Katie King - The Evacuee Summer - Heart-warming historical fiction, perfect for summer reading

Jessie shook his head in disagreement, and so did Tommy, the two boys then doing such a dramatic thumbs-down in unison that, predictably, it had Connie leaning over to aim a swipe at them.

But she grinned coyly when Aiden weighed in on her side with, ‘Clever, very clever, Connie. Winnie is Churchill’s nickname, to which you’re adding the sound a horse makes, and so it works two ways.’

Peggy hid her own smile as she could see that Jessie was the only one who knew for definite that Connie’s momentarily perplexed expression, quickly turning into something more self-congratulatory, concealed her surprise at Aiden’s suggestion that Winnie was a clever melding of meanings. To those in the know, it was nothing more than a happy accident, as Jessie would have safely bet his favourite sixer conker that his sister would never have heard the word ‘whinny’ before. Connie’s pursed lips and immediate widened eyes back at her brother, flashing the signal to keep quiet, instantly confirmed this to her family, and probably most of the others also if they cared to think about it.

To cover up Connie’s uncharacteristic failure to say something smart-aleck, Aiden went on quickly, ‘I like Raffy, after t’ RAF, but Shrapnel’s mint too.’

‘Spitfire!’ yelled Tommy, a bit too enthusiastically, ‘or Hawker, or Hurricane. I know, Trigger!’

‘Well,’ said Angela, ‘ I think we should wait until the horse arrives and then we can come up with the best name that suits him.’

But everyone else had been too busy thinking up names to hear Angela and to let the subject rest as she suggested.

The boys’ thumbs-down appeared in quick succession for the suggestions of Brown Jack (in honour of the famous racehorse – Roger’s idea), Dobbin (Mabel’s, said as a joke, although she then reminded everybody that the pony might already have a name and therefore wouldn’t answer to anything else, and perhaps they should consider the old wives’ tale that it was unlucky to rename a horse), and Sugar (Connie’s second-favourite name, apparently, reasoning that since rationing, sugar was never far from anyone’s thoughts and horses were known for liking sugar lumps).

The children were becoming overexcited by now, which was usually the fast track to somebody ending up with their nose out of joint, and sometimes even in tears. A little reluctantly, Peggy called an end to the debate, declaring it was time for the children to clear the table and do the washing-up, otherwise there’d be no ponies for them at all.

With deliberately loud sighs to show they weren’t happy, nonetheless the youngsters obediently began to see to their chores, with only one under-the-breath whisper from someone of ‘Sugar? That’s a dog’s mess name,’ to which Peggy had to quickly say ‘Connie, that discussion is over now, remember?’ to stop her niece seizing the moment to defend her suggestion and thereby almost definitely extending the conversation on the blessed names until it degenerated into a right old ding-dong of a squabble.

Chapter Two

On the Saturday, once they had finished their morning chores to Mabel’s satisfaction, the children hung around waiting for the new arrival.

They swung on the garden gate, causing nearby butterflies to flutter furiously into the air when the plants at the edge of the drive were disturbed. Then the children had a competition throwing chips of gravel from the short drive in front of the house, down the length of the rear garden, to see who could hoof a chip the furthest. And when Tommy won and started to show off, further disturbing the hens who had been set to panicky clucking by a stray chip that bounced off their zinc water trough, Aiden and Jessie had to wrestle him to the ground so that he didn’t get too above himself.

It was a baking-hot morning right at the end of May in 1940, and it seemed an age before the children heard the unmistakeable sound of a pony’s metal horseshoes on the tarmac of the road outside, clip-clopping in their direction, and then slow down to turn into Tall Trees.

‘’E’s a right little tinker, make no mistake,’ said Mrs Hobbs, the homely farmer’s wife, as she pulled the pony to a halt once she had driven into the back yard and hefted herself down to the ground with a dramatic sigh and a final lurch that made the wooden trap creak as if it were about to do itself a mischief.

The children supposed she was talking about the pony and not any of them.

For the moment nobody could think of anything to say, but Mrs Hobbs didn’t seem to notice, adding before too long, ‘Milburn needs watchin’ as ’e’ll nip yer if yer not careful. An’ ’e’s prone ter gettin’ oot if ’e thinks there’s somethin’ more interestin’ goin’ on elsewhere or ’e thinks ’e can get away wi’ it. ’E don’t kick often, but ’e means it when ’e do, so mind yerselves an’ yer all watch out.’

The children all took a step backwards.

The soft-eyed pony looked bigger up close than when turning into the yard, when the looming appearance of both the comfortably rounded farmer’s wife and the battle-weary trap had dwarfed the hairy-looking beast.

Roger bustled out of the kitchen, wiping his hands dry on a holey and faded tea towel that had once proudly extolled the virtues of Harrogate, followed closely by Mabel. Roger paused too and looked suspiciously at the pony who tossed its head insouciantly in his direction as a reply – or was this a challenge? And then Roger stepped back cautiously in a pantomime version of the way the children just had, although not before a little fleck of foam from the corner of the pony’s mouth from camping at the bit, flew through the air and landed ominously on Roger’s hand.

Only Mabel moved forward to pat the pony’s stocky neck, and the pair eyed each other seriously as if each were weighing up an opponent. ‘The children ’ave ’ad a scrabble o’er t’ name,’ Mabel announced to Mrs Hobbs.

The chestnut blinked solemnly in acknowledgement of what the rector’s wife had said.

‘We’ll ’ave ’e back if yer can’t cope, course, bu’ ’e’s too small fer t’ plough or much else that’s useful on t’ farm, an’ our girt chillen are t’ big fer ’e now an’ we ’aven’t time t’ go up ’ill an’ down dale funnin’ aboot in t’ trap, an’ so yer’s doin’ us a niceness puttin’ ’e up ’ere. An’ ’e’ll pay yer back as ’e’s a worker. Once ’e’s mind’s on it, that is,’ Mrs Hobbs went on as if Mabel hadn’t said anything as to the pony’s name, the last comment having a faintly threatening ring about it nonetheless.

The farmer’s wife looked towards the pony, and then Mrs Hobbs turned to stare at everyone else, before she sighed as if one of them had been found wanting and Milburn shook a shaggy mane as if to deny all association with the sigh. Mrs Hobbs sighed dramatically once more and then swiftly demonstrated how the tack came off, and was put on again; told them what the difference between hay and straw was; and how any hard feed (which he wouldn’t need before the cold weather came) should be given after the pony had been allowed to drink. Then Mrs Hobbs addressed the way the trap was connected to the harness and how the trap could be upended when it wasn’t in use to stop it rolling around; after which she outlined in theory the way the pony should be made to go faster or to stop, or to turn left or right. Then she reminded them again – and this was really important, she insisted – that water should be offered before food, and not the other way around to avoid any danger of colic; while if the pony did get colic they’d need to use a drench, which always caused problems. (Everyone looked very serious at this, especially Milburn.) Finally, Mrs Hobbs produced a hoof pick from a pocket at the front of her floral pinny and the children gasped when they saw how the pony’s generous feathers were grasped and then pulled upwards, so that its feet could be lifted up one at a time to rest on Mrs Hobbs’s bent leg in order that each hoof could be picked, with mud and gravel being scraped out.