The Chilbury Ladies' Choir(62)
“Goodness,” he said slowly, coughing slightly into his big, rolled-up hand. “You are definitely the type of open-eyed civilian we need around here!” He looked at me a moment, taking in my height and age. “Mrs. Tilling tells me you have your head screwed on properly, which means that you’ll take good care of what I’m about to say, won’t you?”
I nodded briskly, quite pleased that Mrs. Tilling had said that I had my head screwed on, as I most definitely have.
“I want you to carry on being observant wherever you go, but not to go out of your way to find things out. You have to trust me when I say that we have a number of highly trained people keeping an eye on this, and I don’t want you to put yourself in any danger. All right?”
I nodded, disappointed.
“Now, this is a very dangerous underworld we’re speaking about, so I need to have your word of honor not to tell a soul about this.”
“Definitely,” I said crossly. “I am completely trustworthy.”
“I’m certain that you are.” He smiled and his entire face lit up, making him look quite normal and even rather nice. “You know I have a girl of your age. You must be twelve?”
“No,” I snapped. “I’m nearly fourteen.”
“Of course you are! My daughter is twelve. She’s my youngest, staying with her aunt in Oxford with her two older sisters. I think she’d keep a secret, too, although she’d find it enormously hard work.” He let out a snort of a laugh, and I had to smile as he suddenly looked funny and friendly, like a big, unkempt St. Bernard or a beaten-up old teddy.
“Can she come and visit sometime?” I asked.
“Hopefully,” he said quietly. “I’d like them all to come one day and see where I live, this beautiful village with the rolling hills behind us.”
“I never think of our village as being beautiful. I’ve lived here all my life, and it’s just home to me. Do you really think it is?”
He paused, and I wondered if he’d heard me properly, but then at last he answered. “There’s a way of life here that I don’t believe any war can crush, that will endure long after we’re gone.” He snapped out of his thoughts and stood up. “I’ll let her know you want her to come. Her name is Alexandra,” he said, putting his giant hand forward to shake my small, slender one. “If you come across anything else, please tell me, Kitty. And don’t go to Peasepotter Wood. It’s dangerous. I know you’re a clever, mature sort of girl and can keep it to yourself, but especially don’t let Proggett suspect that you know anything, all right?”
“Yes,” I said, pleased that finally someone was acknowledging me as mature.
Mrs. Tilling came in and asked for a word with me in the kitchen. The Colonel bid me good night and asked Mrs. Tilling if he might use the telephone. I wondered if he was calling HQ to tell them what I’d reported. That I was a hero after all.
Mrs. Tilling began clearing up the tea things. “Does your mother know you’re here?”
“No.”
She sighed and looked round at me. “I don’t know why you came to see Colonel Mallard tonight, and I’m not asking that you tell me, but please don’t mix yourself up in this war, Kitty.”
“But we’re all mixed up in it, whether we like it or not.”
“Some of us are, Kitty. Some of us are.” She looked at me with a sudden sadness in her eyes, and I could see how David worries her. She gave my shoulder a squeeze with her hand. “Now, off you go, and do please try to stay away from trouble.”
As I went into the hall, I overheard Colonel Mallard on the telephone. “Yes, the exhaust is blown, and I need a replacement,” he was saying. “Immediately.” All my revelations and he was busy talking about his motorcar.
Mrs. Tilling opened the front door for me, and we heard the distant hum of aircraft coming from the south. I stepped out onto the path to get a better look, closely followed by Mrs. Tilling, who stood behind me like a still squirrel listening for danger, Colonel Mallard silently joining us. The droning got much busier and messier, as if a lot of engines of different pitches were sputtering toward us. We watched the skyline behind the church tower, the moon suddenly appearing from behind dense cloud cover—a slim bright crescent, its silver light covering the side of the church with a heavenly gleam.
And then we saw them. The spots grew distinct, first one Nazi bomber, then two behind, a precise, forward-moving mechanical arrow of doom.
We watched in awe as they came toward us, a wave of Nazi destruction passing overhead. Had they overshot Dover? Were they heading for the Thames? The Colonel walked down to the road to better gauge their path.
The siren started blaring loudly—the first time it’s gone off for a real air raid—shrill and frightening, like a ghost bellowing at us to get inside.
“Let’s go to the cellar,” Mrs. Tilling said briskly, ushering us back into the house. “I think they’re heading over us, but best be on the safe side, especially since we have Kitty here.”
She led the way through a slim door in the kitchen and down the narrow wooden staircase. As she switched the light on, I was relieved to see that it was decorated and cozy, not as grimy and insect-ridden as our cellar. Mrs. Tilling had put a worn-out rug in front of a small old settee and an armchair, complete with hand-embroidered cushions. A small bookshelf housed a clock, a dozen books, and a black metal box, which I hoped might be full of provisions. Rolled up to one side were some pillows and blankets, and I thought how comfortable it would be, curled up on the floor in such a snug little burrow.