Kate Morton - The Distant Hours

‘You’ve got your suitcase, I see. Did your mother make sure to include everything on the list? Is there anything you need?’

Meredith nodded; then shook her head. Blushed as words she would never, ever , dare to speak popped into mind: I need you to wait for me, Mr Cavill. Wait for me to get a little older – fourteen maybe, fifteen – and then the two of us can get married .

Mr Cavill marked something down on his paper form and capped his pen. ‘We might be on the train a while, Merry. Have you brought something to keep you busy?’

‘I brought my notebook.’

He laughed then, for he was the one who’d given it to her, a reward for doing so well in her exams. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘That’s perfect. Make sure you write it all down, now. Everything you see and think and feel. Your voice is your own; it matters.’ And he gave her a chocolate bar and a wink, and she smiled broadly as he continued up the aisle, leaving her heart swelling as big as a melon in her chest.

The notebook was Meredith’s most treasured possession. The first proper journal she’d ever owned. She’d had it for twelve months now but she hadn’t written a single word inside, not even her name. How could she? Meredith loved the smart little book so well, the smooth leather cover and the perfect neat lines across each page, the ribbon stitched into the binding for use as a bookmark, that to spoil it with her own penmanship, her own dull sentences about her own dull life, seemed too great a sacrilege. She’d pulled it from hiding many times only to sit with it on her knee for a while, drawing great pleasure simply from owning such a thing, before tucking it away again.

Mr Cavill had tried to convince her that what she wrote about wasn’t nearly as important as the way she wrote it. ‘No two people will ever see or feel things in the same way, Merry. The challenge is to be truthful when you write. Don’t approximate. Don’t settle for the easiest combination of words. Go searching instead for those that explain exactly what you think. What you feel.’ And then he’d asked if she understood what he meant, and his dark eyes had been filled with such intensity, such earnest desire that she should see things as he did, and she’d nodded and just for a moment it was as if a door had opened up to a place that was very different from the one in which she lived…

Meredith sighed fervently and sneaked a sideways glance at Rita, who was combing her fingers through her ponytail, pretending not to notice that Billy Harris was making moon eyes at her from across the aisle. Good. The last thing she needed was for Rita to guess how she felt about Mr Cavill; thankfully, Rita was far too wrapped up in her own world of boys and lipstick to bother with anyone else’s. A fact Meredith counted on in order to write her daily journal. (Not the real journal, of course; in the end, she’d struck a compromise, collecting spare paper from wherever she could find it and keeping it folded within the front cover of the precious book. She wrote her reports on that, telling herself that one day, maybe, she’d broach the real thing.)

Meredith risked another peek at her dad then, ready to look away before she caught his eye, but as she skimmed the faces, searched for his familiar bulk, cursorily at first, then with rising panic in her throat, she discovered he wasn’t there. The faces had changed; mothers were still crying, some waved handkerchiefs, others smiled with grim determination, but there was no sign of him. Where he’d been standing was a gap that filled and shuffled as she watched, and as she searched the crowd she realized that he’d really gone. That she’d missed seeing him go.

And although she’d held it in all morning, although she’d schooled herself away from sadness, Meredith felt so sorry then, so small and frightened and alone, that she started to cry. A great rush of feeling rose from within her, warmly and wetly, and her cheeks were instantly drenched. The awful thought that he might have been standing there all that time, that he might have been watching her as she watched her shoes, spoke with Mr Cavill, thought about her notebook, and willing her to look up, to smile, to wave goodbye; that eventually he must have given up and gone home, believing that she didn’t care at all-

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Rita beside her. ‘Don’t be such a blubbering baby. For goodness’ sake, this is fun!’

‘My mum says not to look out the window or you’ll get your head chopped off by a passing train.’ This was Rita’s friend, Carol, who was fourteen and as big a know-it-all as her mother. ‘And not to give anyone directions. They’re just as likely to be German spies looking for Whitehall. They murder children, you know.’

So Meredith hid her face behind her hand, allowed herself a few more silent sobs, then wiped her cheeks dry as the train jerked and they were off. The air filled with the shouts of parents outside and children inside and steam and smoke and whistles and Rita laughing beside her, and then they pulled out of the station. Rattled and clattered along the lines, and a group of boys, dressed in their Sunday best although it was Monday, ran up the corridor from window to window, drumming on the glass and whooping and waving, until Mr Cavill told them to sit down and not to open the doors. Meredith leaned against the glass and, rather than meet the sad grey faces that lined the roadsides, weeping for a city that was losing its children, she watched with wonder as great silver balloons began slowly to rise all around, drifting in the light currents above London like strange and beautiful animals.

Milderhurst Village, September 4th, 1939

The bicycle had been gathering cobwebs in the stables for almost two decades and Percy was in little doubt that she looked a sight riding it. Hair tied back with an elastic band, skirt gathered and tucked between locked knees: her modesty might have survived the ride intact, but she was under no illusion that she cut a stylish figure.

She had received the Ministry warning about the risk of bicycles falling into enemy hands, but she’d gone ahead and resurrected the old thing anyway. If there was any truth to the rumours flying about, if the government really was planning for a three-year war, fuel was sure to be rationed and she’d need a way of getting about. The bicycle had been Saffy’s once, long ago, but she had no use for it now; Percy had dug it out of storage, dusted it off, and ridden it round and round at the top of the driveway until she could balance with some reliability. She hadn’t expected to enjoy it so much and couldn’t for the life of her remember why she’d never got one of her own all those years ago, why she’d waited until she was a middle-aged woman with hair starting to grey before discovering the pleasure. And it was a pleasure, particularly during this remarkable Indian summer, to feel the breeze rush against her warm cheeks as she whizzed along beside the hedgerow.

Percy crested the hill and leaned into the next dip, a smile spreading wide across her face. The entire landscape was turning to gold, birds twittered in the trees, and summer’s heat lingered in the air. September in Kent and she could almost convince herself she’d dreamed the announcement of the day before. She took the shortcut through Blackberry Lane, traced her way around the lake’s edge, then jumped off to walk her bicycle through the narrow stretch bordering the brook.

Percy passed the first couple shortly after she’d started through the tunnel; a boy and girl, not much older than Juniper, matching gas masks slung over their shoulders. They held hands and their heads were bowed so close as they conferred in earnest, low voices, that they barely registered her presence.