the general hospitals, and institutions like this…they’ll be left with no one. I need to be doing something more useful. Always it came down to that, he thought. And anyway, no one has the time or even cares about going to music recitals anymore. Music won’t save anyone; it won’t win us a war.
She was being ridiculous of course. All this talk of war would blow over by Christmas. You’ll see, he said. And then you won’t need to worry about saving people. We’ll all die old and gracefully, and incurably bored.
But Eva was adamant.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. He had almost forgotten where he was: standing in a strange room in front of a mirror and looking at himself or someone very much like him. The boots were a little big but everything else fit perfectly. He adjusted the braces and straightened his collar, leaving the top two buttons undone. Too hot for the jacket but he’d perhaps wear it in the evening. He would invest in this house, he decided; give himself to it until every detail of it was embedded within him—boots, books, bricks, and all.
He ran a comb through his hair and gently patted it into place, then studied himself once more in the mirror, with the faintest flicker of a smile.
Her mother had probably spent hours sewing the shillings into the cuffs of her cardigan, Just in case, and now, sitting on the floor of her bedroom, Lydia had unpicked them all and taken them out and she didn’t know why. The broken threads still hung from the ends of the woolen sleeves, and she pulled them out like needle-thin worms. I want to make sure you’ve always got some money with you, whatever happens, her mother said. Just in case. She looked at the pile of coins on the floor, all her mother’s work undone, and felt rather sick. You’re always meddling, her mother would say, but Lydia couldn’t help it.
Now her mother wouldn’t come back. Lydia didn’t deserve it. And what had she been thinking, talking to the man? She shouldn’t have made the bed for him. She shouldn’t be helping him at all.
She got up and brushed the bits of thread from her grubby dress. Her legs were covered in scratches and bruises. You’re not a girl’s girl, are you, dear? Joyce had once said. Lydia had never been one for dolls; she had always preferred to be with the boys, charging through the house barefoot, fighting with sticks, kicking at balls, making camps and going on adventures. The boys in Wales had been a different breed though—they were savages, and she had no mind to play with them. They seemed to think that evacuees like her and Button had been sent for them to torment. Get the vackies! they’d yell as they came bursting out of the woods and down the hill, waving sticks and throwing stones. It was almost always Button they got, and when they did, they gave him a pounding so that he came back to the house bruised and bloodied.
She climbed into the wardrobe and carefully shut the door. She felt oddly safe in there, in the dark. She understood now why Button had hidden in wardrobes—here, and in Wales, and maybe back in his homeland too. You could pretend that you didn’t exist, that nobody could find you, that outside the wardrobe everything was ordinary and exactly as it should be.
I was about your age when the last war started, her father had said. It will be all right, you’ll see.
Through the darkness, she heard the sound of Alfie running up the stairs, bounding up them two at a time as he always did. She pushed the doors open and tipped herself out onto the floor, scrambling quickly to her feet, and ran out into the corridor. She looked both ways.
“Alfie!” she called, feeling an inexplicable tremor of hope. “Alfie! Are you there?”
He sat on the floor of the study, taking each drawer out of the desk in turn and painstakingly sorting through its contents. He kept a notebook beside him, and every now and again, as he pored over letters and photographs,
She was being ridiculous of course. All this talk of war would blow over by Christmas. You’ll see, he said. And then you won’t need to worry about saving people. We’ll all die old and gracefully, and incurably bored.
But Eva was adamant.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. He had almost forgotten where he was: standing in a strange room in front of a mirror and looking at himself or someone very much like him. The boots were a little big but everything else fit perfectly. He adjusted the braces and straightened his collar, leaving the top two buttons undone. Too hot for the jacket but he’d perhaps wear it in the evening. He would invest in this house, he decided; give himself to it until every detail of it was embedded within him—boots, books, bricks, and all.
He ran a comb through his hair and gently patted it into place, then studied himself once more in the mirror, with the faintest flicker of a smile.
Her mother had probably spent hours sewing the shillings into the cuffs of her cardigan, Just in case, and now, sitting on the floor of her bedroom, Lydia had unpicked them all and taken them out and she didn’t know why. The broken threads still hung from the ends of the woolen sleeves, and she pulled them out like needle-thin worms. I want to make sure you’ve always got some money with you, whatever happens, her mother said. Just in case. She looked at the pile of coins on the floor, all her mother’s work undone, and felt rather sick. You’re always meddling, her mother would say, but Lydia couldn’t help it.
Now her mother wouldn’t come back. Lydia didn’t deserve it. And what had she been thinking, talking to the man? She shouldn’t have made the bed for him. She shouldn’t be helping him at all.
She got up and brushed the bits of thread from her grubby dress. Her legs were covered in scratches and bruises. You’re not a girl’s girl, are you, dear? Joyce had once said. Lydia had never been one for dolls; she had always preferred to be with the boys, charging through the house barefoot, fighting with sticks, kicking at balls, making camps and going on adventures. The boys in Wales had been a different breed though—they were savages, and she had no mind to play with them. They seemed to think that evacuees like her and Button had been sent for them to torment. Get the vackies! they’d yell as they came bursting out of the woods and down the hill, waving sticks and throwing stones. It was almost always Button they got, and when they did, they gave him a pounding so that he came back to the house bruised and bloodied.
She climbed into the wardrobe and carefully shut the door. She felt oddly safe in there, in the dark. She understood now why Button had hidden in wardrobes—here, and in Wales, and maybe back in his homeland too. You could pretend that you didn’t exist, that nobody could find you, that outside the wardrobe everything was ordinary and exactly as it should be.
I was about your age when the last war started, her father had said. It will be all right, you’ll see.
Through the darkness, she heard the sound of Alfie running up the stairs, bounding up them two at a time as he always did. She pushed the doors open and tipped herself out onto the floor, scrambling quickly to her feet, and ran out into the corridor. She looked both ways.
“Alfie!” she called, feeling an inexplicable tremor of hope. “Alfie! Are you there?”
He sat on the floor of the study, taking each drawer out of the desk in turn and painstakingly sorting through its contents. He kept a notebook beside him, and every now and again, as he pored over letters and photographs,
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