Ellie Page 11

  Well-intentioned friends reproached Lydia for making too much of Bonny. They disapproved of the time spent on private coaching and the money she lavished on her. It was true that a kilt she’d bought in Chichester cost more than the week’s evacuee allowance. Perhaps too the pink, Bunnies’ wool twin set she’d got a neighbour to knit was a little extravagant, considering wool was becoming so difficult to get now, but it gave Lydia such pleasure to give nice things to the child and it was a delight to see Bonny’s rapid progress in dancing and to hear how her diction was improving.

  Lydia was aware Bonny was no angel. Aside from minor trouble at school, neighbours had complained of her cheeking them, and she had been found by Mrs Garside wandering around inside Amberley Castle uninvited. But this plucky side of Bonny’s character appealed to Lydia. Had she been as angelic as she looked, she’d have made a dull companion.

  ‘That’s it then for today.’ Lydia stood up again from the piano and beamed at her class as she saw a couple of mothers peering through the window. The girls were all perspiring heavily, a reminder that the weather was at last becoming warmer. ‘Please try and practise at home, real dancers need more than one hour a week. Now off you go and change.’

  Bonny ignored the changing-room and ran upstairs to put her clothes on. She never missed an opportunity to show the other girls that she had special status in this house. Pausing for a moment, she weighed up whether to wear her kilt, a new pink cotton dress her mother had sent, or the red siren suit Aunt Lydia had had made for her.

  The siren suit won. It wasn’t warm enough for the pink dress and everyone had seen the kilt already. Siren suits had become the latest fashion. They had been designed to slip on in the event of an air raid, a comfortable, all purpose garment which would keep out draughts. Bonny loved the big pockets, the red colour and the fact she could climb trees without showing her knickers.

  When she got back downstairs, though, all the girls from her class had left and the first few under-sixes were just arriving with their mothers for their ballet lesson.

  ‘Can I go out?’ Bonny asked Lydia, who was arranging some music on the piano.

  ‘It’s “may I”,’ Lydia corrected Bonny. ‘Yes you may, but be back at one for lunch.’

  Of all the things Bonny liked about living here, freedom was the thing she appreciated most. Back in London she wasn’t even allowed to post a letter or go to the sweet shop alone. Even if she went into the tiny garden, her mother would put her head round the door to see what she was doing.

  Here she could run through a field singing at the top of her lungs, do cartwheels and handstands, prod cow-pats or crawl on her belly through long grass. Aunt Lydia rarely asked where she’d been when she dawdled coming home from school, she didn’t cross-examine her about who she’d talked to and she was happy to allow Bonny to wander about the village, just so long as she didn’t go down to the river and came home on time.

  Aunt Lydia was relaxed about everything. If Bonny didn’t eat what was put in front of her, she got nothing else. If she chose to go out without a coat and got cold it served her right. She didn’t ask if she’d ‘been’ or check to see Bonny was wearing her liberty bodice and two pairs of knickers, and she answered questions truthfully.

  Bonny had only been in Amberley for about a week when Mrs Beavis who lived across the road had a new baby. Bonny was mystified how the doctor could get such a large baby in his bag. Lydia laughed, but she sat down and explained the whole thing properly, even drawing a few pictures to make it clearer. After that Bonny felt she could ask Lydia anything and she always got a straight answer.

  The village looked especially pretty as Bonny skipped off down the road towards Mr Blundell’s grocery shop. A very wet spring had followed the long, bitter winter, but at last the clouds had vanished and the sun was warm. Lilac and laburnum dripped over garden walls, and brilliant blue lobelia and vivid yellow saxifrage vied with clumps of marguerites and towering delphiniums for attention. She stopped for a moment to peer through an arched wrought-iron gate at Mr Wendell’s beautiful garden. To her it was an enchanted place, with a lily pond, stone statues and flower-covered archways. Bonny had dragged her parents along to look at it during their visit, expecting them to be as enthusiastic as herself, but to her dismay they were disparaging. Dad had said it looked like a jungle, and Mum pointed out that the cottage windows needed a good clean.

  Bonny had felt uncomfortable the whole time her parents were here. They’d been sniffy about everything, almost as if they resented her living in such a nice place. Mum had been quite rude to Aunt Lydia, questioning her closely on who Bonny was friends with, what time she went to bed and what she ate.

  Bonny turned away from Mr Wendell’s garden, suddenly remembering this morning’s objective. She wanted to join Jack Easton’s gang, and nothing, not even the fact there were no other girls included, was going to stop her.

  Jack Easton fascinated Bonny. Although he was what her mother would call a ‘Rough Boy’, almost three years older than herself, with carroty hair, she admired him. Jack had charisma. He was tough, cocky and often uncouth, but he was also kind-hearted, funny, brave and quick-witted. It was common knowledge that Mrs Easton had only visited her three sons once since they’d been billeted at the stationhouse with Mr and Mrs Baker last September and that now she’d abandoned them entirely. But the fact that Mrs Baker had become very fond of the three boys and indeed hoped to keep them indefinitely, seemed to prove they weren’t all bad.

  Jack had gruffly welcomed Bonny on her first day at the village school. Since then he’d stuck up for her on several occasion when some of the local children were nasty. Bonny had no way of knowing whether this was because he really liked her, or just because they were both outsiders, but whatever his motive, she was grateful.

  In Bonny’s two months in the village she had noted the children fell into three groups. First the goody-goodies who were tidily dressed, worked hard at school and pleased adults. Then at the other end of the scale were the drips, those who were either dim, timid or had some defect like being fat or cross-eyed. In the middle was a tiny group, Jack’s gang. She’d spotted these boys building camps and tramping off to secret destinations. They alone seemed to have real purpose and all the fun she craved.

  She had already tried hard to convince them she should be a member. Although tree-climbing in the school playground was against the rules, she did it, risking her teacher Miss Thorpe’s wrath just to impress them. Going into Amberley Castle had been another attempt. But although Jack often grinned at Bonny as if in approval she was no nearer to getting invited to one of the gang’s secret meetings.

  Women were queuing right out the door of Mr Blundell’s grocery shop, all gossiping, their shopping baskets over their arms, ration books and purses in their hands. Jack usually collected Mrs Baker’s order at this time on a Saturday morning, but today he wasn’t there.

  Bonny paused for a moment outside the shop, considering asking someone if they’d seen him, when she saw Tom and Michael Easton going into the post office across the road.

  Tom was the same age as Bonny, Michael just six. They shared their older brother’s unmistakable flamered hair and freckles and she assumed Jack was with them too, already inside the shop.

  Mrs Miller’s post office was a dark, cramped Aladdin’s cave of a shop. The post office section, behind its metal grill, took up half of one wall; the rest of the shop was a mishmash of sweets, haberdashery, knitting wool and stationery.

  It was Bonny’s favourite shop. She loved the glass and wood cabinet which held all the Sylko cottons, the reels of ribbons and laces which hung on wooden poles and the exciting profusion of buttons, hair nets, elastic, hair slides and suspenders. There was no space left free in the shop: packets of knitting wool were stacked in front of the counter, still more in cubby holes on the far wall; boxes of birthday cards and bolts of dress fabric were piled up next to writing materials, tubs of knitting needles and curlers.

  Mrs Mille
r presided over a wooden counter crowded with small tubs of aniseed balls, gobstoppers and jelly babies. Behind her, jars of sherbet lemons, toffees and dolly mixtures shared space with jigsaw puzzles, small dolls and toy cars.

  Mrs Miller was very old with snow-white hair. As Bonny walked in, tinkling the shop bell, she looked round from measuring some elastic and smiled at her. She was only distracted for a second, but to Bonny’s amazement Tom used that brief moment to reach up and snatch a lone, large bar of chocolate from the almost empty display stand, right under Mrs Miller’s nose.

  While Mrs Miller continued with her measuring, Tom hastily stuffed the bar in the pocket of his shorts.

  Bonny was more astounded that there was still such a large bar of chocolate in existence than by Tom’s daring. Before she left London most of the shops had long since run out. She was also surprised to find that Tom and Michael weren’t accompanied by Jack.

  ‘There now,’ Mrs Miller said as she wound the elastic round her hand and wrapped it in a twist of white paper. ‘Now don’t you lose it, Tom, we’re getting low on elastic and heaven knows when we’ll get some more. That’s tuppence please.’

  Tom held out the money with his left hand, his right covering the chocolate bar which stuck out like a wing on his hip.

  ‘What would you like, Bonny?’ Mrs Miller asked.

  Bonny hesitated. The theft had made her mind go blank and she couldn’t think of any excuse to be in the shop. Worse still, Tom was looking at her, perhaps wondering if she had seen the whole thing.

  The shop door opened again and in came Miss Thorpe, Bonny’s and Tom’s teacher. ‘Hello boys,’ she said, smiling at Tom and Michael. Then, turning her head, she saw Bonny standing back in the gloom. ‘And Bonny too. What a lovely day it is today, thank goodness it’s stopped raining. It feels as if summer is here at last.’

  Miss Thorpe’s sudden arrival and her warm greeting threw Tom entirely. Bonny saw his face drain of colour and his mouth fall open in alarm as he desperately tried to hide the chocolate with his hand.

  Mrs Miller gave a little gasp. To Bonny’s horror, the old lady was touching the space where the chocolate had been on the display stand. ‘You’ve taken my chocolate!’ she exclaimed indignantly, looking right at Tom.

  ‘I never,’ he said, too quickly and with too little conviction.

  ‘You must’ve taken it you wicked boy, it was there before you came in.’

  Bonny weighed up the situation in a flash. It was only a matter of time before Tom was caught out, especially with Miss Thorpe to back up Mrs Miller. She had to do something.

  ‘Let me look,’ she said in her sweetest voice, sidling up to Tom and the counter. ‘I’m sure Tom wouldn’t take it, maybe you’ve knocked it down somewhere.’

  Standing on tiptoe to look over the counter, Bonny used her left hand to pull the chocolate from Tom’s pocket and surreptitiously lowered it to the stack of knitting wool in front of her.

  ‘Are you sure it hasn’t fallen down by your feet?’ Bonny asked, stretching still further over the counter.

  ‘No it hasn’t. He’s taken it.’ Mrs Miller’s voice rose accusingly. ‘Make him turn out his pockets, Miss Thorpe. I won’t have children stealing from me.’

  Tom flashed Bonny an odd look, somewhere between suspicion and gratitude, and stepped back a little. ‘I ain’t taken nothin’,’ he said, his eyes widening in feigned innocence, pulling the contents of his pockets out and revealing only the small package of elastic, a grubby handkerchief and a pencil stub.

  Miss Thorpe moved towards Tom, her hands reaching out to frisk him. ‘Tom!’ Her voice was like rumbling thunder. ‘Hand it over at once.’

  Little Michael was frisked next, but he genuinely knew nothing of the theft and looked baffled.

  Mrs Miller came round the counter. For an old lady she moved quickly, pushing Bonny out of the way and pulling Tom’s jumper up, patting at him angrily. ‘Where is it, you naughty boy?’ She grasped his ear between two fingers and pulled him nearer the door as if to look at him better.

  Miss Thorpe frowned, looking first at Tom, then across to Bonny. ‘Did you see anything?’ she asked.

  ‘No, miss.’ Bonny batted her eyes in feigned innocence. ‘But I came in after Tom and Michael, only a minute before you did.’

  The chocolate was lying on the brown parcel of knitting wool, in full view of everyone. Only the gloom of the shop prevented it from being noticed immediately.

  Tom protested loudly, struggling to get free of Mrs Miller, who was still convinced he had it somewhere about his person.

  The shop door opened again, this time to let in the old man who lived a few doors down from Briar Bank. As clear light came into the shop, Miss Thorpe gasped, pointing to the bar lying in state on top of the wool.

  ‘There it is Mrs Miller. Look!’

  Mrs Miller had no choice but to apologise, although she did so with a bad grace and mumbled something about boys being like bulls in china shops.

  Bonny left with Tom and Michael, offering up the explanation that she’d forgotten what she wanted to buy.

  ‘Thanks, Bonny,’ Tom said gruffly once they were well away from the shop. ‘I reckon she’d ’ave killed me if she found it in m’ pocket.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Bonny tried to look nonchalant. ‘You were a bit daft taking that big one. I would’ve taken one of the small ones she wouldn’t miss.’ In fact she wouldn’t have dreamt of stealing from a shop, and was surprised at herself for covering up his crime.

  ‘You won’t tell anyone,’ he whispered. His brown eyes were screwed up with anxiety and he didn’t look as tough as he did at school. ‘If Mrs Baker found out she’d skin me.’

  Bonny found she was holding an excellent hand. ‘I won’t if you let me in your gang,’ she said with a casual shrug of her shoulders.

  Tom looked at Bonny in consternation.

  Everyone was a bit wary of Bonny Phillips. She was a show-off, a teacher’s pet and vindictive when she was crossed. But if it wasn’t for her Mrs Miller would have him in her back room by now, phoning up not only Mrs Baker but PC Onslow too.

  ‘It ain’t for me to say.’ Tom scratched his head. ‘I’ll ’ave to ask our Jack. We’re ’aving a meeting this after, per’aps ’e could ask the others.’

  ‘At the goods train?’ she asked.

  Tom’s face grew pale beneath his freckles. He had been attempting to stall her, but now it seemed she knew their secret hideout too.

  ‘I know you meet there.’ Bonny grinned, knowing she’d got him backed into a corner. She pushed her hands into the pockets of her siren suit, trying desperately hard not to be too girlish. ‘I’ll come then and bring some fags.’

  His faint smirk was confirmation he couldn’t think of a good reason to prevent her arrival.

  ‘I ain’t sayin’ you can join,’ he said after a moment’s hesitation. ‘We’ll ’ave to vote on it. But I’ll tell ’em all you was a good sport.’

  ‘I was going to take you to see Shirley Temple in The Little Princess,’ Aunt Lydia said as they ate soup for their lunch. She was a little disappointed that Bonny didn’t seem to want to spend the afternoon with her; their trips to the cinema were usually the thing Bonny looked forward to most. ‘But if you’d rather go out to play I suppose we could go another day.’

  ‘It’s too nice to be inside today,’ Bonny wheedled.

  ‘Well, I have got quite a few jobs to do in the garden,’ Aunt Lydia sighed. But seeing the child’s bright face she smiled. ‘Of course dear, you go out to play, you’re quite right, it is too nice a day to be in a cinema.’

  Bonny approached the dilapidated goods train at the back of the sidings with some trepidation. Even if Tom was on her side, the other boys were all twelve and thirteen-year-olds who had no time for girls.

  She had five Woodbines in one pocket and half a dozen chocolate liqueurs in the other. She’d taken the chocolates from a big box in the sitting-room, which Aunt Lydia had said were given to her last C
hristmas. The cigarettes were filched from the desk drawer.

  She tapped nervously on the sliding door of the train.

  ‘Friend or foe?’ a boy called out.

  ‘Friend,’ she said.

  ‘If we let you in will you promise on pain of death not to pass on any secrets?’ the disembodied voice called out.

  ‘I promise,’ she called back, her courage for once almost failing her.

  The train door made an echoey rumbling noise as it was pulled back. Her eyes were just level with the floor, and Jack was bending over, offering his hands.

  ‘Put one foot on the wheel,’ he said, ’and jump up.’

  Aside from the three Eastons, there were another four boys – Eric Turley, Peter Samms, Colin Atkins and John Broom. Jack and Tom looked welcoming enough, and Michael, who was clearly only there because of family connections, grinned, but the other four were distinctly hostile.

  She managed to get up without disgracing herself. They had a couple of candles in jam jars and the yellow glow made their faces look sinister.

  ‘We don’t allow girls in our gang,’ Eric Turley threw at her, folding his arms across his chest as if that was the end of it.

  ‘Sit down,’ Jack said. He was embarrassed. Tom had explained what had happened at the shop and Jack agreed in principle that such quick thinking on Bonny’s part deserved some reward. But the other boys were totally against girls and as they’d pointed out emphatically, Bonny Phillips was a spoilt brat. ‘Look Bonny, we can’t have girls in our gang. We does fings what girls can’t.’

  ‘Like what?’ she said, sitting cross-legged and staring boldly from one face to the other. She knew the four older members only slightly. They were in the top class along with Jack, all in identical grey shorts and grey flannel shirts. Eric had a Fair Isle sleeveless pull-over, the others had plain blue ones. Eric and John were dark, while Peter was blond and Colin had light brown hair, but they all had similarly untidy haircuts, lean pre-adolescent faces, grubby knees and worn-out plimsoles. There wasn’t much to distinguish one from another.