His image was framed in a pencil love heart: Captain Hugh .
Looks like a hero, or a film star , Pete thought, moving on to the column of smaller drawings running down the margin of the other page. These were all boys and girls about his age: Simon’s age, Alfie’s, and Beth’s. Dark, fair, speccy, cute, smiley, swotty, chubby: all different and detailed. Like they’re real people, not cartoons . Around three of these faces Beth had drawnthick, black tombstone-shaped lines and written beneath:
Harry Small. R.I.P. Katy McNamee. R.I.P. Mickey Kelly. R.I.P .
Like they WERE real people . Pete gulped. He made himself focus on the diary entry.
13 th March 1941, 4am, Beth had headed her final entry.
When Pete flicked through the remaining pages to check they were all blank, a musty, damp smell rose from them. The paper felt swollen and soft between his fingers as if it could shred if he handled it too much.
Horrible in here tonig —
It sounds like the end of the world —side. Explosion after expl—
When Pete started to read, he remembered poring over this same page with Dunny in the shelter. Pete had been intrigued enough at the time: with Beth’s story. Though it had felt like little more than history. School-project history. Last century. Last millenium. Not any more: now it was Beth Winters’ real life he was sharing as he tucked his duvet around him and heard her voice in his head:
The ground keeps shaking. Everything’s rattling. Even Mr Lyons’ teeth.
Dear Jesus, please keep Mummy and Daddy safe. And Hugh .
Aunty Mary’s scared. I asked her and she says she’s not but her face is twisted like she’s crying and smiling at the same time. Why can’t my mummy be here, like baby Jamie’s? It’s not fair. I still need to say sorry for being crabbit when she told me to leave my packing. Even the special box with the napkin that smells of the kitchen and my postcards and my elephant and the china bell from the hall. Mummy promised if I ring it in Beauly she’d hear it all the way down in Clydebank. I told her that was stupid and impossible, and she looked so sad. Sorry, Mummy. I wish you could hear that from the shelter, because you’re so kind. Especially buying me a land girl’s outfit for my going-away surprise. I didn’t say thanks, though it’s the best thing ever. Got a tie and a jacket and breeks that button up below my knees. Daddy says they’ll think I’m the real thing when I get to Aunt Katy’s and they’ll put me to work on the farm mucking out dung. Hurray! Then I won’t need to start a stupid new school.
Couldn’t write for ages just then. Been a giganormous BOOM and lots of wee ones. I smell burning. Aunty Mary says she can’t, but she’s sniffing like mad. So’s Mrs Lyons. She’s saying the rosary and there’s glass breaking, and crumpy noises all round about. I’m so scared.
Mummy where are you?
I hate this war.
I hate this shelter.
It stinks of Jamie’s dirty nappy and Mummy’s out there. I wish I could go and find her. Maybe I will.
I wish I could help you . Pete had snuggled under his duvet, making a tent of it so he could still look at the pages he’d just read. I could go outside and dig about the rubble. See if the box is still buried there. Yeah. And get Dunny to help me. Maybe a bit late tonight though. And dark .
Tomorrow. Definitely . Pete yawned. Kicked off his shoes. “De-fin-itely.” He was fully dressed, toasty and cosy. And sleepy. He sank his head into his pillow,which still smelt of London. He thought back over his first long, eventful day in Clydebank, his eyes roaming the drawing of Beth’s classmates until the faces began to swim in front of him and the notebook slipped from his grip.
Chapter 23
“Mad day or what?” Pete told Simon and Alfie, turning round to whisper. That’s because he was back in his old classroom in London. Bossy Mira with the jangly bangles, who’d been moved to sit beside Pete because she never misbehaved or gabbed
Looks like a hero, or a film star , Pete thought, moving on to the column of smaller drawings running down the margin of the other page. These were all boys and girls about his age: Simon’s age, Alfie’s, and Beth’s. Dark, fair, speccy, cute, smiley, swotty, chubby: all different and detailed. Like they’re real people, not cartoons . Around three of these faces Beth had drawnthick, black tombstone-shaped lines and written beneath:
Harry Small. R.I.P. Katy McNamee. R.I.P. Mickey Kelly. R.I.P .
Like they WERE real people . Pete gulped. He made himself focus on the diary entry.
13 th March 1941, 4am, Beth had headed her final entry.
When Pete flicked through the remaining pages to check they were all blank, a musty, damp smell rose from them. The paper felt swollen and soft between his fingers as if it could shred if he handled it too much.
Horrible in here tonig —
It sounds like the end of the world —side. Explosion after expl—
When Pete started to read, he remembered poring over this same page with Dunny in the shelter. Pete had been intrigued enough at the time: with Beth’s story. Though it had felt like little more than history. School-project history. Last century. Last millenium. Not any more: now it was Beth Winters’ real life he was sharing as he tucked his duvet around him and heard her voice in his head:
The ground keeps shaking. Everything’s rattling. Even Mr Lyons’ teeth.
Dear Jesus, please keep Mummy and Daddy safe. And Hugh .
Aunty Mary’s scared. I asked her and she says she’s not but her face is twisted like she’s crying and smiling at the same time. Why can’t my mummy be here, like baby Jamie’s? It’s not fair. I still need to say sorry for being crabbit when she told me to leave my packing. Even the special box with the napkin that smells of the kitchen and my postcards and my elephant and the china bell from the hall. Mummy promised if I ring it in Beauly she’d hear it all the way down in Clydebank. I told her that was stupid and impossible, and she looked so sad. Sorry, Mummy. I wish you could hear that from the shelter, because you’re so kind. Especially buying me a land girl’s outfit for my going-away surprise. I didn’t say thanks, though it’s the best thing ever. Got a tie and a jacket and breeks that button up below my knees. Daddy says they’ll think I’m the real thing when I get to Aunt Katy’s and they’ll put me to work on the farm mucking out dung. Hurray! Then I won’t need to start a stupid new school.
Couldn’t write for ages just then. Been a giganormous BOOM and lots of wee ones. I smell burning. Aunty Mary says she can’t, but she’s sniffing like mad. So’s Mrs Lyons. She’s saying the rosary and there’s glass breaking, and crumpy noises all round about. I’m so scared.
Mummy where are you?
I hate this war.
I hate this shelter.
It stinks of Jamie’s dirty nappy and Mummy’s out there. I wish I could go and find her. Maybe I will.
I wish I could help you . Pete had snuggled under his duvet, making a tent of it so he could still look at the pages he’d just read. I could go outside and dig about the rubble. See if the box is still buried there. Yeah. And get Dunny to help me. Maybe a bit late tonight though. And dark .
Tomorrow. Definitely . Pete yawned. Kicked off his shoes. “De-fin-itely.” He was fully dressed, toasty and cosy. And sleepy. He sank his head into his pillow,which still smelt of London. He thought back over his first long, eventful day in Clydebank, his eyes roaming the drawing of Beth’s classmates until the faces began to swim in front of him and the notebook slipped from his grip.
Chapter 23
“Mad day or what?” Pete told Simon and Alfie, turning round to whisper. That’s because he was back in his old classroom in London. Bossy Mira with the jangly bangles, who’d been moved to sit beside Pete because she never misbehaved or gabbed
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