grandma sat quietly looking tired but still as resolved to reach home, while Aunt Pat’s teeth were chattering.

‘Nearly there,’ said Pops, turning on the windscreen wiper as rain began to fall. When the house came into view Daisy felt Grandma shudder.

‘At last,’ she sighed. ‘Edith and Bill were kind enough, but oh, how I’ve missed my cottage!’

Pops brought the car to a halt. ‘I’ll check on the stove.’

Everyone leaned anxiously forward to watch as he entered the house. When he reappeared, he looked very sombre.

Grandma gasped. ‘Oh dear. Oh dear.’

Aunt Pat sniffed.

Mother put her hand to her mouth.

Then a big smile appeared on his face. ‘You’ll be pleased to know the stove is working!’

Grandma and Aunt Pat hugged each other. ‘There’s no place like home,’ sighed Grandma, giving a tearful smile.

Daisy thought of London, her own real home; of her perch at the window where on misty, sunny mornings she would narrow her eyes to the skyline of the greatest capital in the world and breathe in the salty, sweet tang of the never-ending River Thames.

CHAPTER 34

February 1940

SNOW HAD TURNED to rain overnight and Daisy sat at her makeshift desk in Cawdor Road School. Just a few inches away from her seat, the drips from the roof leaked directly into a bucket, making loud plopping noises. This would have distracted the pupils but now everyone was used to the array of buckets often filled to the brim and waiting to be emptied. Close by were rows of gas masks in their little square boxes hanging from hooks.

Daisy loved the disused warehouse with its high roof and central location adjacent to Poplar High Street. It smelled, she imagined, like a house would smell in a foreign land; rice and spices and tea and coffee and even timber had been stored here at one time or another.

There was also another attraction; their friends Iris and Sidney Brown and Gary and Grace Mellish, all attended Cawdor. So when she and Bobby had been allocated places after their return from Wattcombe, she hadn’t minded returning to school even though their benches and desks were just rough planks propped by bricks. Books, pencils and papers were in short supply, but the laughter was not.

Best of all at break times, they were allowed to run free in the waste ground backing on to the warehouse. Bobby and his friends could kick footballs as high and as far as they liked. Surrounded by old Victorian commercial buildings, there was no chance of the ball going astray or breaking a window.

As for the girls, they played on rough patches of scrub fenced in by worm-eaten posts from a bygone era, unobserved by the teaching staff.

The call-up had widened to men as old as forty, and many of the young male teachers had vanished. So Daisy was not surprised to find volunteers like Mrs Gardiner and Mr Keen, retired folk who turned a blind eye or deaf ear - literally - to their pupils misdemeanours.

She liked Cawdor the best of all the schools she had attended and when lessons started, Daisy and her classmates took their lessons seriously. They all knew they were fortunate to have their elderly widowed teacher, Mrs Howard to teach them. With her soft, refined voice and small, calm presence she had a way of engaging them. She always gave a daily update on the war effort. Even the youngest children of seven and eight sat quietly to absorb the news.

‘In January of this year,’ said Mrs Howard on one such morning, ‘two million of our young people were called up to serve our country. An immense number of souls. Here on the home front, rationing began. Your parents will have registered with a local grocer and butcher and received ration books. Now who can tell me what some of these rationed foods are?’

Since these lessons always turned out to be more like quizzes Daisy shouted out with the rest of the class. Over twenty-five voices replied. ‘Bacon, butter, sugar!’

‘Very good. Now who can name some of the countries who have remained neutral in the conflict?’

‘Sweden!’

‘Norway!’

‘Denmark!’

Daisy had paid close attention to Mrs Howard over the past few months, so too had everyone else. All the children had family or friends