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Mabel was aware that evacuees had been coming since the start of the war, but so far no one had come to stay with them. Five years into the war, and they were getting their very first evacuees. Father said that no one knew how long the war would go on for, but that they were the lucky ones; although publishers were having problems finding paper to print books, people were buying them by the shedload.
There wasn’t much else to do behind the blackout curtains during the war apart from listen to the radio, play parlour games, and read. And everyone, so Father said, wanted to escape into a good book. He said business had never been so brisk. Not that he wanted a war. If it wasn’t for Father’s weak chest, as a result of a bout of pneumonia as a child, Mabel knew he’d be at war right now, and they’d have no one to look after them. ‘Then we’d have been evacuees too,’ Mabel had told her sister – although Marjorie had corrected her, saying that one of their neighbours, the other shop owners in Cobblers Yard, would have taken them in.
Mabel was so glad that Father hadn’t gone to war. She didn’t want to go and live with the old lady who ran the knitting and sewing shop just across the yard.
With all the making do and mending that was going on, Father had said that she was doing well for herself too. The flower shop next door to the old lady’s shop had closed during the war; it was shut up because no one wanted to buy flowers, which Mabel thought was a big mistake. Flowers were colourful and smelled nice. Father said you couldn’t eat flowers. But they made her feel happy because they reminded her of her mother who, no matter how little money there was, had always had fresh flowers in the bookshop.
The flowers had always made Marjorie sneeze, though. Ma-bel hadn’t heard her big sister sneeze for a long time. She vowed to buy some sweet-smelling, fresh flowers as soon as the war ended.
She supposed that they could have gone to live with old Mr Cribbins, who ran the music shop. She thought that he must like violins an awful lot, because the shop window was full of them. He was too old to be called up. The old antique shop next door had closed during the war. She had overheard Father talking to Mr Cribbins. They’d heard that the young man who had run it had been killed in Gallipoli. She wondered who might buy it. The shop next to that was closed too. She had always liked going into the art shop to buy paper and crayons.
There was nothing she enjoyed more than reading – apart from getting one over on her big sister, as she had today. She had been chosen to go out and fetch the ingredients for the very special evening meal Father was going to cook for their guests. The trouble was, though, that it meant she had to put down the book she was reading.
Mabel stepped out of the shop and ran across the cobbled yard and down the little lane into Aldeburgh’s high street. She stopped when she realised she’d forgotten something very important. ‘Oh, no!’ Mabel didn’t have her box with the gas mask inside.
She looked up at dark sky. It was October, and she knew it wouldn’t be getting dark for at least another hour. There was time enough to run to the shop at the end of the high street and fetch their dinner. ‘Well, at least I didn’t forget the ration book,’ said Mabel out loud, getting a funny look from a man in overalls who was cycling past her.
Mabel looked up, still worried about forgetting her gas mask. She didn’t want to go back for it in case Father told her off and sent Marjorie instead. Mabel couldn’t stand the thought of seeing Marjorie’s smug expression, and hearing her say, ‘See, I told you she couldn’t be trusted.’
Mabel stood there, indecisive. She didn’t want to go back for her mask, but the cloudy skies meant she couldn’t see if there were any Luftwaffe circling overhead.
Her sister’s scornful voice echoed in her head, ‘You’ll hear them first, you dummy.’
Mabel stood very still and listened. The only sounds were of seagulls, and of people rushing by, and of a motorbike some-where in the distance. No Luftwaffe. Not that she’d know what they’d sounded like. They didn’t bother with Aldeburgh. They only bombed London – didn’t they?
Mabel walked along the high street to the butcher’s shop and joined the queue. After worrying that there wouldn’t be any meat left when it was her turn to step up to the counter, she eventually bought a piece of lamb shoulder.
Father had told her precisely what to get. Mabel had stood in the shop, watching the butcher slice off the lamb and wrap it in newspaper. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d eaten meat.
Her next stop was the greengrocer’s shop for some vegetables. She stood in another queue, thinking what Father had said about the reason Marjorie had to stay at home. Marjorie had an important job to do. Whenever he said that, they both knew what he meant – making pudding.
It was usually spotted dick. Sometimes, Mabel helped her sister make it. She used flour, lard and water, and it was a really special treat if they had some currants or sultanas to add. They always had lots and lots of custard too.
Mabel’s mouth watered. It was her favourite pudding – which was just as well, because they had it a lot.
Mabel left the greengrocers and walked along the street, passing a queue at the bakery. She saw a lady walk out of the baker’s shop with a large loaf of bread. She knew the name of it too – the national loaf – it was the only bread that you could buy now. She stopped to buy a loaf, just in case they needed extra for their guests.
Mabel knew bread wasn’t rationed because they always had a big loaf they could help themselves to whenever they wanted. She preferred to spread margarine or butter on it, and jam was just heavenly, but adding anything to their bread beside dripping was a very special treat.
Her sister had once told her that before the war, there had been white bread. ‘There’s no such thing!’ Mabel had replied. She had thought her older sister had just teasing her. Mabel had asked her father, and he had said it was true; they’d had white bread before, but Mabel had been too young to remember. He had told her that as soon as the war was over, he imagined the shops would be allowed to sell white bread again.
Mabel was walking towards Cobblers Yard, trying to imagine what white bread, and butter and jam would taste like. She suddenly heard something. Other people had stopped dead in the street too. The noise was loud, like nothing she’d ever heard before. And it was getting closer.
She followed the gaze of the people around her, tilting her head to look up at the sky. And then it happened – from behind a cloud emerged a plane.
Mabel screamed, dropped her bag and started running. She was looking up at the sky, wondering when the plane would drop a bomb, so she wasn’t looking where she was going. She ran straight into a man.
He caught her by the shoulders. ‘Hey, little girl – where are you going in such a hurry?’
‘Let me go! There’s a plane! It’s going to drop a bomb, and I haven’t got my gas mask, and I’m going to die!’ Mabel cried.
The young man got down on bended knee. ‘Hey, hey – it’s going to be all right. That plane isn’t going to drop a bomb – not on us.’
Mabel dropped her gaze and looked at the young man with the blonde cropped hair and big brown eyes. He grinned, showing off perfectly straight white teeth. ‘That’s not true!’ cried Mabel. ‘It’s the Luftwaffe.’
‘Nope, it isn’t. They’re friendlies.’
The plane flew low, doing a sweep of the high street. People whistled and cheered, and waved. ‘There, you see that circle on the plane? They’re friendly.’
