Girl with Secrets: a coming of age war story and family saga full of romance, mystery and danger in Carol Rivers (readnow .txt) 📖

This morning though, it was Bobby - or the lack of him - who held Mother’s full attention. ‘I barely saw your brother before I left,’ she complained. ‘He ate very little breakfast and was out of the door in a flash. I know how upset he is that we might have to leave London.’ She sank down on the kitchen chair with a deep sigh. ‘I do miss your father, you know.’

Daisy sat beside her; it wasn’t often that she’d seen her mother so low. ‘I miss him too.’

‘Of course you do.’ Mother touched her hair fondly. ‘Where are your plaits, this morning?’

‘I thought I’d do my hair differently,’ said Daisy. ‘I’m getting too old for plaits.’

‘You’re growing up so quickly.’

‘Do you think Pops will write soon?’

‘We must expect delays,’ Mother said patiently. ‘No news is good news.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Only that nothing has happened. Nothing - too bad - that is.’

This startled Daisy as she hadn’t imagined anything bad could ever happen to Matt or Pops. Matt was her hero and Pops was helping the government. How could anything bad happen to either of them?

‘Well now,’ said Mother, swiftly changing the subject, ’perhaps we could bake scones for tea and cut them into quarters to make them last.’

Daisy thought again of Grandma and Aunt Pat and the bountiful days in Wattcombe when there seemed very little rationing. Nothing ever was divided into quarters or even halves. There was always plenty to go round.

Daisy was helping to gather the fruit that had fallen from the garden trees. ‘The fly has got into our apples ,’ said Mother sadly, depositing several brown and mouldy cores in her basket. ‘But needs must.’ Cocking her head to one side, she stopped still. ‘What’s that noise?’

‘It’s the sound of aircraft.’ Daisy pointed to a vast black shadow on the horizon. ‘They aren’t our Spitfires,’ she gasped, ‘like the ones Bobby watches for.’ No sooner had she spoken than the wail of the warning siren lifted eerily into the air.

‘Quickly,’ ordered Mother. ‘Into the shelter!’ They sped across the lawn and stumbled down the steps that led to the Anderson.

The door protested with a loud screech but once inside, Mother gave it a hefty tug. ‘I shan’t draw the lock. There’s still time for your brother to come.’

The wail of the siren was soon broken by the loudest roar Daisy had ever heard. The explosion pitched them forward and into the darkness. Mother caught her hand. ‘Are you hurt?’ she gasped.

’N … no, I don’t think so.’ Daisy felt sick with fright. ‘Are we going to be killed?’

‘Of course not.’

Wave after wave of bombers flew over, causing the dust and earth to fall from the corrugated ceiling. Daisy thought it was like being buried alive. All around them was an ear-splitting clattering and shattering of glass.

When a brief lull came, it was brief. Louder and even more determined than before, the German bombers droned overhead, dropping their deadly cargo on London. Daisy thought about Berlin and how terrified the people must have felt as they too sheltered from the bombs.

‘We’re safe enough,’ whispered Mother as they sat on the edge of the bunk but Daisy doubted that the wrinkled iron roof above them would prove any protection at all.

Eventually they lay, exhausted, Mother on the chair and Daisy on the uncomfortable slats of the bunk. All through the night, the attacks continued.

‘Oh Bobby,’ breathed Mother into the darkness, ‘where can you be?’

‘He must have found safety or else he’d be home.’

‘Yes … yes, he’s a sensible boy.’

’I’m awfully thirsty.’

Mother sighed. ‘How foolish it was of me not to store some provisions in here. But there’s a little lemonade left in the basket, if I can find where I dropped it.’

To Daisy’s relief, a torch was found, the basket retrieved and the lemonade drunk. Above them, the planes criss-crossed the city, droning like angry bees.

‘I want to wee,’ Daisy confessed in the middle of the night.

‘A pail,’ Mother said, ‘is under your bunk.’

But when Daisy managed to find it, a huge bang sent her flying.

‘I’ve wet myself,’ she sobbed. ‘I hate those planes. I hate them!’

‘Hush now, Daisy,’ soothed Mother. ‘Knickers can be replaced, but broken bones can’t.’

And by the end of the night, Daisy had decided she agreed with Mother. Damp knickers were very unimportant in the scheme of things.

CHAPTER 41

WHEN DAISY WOKE on the hard wooden slats of the bunk, the cold had eaten into every part of her body. She was frozen, from her numb fingertips right down to the tips of her toes.

Daylight broke in from the crack around the door and speckles of dust danced across the shelter.

Mother was asleep in the old armchair that Pops had squeezed in by the bench. The sour smell of dampness was choking; little beads of water ran down the walls and onto the soggy ground, seeping up into the sheet of thin linoleum.

Her first thought was for Bobby. Was he safe?

Slowly she stretched one leg. Then the other. Would her knees give way if she tried to stand up? She waited, testing them as she rose and shuffled forwards. Placing her hands on the door, she tried to open it.

The was no movement. She tried again.

‘Daisy?’ Mother stumbled to her side. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, are you?’

‘I think so.’

‘The door won’t open.’

Mother pushed, but soon gave up. In the distance Daisy could hear the sound of fire engine bells and sirens. Mother cleared her throat. ‘We’re alive and that’s what matters. I only hope your brother is safe.’

When they had eaten the last few crumbs of scone, Mother stood up. ‘Let’s try the door now.’

They pushed and pushed, but without success.

‘We must keep calling,’ urged Mother, coughing as she inhaled the stuffy air. ‘It’s just a matter of time until someone hears us.’

They continued to shout and call, until they were both completely hoarse. It