Chapter 110
All of Hendon was tucked up for the evening, blackout curtains drawn, milk bottles out, cats brought in.
The first chilly evening, a reassuring feeling – the last remnant of the Indian summer now just a memory, and winter not far ahead.
In Swynford Grove, only Mr Forshaw was still out, the rattle of his push mower a rhythmic sound, his rightly admired lawn getting one last cut before the first frost. He liked to mow in the evening.
Said it got a better cut. He’d leave the clippings on the grass as a mulch.
The two fruit trees at number forty-four had been picked.
Those apples that hadn’t gone immediately into a pie or crumble had been individually wrapped in sheets of newspaper, and laid carefully in wooden trays, no apple touching another.
Some would emerge from their wrappings with a spot of mould, but most would last throughout the winter.
Mrs Pearson stirred custard powder into a half-and-half mixture of water and milk.
It wasn’t the same as real, but everyone was doing their bit, and powdered was a lot better than nothing.
Her daughter Charlotte sat at the table, waiting.
Father would be home late again, the Ministry keeping him longer and longer as things got worse.
Mrs Pearson reflected on how quickly things had, indeed, got worse.
‘It’s time I did my bit,’ Charlotte said, pouring tea for them both from the heavy earthenware pot in its knitted cosy. ‘I’m thinking of signing up as a Land Girl.’
Mrs Pearson snorted. Her daughter on her way to a double first from Cambridge – mucking out pigs? Really, the things the young people came out with nowadays.
‘I suppose you could give it a try,’ she said, thinking of early mornings, heavy work, filth everywhere. She’d give it a week then she’d be back.
‘Sussex sounds nice,’ Charlotte said.
Which explained the farming.
‘Isn’t that where she’s from?’
Charlotte did the honours, pouring milk into the tea.
‘I think so,’ she said, trying and failing to be off-hand about it.
‘Quite a charisma, I thought,’ Mrs Pearson said.
‘I hope you’re not going to get tangled up in anything.
’ She didn’t look at her daughter but she could practically feel her blushing.
Charlotte had always been susceptible to a strong character.
Perhaps it was growing up as an only child, missing out on an older brother or sister.
The custard was ready. Mrs Pearson poured it over two bowls of crumble and brought them to the table. Her daughter blew on hers, in a hurry to eat it before a skin set. Always in a hurry.
‘I suppose they’ll want you to kill her at some point,’ Mrs Pearson said, taking a delicate bite.
The apple was sour. Not enough sugar to balance it.
She wondered how much longer they’d have to put up with it all, before Hitler arrived and set everything back to normal.
It couldn’t go on for much longer. The rationing.
The blackouts. Girls being sent out to work.
Made you wonder what you were fighting for if this was all they had to look forward to.
‘I suppose so,’ Charlotte said. ‘But in the meantime, I think we’re going to be the best of friends.’
If you enjoyed this book, make sure you don’t miss The Last Line, another gripping WWII thriller featuring John Cook and Lady Margaret. Available now!