Kitty Neale - Lost Angel

‘I managed to buy it from one of the villagers.’

‘Happy birthday,’ Gertie said as she came in and handed over a roughly wrapped parcel.

Inside Ellen found tweed trousers that had been cut down, the pains in her tummy forgotten now as she grinned. ‘Thanks, Gertie, but weren’t these your best ones?’

‘Yes, but you’ve grown out of your others, and will need warm trousers now that winter is here. Here you are,’ Gertie said, holding out a paper bag. ‘I got these too. I know you love barley sugar.’

Ellen smiled with delight, but then her mother spoke again as she held out another parcel, saying softly, ‘I thought I’d save this one till last.’

As soon as Ellen took it, she knew who it was from and ripped it open eagerly. Along with a letter, there was a beautifully carved wooden cat.

‘Oh, look,’ she said holding it up. ‘It’s from Dad.’

‘I know, darling, and he made it himself.’

Ellen stroked the cat lovingly and then placed it down to pick up the accompanying letter, her eyes filling with tears as she read it. She missed her dad so much, longed to see him again, and said sadly, ‘He … he doesn’t say he’s coming home. It’s been so long since his last leave and he must be due in port again soon.’

Socks rubbed against her legs and Ellen bent down to pick him up. He was a big cat now, sleek and lovely, but like Wilfred he’d taken to wandering. She looked at the beautifully carved one, her voice a croak. ‘Dad must remember Socks and that’s why he made me a cat.’

‘I’m sure he does, but don’t cry, love. It’s your birthday and it should be a happy time.’

‘Come on, Hilda,’ said Gertie brusquely as she rose to her feet. ‘You said you wanted to go to the village. We’ll wrap up warm and, Ellen, you can wear your new trousers, along with the hat, scarf and mittens.’

Ellen felt uncomfortable as she pulled on her new trousers, hating that it might show. ‘I’m ready,’ she said returning downstairs.

‘Right, I’ll harness Ned.’

As Gertie went outside, Ellen saw her mother looking at her before she said, ‘I’m sick of seeing you in trousers.’

‘You wear them all the time too.’

‘Sorry, pet, I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just that, like you, I’m missing your dad and it’s always worse when we’ve had letters.’

‘It’d be lovely if he was here for Christmas.’

‘Yes, it would, but come on, it’s your birthday and it’ll be nice to have a ride into the village.’

‘Mum, I feel funny wearing this … this rag thing. Does it show?’

‘No, you look fine.’

It wasn’t long before Gertie called out, saying as they set off, ‘As it’s your birthday, there’ll be no lessons for you today, especially as you did so well with your arithmetic yesterday.’

‘Thanks,’ Ellen said, but she really didn’t mind her lessons with Gertie. In fact, she made learning things fun. With Gertie’s way of bringing events to life, even history wasn’t boring, though Ellen knew she still struggled with geography.

‘It’s good of you to teach Ellen so much,’ said Hilda, ‘but once we’re back in London she’ll be able to go to a proper school again.’

‘That could be years away.’

‘Since the beginning of the war and that awful Blitz, there aren’t many bombing raids on London now.’

‘It still isn’t safe,’ Gertie warned.

‘Mum, you aren’t thinking about going back, are you?’ Ellen interrupted. ‘I don’t want to go. I want to stay here.’

‘All right, don’t go on about it. I didn’t say we’re leaving.’

They were all quiet then, the mood subdued, and Ellen doubled over as her tummy cramped. Gertie turned her head, her smile sympathetic.

‘Your mum told me that you’re menstruating. It’s a rotten thing to happen on your birthday.’

Ellen said nothing as she tried to get to grips with a new word. Menstruating, so that’s what they called it. She hated it – hated that she would have to go through this every month and she still didn’t understand why.

‘Nearly there, Hilda,’ said Gertie as at last they neared the village.

‘Good, I’m flaming freezing.’

‘It’ll get worse before it gets better.’

When they reached the general store, Ellen was about to climb down, but her mum said, ‘There’s no need for you to come in with me. Stay with Gertie.’

‘But …’

She was ignored, her mum hurrying into the shop.

‘What’s going on, Gertie?’ Ellen asked. ‘Don’t ask me, darling.’

It wasn’t long before her mum was back and clutching a cardboard box that Gertie leaned down to take from her while she climbed onto the cart.

‘Mum, what’s that?’ Ellen asked curiously.

‘Nothing much, a bit of shopping, that’s all. Right,’ she said, taking the box from Gertie, ‘we can go back to the cottage now.’

Ellen was puzzled, wondering how her mother had finished her shopping so quickly. ‘Aren’t you going to the butcher’s?’

‘No, now enough questions and let’s get home.’

As Gertie eased the horse out into the road a truck tooted from behind. As she pulled over, the sound of singing reached them as the vehicle passed. The tarpaulin was raised at the back, and they saw several women dressed in breeches, with green jerseys visible under open coats, all of them sporting brown felt hats. Some of them waved and Ellen waved back.

‘It’s the Land Army girls.’

‘The Land Army was first set up during the Great War following disastrous attacks on our merchant shipping,’ Gertie said, using this opportunity to give Ellen a history lesson. ‘We import about sixty percent of our produce, and with so many ships sunk during that war, Britain came close to starvation. The Land Army was formed and the girls carried out vital work in increasing our agricultural output. They were disbanded in 1919, but as we’re now in the same position, the government has re-formed the Land Army. Those women are invaluable to farms, either arable or dairy to increase production, and, though it’s jolly hard work, it’s once again vital.’

‘Rather them than me,’ Hilda said.

Gertie refrained from saying that both she and Ellen had been working the land for ages on her smallholding, and she didn’t know what she would have done without their help. When they left, she’d be lost – but as there was no sign of the war ending, thankfully she didn’t have to worry about it yet.

When they got back to the cottage, Hilda safely stowed the cake. Mrs Brandon had kindly offered to make it, insisting that she had enough ingredients hoarded to make it special. And it was, Hilda thought as she peeped inside the box.

‘Let me look,’ Gertie whispered as she came alongside, placing an arm casually around Hilda as she leaned forward. ‘I told Ellen to go upstairs and change into her old trousers.’

Hilda tensed. When Doug had left seventeen months ago she had missed him so much, and had thought nothing of it when Gertie had comforted her when she cried. The trouble was that since then Gertie still took to throwing an arm around her at every opportunity. Equally casually, Hilda moved away, saying, ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, very pretty, and Ellen’s going to love it. Is it fruit or sponge?’

‘Fruit! You must be joking; dried fruit is getting like gold dust. It’s sponge, but Mrs Brandon has sandwiched it with jam.’

‘I don’t know how she had the patience to make all those tiny little flowers out of icing sugar. I hate doing anything that’s fiddly.’

‘Gertie, let’s face it, you hate anything to do with cooking.’

She grinned. ‘Yes, that’s true, but thankfully you do it now. It’s nice to have you in the kitchen while I’m doing the mucky jobs outside.’