Don't Know Where, Don't Know When (The Snipesville Chronicles Book 1) Page 18

  Brandon sipped his whisky, and immediately regretted it. He tried to disguise the fact that he was gasping and shivering from the burning in his throat.

  Mr. Gordon didn’t notice Brandon’s distress: “And now, nothing will persuade her otherwise. There are so many of the English who think that the Germans will invade, and commit all the dreadful outrages they are supposed to have committed in Belgium, although my son tells me that the soldiers take all those stories of German atrocities with a pinch of salt. If the Germans invade, my wife thinks, the English race will be lost. The irony, George, is that all these proud sassenachs…” and here he chuckled.

  Brandon was confused. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gordon, but what are sassen.. sass…That word you used?”

  “Oh, aye, I’m sorry. That’s sassenachs. It’s an auld Scotch word, George. It means foreigners, and especially the English. Look, the thing is, George, the English are always blethering about their damn racial purity. And what are they? They’re Germans. They’re all damn Germans. They’re descended from the Jutes, and the Angles, and the Saxons, and what have you, all the German tribes that invaded England when the Romans left. If there were actually any purely British people, and, mind you, I hae me doots, it would be the Welsh and the Scots.” With that, he laughed, and Brandon laughed with him. “Anyway,” Mr. Gordon added, “in the words of the immortal Robert Burns, the finest poet in Christendom, a man’s a man, for a’ that, eh?”

  Brandon had never liked Mr. Gordon more.

  On a cold and wet Saturday afternoon, Brandon was at the kitchen table, playing chess with Oliver, and occasionally allowing him to win. Mary had brought them glasses of milk and what she called toasted tea cakes. These were warm, slightly sweet pastries, like puffy saucers. The boys split them in half, and spread them with melting butter.

  There was a knock at the front door. Mary wiped her hands on her apron, and adjusted her cap in the mirror, before going to answer it. But Peggy was already at the door.

  Seeing her there, Mary stood stock still in the kitchen doorway.

  “What’s up, Mary?” asked Brandon, as his rook captured Oliver’s knight, and Oliver pouted.

  “It’s a telegram,”she whispered.

  Oliver looked up in alarm, as Mary hurried to Peggy at the door. “Oliver, help me out here. What’s the big deal about a telegram?” whispered Brandon.

  Oliver looked scared. “It’s…like a letter. Only it goes by telegraph wire, so it comes very quickly… Rather like, what did you call it? Email.”

  “Yes, but why is everyone nervous?” asked Brandon.

  Oliver turned and looked at him desperately. “Most people only get telegrams when somebody is hurt or killed. It must be Cousin James.”

  But seconds later, Mary returned to the kitchen with a smile. “It’s all right, whatever it is. It was for Miss Peggy, and she looked happy enough with whatever it said. Not that she told me, mind.”

  Everyone gave a sigh of relief, and Brandon and Oliver resumed their chess and their teacakes. Mary returned to washing the dishes. The only sound was the loud ticking of the kitchen clock. Suddenly, a bell rang, summoning Mary upstairs to Mr. Gordon’s study. She let out a sigh of annoyance, before setting off upstairs.

  There was another knock at the door, and Brandon, realizing that Peggy might not have heard it, decided to answer it himself. “No cheating,” he said to Oliver, before turning toward the door.

  He opened it, and there stood a young boy with a bicycle.

  “Telegram for you,” the boy said, handing a small envelope to Brandon. Brandon had no sooner taken it from him than it was snatched from his hands.

  “Mine, I think,” said Peggy Gordon excitedly. “I have a gentleman friend who’s a soldier at the front,” she whispered to Brandon, “and he’s just sent me a telegram to say he’s coming home on leave soon. Don’t tell my parents, whatever you do! He said he would send me another telegram to let me know when he’s due to arrive in Balesworth. Gosh, that was fast!” She ran into the parlor and closed the door behind her.

  Brandon shrugged, and turned toward the kitchen. He was only halfway down the hall when he heard a loud scream, followed by a long wail. He dashed back, hearing Mr. Gordon tearing down the stairs shortly afterward. Brandon threw open the door, but Mr. Gordon pushed past him.

  “For the love of God, Peggy, what’s the….”

  She was on her knees on the rug, her hand over her mouth, the telegram dropped beside her.

  “It’s James…” she said.

  Shaking, Mr. Gordon leaned over, and picked up the fallen telegram. As he read it, his face crumpled, and he let out an anguished cry that chilled Brandon to the core.

  Brandon stood open-mouthed, unsure of what to do.

  “George, it’s my brother,” said Peggy, starting to sob. “He’s dead. He’s dead….”

  “George, look after Oliver,” said Mr. Gordon, fighting to stay in control. “And not a word to my wife until I have seen her, I beg of you.”

  “Of course, sir,” said Brandon.

  He put a hand on Mr. Gordon’s shoulder, and Mr. Gordon, with tears in his eyes, patted his hand, and then waved him away. By the time Brandon got to the kitchen, he found Mary and Oliver in tears. Oliver was bawling helplessly. Brandon picked him up, and sat him in his lap, and let him cry all he wanted. At once, Brandon felt very sick, and very grown up.

  While the agony of the First World War made itself felt in the Gordons’ house in 1915, Verity and Eric were playing with marbles on the dirt patch under the oak tree in Mrs. Devenish’s garden in 1940. As Hannah and Alex arrived, Eric was explaining to Verity a complicated new version of the game that he had invented. Alex volunteered to learn it, too. Hannah stood awkwardly to the side while the others played, and she and Verity carefully ignored each other. Finally, at a loss for what to do with herself, she retreated to the garden bench, and picked up some pieces of grass, which she busied herself by pulling apart.

  It was Verity who broke the ice. She left the boys to their game of marbles, and walked over to sit on the opposite end of the bench from Hannah.

  “Come on, Hannah, let’s be friends,” she said, matter-of-factly.

  Hannah looked apprehensively at Verity. “I’m sorry about trying to blame everything on you guys. I was just scared, I guess. Nobody ever whipped me before. So I, like, totally freaked when I figured out what your Grandma was gonna do to me. I have, like, big issues with violence, you know? I guess that the adults I know are just less mean. They don’t hit kids…”

  “I’ve never been beaten before, either, Hannah,” said Verity, so icily that for a moment, Hannah was reminded of Mrs. Devenish.

  “You haven’t?” Hannah was astonished.

  “No,” Verity said curtly, “so it wasn’t any easier for me than it was for you.” She paused and then said, emphatically, “And whatever you choose to think, Hannah, my grandmother is not a cruel woman. I don’t deny that she is a bit strict…Well, very formidable, really… Yes, alright, she’s an absolute fire-breathing dragon at times. But I have never known her to be deliberately unfair or unkind.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “Look, I am sorry, Verity, I don’t mean to disrespect your family….” Hannah tried to figure out how to explain. “But I still don’t think you understand. I know it was bad for you and Eric, but the whole thing was super-awful for me. You see, I have lots of issues already, and your grandma has really hurt my self-esteem.”

  Verity smirked. “She hurt your what? Tell me something, Hannah. Is that usually what you call your bottom?”

  Hannah pouted, but Verity refused to show her any sympathy.

  “I say, Hannah, buck up. We can all agree that it was horrid, but it’s over now, isn’t it? No point in dwelling on it, is there? The less said, the better, I think.”

  This was news to Hannah, whose family had always hashed out problems and feelings at length, turning them over and over until everyone was quite exhausted.

&n
bsp; There was another uneasy silence, and then Verity spoke up. “You know, did Eric tell you, Granny got a letter from George Braithwaite! Isn’t it exciting?”

  “Yeah. I guess so,” said Hannah, guardedly. She was amazed by the speed and determination with which Verity had changed the subject. “What does it say?”

  “I have no idea,” Verity said, “I only heard about it when I arrived home last night, and Granny hasn’t said much to either of us. She does want to talk to you, though. I expect it’s because you were the one looking for him.”

  “I guess. I’m kind of nervous about talking to her. I have major issues with scary old women who use violence on kids. Is she still mad at me?”

  Verity exploded. “Hannah, for heaven’s sake, would you please, please stop going on about it! You are an absolute fusspot. Anyone would think you’d survived a bomb blast, not just a smacked bum… Er, as Eric would say… Oh, golly, please don’t tell Granny I used that word, or she’ll think he’s a bad influence.”

  Hannah smiled despite herself, and Verity smiled right back. Hannah didn’t always understand Verity, but she did like her.

  A moment later, Mrs. Devenish called to her from the kitchen door. “Hannah Day? I want a word with you. Come into the drawing room.” Then she disappeared back inside.

  “Oh, great,” said Hannah with a groan.

  Verity squeezed her hand. “Go on, don’t be daft. You’ll be as right as rain.”

  Mrs. Devenish was in an armchair next to the fireplace, holding a pencil, and peering through her reading glasses at a newspaper. Emmeline, the spaniel, was snoozing in her lap.

  Mrs. Devenish didn’t look up when she heard Hannah enter the drawing room, but said, “An ocean vessel far astray, nine letters.”

  Hannah said, “Huh?” She threw herself down in the chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, and sprawled, staring into the hissing and crackling coals. Mrs. Devenish looked at her over her glasses and said dryly, “Yes, you may be seated, Hannah. I assume that your extraordinary exclamation meant ‘Excuse me?’”

  Hannah sat up a little straighter, and finally looked Mrs. Devenish in the eye. “Sorry, yeah, I meant excuse me.”

  “I was hoping you could help me with the crossword.”

  Hannah looked blank. Mrs. Devenish sighed in a long-suffering sort of way, and returned her newspaper to the rack beside her chair.

  “Oh, never mind. I shall finish it later. Now, there’s a matter I must discuss with you.”

  Hannah nodded, her brow furrowed.

  Mrs. Devenish took off her glasses and addressed Hannah directly, wagging a finger at her. “First, let me be clear about something: I have by no means revised my opinion of your inexcusable behavior towards Mrs. Smith. It was a very stupid thing to do, and it was quite right that you should all be severely punished.”

  No surprise that you would think that, thought Hannah. Why rub it in?

  Mrs. Devenish almost seemed to know what she was thinking. “I want to be absolutely sure you understand that, before I tell you that it seems that there is a silver lining to this particular cloud. I am still not convinced that Eric saw what he thinks he saw. However, I do think, on reflection, that it would be wise and proper for me to pursue the matter, and I hope to have ample opportunity to do just that when we visit Mrs. Smith to pay for her window. I have already written to her, asking for a convenient day when we may call. The cost, incidentally, is one I have decided that you three will bear by taking my place assisting Mrs. Roberts, the vicar’s wife, with the cleaning of the church brasses next week.”

  Hannah said, shrugging, “Actually, if it’s all the same to you, Mrs. D., I’d rather just give you the money…”

  Mrs. Devenish looked at her as though she had lost her mind. “In all my life,” she said through gritted teeth, “I don’t believe that I have ever met such a sublimely witless girl as you, Hannah Day. You take my breath away. Allow me to spell it out for you, since you obviously have far more money than sense. If you simply hand me a few bob for your share, that won’t help you learn your lesson, now, will it? Really… I ought to write to your mother and give her a piece of my mind about your upbringing.”

  Hannah shot back angrily, “Fine, okay, I get it. Whatever. Now what about the letter?”

  “Don’t be impertinent, young woman,” Mrs. Devenish said firmly, squashing her with a look. “I was coming to that. The WVS in London received a letter through the Red Cross, from a Corporal George Braithwaite. He was taken prisoner at Dunkirk, and is now imprisoned at a Nazi P.O.W. camp in Germany.”

  Hannah gasped, but Mrs. Devenish continued. “A copy of the letter was passed along to me, because a friend of mine at head office recalled my writing to them about the boy of the same name. Corporal Braithwaite writes that he is very concerned about his son. The boy was evacuated last year from his home in London, to Bedfordshire. Then, sadly, the child’s mother died. She was killed by a car while she was walking in the blackout.”

  Hannah’s eyes filled with tears. “That’s sort of how my Mom died,” she said suddenly. “She had a car accident.”

  Mrs. Devenish looked absolutely taken aback, but then her eyes grew sad and kind. “I’m very sorry to hear that, my dear,” she said softly. There was a brief silence as Hannah fought not to cry, and Mrs. Devenish pretended not to notice.

  Then she resumed, briskly, “Well… Afterwards, the father kept in touch with the son. But the boy stopped replying, and then Corporal Braithwaite’s letters began to be returned to him. Soon afterwards, he was captured by the Germans. But here’s what is interesting, Hannah: The child is colored. And his name, it seems, is the same as the father’s. Could this child be your friend?”

  “Yes,” said Hannah, nodding thoughtfully. “Yes, Mrs. D. He totally could be who we’re looking for.”

  “Well, there is one further mystery,” Mrs. Devenish said, as she stood, picked up a pair of tongs, and added another lump of coal to the fireplace. “And that is that I may know Corporal George Braithwaite myself.”

  “You do?” said Hannah, astounded.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Devenish. “I believe I do. But I had better say no more until I am quite sure that he is the same man.”

  When Hannah and Alex returned to the Archers’ later that afternoon, Alex realized just a few hundred yards from home that he couldn’t find his house key. “Well, I don’t have one,” said Hannah, impatiently. “I hope Mrs. Archer’s home, or they left the key by the door. Mr. Archer isn’t due back for ages. People in this country sure work long hours.”

  “It’s the war,” said Alex, turning out his pockets. “I hear that people work up to seven days a week, sometimes fourteen hours a day, to make stuff for the troops.”

  “What does Mr. Archer make?” asked Hannah. “I thought he worked in an office.”

  “He does,” said Alex. “But I guess they need people to do all the government paperwork, from what he says. He’s a manager at a factory in the next town. They used to make ladies’ underwear.”

  Hannah laughed.

  “You know, like silk stockings,” said Alex. “Now they make parachutes.”

  “Wow, that’s a huge change,” said Hannah, as they reached the front doorstep.

  “Not really,” said Alex. “A parachute is kinda just a giant silk stocking, when you think about it. Where the heck is that key?” He had emptied his pockets, and found nothing.

  Suddenly, a voice from behind them made the kids jump.

  “Yours, I believe?”

  It was Miss Tatchell, the Professor, holding out a key on a string.

  “You dropped it on the road.”

  Alex gratefully took the key.

  “That’s so weird,” Hannah said. “Are you following us, or what?”

  The Professor ignored her. “Useful things, keys, aren’t they?” she said. “Always handy when we don’t feel like breaking windows to get in.”

  Hannah peered at her through narrowed eyes. “Is that supposed t
o be some kind of sick joke?”

  The Professor smiled at her. “Not at all. It’s simply an observation. Of course, not all window-breaking is done out of necessity. Or out of mischief. Sometimes, it’s done to make a point. Did you know that Mrs. Devenish was once a suffragist?”

  “What? What are you talking about? She was a whose-a-what?” said Hannah impatiently.

  “She was a suffragist. In the years before the First World War, Mrs. D. campaigned for women’s right to vote. She wrote hundreds of letters. But, you know, she didn’t entirely approve of some of the more militant members of her movement, the so-called suffragettes. To draw attention to the need for women’s suffrage, they smashed windows…”

  Hannah smirked despite herself. “No, I bet she didn’t like that.”

  “But she understood that what they did was for a cause in which she and many others believed passionately. It was not a method she thought effective, but nor was it a piece of childish foolishness. When the suffragettes were sent to prison, they refused to eat in protest, and were horribly forcibly fed through a rubber tube. Mrs. D. was only in her early twenties, but she agitated very hard for their humane treatment and release, you know.”

  “Well, isn’t that special,” said Hannah, sarcastically. “I’m sorry, did I miss something? Is there anything we can help you with? Or have you just come to tell us useless stuff?”

  The Professor stared hard at her. “Speaking of suffrage, you really are an insufferable girl, Hannah Dias. I’m sorry I bother to tell you anything. Take care, Alex.”

  Alex called after her as she strode back up the street. “Hey, I’m sorry about….”