that her imagination had scarcely understood the depth of the destruction. Their train wound through rows and rows of burned out homes and factories. Entire streets were reduced to piles of rubble, while the next road would stand in the sunlight, whole and untouched. Children played and women pushed prams through the ruins. A few pots of early geraniums filled window boxes as if to hold a defiant fist up to the enemy planes flying high above. The blitz had ended, although bombing raids could, and still did, plague the cities.
This train, like the one that had brought them from Liverpool, was jammed well past capacity with civilians, mostly women, and troops of any and all nationalities, including a group of dark, hard faced men in uniforms of traditional British khaki topped by full beards and turbans. Fascinated, Moira watched them out of the corner of her eye.
The journey from Surrey to London didn’t normally take long, but they came to a sudden, unexpected halt and sat in the middle of a farmer’s field for a long time. Cows on the track, tracks bombed out, an accident up ahead. The car swirled with rumor and speculation, everyone growing restless and bad tempered.
The hospital cook had packed her a picnic lunch consisting of two dry cheese sandwiches, thick slices of currant cake, and a thermos of overly sweet tea.
Moira had foolishly neglected to bring a book, so for lack of anything else to do she offered to share her sparse meal with a chubby, pasty-faced young woman of her own age sitting across from her. Delighted at the unexpected treat, the girl proudly told Moira that she was going to London to take a factory job. She was dressed in a heavily-mended, but clean and crisply ironed dress of pale blue, with a jaunty navy beret, which looked as if it had been bought specially for this journey. Her teeth were small and badly stained but she smiled brightly and chatted with enthusiasm while they waited. She didn’t want to stay on the farm, she told Moira, although she was valuable there, what with all the ignorant city girls being sent to replace the farm boys gone to the army. But her cousin, Nancy, had a job in a factory in London and had secured a place for her. This was her chance to escape from the stifling confines of her family, and she was determined to make the most of it. Rose was her name, and she consumed most of the sandwiches and drank almost the entire contents of the thermos. But Moira didn’t mind, and she insisted that her new friend finish off the last slice of cake. She found it fascinating to listen to the harsh country accent as it told of a life she couldn’t imagine.
“You don’t have a boyfriend, then? A young man, I mean?” Moira asked as they watched nothing much happening in the cool green countryside.
“Well, there’s Davy Blake from the next farm over. He’s been thinking that we’ll be married ever since we were children playing in the haystacks together.” She chuckled and touched her index finger to the last currant hiding in the folds of the wax paper wrapping. “Least his mother has been thinking that. No knowing what Davy thinks. He’s not much for talking.”
“Where is he now?”
“Still on the farm. Essential worker. He’s plenty glad to be told he has to stay there. Poor Davy never had much of a wish to travel.”
“But you do?”
“Course, I do. Imagine, trapped in that old farmhouse for the rest of my life, fetching tea and crumpets for old Mrs. Blake. Mr. Blake is long gone, and Mrs. Blake has been old as long as I can remember. For all that she isn’t any older than me own mum.”
“Well, good for you,” Moira said, with feeling, “for wanting to see what else is out there before you have to settle down.”
They talked for a long time, about men and boys they had known, families and school and dreams. Moira toned her life story down considerably, declining to share information on the family’s Muskoka cottage, her private girls’ school,
This train, like the one that had brought them from Liverpool, was jammed well past capacity with civilians, mostly women, and troops of any and all nationalities, including a group of dark, hard faced men in uniforms of traditional British khaki topped by full beards and turbans. Fascinated, Moira watched them out of the corner of her eye.
The journey from Surrey to London didn’t normally take long, but they came to a sudden, unexpected halt and sat in the middle of a farmer’s field for a long time. Cows on the track, tracks bombed out, an accident up ahead. The car swirled with rumor and speculation, everyone growing restless and bad tempered.
The hospital cook had packed her a picnic lunch consisting of two dry cheese sandwiches, thick slices of currant cake, and a thermos of overly sweet tea.
Moira had foolishly neglected to bring a book, so for lack of anything else to do she offered to share her sparse meal with a chubby, pasty-faced young woman of her own age sitting across from her. Delighted at the unexpected treat, the girl proudly told Moira that she was going to London to take a factory job. She was dressed in a heavily-mended, but clean and crisply ironed dress of pale blue, with a jaunty navy beret, which looked as if it had been bought specially for this journey. Her teeth were small and badly stained but she smiled brightly and chatted with enthusiasm while they waited. She didn’t want to stay on the farm, she told Moira, although she was valuable there, what with all the ignorant city girls being sent to replace the farm boys gone to the army. But her cousin, Nancy, had a job in a factory in London and had secured a place for her. This was her chance to escape from the stifling confines of her family, and she was determined to make the most of it. Rose was her name, and she consumed most of the sandwiches and drank almost the entire contents of the thermos. But Moira didn’t mind, and she insisted that her new friend finish off the last slice of cake. She found it fascinating to listen to the harsh country accent as it told of a life she couldn’t imagine.
“You don’t have a boyfriend, then? A young man, I mean?” Moira asked as they watched nothing much happening in the cool green countryside.
“Well, there’s Davy Blake from the next farm over. He’s been thinking that we’ll be married ever since we were children playing in the haystacks together.” She chuckled and touched her index finger to the last currant hiding in the folds of the wax paper wrapping. “Least his mother has been thinking that. No knowing what Davy thinks. He’s not much for talking.”
“Where is he now?”
“Still on the farm. Essential worker. He’s plenty glad to be told he has to stay there. Poor Davy never had much of a wish to travel.”
“But you do?”
“Course, I do. Imagine, trapped in that old farmhouse for the rest of my life, fetching tea and crumpets for old Mrs. Blake. Mr. Blake is long gone, and Mrs. Blake has been old as long as I can remember. For all that she isn’t any older than me own mum.”
“Well, good for you,” Moira said, with feeling, “for wanting to see what else is out there before you have to settle down.”
They talked for a long time, about men and boys they had known, families and school and dreams. Moira toned her life story down considerably, declining to share information on the family’s Muskoka cottage, her private girls’ school,
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