Lost Angel. Kitty Neale

she hadn’t been hurt. Mabel had then had a stroke of luck when, through the grapevine, she’d found a private landlord who offered her a flat in Clapham. It seemed that Mabel loved it there, and, not only that, it was an area that so far had been barely touched by bombs.

      It made Hilda realise how lucky they were to have left Battersea, though she still wasn’t keen on working outdoors. Thankfully Gertie always mucked out the pigs, though that still left the back-breaking work of digging for spring planting. If she had news of Doug it would be something, but though she’d sent him a letter with her new address, so far there had been no reply. God, she missed him so much, prayed he was safe, and for a moment tears stung her eyes. Britain had lost so many vessels, so many seamen, and Hilda lived in constant fear of hearing that his ship had been sunk. Inadvertently her hand rose to clutch the crucifix.

      ‘Hilda, I know you only wear that thing because it belonged to your mother, but when you’re miles away you always seem to hold it,’ commented Gertie. ‘I thought that, like me, you’d had enough religion rammed down your throat.’

      ‘I have, especially after the way your father turned on you. What happened to all that stuff he used to spout about not judging others lest you be judged?’

      ‘Try telling him that.’

      Hilda shuddered, remembering her childhood fear and awe of Gertie’s father. The man had been almost maniacal in his preaching, and it had been enough to turn her off going to church for life.

      ‘Gertie, can we go to the village today?’

      ‘There’s no need to go every week and I’d rather get the rest of the potatoes in, along with cabbage and carrots. There’s the salad crop too and tomatoes to bring on in the greenhouse.’

      ‘For goodness’ sake, Gertie, give it a break. I’m worried about Doug and there might be a letter.’

      ‘This is a busy time of year and if I don’t plant, I don’t eat. I know I’ve preserved fruit from last year, made jam and pickles, but I need to sell produce to buy flour, meat, and anything else I can’t grow.’

      ‘It still seems strange to think of you making jam.’

      ‘I hate it, hate any kind of cooking, but needs must.’

      ‘Before we came I had no idea how much land you had. How on earth have you managed on your own?’

      ‘I had a lad of fourteen working for me, but once conscription started labour became short. He found a job earning more than I could possibly pay him, and since then it’s been impossible to find hired help. I had to cut down on planting, but now you’ve arrived we’ve managed to start a lot more off.’

      ‘Yeah, and I’ve done my best to muck in, but I’m really worried about Doug. I haven’t heard from him yet, and if you take me to the village I promise I’ll really get stuck in again when we get back.’

      ‘If you’d only learn to handle Ned you could go on your own.’

      ‘He hates me.’

      ‘Hilda, he’s a horse and just needs firm hands on the reins.’

      ‘I was firm, but the sod wouldn’t move.’

      Gertie shook her head with obvious disgust, but Hilda tried a winning smile. It was all right for Gertie. She was happy living like a virtual recluse, but for Hilda it was becoming more and more difficult. She missed her friends, the bustle of London, and if only the Luftwaffe would stop dropping bombs she’d go back like a shot.

      ‘Please, Gertie.’

      ‘Oh, all right. I need to see the butcher so might as well do that, but I’m not hanging about while you waste time gossiping with the locals again.’

      Hilda smiled with delight as she went to the bottom of the stairs to call Ellen. They shared a bedroom under the eaves, snuggled up in a huge, lumpy, iron-framed bed.

      ‘Ellen, Ellen, come on, get up.’

      ‘Another one,’ Ellen said when she finally appeared, her hands cupped around a catch.

      Hilda shuddered as she backed away. That was another thing she hated, the huge spiders that regularly appeared in their bedroom and the rest of the cottage.

      ‘Is it one of them whoppers?’

      ‘Yes, a tree spider,’ Ellen said as she walked over to the back door.

      ‘Hurry up! Get it out of here before you drop it.’

      ‘Honestly, Hilda,’ said Gertie, ‘anyone would think you’ve never seen a spider before. You should be used to them by now and there are plenty of spiders in London.’

      ‘Yes, but not those bloody great hairy things.’

      ‘They won’t hurt you,’ Gertie said as she opened the back door for Ellen and the spider was dispatched.

      Hilda’s cheeks puffed with relief, the insect soon forgotten as she began to boil eggs for their breakfast. She was anxious to go and as soon as they’d eaten she chivvied Ellen to get ready, while Gertie went to get the horse from the small field.

      

      Just getting the horse and cart harnessed took ages and it drove Hilda mad but, knowing better than to complain, she just smiled gratefully at Gertie when at last they set off. It was a nice morning with hardly a cloud in the sky and just a slight nip in the air. ‘Oh, Gertie, I hope there’s a letter.’

      ‘Stop worrying. If anything had happened to Doug you’d have heard.’

      ‘I haven’t got a clue where he is, what ocean, where he’s headed. I think he tried to tell me in his last letter, but it was so heavily censored with line after line blacked out that it was unreadable.’

      ‘How did he end up in the navy?’

      ‘As soon as the war started he couldn’t wait to get to a recruitment office. He said he didn’t fancy the army with all the foot slogging, so volunteered for the navy.’

      ‘What does he do?’

      ‘He’s a stoker and I’ve been allotted most of his pay, but I don’t know why the silly bugger was so quick to enlist.’

      ‘Mum, you sweared,’ Ellen protested.

      ‘Swore,’ Gertie corrected.

      Hilda smiled ruefully as she ruffled her daughter’s hair. ‘Yeah, well, this war is enough to make a saint swear – not that I want to hear you using bad language.’

      Ellen leaned against her. Hilda’s mind was full of her husband. When they met she had fallen for his tall, dark good looks and twinkling blue eyes. Doug had been a milkman before the war, up at the crack of dawn, out in all weathers, but nothing had seemed to get him down and he always had a ready smile. Ellen took after him, and every time Hilda looked at her daughter she could see her husband. She longed to see him, and though Hilda knew that she and Doug looked odd together – him six foot tall and her under five – she didn’t care. She loved Doug, missed him so much and cursed this bloody war. His letters had been fairly regular until now, but then this gap had come and she was worried sick.

      At last the village came into view and, pulling on the reins, Gertie said, ‘Whoa, Ned,’ as she brought the horse to a stop outside the general store-cum-post office.

      Gertie had hardly tethered Ned before Hilda was hurrying inside, thankful to find she was the only customer.

      ‘Is there any mail for me?’ she asked eagerly.

      ‘No, I’m sorry, there’s nothing,’ Mrs Brandon, the elderly postmistress said.

      Hilda sagged with disappointment, but as Ellen rushed into the shop she managed to hide her feelings.

      ‘Is there a letter, Mum?’

      ‘No, pet, but don’t worry. Your dad’s sure to write soon.’

      ‘Can