breakfast?â
âPorridge would be nice.â
âPorridge it shall be,â Emmeline promised and turned her head towards the bedroom door, listening. âThereâs the phone ringing. I shall have to go and attend to it. Youâll be all right, wonât you?â
He smiled at her concern. âPerfectly,â he said.
Emmeline went puffing down the stairs as fast as she could. The call would be from one or other of her daughters and she was eager for news of her grandchildren, whoâd all been evacuated the previous day too.
It was Dora, sounding very calm and collected. âYes,â she said. âHe arrived safely. I had a card from him this morning.â
âDear little man,â Emmeline said. âWhat does he say?â
Dora read the card. âHeâs in a village called Bracknell, wherever that is â and heâs staying with a nice lady called Mrs â what is it? â Weather â that canât be right â and heâs with Martin and Bob Cavendish. So you donât need to worry about him.â
Emmeline went on worrying. It was all very well for Dora to say what a big boy he was and how grown up he was getting, but he was only eight when all was said and done, poor little mite, and eightâs no age to be sent off to the country without your mother. âDid he say anything else?â
âNo. It was only a postcard. I have got another bit of news for you though. Iâm going to join the ARP. They want people to drive their ambulances. It was in the paper this morning.â
âBut youâve got a job,â Emmeline protested. She worked for an estate agent just down the road from her flat.
âThis is extra,â Dora said firmly. âWhen there are air raids. It wonât stop me working. Anyway, I donât reckon thereâll be much work for me to do now. I mean whoâs going to buy a property in Balham? It might be bombed. Nobodyâll move to London with a war on. Theyâre all moving out.â
âDonât talk like that,â Emmeline said. It made her flesh creep. Bad enough to have to think they might be bombed, without actually saying it.
âThatâs the way weâve got to talk now, Ma,â Dora said. âItâs no good pretending. Weâre in it now. Weâve got to face things.Anyway, must rush. The pips are going. Iâll phone you tonight and let you know how I get on.â
Emmeline put the telephone back on its hook, feeling stricken. Her world was being turned upside down for the second time in her life and she couldnât bear it. Her nice comfortable order was wrecked and now look where they all were. Poor little David all on his own out in the country somewhere, her dear Dotty Dora driving an ambulance â and just think how dangerous thatâs going to be if they start bombing â no Tavy to talk to, and her dear, dear Johnnie flying his Spitfire with all those dreadful bombers in the air. Sighing, she stomped off to the kitchen to cook the porridge.
It was just thickening nicely when the phone rang again. She took it off the gas and set it aside so that it didnât burn and went off to see who it was this time.
It was Edie and she sounded upset and unsure of herself.
âMum? Is that you?â
âYes,â Emmeline said. âWhere are you?â
âIâm in the phone box at the end of the road.â
âWhat road?â
âMy road. Where I live.â
âDidnât you go then? Have they put it off?â
âOh no. Nothing like that. The girls went. Theyâre in Guildford. I got a postcard this morning. I stayed here with Joanie.â
âI thought you were all going together.â
âYes â well â we were,â Edie said, and then there was a long pause before she went on. âArthurâs being sent to France, he got the letter yesterday, and I couldnât very well go off and leave him
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