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

KATIE KING lives in Kent, and has worked in publishing. She has a keen interest in twentieth-century history and this novel was inspired by a period spent living in south-east London. She is the author of The Evacuee Christmas, the first in the Evacuee series.

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Katie King 2018

Katie King asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008257583

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

The day that Milburn came to Tall Trees rectory seemed to take forever to arrive.

And no sooner had Milburn been installed in the freshly whitewashed stable and given a metal pail of cool water to drink from, than there was an enviable trumpet of flatulence from underneath an extravagantly lifted tail, followed by an impressively large mound of droppings deposited in the corner of the stall, combining to make the children crowded over the stable door giggle in glee.

Milburn’s little chestnut ears flicked nervously forwards and backwards at the unfamiliar noise they were making.

The Rev. Roger Braithwaite, Tommy’s father, announced in a proud voice, ‘Just what the vegetables need’, to which his wife Mabel replied in a tone much less proud, ‘Don’t be such a daft ’apporth, Roger – it’s got t’ rot down first.’

Nobody said anything for a moment or two, and then Tommy asked Roger in a deceptively innocent voice, ‘Phew, phewee! Pa, do ponies fart a lot? And do they do much sh—?’

‘Tommy!’ his mother quickly cut in.

Milburn turned to peer at Tommy with such a comical look of shock that the children could only laugh with more abandon than they had already.

The fun and games had begun a few days before.

‘We’re going to have a pony and trap,’ Roger had announced grandly, bustling back to the crumb-strewn breakfast table after answering the telephone. ‘What do you all think of that?’

Everyone who lived at Tall Trees looked at the rector in bemusement as the thought of him driving something as old-fashioned as a trap was comical. As wonderful a clergyman as he was, they all knew that the general practicalities of life, and Roger, were not easy bedfellows.

Roger pretended not to notice the joshing expressions of those sitting around the kitchen table, reminding everyone instead that although he was able to keep a car, petrol rationing meant it wasn’t for everyday use. And probably no one needed reminding (they didn’t!) that he kept losing the bit of the engine he’d regularly remove – was it the distributor cap? Roger couldn’t remember – when he left the vehicle immobilised at night in accordance with the authorities’ instructions that all vehicle owners take something out of the engine when parked up, in order to make it as difficult as possible for Jerry to use if he were to invade. It was a good thing to do, obviously, but it was trying for everyone to keep tabs on where Roger had put the ‘thingymebob’.

Every single one of them had, at various times, helped Roger find something that he had put down somewhere and promptly forgotten about, usually because he placed his woolly, or his newspaper, or a tea towel on top, or because it had got buried by the muddle of papers on his overflowing desk in the study. More than once Peggy had found herself sitting down at the kitchen table only to jump up again immediately when she’d eased herself down on top of Roger’s favourite Swan fountain pen, the one he used to write his sermons. Only the week before she’d sat on his horn-rimmed reading spectacles that had been missing for over a day. Of course Mabel was always on at Roger to be more tidy, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was just as bad at failing to put things in their proper place. In fact, it was only Peggy’s eye for detail and workman-like attitude for sorting things out, and using the scullery as a hiding place for the mountains of washing, that prevented the large, stone-flagged kitchen descending into chaos.

‘So, from now on, for ordinary parish business it’s going to be pony- (as opposed to horse-)power, with the car being reserved for real emergencies. What do you all think of that?’ Roger asked the table, encouragingly.

‘Madness.’ Mabel’s reply was eloquent in its brevity. She knew her husband well, so she didn’t think much more needed to be said.

‘I don’t like ’orses much,’ said Tommy, not that he really knew anything about them but this didn’t daunt him, ‘anyways, not as much as machine-guns like the…’, the words dying on his lips under Mabel’s stern look. She was trying to encourage her eleven-year-old son to think a bit less about weapons than he did, but it was an uphill battle as the Tall Trees boys did love to make competitive lists of guns or bombers or tanks, and they would spend hours carefully tracing photographs they saw in the newspaper and colouring them in.

Gracie added her bit with, ‘I’ve never taken to them – ’orses – either. Their big yellow teeth put me right off.’

‘Sounds like their mummies haven’t made them brush their teeth,’ joked Connie as she, quickly followed by her twin brother Jessie, bared her teeth, pulling her lips back with her fingers as far as she could, which of course the other children had to copy immediately too, accompanied by lots of sniggering.

Roger, Mabel, Peggy and Gracie dramatically rolled their eyes up to the ceiling, which made the youngsters do it all the more.

Despairing of the table manners of her niece and nephew but not wanting to spoil the moment, Peggy was surprised too about the pony arriving. Tall Trees was a very splendid rectory certainly, with massive windows and generously proportioned rooms. Although a sizeable amount of the large garden had been given over to the chickens and the vegetable plots, she supposed there was still quite a lot of lawn and patches of grass a pony could nibble. But this wouldn’t get around the fact that Harrogate was a bustling place and it seemed odd to Peggy for Roger to be contemplating having a pony and trap in a relatively built-up area. Then she reminded herself how spacious, grand and grassy Harrogate had seemed when she and ten-year-old Connie and Jessie had arrived to their new billet on their evacuation from London the previous September, so used were they to Bermondsey’s tightly packed terraced streets and the River Thames flowing silently out to sea only a stone’s throw away from where they lived. ‘How did the offer of the pony and trap come about?’ Peggy asked Roger.

A farmer called Mr Hobbs was fed up with an extra mouth to feed that wasn’t earning its keep in these straightened times, Roger explained, and so following a sermon he’d given one Sunday that managed to speak about the value of Shank’s pony, and Apostle Paul on the road to Damascus (Roger having been inordinately proud of a joke he had been able to construct around these two things), Mr Hobbs had offered Roger the pony and trap on loan to use as an alternative to the car when out and about his parish.

‘I thought at once of our unused stables just across the back yard and so I just heard myself replying “what a wonderful offer” and “of course we’d love to have the pony and its trap”,’ Roger said.

Mabel shook her head as if to say that Roger had very possibly taken leave of his senses. But there was a twinkle in her eye and Peggy didn’t think Mabel was really put out by what Roger had agreed.

‘I suppose my acceptance might have been hastened by having already had to bicycle to old Mr Bennett at dawn – he’s on his last legs, poor chap, and there’ll be bad news soon – and then go straight over to see Mrs Daley as her own brood and their evacuees have all got chickenpox. And all before breakfast, might I say, which was a lot of pedalling on the boneshaker, I can tell you,’ mused Roger, ‘and I thought of a pony and trap, and sitting there thinking up ideas for my sermon, and it seemed a good thing…’

Peggy knew how heavy Roger’s ancient bicycle was, and she saw his point.

Mabel didn’t look so sympathetic. ‘’Onestly, Roger, what are you like? Well, you kiddies shall take care of t’ pony,’ Mabel told the children, ‘an’, you all mark this, I’ll send ’im back the first sign o’ trouble, you see if I don’t.’

‘Deal!’ they yelled in chorus, clearly delighted with the furry new arrival, and the long summer holidays stretching ahead not too far away.

Mabel had taken charge of getting everything ready for the pony, and after school she had set the children to cleaning out one of the shabby old stables and slapping a new coat of whitewash over the ancient brick walls. After, that is, they had dealt with a veritable festoon of cobwebs that needed pulling down. Connie turned out to be the only one without any fear of the host of understandably now tetchy spiders, much to the embarrassment of the boys, Tommy and Jessie, but Aiden too. He was a Harrogate lad in Tommy’s class and was also staying at the rectory where the boys all bunked up together in a huge but always messy bedroom. This meant that Aiden’s parents could rent out his room as there had been such an influx of people to the area since the war had begun.

Next, Mabel made the gang swish the tail end of a bar of red Lifebuoy carbolic soap about in piping-hot water from the kettle on the hob that had been poured into a couple of metal pails until the water looked opaque and medicinal. Then the children happily sloshed it about in the stall to thoroughly disinfect the floor, before using a stiff broom to swoosh the dirtied water outside. Then they neatly piled some bales of straw and hay, which had arrived while they were at school, into the stall next door, all the boys except Jessie trying to show how strong they were for the benefit of the girls.

The two buckets they’d used had been scrubbed and rinsed to within an inch of their lives to remove any smell of the Lifebuoy, after which Connie and Aiden chased each other around with the buckets half-filled with clean water trying to splash each other. Once the children were worn out, the buckets had been allowed to air-dry, as had an old zinc dustbin with a tightly fitting lid that had also been disinfected and would keep vermin out so the pony’s hard feed could be kept clean and dry. Afterwards, even Mabel couldn’t bring to mind anything else that needed doing.

This wasn’t like Mabel at all, and so it wasn’t a surprise to anybody that she put her thinking cap on and looked around for other jobs to do. Eventually, Mabel found, in an old lean-to near the chicken coops, some ancient and rather cobwebby items of grooming kit that looked as if they dated from well before the last war, in fact prior to 1910 was likely – which was the last time the stables had been occupied by horses instead of only mice and spiders – and so these elderly brushes and a currycomb had to be washed and disinfected too, and then left in a patch of bright sunlight to dry.

None of the evacuees had ever done any feeding or grooming of horses or ponies, although Connie and Jessie had sometimes helped the milkman, with his horse-drawn milk cart, to deliver the glass bottles of creamy milk to houses in Jubilee Street if they were up early enough on Saturdays (which wasn’t often as the milkman and his horse with his muffled hooves did plod along the twins’ home street very early in order to be in time for as many breakfasts as possible).

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Roger, ‘but I don’t think we should worry too much about our lack of equine knowledge. I can always speak to the pony’s owner if there’s anything we’re uncertain about, and I’m sure that as long as the pony has its scran and nobody is ever too loud, or mean, or boisterous near him, then everything will be dandy.’

The only girl evacuee, besides Connie, at Tall Trees was Angela, who had been in Connie and Jessie’s class at school back at home in south-east London. Sadly, Angela was in a wheelchair following an unfortunate run-in the previous Halloween with a car driving without headlights in the blackout. All the same, Angela was determined to pull her weight as far as the pony was concerned, and after she heard Roger say that he didn’t know much about ponies, she persuaded Tommy – the strongest of the children, as there were a lot of kerbs and inclines to navigate – to push her in her wheelchair over to the library so that she could bone up on horse care.

Angela was very thorough in her research, despite Tommy’s recurring refrain of ‘I’m bored’ whispered to her in ever-shortening intervals between his stints of messing about in the road outside the library, despite the stern ‘shush’ hissed in his direction by the librarian. Angela made careful and copious notes on feeding and how to rub down and what the various parts of a pony’s feet were called, feeling this was the least she could do as she had had to watch from her chair as the others worked to clean out the stable, knowing that Tommy’s suggestion that she be gaffer was just to make her feel less of a sore thumb.

Shyly, Angela showed Peggy her jotter once they were home that evening. Peggy had been her schoolteacher a while back, and she was impressed by the diligent way that Angela had written her notes. ‘Goodness me, that looks useful,’ Peggy said, and Angela allowed herself to smile when she added, ‘That pony is going to have a lot to thank you for, and you are going to be kept busy checking that the others are doing everything properly. Well done, Angela, really well done.’

The night they had arrived in Harrogate, nearly nine months earlier, Jessie had named his new grey teddy Neville in honour of Prime Minister Chamberlain. Jessie’s Neville was the brother bear to Connie’s black and white panda Petunia, the knitted bears being a surprise, hidden by their mother in their luggage as a treat for them to find when they came to unpack their belongings in their new billets.

Jessie wondered if they would be allowed to give the pony a new name when he arrived. ‘If so, we could call him Winston maybe?’ he asked, seeing as Winston Churchill had recently become Prime Minister.

Connie used her most strident voice to butt in quickly, ‘Gi’ over, Jessie, Winston’s a terrible name, and you know it. What about Winnie? Much better.’

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.