Whirl of the Wheel
by Catherine Condie
Smashwords Edition
Three children whirl back in time through an enchanted potter’s wheel into the reality of evacuation in 1940s Britain. Only two return . . . Whirl of the Wheel pulls feisty Connie, her brother Charlie-Mouse, and school pest Malcolm into dangers on the homefront and towards a military operations secret that will save their home. This ebook includes hyperlinked chapters.
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Published by
Bear Books on Smashwords
Whirl of the Wheel
Copyright 2009 Catherine Condie
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) for commercial purposes without the written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Whirl of the Wheel Hyperlinked Contents
Chapter One: An unwelcome encounter
Chapter Three: Packing cases, pots and purple tea
Chapter Four: Of magic and history
Chapter Six: In Dracula's Castle
Chapter Seven: The kitchen front
Chapter Eight: Summer 1940 - 'Spitfire Summer'
Chapter Nine: Summer 1940 - Secrets abound
Chapter Twelve: Gathering pace
Chapter Thirteen: Christmas is coming
Chapter Fourteen: Winter 1940 - Winter arrival
Chapter Fifteen: Winter 1940 - The unexpected visitor
Chapter Sixteen: Winter 1940 - At the far end of the house
Chapter Seventeen: Winter 1940 - From one desk to another
Chapter Eighteen: Winter 1940 - Wish me luck
Chapter Nineteen: Winter 1940 - Caught in the danger zone
Chapter Twenty: Winter 1940 - A lucky escape
Chapter Twenty One: Where is Malcolm?
Chapter Twenty Two: In the quiet of the night
Chapter Twenty Three: Make do and mend
Chapter Twenty Four: Spring 1941 - The stranger
Chapter Twenty Five: Spring 1941 - The tower revisited
Chapter Twenty Six: Spring 1941 - Dreams do come true
Chapter Twenty Seven: Welcome home
Chapter Twenty Eight: New hope
Chapter Twenty Nine: Their finest hour?
Chapter Thirty: Flashes of the past
Chapter Thirty Two: A place in time
Epilogue: Summer 1941 - Malcolm's deliverance
Chapter One An unwelcome encounter
Connie stretched her arms, her gaze meeting with the plume of white-grey smoke curling from their kitchen chimney.
‘Race you home!’ she yelled into the wind.
Charlie-Mouse tore away towards the old house, whipping up a whirl of grass cuttings, twigs and leaves, and without even a glance behind.
‘Run around the tree!’ Connie shouted.
Charlie-Mouse reached out, grabbing the trunk of an apple tree. ‘I’ll make it . . . at least three . . . times round,’ he called.
Connie brought her jazzy coloured wheelchair to a halt.
Her brother grinned, chest heaving. ‘Beat you . . . by miles,' he said. 'Don’t tell me . . . grass too . . . bumpy?’
Connie smoothed her shock of golden hair and rolled her rainbow bracelet back in place.
‘You’re so sad and immature, Charlie. You always say that. Anyway, you were ahead from the start!’
Charlie-Mouse leaned over, resting his knobbly elbows on her shoulders and bending to her ear. ‘Then you should always be prepared!’ he whispered, and jumped away.
Straight into the path of the gangliest boy in class.
Connie’s insides crawled as the boy Malcolm Mollet lurched past them to hook a yellow notice onto the swirls of their back gate. He forced his sneeze all over it as if to cement it there, then turned round and smirked. ‘Mister Charlie Boring Mouse wants to know what this says?’ he crowed.
‘Not particularly,’ muttered Charlie-Mouse.
‘Betcha do.’
Malcolm Mollet faced him square, taunting with a crooked smile. ‘I’m gonna tell ya anyway. We’re gonna smash it all up!’
‘Smash all what up?’ demanded Connie.
He spun with a menace in his eyes. ‘Your house.’
She followed his finger in disbelief. Claybridge leaned out to them, its peg-tiled roof climbing and falling along the length of the dwelling. She laughed. ‘Don’t be mad!’
‘Suit yourself,’ said Malcolm, twisting his nose away.
‘You are joking aren’t you?’ she said. ‘They’d never allow it! It’s over 300 years old. It’s got history and it’s . . .’ She pulled at the pendant around her neck. ‘You are so wrong!’
‘We can, and we are. So there!’ Malcolm struggled with an asthmatic cough, swinging his body back and forth on the pillar of the Victorian lamp post. ‘And your stupid treehouse, Dracula’s Castle or whatever you call it – that’s coming down too.’
‘You idiot!’ said Charlie-Mouse, pinning one of his solid stares straight into Malcolm Mollet’s small eyes. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Read it yourself, Boring, and wait and see,’ threatened Malcolm. ‘My old man’s got the bulldozers lined up to flatten the lot. Then he’s going to put stacks of new houses all over the top.’
Flicking over and over at his ash-blonde fringe, the boy turned to go. He spat in the direction of the house and stalked off along the ruts on the muddy side of the path.
‘You’re disgusting!’ Connie shouted after him.
Corberley City Council
Notice of Receipt of Planning Application
Provision of new housing on the site known as Claybridge Farm
Demolition of the aforementioned house and outbuildings . . .
As she read further, panic burned in the pit of her stomach, firing up to launch an attack on every strand of her twelve-year-old body. This is a mistake. No, don’t cry – whatever you do, don’t cry. She tensed up to fight it off and, breathing hard, held onto her tears and clenched her teeth. She tucked her hair firmly behind her ears and flashed her brother a determinedly explosive look.
‘This time the stick insect has gone too far,’ she said. ‘It’s the meanest trick of all.’
Chapter Two The next move
Connie’s mum flustered around the kitchen, her soft olive complexion blotched with pink. ‘There’s been a mix-up with the lease of the house – something to do with the sale of the farmland, the war . . . and the church no longer has control,’ she said, bending to open a bottom cupboard. ‘The solicitors tried to help but things were messy . . . and we’ve decided the house is far too grand for us anyway.’
‘That can’t be the reason,’ Connie snapped. ‘We belong here. Dad’s work is here. We can’t let those creeps get the better of us!’ Her staccato breaths shortened with increasing desperation, her bright blue eyes clouding. She stopped. The silence bit into her anger and the words spilled out – ‘We’re not leaving the village are we?’
‘No, we’re not leaving the village that’s the blessing at least,’ sighed her mum. And she began to talk at greater speed, as if her words protected her. ‘The vicarage can go anywhere, as long as your father goes with it. The good news is we have the keys to Number 25, on the corner. It’s nice enough – plenty of space. We’ll start moving as and when.’ She turned her face and started to sort kitchen utensils into large plastic boxes.
As and when! She meant right away by the looks of it.
Connie left her wheelchair and moved to a kitchen chair. Her mum’s face crinkled. A hand whisk clattered to the floor as they held each other tight.
‘Hey, hey.’ Her mum spoke softly into her shoulder. ‘This isn’t my strong, courageous girl is it?’
Charlie-Mouse fixed his eyes downward as he stood flexing his calf muscle and kicking his foot to dent the leg of the kitchen table. ‘Unbelievable,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t mind so much if it were a case of someone else moving in. But this is mega bad.’
‘Jim,’ Connie’s mum called out. ‘Do come and see the children.’
A flurry of sound, like that of distant voices, nestled with the creaks and murmurings of the old house, and the solid beat of her dad’s footsteps echoed on the stone floor of the hall corridor.
Dad pushed open the door. His face matched the grey of his beard, his forehead fixed in furrows from trained and concentrative thought.
‘Ah.’ As he stretched out his hands towards her, the furrows relaxed a little. ‘You know, you two – it’s not all bad. At least they can’t knock down head office,’ he said, motioning at the church.
‘But it is all bad,’ answered Connie. ‘It’s a total disaster. I can’t believe they’re allowed . . .’ She rapped her knuckles on the tabletop, giving a glare that demanded some sort of resolution from her dad’s tired eyes.
It didn’t come.
‘I know, Darling. It’s difficult to understand – even for me. I’ve asked for divine intervention, left a fair few messages, but no one’s come back to me yet,’ he joked.
She couldn’t utter a sound in return. She picked at the stitching on her pink-and-white-striped shorts, and glared watery-eyed at the quarry tiles on the floor until they submitted to double vision.
A sharp knock at the back door threw her thoughts back together.
‘Oh, Wendy, so good of you to come,’ said her mum, brushing her hands over her eyelids and lashes to greet her friend and neighbour with a polite kiss on the cheek.
‘Not at all,’ said Wendy. ‘Afternoon Vicar sorry if it’s a bad time. Hello Connie. Hello Charlie. I had to come . . . Mollet’s plans are the talk of the village.’
‘Sadly,’ said her mum. ‘So very sadly.’ She gestured for Wendy to take a seat and started to fill the kettle. ‘Tea?’
‘Please,’ said Wendy. ‘Blueberry, if you have some.’
The water on the bottom of the stainless steel kettle sizzled on the Aga.
‘I’ve a special supply, especially for you,’ answered her mum. ‘You know that.’
Wendy twirled her layered skirt over the empty chair seat next to Connie and sank on top of it. The skirt drifted down after her like a silk parachute, throwing up a powerful aroma of blueberry burst body lotion that swelled in Connie’s nose.
Don’t get too close to the Wendlewitch or she might turn you into a purple frog.
Connie gave half a secret smile. At school they called her Wendy the Wendlewitch. It suited her.
Connie looked upon the Wendlewitch’s shining, moon-shaped face and her sympathetic (almost purple) eyes. The woman’s chestnut hair jumbled out from a tie-dyed cotton hairband that matched the deepest purple hue in her clothing. She had a good aura about her . . . if she were a witch.
‘Anything I can do to help,’ said their guest, reaching one of her clay-spattered hands to Connie’s forearm and sparking a static shock. ‘You only have to ask.’
Connie shook her head but willed her to turn Malcolm Mollet and his dad into a pair of frogs.
‘How about helping us to pack?’ said her mum, with a wry smile.
‘No dear, that’s not the spirit,’ said the Wendlewitch, raising her hands in some sort of a mini-trance. ‘There are some great vibes about.’ She swirled her head wildly before whipping open her eyes. ‘Mind you, I do have a good supply of cases back at the pottery.’
Her mum almost laughed. ‘I suppose we could do with some more. I’ll send the children over after six.’
‘It’s not a defeat just yet. We’re not going to let Mollet win this, are we?’ The Wendlewitch leaned in closer. ‘Not with the history of this place.’
Her mum pursed her lips.
‘My dear – things are never as bad . . .’
Connie lost track of their conversation as it drifted to the subjects of objections and planning committees. Wishing for a miracle, she fell deeper and deeper into a daydream, savouring the wonderfully satisfying image of Malcolm Mollet transforming from a human stick insect into a plump purple frog.
Chapter Three Packing cases, pots and purple tea
Six o’clock had come and gone when they arrived at the pottery to collect the cases.
Connie's eyes jumped from the window display of jugs, bowls and the scattering of stilled moths and dead flies, to the Wendlewitch leaning out above with her purple mobile against one ear and her hair harassed by the afternoon breeze.
‘The door’s open – I’ll be right down,’ the Wendlewitch called, closing up with a flash of purple-painted nails.
‘Come on, Charlie-Mouse,’ encouraged Connie. ‘Push me in.’
Her nervousness tugged inside her chest, much as it did when she came here as a small child, clinging to her parents’ sides and feeling their chat thud back and forth across the scary witch’s cavern.
She shuddered. The room hummed with the same mystic curiosity – from the crouching blue and gold spotted china cats eyeing her from a top shelf, to the odd crowd of old and dented copper kettles and the collection of dusty antique fire screens cluttering the chimney breast at the far end of the room.
And so many pots old pots crammed full of tools, new pots to be painted, pots waiting to be fired, and pots ready to sell. Pots of all shapes and sizes, in peculiar passions of purple and blue, teetering expectantly on every available surface.
‘You wait here while I search for those cases,’ said the Wendlewitch, stooping to the floorboards and shuffling a gathering of pencils, pens and brushes into her skirt. She delivered them onto a thick spread of sun-curled notes and scraped a heavy wooden stool with carved lion’s feet away from her potter’s wheel to make way for Connie’s chair. ‘You can give her a whirl—’ she said, idly twisting the wheel to-and-fro. ‘She won’t bite.’
When the Wendlewitch let it go, the old wheel inched its way to a stop in its battered wood frame. Connie saw how it slotted into a modern construction of pinewood and metal. Wires trailed beneath, and disappeared into a switchbox at knee level, then to a floor pedal like the treddle her mum used on her electric sewing machine.
Persuasion sparkled from the Wendlewitch’s eyes, and she proceeded to drop a ball-sized lump of wet brown clay into Connie’s open hands.
The soft mass glooped as Connie passed it palm-to-palm. Sort of clammy. Sort of slimy. She curbed a serious urge to squeeze, to see the stickiness worm through the gaps. Reluctantly she cupped it into a firm ball, cradling it with her slender fingers, not wanting to let go.
‘Cool,’ said Charlie-Mouse. Sitting with his chin balanced in his hands at the adjoining worktable, he had that look, as if he were about to set off one of his badly staged throat-clearing fits to put her off.
Connie narrowed her eyes, ‘Don’t you dare,’ she mouthed, sensing the bite of clay in her mouth. But there was something else, and the feeling surprised her. It hit her with all the thrill of a fairground ride – the excitement and the fear pulling her chest tighter still.
The Wendlewitch gave the potter’s wheel a helpful and determined spin using the tips of her ring-clad fingers. ‘Ready?’ she asked.
Connie nodded. Throwing down her clay, she dipped her fingers into the water bowl. But as she drew them back to the wheel, a rush of air swirled out from its centre and around her body. She forced her eyes from the mesmerising spin to fix upon the mystical outline of the Wendlewitch’s face. Scattered particles of light teased the air about her into a haze.
In an instant of purple confusion, the Wendlewitch whirled out of view and her pottery workshop went with her.
A new atmosphere pervaded.
The musty smell of wood and chalk dust hit Connie’s nostrils. She fell forward onto a sloped wooden desk, knocking hard into her funny bone.
‘What on earth . . ?’ exclaimed Charlie-Mouse, his voice echoing around the empty room. He slid off the back wall and into a seat behind her, scraping hard at her combats. But she didn’t move a muscle. She couldn’t – even though her elbow ached madly and she wanted to shake away the pain ricocheting through her body. Neither could she make a sound her mouth was sealed tight and her tongue glued to the back of her teeth. She moved only her eyes. Hanging portraits of kings, queens and prime ministers glowered back. The background scream of the overhead gas lighting, the whipping of the wind and the shrieks from outside added their challenges to her senses.
Stay calm, breathe, and relax. Everything’s fine.
Someone came into the room. Startled, she nodded and smiled politely, clicking her heels in perfect time across the polished floor. The outside noise built to crescendo as the lady opened the door and blew sharply on her whistle. At once the shrieks fell and the playing children – with small boxes dutifully strung across their bodies – hurried into line. ‘Be quick about it,’ the lady instructed.
The room filled – they moved along the lines of desks – shoes plain and practical, laced and buttoned, and polished in black or brown. Two to a bench seat – their backs a combination of coloured cardigans, pinafores, pullovers, shirts and tanktops.
‘Settle down please.’ The lady cleaned the blackboard with a damp cloth and swung it over to the dry side. She took up a chalk and headed, Monday, 18th September, 1939.
A half-breath warmed at Connie’s neck as Charlie-Mouse stifled another gasp. He clenched his grip on her hair.
‘Be calm and considered in your writing – your parents will expect it.’
The children dipped their inkpens. As they drew the pens across the page, the background hiss of silence changed its tone and the invasive sound of a low-altitude propeller aircraft took hold. A girl with bobbed auburn hair looked up with apprehension, only to be waved down by the lady with the chalk. ‘One of ours,’ the teacher said.
‘Do something!’ hissed Charlie-Mouse.
‘I can’t.’ Now Connie wanted to cry, or to laugh. Charlie-Mouse pulled harder at her hair. Her head was spinning . . . then she heard a clash of teacups.
Connie found herself back in the pottery, at the potter’s wheel, and with her brother by her side.
Nothing had changed from the moment they had left, except that three steaming cups of strong smelling tea enticed her from the trolley and, strangely, she could still hear the sound of the propeller aircraft. It had followed them into the present day – its sound gradually melding with the quiet whirr and the click from the wheel as it slowed to a stop.
‘Sssshhh,’ breathed the Wendlewitch, with one artistic finger placed to her lips. ‘I have something to confess.’
Chapter Four Of magic and history
‘Ouch!’ Connie howled, wincing at several sharp pulls to her temple as Charlie-Mouse released the final few strands of hair.
The Wendlewitch passed two cups of tea over the top of the potter’s wheel and took up her own. She crash-closed her eyelids and sipped. With a tilt of her head she swallowed, and appeared to stretch her thoughts to the top of the chimney breast. Connie fixed upon the flickering concentration in the mauve creases of her eyeshadow.
‘My oh my, and after all this time,’ the Wendlewitch muttered. ‘No wonder the whispers were spinning me a merry dance.’
‘Where did we go to?’ Connie demanded.
‘That’s for you to say, my dear.’
Connie sent the Wendlewitch her hardest stare. ‘You knew it would happen. You planned it. You wanted Charlie and me to spin the wheel!’
The Wendlewitch put down her cup and held up her hands in surrender. ‘Can you admit you wished for something extra special, in your heart, my dear?’
Connie thought of the house – her mother’s tear-stained face and her dad’s anxious expression. ‘Yes,’ she conceded.
A click sounded from one of Charlie-Mouse’s knees. ‘OK, so are you a witch?’ he said.
The Wendlewitch peered over the top of her purple-rimmed glasses then threw back her head, laughing. ‘Goodness gracious me, no, my dear! But you can call me the guardian of the wheel. And I suppose over the years some of her magic has rubbed off on me.’
The Wendlewitch cast her hand over the top of the potter’s wheel, picking up a bright purple flash of electrostatic energy and drew it through the air with her fingertips. Everything around her jumped to life – the wood in the woodstove burst into flame, the copper kettles steamed, the pencils, pens and brushes danced themselves into an empty pot, and the spotted cats began to play.
‘None of it’s very . . . funny . . . whoa . . .’ Charlie-Mouse said, backing into a pile of packing cases.
Connie kept one hand gripped to her wheelchair and grabbed his T-shirt to pull him forward.
‘Not funny,’ said the Wendlewitch, clicking her fingers. ‘Useful, maybe.’ The purple glow about her dimmed and all fell still.
The last warming drops of radiance awakened Connie’s hopes. ‘We were here,’ she said, letting go of Charlie-Mouse. ‘In this room . . . and it was 1939.’
‘Aha,’ the Wendlewitch replied. ‘When the world changed again and people were displaced.’
‘What has that got to do with anything?’ Charlie-Mouse said.
‘Sssshhh!’ said Connie, shoving her hand over his mouth.
‘My dears, your house is whispering of it too. What I can say is, not long into the war, the owners had to move. It was a standard military thing, they said. But the rumours spread fast.’
‘Rumours?’ whispered Connie. She caught sight of her mum collecting in the last of the washing. She pictured bulldozers advancing across the lawn with menacing speed – it twisted her insides and stabbed at her heart. She tempted her fingers over the wheel. ‘Then we need to know what they were about.’
A look of fear folded its way into her brother’s expression. ‘Hang on. These things are written in record books, aren’t they?’
The Wendlewitch shook her head. ‘You would think so . . .’
‘No. The house is calling for help. We have to go back,’ said Connie.
‘But . . .’ said Charlie-Mouse.
‘But not today,’ said the Wendlewitch. ‘The wheel’s energy is truly spent – anything might happen. You sleep on it – we’ll meet again soon enough.’
Chapter Five Rewind 1939
Claybridge Farm
Wednesday, 13th September, 1939
Dear Mummy and Daddy,
It is exactly as we remembered it. Claybridge Farm is so very big! Bert got lost when we played hide and seek yesterday. I found him in the end; he was in the attic room. He said he would like it for his bedroom when Auntie Evie moves her sewing machine and the trunks full of old clothes. (She says she is going to send the clothes to the Red Cross because then other people can use them.) Bert likes the view from up there, he says he gets a good look at the planes going over to the airfield at Castle Camps, but I’m more than happy to stay in the guest bedroom because it used to be yours. It has the highest ceiling I’ve seen. I sometimes have to pull the light cord over my head in the middle of the night because I don’t know where I am. Bert always gets cross and turns the light off again. It’s funny that you are not in the room next to me but I imagine that you are.
Thank you for our going-away presents. My lovely doll is sitting on my bedspread right now. Bert is delighted with his matchstick cannon. He keeps firing matchstick pieces along the windowsills and out of the window at Uncle Geoffrey.
Daddy, I hope you have done your packing. Please write to us soon because we want to know what you are doing and where you are sleeping. I hope there isn’t going to be any bombing or fighting where you are.
It is quite exciting here. We started school this week. Miss Regent is an excellent teacher. She is kind and funny, and sometimes strict! She lives in the village too, so Auntie Evie says.
Auntie Evie is going to teach us some first aid. She wants to make sure that everyone in the village knows what to do in case of an emergency. I’m quite glad she is a nurse.
We miss you loads and loads and will write as often as we possibly can.
Lots of love from Kit and Bert xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
BON VOYAGE DADDY !!!!
P.S. Daddy, Bert has drawn you a picture of the view from the attic room to take with you. You can see the whole village from up there.
P.P.S. Mummy, Bert says please could you send his slippers. They are at the back of his wardrobe.
Chapter Six In Dracula’s Castle
A cloud haze covered the morning sky and the sun strained to break through. As Connie tapped a mass of wartime search words into her laptop, a wet and sticky paper pellet shot through the open window of the large treehouse, landing between the keys.
‘I don’t know how he even dares!’ she seethed. ‘He wants attention – he doesn’t get enough of it at home.’ She poked her scowling sun-freckled face out of the window to see Malcolm Mollet’s lanky figure scuttling off down the public pathway towards the pottery. ‘Ugh, so vile!’ She screwed up her face harder. ‘I feel sorry for the Wendlewitch. Fancy having him as a nephew.’ Piercing the sticky pellet with a pencil, she huffed and shook it violently out of the gap it came through.
She froze. Malcolm Mollet’s dad was parading his awkward six-foot figure up their bricked garden path. She watched him wander along the back of the house, checking his designer suit every now and again in the window panes. ‘They’re not in,’ she said, in a harsh whisper. ‘Go away.’
But Malcolm Mollet’s dad didn’t go away. It seemed he wasn’t bothered whether there was anyone in or not. As the church clock chimed he began to nose around the outside of the house, making scribblings in a large black portfolio. Drawing out an enormous tape measure, he trounced over lawn and shrub beds to get from one side of her dad’s beautifully kept garden to the other. He shoved his file onto the side of a large terracotta pot brimming with lavender and extracted his mobile phone, wobbling as he stood with one polished toe resting on their doorstep. ‘Is that the planning office? Good, yes. No time to chat – take this down,’ he said. ‘Forty houses. Terraced. Courtyard gardens. No, no, I’ve changed my mind – fill in the stream and make it eighty. Scrap the courtyard gardens, just give them an outside cupboard for a dustbin – we don’t want the new residents to leave a mess.’ Malcolm Mollet’s dad tossed his head towards Dracula’s Castle. Connie fell back from the window. ‘Shame about the church,’ he continued, giving its patchworked tower a torrid glance. ‘It’s always in the way. But I’ll pray for it to fall down.’ He snorted a laugh before regaining his self-control.
Connie’s eyes widened until they moved no more. She put her hand over her mouth to stop herself from calling out.
‘Perfect business strategy – we are to be congratulated.’ Malcolm Mollet’s dad snapped his phone shut and flicked again at his perfectly plucked moustache. ‘Out with the old and in with the new, lots of money for me and you!’ he crooned in a cringeworthy caterwauling of tunelessness, and disappeared around the corner.
Connie groaned. ‘He thinks he’s won.’
Mollet the Wallet strikes again.’
‘This is no time for jokes, Charlie,’ she said, pushing her laptop into a bag and thrusting it at him.
‘Let’s put it off a bit longer.’
‘No! It’s late enough,’ she called.
She slid down the ramp in defiance of her weak leg muscles. She hadn’t forgotten the ladder burn on her hands and knees from the last time they raced each other down. Her hands had stung every time she turned her wheels.
This time, the Wendlewitch didn’t lean out of her top window. They waited for several minutes but nobody came.
‘Look, it says it's open,’ said Connie. ‘It’ll be OK.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Come on, Charlie – where’s your on-field courage now?’
She flung the pottery shop door wide open and wiggled her nose at the smell of blueberry burst body lotion. It drew her right across the room, her wheels hardly making a sound on the old boards. She looked fearfully at the laden shelves climbing upwards and over her head. The flickering turquoise in the eyes of the china cats made her jump. ‘Oh,’ she exclaimed, pushing Charlie-Mouse ahead.
To her shock, he knelt on the lion stool, gripped the wheel with both hands and started using it as a steering wheel.
‘Dodgems,’ he said, forcing a grin.
She slapped her hands on his. ‘Time travellers don’t do dodgems. Be sensible,’ she hissed.
He huffed. ‘All right, which way does it spin?’
‘Anti-clockwise of course. Use the motor.’
He put his foot on the pedal. ‘Bet nothing happens.’
The wheel started circling and Charlie-Mouse pressed his foot all the way down. Connie shuddered as its magical energy began to encompass her body.
Chapter Seven The kitchen front
Claybridge Farm
Saturday, 11th May, 1940
Dear Mummy,
We bought sweets with our ration books yesterday. It was quite exciting. I haven’t eaten them all yet. We are having a competition to see who can save the most sweets for the longest time. I am not doing as well as Bert! Uncle Geoff told us that even Princess Elizabeth has a ration book! I wonder if she has competitions with Princess Margaret. Bert says he’s going to buy hundreds and thousands next time because they’ll last longer. I’m not sure I will, I much prefer pear drops. I wouldn’t mind finding out whether or not Princess Elizabeth likes pear drops.
We have been helping in the gardens, converting some of the rose beds into vegetable patches. I planted onions and radishes. Bert planted runner beans. Uncle Geoff didn’t risk potatoes this year; he is using the fields for wheat and barley. He is hoping for a good supply of apples and damsons from the orchard. So are we.
There’s been talk in the village about a Local Defence Volunteers group. It will be a mini army, I think, and will make us all feel safer. Bert wants to join but he is too young.
Lots of love from Kit xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
P.S. Some important visitors came here yesterday. They all wore uniforms and badges and arrived in several big cars.
Summer 1940
Chapter Eight ‘Spitfire Summer’
The outdoors rushed at her, crashing into her face and over her bare knees. She opened her eyes to see a surprisingly more fragile Claybridge reaching out through the heat haze – its walls paled, windows darkened. The door to the kitchen tipped open and a warm wafting of baking and a comforting clink of china brought life to her senses.
Her eyes drifted past Charlie-Mouse to follow the long winding driveway to the road – a collection of barns and a cart-shed confused her. She looked for the pottery shop. ‘Thank goodness,’ she said, releasing her brother’s damp hand from hers. She pulled her wheelchair back, and tried to relax from the tension stressing her from head to toe.
‘Scary,’ Charlie-Mouse whispered. ‘I mean more than before.’
‘Sssh,’ she said.
Through a low stile, not far away, a boy and a girl of about her age lazed on the soft grass. The boy rolled over and looked at the sky. The girl she recognised from the schoolroom pored over the front-page of the newspaper, her bobbed auburn hair dropping over her face.
‘France falls, now the battle for Britain,’ the girl said aloud. She folded up the newspaper with a sigh. ‘Whatever is going to happen?’ The girl sat up. ‘Hello there!’ she cried in welcome delight. ‘Wait, I’m coming over.’ She grabbed the paper and her gas mask box. ‘Have you come from abroad?’ She looked them up and down with clear uncertainty.
In a worrying moment, Connie straightened the hem of the blue lycra T-shirt she was wearing. ‘Er, yes, no, well it’s the latest fashion . . .’ she said, thinking of her cousins. ‘Er . . . in Canada.’
The girl in red and white skipped with delight. ‘How lucky to go to Canada. I’ve never been on a liner.’
Charlie-Mouse swayed uneasily.
The girl talked on merrily. ‘We don’t know anyone here yet, apart from Uncle Geoff and Auntie Evie, that is. Do you know them? We’ve been evacuated from North London. We were so lucky to come together. ‘Our whole school has been evacuated to Dorset. Mummy thought about it but Auntie Evie wouldn’t hear of us going. So here we are. Are you thirsty . . . there’s apple juice in the larder.’ She climbed through the stile, the pleats of her cotton skirt blowing in the breeze.
The boy in long shorts jumped to his feet.
‘They’ve been abroad,’ said the girl.
‘Good show,’ he said, offering his hand. I’m Albert Arthur Tyler, Bert for short, and this is Kathleen Rose, my sister.
‘Do call me Kit,’ the girl invited, her red hair ribbon shining.
Connie offered her hand. ‘I’m Connie and this is Charlie although everyone calls him Charlie-Mouse.’
‘A school joke,’ Charlie-Mouse explained.
‘He’s not a mouse, as you can see!’ said Connie, raising her eyes to meet his.
Kit smiled – her face animated with interest and her eyes alive. Bert mirrored her fun, standing as tall as Charlie-Mouse but a contrast in looks. Bert’s porcelain skin shone brighter than any boy’s she had ever seen, and he didn’t have that all-together serious expression like Charlie-Mouse often did.
‘You will stay awhile, won’t you?’ Kit continued. ‘We’ll get that drink.’
She took hold of Connie’s wheelchair by the handles. ‘I know a boy in our street at home but his wheelchair doesn’t look as handy as this. In fact I’m not sure where he is right now. Do you know, Bert? He might be in Dorset. I do hope he’s OK.’
‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ nodded Bert. ‘His mother went too.’
‘Yes, you’re right.’ Kit opened her arms and surprised Connie with a flourishing embrace. ‘Well, this is certainly the nicest surprise we’ve had for absolutely ages,’ she said.
Connie’s heart pattered as they went into the cool of the kitchen. The array of scones and biscuits on the cooling trays along the counter set her mouth watering. She turned her face from one wall to the other – the room had hardly changed – the glass-moulded lampshade, the light switches, the colour of the doors, and even the chairs under the kitchen table stood out with haunting familiarity.
‘Hello,’ Auntie Evie said, glancing curiously at the top of Charlie-Mouse’s head.
Her brother made a quick attempt to flatten his spiked hair.
Auntie Evie dropped the heavy glasses from her face to hang over her bosom and washed her hands before going into the larder. She reappeared smiling with a large jug of juice – her fresh-featured face and smooth apple-rosy cheeks aglow. Her wavy hair – the same auburn shade as Kit’s – was tied loosely behind. Her patterned dress was buttoned and simple, and covered on top with a sleeveless housecoat. Her dark shoes laced and her legs bare.
‘This is what’s needed, isn’t it,’ she beamed. ‘I’m expecting Uncle Geoff to come in soon – we’ve things to talk about.’ Her cheeks dimpled with anxiety then bloomed once again. ‘I’ll bargain he can smell fresh-baked biscuits from five miles.’ She smiled as she poured. ‘So what have you got planned for this hot afternoon? Something cooling?’
‘We could go to the stream,’ Kit said. ‘Now that we have such good company.’
‘Sounds the best idea of all. You can ask your uncle to help you find the fishing nets.’
‘That’s a perfect plan,’ Kit said.
Connie only smiled while her insides churned – she wasn’t sure they should go too far away.
As her eyes adjusted to the shade of the barn, Connie made out several baskets of plums laid out on a stony earth floor adorned with stray lengths of straw. Sunlight filtered like golden raindrops through the wooden rafters, creating shimmering pools of light. Gradually a large mound of straw loomed into view.
‘Look out!’ Kit shouted, as someone tumbled over the top of the mound and landed with a bump at Connie’s feet.
Bert pulled the straw from the collar of his blue cotton shirt and ruffled his light brown curls to get rid of the bits. Connie ducked her head to hide her amusement.
‘See any nets on yer way down?’ chuckled Uncle Geoff.
Bert straightened up and brushed dust from his bare shins. ‘Yes, Sir,’ he said, with a wink.
Uncle Geoff took off his hat to reveal a kindly smile on a face crazed by the sun. Stretching out a browned arm to reach a collection of nets, he unlooped a length of rope and lowered two small pails. ‘Yer set,’ he said, ‘Apart from one thing. I’ll get some spare Mickey Mouse masks they’re all I ‘ave I’m afraid.’ He disappeared and returned a few moments later with two small cardboard boxes. ‘Want ‘em back mind, they belong to the school.’ The man retrieved a sturdy black bicycle from the shadows. ‘So many comings and goings,’ he sighed, and put on his hat.
‘Follow me!’ called Bert.
Charlie-Mouse gave Connie a lasting look, then ran after Bert at speed through a scattering of geese and ducks, with a sleek black Labrador in tow.
‘Let them go,’ laughed Kit.
It was far too sticky to follow at any other pace than slow. Kit opened the gate and they started to brush through the grasses in the direction of the stream. Warm summer scents swirled through Connie's throat as she wheeled through the turning stalks. Insects jumped, spiders scurried, flies hovered and invisible grasshoppers gently ground their back legs. The sun powered onto her forearms and pulsed her mind with questions she wanted to ask.
‘I think I saw you in school,’ she said.
‘Are you joining us?’ Kit said. ‘How lovely to hear it. I’ll introduce you.’
They crossed a dusty boundary, emerging on shorter, greener meadowgrass. Connie spoke again. ‘Do you think you’ll be staying at Claybridge for long?’
‘Gosh, we don’t know,’ Kit replied. ‘It depends how the war is going. We’ve been told to expect more bombing they hit Norwich last week and that’s the frightening thing. Some of the evacuees come from the centre of Norwich. Teddy Bacon’s grandpa is lying seriously injured in hospital. Teddy’s so worried he keeps crying in class. It makes us even more nervous.’
‘It’s hard to be away from home.’
‘So very hard. We miss our parents terribly. Mummy writes every week and we write back. We write to Daddy too. But he can’t always reply. But he’s fine because we heard last week,’ she said, taking charge of Connie’s handles. ‘Are your parents far from here?’
‘Oh . . . I really don’t know.’
‘Oh you poor thing – in the services are they? It’s so difficult.’
‘It’s OK,’ Connie replied, knowing she owed Kit a more truthful explanation.
‘We have to keep on being brave don’t we, like our parents and everyone else in this war. Daddy said he thought it would take a few years to reach peace. Mummy said it wouldn’t be as long. It’s good we have Auntie Evie and Uncle Geoff to look after us, but I do miss my normal life and I do so want to go home . . .’ She drew a long breath and closed her eyes. ‘One day soon, for all our sakes,’ she murmured, leaving her special dream floating in the air.
Kit’s dream drifted into Connie’s consciousness, filling her heart with fear. For she too wanted to go home, and it scared her she didn’t know when that might be. Pressing on, she summoned her resolve from somewhere deep inside, pulling new strength from the beauty around her. She curled to stroke the drying flower of a bee orchid peeping at her through the sweeping of grass. Quietly above, a formation of planes drew parallel lines across the vivid blue.
Now she heard Charlie-Mouse’s laughter and the sound of stones landing in water. A more sudden bark and a sharp crack from behind jumped her head towards the house. Several vehicles turned their wheels along the driveway.
‘Oh, it’s a meeting, I think. They come and go quite often now,’ explained Kit. ‘I don’t know who they are, and I don’t think Auntie Evie truly knows either. If so, she doesn’t say.’
Summer 1940
Chapter Nine Secrets abound
‘Oh fish, where are you?’ Bert sang out, dragging Connie’s attention from the driveway.
The boys braced the grassy bank looking into the sparkling water, and by the depth of it she knew the weather had been dry for a time.
Bert stripped off his shirt and jumped in. He stood motionless as his rough splashes turned to ripples and smoothed into the flow. He beckoned to Charlie-Mouse. ‘Come in quietly and we’ll catch them by surprise,’ he said.
Charlie-Mouse stretched his legs into the water. Connie saw by his grimace the cold bit cruelly into the backs of his knees.
‘There!’ Kit pointed. ‘Sticklebacks, and they’re coming your way.’
‘They’ll do,’ said Bert, poising his net.
Out of nowhere, the black Labrador nudged past her, leaping carelessly into the stream.
‘Hey!’ Charlie-Mouse exclaimed. ‘I’m soaked!’
‘He wants a game!’ Connie replied. ‘Can’t you tell?’
‘Not now!’ said Bert. ‘He’ll have to wait.’
‘Come on Solo,’ encouraged Kit. ‘You’re not wanted.’ She found a stick and hurled it. Eagerly, the dripping dog clawed his way to the bank and chased over the meadow.
Connie settled herself in the casual shade of a weeping willow. She kicked off her pumps and stretched her toes to tickle them in the grass. Rhythmically with her heel, she smoothed a patch of thicker green grass growing close to the edge of the water. She welcomed the cool touch of the blades under her legs. ‘It’s so peaceful,’ she said, her words blending with the breeze, ‘you wouldn’t guess . . .’
‘That’s the thing,’ said Kit. ‘At the moment it’s peaceful, but you never know do you, there could be air strikes anywhere and at anytime. Gas attacks, Uncle Geoff says. I wouldn’t want to be back in London right now either, but I do want to be with Mummy. She says we’re better off here.’ She rattled her sandals to let the grassy bits fall onto the water. Connie watched as the flecks moved with the flow, creating shadowy speckles on the gravel bed of the stream. Kit spoke again. ‘You know she’s been sleeping in the underground – one of the safest places to shelter, some say. And I’m glad, but I worry about her catching a chill, even so. I tell Lucy, sometimes, late at night.’
‘Who’s Lucy?’
‘My doll,’ she laughed. ‘Mummy gave her to me as a going-away present – she’s like a little sister to me and I tell her my worries about the war. It makes me feel better.’
Both girls turned to lie over the waterside. Connie dipped the tips of her fingers. ‘Where are your school friends now?’
‘My best friend Margerie was billeted to a family living north of Lyme Regis on the Dorset-Devon border. Mummy tells me the news. It was lovely at first, Margerie said, but now she is fed up with walking up and down the coast, and especially with the sight of the twisted coils of wire on the seafront. She wants to go home, and if you ask me I think her mother will collect her soon.’
‘Can she go home?’
‘There’s nothing to stop her is there?’
Connie didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know the rules of evacuation, if there were any. Her knowledge of wartime life had its limits and she couldn’t pretend she knew about the things going on around her. Butterflies danced in her stomach as she threw a small twig of willow into the water and watched it drift away under the brick-and-clay footbridge.
‘Do you believe in magic?’ she dared to ask. ‘Real magic?’
Kit laughed. ‘I believe in dreams coming true.’
‘Have you ever dreamed what life might be like at another time?’
‘I think I have wondered,’ Kit answered. ‘Yes, I suppose I do. I sometimes dream we are in the wrong time. That we’d been born long before the war. That we’d never left home. I sometimes dream that the newspaper headlines read that war is over and we have won. I imagine I can see Mummy holding the paper to show us, and it’s as plain as day.’
‘That’s a good dream, and it’ll come, I’m sure,’ said Connie.
Kit started to pull strands of grass from a tussock. She built a small mound and covered it with daisies. ‘My dream castle,’ she laughed. ‘I’ll wish upon my dream castle.’
‘And if you realised you could see life in another time, without dreaming?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ giggled Kit. ‘My goodness, to travel through time, that would be headline news. Even more than victory itself.’
Connie’s fervent gaze had stopped her dead and she sat bolt upright, drawing both her hands up to her head and pushing her fingers into her hair. ‘Do they believe it in Canada?’ she asked, half laughing.
Connie’s silence was potent. Kit reached out with a quivering arm. ‘You’re scaring me,’ she said. ‘You look so very serious.’
Connie unhooked her pendant and laid it in the palm of her hand.
For Connie, 22 October 1997
Kit gripped at Connie’s hand.
‘It’s the day I was born.’
Kit sat back on her heels, her mouth gaping wide. ‘But it’s not possible. You haven’t been born yet!’
‘I’m not a ghost that’s for sure. I am real. A hundred per cent,’ Connie declared. ‘Just like you . . .’ She pulled a daisy and pushed it into the dream castle.
‘Real? Who’s real?’ came a voice. Bert splashed down a pail of water.
‘But . . . how? How on earth . . .’ Kit stumbled, dragging her auburn hair behind her ears. Moisture glistened in her green-flecked eyes and rising to her knees she clutched at her brother’s legs.
Connie watched her friends’ emotions chase to keep up as she spoke of the magic of the potter’s wheel, the Wendlewitch, and of a different time spent at Claybridge. Bert fidgeted, flitting his eyes between the circling fish and Charlie-Mouse. Whole tears clung in the corners of Kit’s eyes, and when at last they began to tumble to wet the corners of her smile, Connie floundered. She hated herself for even thinking she were able to explain about Malcolm Mollet’s dad, and bring yet another fear into their unstable world, right now. ‘We need your help,’ she said, when she could hold it in no longer. ‘We have to find out what’s happening here – it’s very important.’
The late afternoon sun stripped through the trees to dance across Connie’s face as she retraced her path over the shadow-draped meadow. Bert pointed to the two large cars starting up ahead – shrouds on their headlights and white paint along the edges of the wings. A man of imposing stature in military uniform nodded the peak of his cap in the direction of the front door of the farmhouse. He paused to light up a cigar, looking upwards to see the profile of an aircraft marking a trail across the early evening sky. He got into the back of the car and the vehicles moved off.
Once again, the dark green propeller aircraft drilled into her thoughts – it passed overhead, seeming to draw a shroud of dark cloud over the rich mauves above her. A chill took to the air. Connie rubbed at the goose bumps on her arms but as she raised her head, her senses swirled out of control. She thought she heard a girl’s voice but by now she was unable to place it.
Chapter Ten Missing you
Claybridge Farm
Tuesday, 17th September 1940
Dear Mummy,
It’s raining again and I feel many more miles away from you than usual. I can’t tell you how relieved we all were to hear your voice. We miss it very much, and Daddy’s too. Kit cried when you said that our street had been one of the lucky ones.
After your telephone call, Auntie Evie told us how Mr and Mrs Dougan’s house near the docks had disappeared in the smoke. I hope they are being looked after. How lucky nobody was hurt when the bombs blew the windows out at Buckingham Palace.
Kit says “thank you” for knitting her some new gloves. They arrived yesterday. Thanks very much for mine too. We will need them soon. We’ve already been busy helping Uncle Geoff to store everything for Winter.
We are having a good time back at school but we still have home work to do. This isn’t so good.
Hope you and Granny are well. Please tell us when you hear again from Daddy. He hasn’t been able to reply to us yet.
We hear the planes at night and pray that you’ll be all right.
Love from Bert xxxxxx
Chapter Eleven Back to earth
Something pulled them through the twilight chill and into the stuffy heat of the pottery shop. The noise of the aircraft dropped away and she found herself following the final few turns of the potter’s wheel before it stopped dead.
‘Oh no!’ Connie said, aghast. ‘It’s too early to be back.’
Charlie-Mouse sat entranced. She pinched him. ‘Charlie! Are you even listening to me? Spin it again!’
He shook his head. ‘We don’t know what’ll happen. We could end up anywhere.’
‘But we need to be there,’ she shouted. She put her hands up to her cheeks – heat burning through the gaps between her fingers. ‘We’ve only got until . . .’ Clay dust teased inside her throat and she coughed until she hurt. ‘Oh . . . why do you always spoil things?’
A hush fell between them and the cluttered room closed in on her. The sun-drenched china cats looked as if they would leap straight down into her lap.
‘We can wait,’ Charlie-Mouse said.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she growled. ‘Right now I’m hot, tired and I need a drink.’
‘Then I vote we go home.’
‘Well it won’t be for tea.’ She pushed her watch in front of her brother’s face. ‘No time has passed at all!’
They made their way along the shaded pathway. Connie tickled her toes in the itchings of grass wedged into her pumps, Kit’s pretty voice replaying in her mind. So immersed was she that she nearly collided with two removal men coming around the corner with a large piece of furniture. She reversed hurriedly, knocking into the notice on the gate. ‘Good,’ she said.
Mum looked more cheerful, meandering between assortments on the lawn. ‘Sally Army collectors,’ she explained. ‘Taking away a few things that won’t fit in. Someone will want them. Now where was I?’ She pointed at the piles. ‘Charity, rubbish, recycling, and Wendy will have that I’m sure,’ she said, putting down an oversize copper kettle. ‘I should have done this years ago. I don’t know quite why we’ve been keeping all this stuff.’
‘Because it might be useful some day?’ offered Connie.
‘It might be, or it might not – I have a new philosophy anyway,’ said her mum.
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Connie. ‘Out with the old, in with the new?’
‘Precisely.’
A good attempt at putting on a brave face
Her mum bent to kiss her forehead. ‘I’ll bring you a cold drink and a piece of flapjack,’ she said. ‘Your dad’s getting some papers together for the planning office. In case. But we’re running out of days.’
Connie got out of her wheelchair and sat with her head resting against the tree trunk at the foot of Dracula’s Castle. She could hear her dad in the study, rustling papers, but she couldn’t see him. The dark emptiness of the room lunged at her through the open French doors. She strained her eyes further. Charlie-Mouse’s rugby trophies and her riding rosettes had been tidied from the mantelpiece and her dad’s disordered piles of books and stacks of papers were gone, replaced with a neatly positioned collection of packed boxes beneath the fireplace and around the desk.
One of her earliest memories was of crawling in from the garden to look at the shining brass microscope on the enormous study desk. How exciting it was when her dad opened the bottom drum to reveal a secret compartment of homemade slides.
‘The sign of an enquiring mind,’ the vicar said to his children. ‘Shall we see what’s inside? Bat Hair,’ he read, taking out the first one. ‘Or there’s Bee’s Wing and this one is Horse Hair. Which do you fancy first?’ Four-year old Connie placed them on the heavy writing desk. ‘This one,’ she said. Their dad put Bat Hair on the circular plate under the lens and tilted the mirror to catch the light.
‘There it is,’ Charlie-Mouse said. ‘Looks fluffy.’
‘Poor, poor bat!’ Connie remarked and crawled underneath the desk. And while her brother looked at the slides, she happily slipped her tiny hand behind the drawers and into all the darkest nooks and crannies to explore for hidden treasure. She found a shiny coin. ‘Daddy, Daddy, let’s put this under the magnifying glass,’ she said, emerging with renewed excitement to sit on top of the desk and look into the microscope.
Now the microscope was packed, along with the trophies and the rosettes, and the desk surface was bare. She slipped off her shoes and closed her eyes – for a moment or two. The house whispered to her, and her mind started to play with the conversations she had shared with Kit, and with image of the two large cars pulling away from the driveway.
Chapter Twelve Gathering pace
The next day she couldn’t get Charlie-Mouse out of bed early enough. When at last she heard him thumping about, it sounded as if he were scrambling over an assault course.
Something made her look out of the kitchen window. She clasped her hand over her mouth. There was Malcolm Mollet climbing down from Dracula’s Castle with a sleeping bag cast over one shoulder. She flung open the kitchen door and pushed herself onto the path.
‘Hey!’ she shouted. ‘Get out of there, now!’
Malcolm turned his head but didn’t connect.
‘What are you doing? This is still our house, you know!’
Still no reply. Malcolm dragged the sleeping bag over the rosebeds, catching it on thorns as he headed towards the gate.
‘Come back and explain! Coward!’ she called out.
A mumble met her ears. ‘Dad,’ was all she caught.
‘Can you believe it!’ she said. She looked up at Charlie-Mouse’s window. He stared down at her, and vanished.
The stairs clattered to the sound of his arrival.
‘His dad might’ve chucked him out,’ he said, scraping his chair to the table.
‘I don’t reckon,’ Connie replied. ‘He’s all he has. Mrs Mollet got shot of them both.’
‘OK so they had a fight about something and he crashed out here.’ He crunched into his toast.
‘Makes a change from the pottery,’ Connie said. ‘The Wendlewitch must be sick of him.’
‘You’re joking aren’t you! He won’t set foot inside. He thinks she’s a total crackpot.’
‘Then do you suppose he went home?’
‘S’pect. He’ll probably go and hang out at the green with his gang. Not that they like him either. They only stick with him because their dads worship his dad,’ Charlie-Mouse sneered.
‘Who told you?’
‘I’ve heard it from the bus crowd. Will Long and those older boys dare him to be rude to everyone, then jeer behind his back.’
‘That’s a bit sad.’
‘He’s sad.’ Charlie-Mouse tipped his orange juice into his mouth. ‘But to be honest I don’t give a stuff about any of them.’
Connie slammed the fridge door. ‘Good, then you’re ready to come with me,’ she said.
The tang of hot blueberry tea tippled in and out of Connie’s nose with the gentle gust circulating the maze of potted plants sitting on the floor of the conservatory at the back of the pottery shop. A peculiar purr curled around her head and was swallowed up into an enormous ‘A . . . tish . . . shoo!!’
The Wendlewitch brought her purple handkerchief to her nose. ‘Typical,’ she complained, ‘On a luddly suddy mornig.’
‘Can we get you anything?’ Connie asked.
‘Do, danks,’ replied the Wendlewitch. ‘I’ve taken a dose of lincdus and now I feel quite woozy.’ She tried to draw air through her nose, then fluttered her lids and exhaled as a dragon would breathe fire, sinking with a ‘phew’ into the cushions on her rattan sofa. Connie was sure she glimpsed a sweep of purple sparks following behind.
‘Waid the hour the magig wanes, and time will brig you back again,’ the Wendlewitch burbled cryptically, waving her arm past the leaves of a gargantuan cheese plant towards the door to her pottery workshop.
‘Are you saying that’s how we come back?’ questioned Connie.
No answer returned – the Wendlewitch’s eyebrows twitched, her lids fluttered and a succession of lightly stuffed-up snores resounded.
‘That doesn’t seem very definite,’ said Charlie-Mouse. ‘I’m not sure if I trust this magic.
Connie ignored him. She rolled her wheelchair wheels back and forth and pointed firmly at the door to the workshop.
There he was again! Malcolm Mollet with his sticky forehead and greasy nose splayed tightly on the window glass in front of her. He eyeballed her then pulled his face away leaving a larger and a smaller splodge. ‘Yuk!’ she exclaimed, hoping he might hear. The boy thrust his chin into the air. ‘Go home!’ she mouthed. Malcolm turned his head and disappeared out of sight. She huffed, edging up to the potter’s wheel. ‘Now keep close, Charlie,’ she said.
Chapter Thirteen Christmas is coming
Claybridge Farm
Tuesday, 17th December 1940
Dear Mummy,
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