Lost Angel. Kitty Neale

lucky. In London we only get our rationed amounts and there’s talk of it getting worse.’

      Soon a tiny village loomed in front of them, but Gertie just drove through it and out the other side. On and on they went, the light dimming and no sign of any other habitations, until at last Gertie eased the horse and cart left into a narrow lane. At the end she finally pulled on the reins, saying as the horse drew to a halt and she hopped down, ‘I’ll just open the gates.’

      Ellen could see little as her eyes tried to pierce the gloom. Gertie didn’t get onto the cart again; instead she gripped the bridle to lead the horse through. Ellen could now see a small cottage, and as Gertie tethered the animal she watched her mother climb down from the cart, her feet sinking into thick, heavy mud.

      ‘Yeah, I can see what you mean about boots,’ her mum complained then held up her arms. ‘Come on, Ellen.’

      Ellen felt the ooze as her feet touched the ground, then the sucking sensation as she lifted one foot.

      ‘Come on, this way,’ Gertie said as she grabbed their cases, ‘but watch your step.’

      Tentatively they squelched to the front door, both taking off their mud-caked shoes before stepping inside. It was dark, but they felt a welcome blast of warm air, along with a low growl.

      ‘Oh Gawd, what’s that?’ Hilda gasped.

      ‘It’s only Bertie,’ said Gertie as she lit an oil lamp.

      ‘Bertie?’ she yelped as the growls turned to sharp yaps.

      ‘He won’t hurt you,’ Gertie assured and, as light pierced the gloom, a small white dog with a blaze of black on his face came into view.

      The dog ran up to Ellen, yapping and jumping around her with excitement. She smiled, crouching down to stroke him. ‘He … he’s so sweet.’

      ‘He’s a Jack Russell terrier and perfect for ratting.’

      ‘Rats,’ her mother squeaked. ‘Oh, blimey.’

      ‘There are rats in London – in fact, probably more than around here. Now take your things off and make yourself at home while I see to the horse. I expect you’re dying for a cup of tea so you can put the kettle on the range to boil.’

      ‘Why the oil lamps? Ain’t you got electricity?’

      ‘No, but at least I’ve got running water.’

      The journey had seemed to go on for ever, and now unable to hold it any longer, Ellen said, ‘I … I need the toilet.’

      ‘Go through the scullery and you’ll find it outside the back door,’ Gertie told her.

      Ellen barely took in the deep sink and draining board as she passed through the scullery. The wooden door to the outside toilet squeaked, but there was no light so she left it open, managing in the gloom as she perched on such a funny seat.

      It was strange here, so quiet, but sort of nice too, and Ellen thought she might like living in the country.

      

      When Gertie marched outside again, the dog at her heels, Hilda took a look around the room. The ceiling was low, crossed with heavy, dark beams, the room dominated by a huge, black cooking range. A small, scruffy wooden table stood in the centre, and on each side of the range she saw wing-back chairs, one with horsehair stuffing poking through the upholstery. Other than that there was a dresser, the shelves packed with a mishmash of china.

      Gertie was right, this place wasn’t much, but nevertheless Hilda was charmed by the cosy atmosphere. Gertie had done her best, the tiny, deep-set, lead-paned window dressed with chintz curtains, the wide sill sporting a jug of dried flowers. Hilda found herself sniffing the air, her mouth salivating at the rich aroma of beef casserole.

      ‘It … it’s a funny toilet,’ Ellen said as she came back inside. ‘There isn’t a … a proper seat, just a long wooden bench with … with a hole in it.’

      ‘I never thought I’d see the day when I thought our little house was luxurious, but compared to this …’ Hilda had to pause, a lump in her throat. There was no house now, her home just a pile of rubble. Hilda managed to swallow her emotions. They were here now, safe, and that was the most important thing. ‘We’ll be eating soon, but in the meantime I’ll make us all a drink.’

      ‘Why … why does Gertie wear men’s clothes?’

      Hilda paused as she wondered how to answer her daughter’s question. Ellen was too young to understand so, grasping, she said, ‘I expect it’s because it’s sensible to wear trousers when you’re working outdoors, and warmer too.’

      ‘Can … can I wear trousers?’

      ‘Well, yes, I suppose so, but I don’t know how we’ll get hold of any.’

      ‘Get hold of what?’ Gertie asked, catching the tail end of the conversation as she stepped inside.

      ‘Like you, Ellen wants to wear trousers.’

      ‘That won’t be a problem. I’ve got an old sewing machine and we can soon knock her up a couple of pairs. You’ll need some too, Hilda.’

      ‘Me! No, I don’t think so.’

      ‘We’ll see. Now then, have you put the kettle on the range?’ she asked brusquely.

      ‘I was just about to do it.’

      ‘Get a move on, and you, Ellen, can lay the table for dinner.’

      ‘Gertie, you haven’t changed and sound as bossy as ever,’ Hilda said, giggling as she added, ‘Talk about a school mistress. What next? If we don’t behave, will you give us the cane?’

      Gertie at first looked shocked, but then she too began to laugh. ‘Oh, Hilda, I really am glad you’re here.’

      ‘Can … can we have our dinner now?’ a small voice said.

      ‘Yes, all right,’ Gertie agreed, ‘and tomorrow I’ll show you how to collect eggs for our breakfast.’ ‘Where’s your dog?’

      ‘He’s been cooped up in here while I went to fetch you, but once we’ve eaten you can call him in again. I’ve a cat too, but Wilfred’s a tom and is mostly off roaming.’

      ‘Wh … what else have you got?’ Ellen asked eagerly.

      ‘Two pigs and a goat.’

      Hilda saw her daughter’s delight and smiled. It was going to be all right, and she was sure that bringing Ellen here had been the right decision. Ellen would recover and enjoy exploring the countryside. And I’ll be fine too, Hilda decided, yet there was no way that Gertie was going to get her into trousers.

       Chapter Four

      During the next five months Hilda saw a huge change in her daughter. Ellen’s stammer disappeared, and, though they were both still grieving, the horrors of living in London during the Blitz soon seemed far away. Instead of an air raid siren, they now woke up to the sound of birdsong and Gertie’s cockerel.

      The only school was on the other side of the village and, as it was a long way to go, Gertie was tutoring Ellen at home. At first she had missed the company of other children, but once spring had arrived and the skeletal trees burst into new growth, Ellen had become totally enamoured with the countryside. When not having lessons or helping out on the smallholding, she spent hours roaming the woods, bringing home all sorts of things – bugs, bluebells and other wildflowers – all of which Gertie would identify for her. Gertie also showed her how to press the flowers and leaves before carefully placing them in albums, and, for Ellen, a love of nature was born. Hilda’s smile was wry when she thought about her daughter’s new passion. She couldn’t feel the same. Yes, it was safe here, but she hated living in such total