Jenny's War by Margaret Dickinson Page A

– whatever he wants to do.’
    Joe’s face cleared and he pulled on his cap, nodded to them all and went back down the steps to his horse and cart.
    At first the new arrivals were nervous and subdued. Even the locals, who knew Miles and Charlotte Thornton, were in awe of being in the ‘squire’s house’. But that afternoon when the teacher, Miss Parker, ended lessons for the day, Miles was waiting in the hall with a football in his hand.
    ‘Now,’ he said, raising his voice as the children tumbled out of the dining room in their haste to end the school day. As they saw Miles, they stopped and huddled together, shuffling their feet. Were they in trouble? They glanced at each other, wondering what they had done wrong during the day. But Miles was smiling.
    ‘Now, if any of you don’t have to get home immediately – by that I mean, as long as your mothers or the people you’re staying with won’t worry where you are – how about a game of football on the front lawn?’
    The hall echoed with the shouts of ‘Yes, yes,’ and twelve of the thirteen children ran out of the front door, down the steps and capered about on the lawn whilst Charlotte appeared with an armful of books and games.
    ‘We’ll go into the morning room, Frankie. What would you like us to do?’
    The boy’s face brightened and he limped after Charlotte as Miles began to follow the children outside. But as he moved to the front door, Miles saw his manservant, Wilkins, lurking near the stairs.
    ‘Would you like to act as linesman, Wilkins?’
    The dour, strait-laced man who’d been trained as a butler and valet looked horror-struck as if his employer had asked him to jump naked into the cold North Sea. ‘I – er – um – would rather not, sir. If you don’t mind.’
    ‘Not at all, Wilkins. Perhaps you could bring out some of Mrs Beddows’s home-made lemonade at half-time. We’ll play for about fifteen minutes each way. So in about a quarter of an hour . . . ?’
    Wilkins, manfully hiding his disapproval, gave a little bow and murmured, ‘Very good, sir.’
    But down in the kitchen Wilkins gave vent to his feelings. ‘Well, I’ve seen it all now. Scruffy little urchins sitting round the dining table and running riot through the house. And now the garden’s going to be a muddy football pitch in no time. I’ve never seen the like in all my born days, I haven’t.’
    ‘Now just you listen to me, Mr Wilkins.’ Mrs Beddows waved her wooden spoon at him. ‘Ever since this war started you’ve been moaning because you’re too old to volunteer. We’ve told you and told you to join the local volunteers for some sort of war work—’
    ‘Air raid precautions warden,’ Wilkins murmured. ‘That’s what I was thinking of doing.’
    ‘Yes, that, but you reckon you can’t do that because the master needs you here at his beck and call, even though he’s told you it’s fine with him for you to join. But no, you know best. But you’re still feeling guilty because you’re not “doing your bit”, aren’t you?’ Wilkins opened his mouth but Mrs Beddows was not about to let him get a word in. ‘Well, this is the way we can all do our bit. Look after these poor bairns who’ve been sent miles from their homes into the hands of strangers. They had no idea where they were going – I expect half of them still don’t know exactly where they are – and probably their parents don’t know either.’
    Now Wilkins was staring at her and when at last she paused for breath, he said hesitantly, ‘So – so you think this is worthwhile war work?’
    ‘Of course it is, you silly man. The authorities thought it necessary to send these children to safety and if we’re that “safety”, then it’s our duty and our privilege’ – again the wooden spoon was waved in the air – ‘to look after them. They’re the next generation, Mr Wilkins. They’re the future and we’ve got to make sure it’s not under Hitler’s jackboot. And if it means