Angel of Brooklyn by Janette Jenkins Page B

mound didn’t look any smaller.
    ‘It’s your first day,’ said Ginny, handing her a plate of buttered toast. ‘I’ve been doing this all my life. It takes some getting used to.’
    ‘I’ll never eat another carrot.’
    ‘You will.’
    ‘Do I stink?’ said Beatrice.
    ‘Probably,’ shrugged Ginny, ‘but what would I know?’
    A framed studio photograph of Tom in uniform stood on the mantelpiece next to Martha’s cards, and the pencil drawing he’d sent, a fluffy-looking dog, saying,
A Very Yappy Birthday!
    ‘I wish my mam was here,’ Lizzie sighed to herself, wiping down the table. ‘She could have easily caught the bus from town, but no, she couldn’t spare the fare. Today of all days.’
    The room was crushed with children, and most of them were behaving, trying to keep their best clothes nice, though Bert’s shirt was covered in drips of raspberry cordial.
    ‘It’s blood,’ whispered Billy. ‘Let’s pretend you’ve just been shot.’ And so they ran outside, where Bert held his heart, staggering, before collapsing onto the ground.
    ‘Well, there’s another killed in action,’ said Billy. ‘Now get up quick, it’s my turn.’
    Inside, a broken-looking tail was being pinned onto a donkey. A girl called Dot won and Martha started crying. Lizzie looked exhausted.
    ‘Why don’t you all share this bag of barley sugar and play a nice game of happy families?’ she said.
    ‘If I win again,’ said Dot, ‘will I get a proper prize?’
    The children tired quickly of playing cards and took their games into the lane. Billy and the bloodstained Captain Bert commandeered their army, and soon had everyone marching up and down. A boy called Sam was sick behind a laurel bush. Harry had scraped his leg, and was exaggerating a limp. Martha said that she wanted to be a spy, and as it was her birthday, they’d better let her be one. She set out with a stick.
    ‘I’ll report back,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Remember, lads, we have to stamp out the Kaiser!’
    She walked to the top of the lane, dragging her stick through the newly dried mud. Her eyes settled on windows. Spies could be anywhere. They could be crouching behind sofas and pot plants, or whispering in German just behind the coal shed.
    By now, the others were playing something else, but she was a spy, and she wasn’t going to stop, because England needed spies. She wished she’d been better equipped. She should have brought a notepad and a pencil, and the binoculars that were hanging in the cellar. But spies had to look ordinary. She whistled. Whistling made you look ordinary. She sniffed. Germans smelled of greasy sausage, or like bacon gone bad. Bert once told her that the Germans melted down corpses to make more ammunition, but she didn’t believe him because they wouldn’t have the time. She bent to pick some bluebells, her eyes looking right and left. A bird rustled. Then she heard footsteps and froze. Boots. Thick heavy boots. The Kaiser wore boots. She quickly looked behind her. The boots suddenly stopped.
    Throwing down the flowers, Martha ran all the way home without stopping, until she stood inside the kitchen, her hands on her hips, panting hard.
    ‘Mrs Crane,’ she breathed. ‘Mrs Crane’s on her way, and you’ll never believe me, but she’s all dressed up like a German.’
    Beatrice and Ginny sat at the side of Mary’s bed. They’d washed and changed their clothes, but the sweet manure smell that was clinging to their skin had refused to give in to the block of yellow carbolic.
    ‘They told me you were working on the farm,’ Mary said. ‘I tried to imagine you with the pigs, but it was hard.’
    ‘She’s doing all right,’ said Ginny. ‘She’s been a real help to Dad.’
    ‘And what does Jonathan think?’ Mary pulled the eiderdown a little closer to her chin. ‘Him with his stripes and medals, and you up to your knees in the filth?’
    ‘He doesn’t know. And I’ve heard nothing about any stripes or