A BOY CALLED EDWARD

‘Edward!’ calls Mrs Clemens, ‘Come and say hello to your new friend Emily.’

Emily looks around but can see no one. Long shadows stretch across the wide, sunny lawn beneath a tall, spreading cedar tree below which lie two dogs. Suddenly, out of the darkness of its branches, drops a chubby boy with gingery brown curls and torn shorts. He runs over, brandishing a stick, followed by the lolloping Labradors.

‘Hello, can you play cricket?ʼ he asks.

‘Edward, please show Emily around the garden while I ask Cook to prepare tea for you both in the kitchen. And remember to change your shorts when you come in. Iʼll take your things up to your room, Emily.’

Mrs Clemens picks up Emilyʼs little brown suitcase and gas mask, turns and disappears into the house. Slim, polite, little Emily is left with this rather rude, podgy boy and the two large black dogs, licking her legs.

‘Problem is, you see, Father has gone to France to fight the Germans and so has the gardenerʼs boy, so Iʼve got no one to play with. Even Nannyʼs gone to help build aeroplanes and Mamaʼs rubbish at cricket,’ says Edward.

‘Iʼll try,’ offers Emily, not sure if she will like it. She has never seen a cricket match in London. Her two big brothers played football in the street but they were gone now too; she remembers feeling the harsh stiff fabric of their uniforms as they picked her up to kiss goodbye.

‘I thought Mama might choose a boy,’ complains Edward, whacking a shrub with his stick as he passes it.

‘Iʼm sorry,’ mumbles Emily.

‘How old are you? inquires Edward.

‘Iʼm eight and 1/4,’ replies Emily, proudly.

‘Well, Iʼm only seven and Iʼm much bigger than you.’

Staying here was going to be horrible with this dreadful boy who did not like girls. They walk on, Edward hitting everything that he passes, cutting off flowerheads and branches with his stick, and Emily marvelling at each new vista of lawns, statues, flowerbeds and even a lake. The dogs amble along beside them.

‘You really shouldnʼt smash the flowers, you know,’ she says, clutching her cardigan around her, ‘Itʼs so beautiful here. At home they’re building bomb shelters.’

‘What, real bomb shelters? Youʼve had bombs?’ Edwardʼs eyes grow wide in disbelief. He drops his stick. ‘Tell me!’

They have arrived at a row of flat granite slabs enclosing the garden. There is a steep drop down to a dip in the grazed meadow.

‘Stay Minnie, stay Mollie!’ says Edward, and the Labradors obediently lie down.

‘Not much yet,’ says Emily, ‘But Mum says they are getting nearer. That’s why I have to live here.’ She turns away from Edward whose attention shifts to an area of grass beyond the house.

He starts to run, shouting, ‘This is the ha-ha. I play trench warfare in it. Come on!’

They slide down into the soft, damp, green hollow, surrounded by moss and ferns. In the meadow beyond, sheep and their fat lambs are grazing quietly in the gentle sunshine.

‘You see, the sheep are the Germans and we have to fire at them, then “go over the top” and chase them away. Youʼve got to shout a lot when youʼre running,’ explains Edward, lying down, with a branch held up as a gun.

‘Thatʼs not very nice for the sheep, and anyway, that was in the First World War.’ retorts Emily.

‘So, what do you know!’ shouts Edward, scrambling up and facing her.

Emily settles herself against the mossy stones and begins. ‘Well, I know whatʼs happening in London in this war. I donʼt always sleep in my bed now. Sometimes I sleep with Mum in the Morrison.’

‘Whatʼs that, a car?’

‘No, silly, itʼs a big, metal table cage thing in the kitchen and it will protect us if a bomb drops on our house, but itʼs cosy and warm and special to sleep with Mum. When the bombs fall people will have to sleep in the Anderson shelter in the garden but that’s colder and damp.’

‘Iʼve never slept with Mama,’ says Edward, sadly.

‘I’ve heard the sirens in the distance. Itʼs a horrible noise, like screaming, and then the rumbling of the bombers coming. Sometimes thereʼs an explosion far out along the Thames and when Dad comes home in the morning he’s covered in soot all over his hands and he has a sad face, and he’s very tired.’

‘Has he been fighting the Germans?’ Edward twines his fingers together in front of his face and wriggles closer.

‘No, heʼs a fireman. He goes at night to put the fires out and rescue people. Sometimes he is on a fire boat down the river where bombs are raining down all along the banks and everything is in flames. He doesnʼt believe in God anymore because Heʼs let these awful things happen. Mum tells me, ʻcos he never talks about it. He just looks very dirty and tired and sad.’ With her cardigan sleeve, Emily wipes her nose and brushes a tear from her cheeks. She hates to think of her parents still in London with the Germans and their bombs getting closer. Her brothers who are a lot older than her have gone off to fight. It is all a bit close to home. She feels Edwardʼs rough woollen jumper and hard, bare knee closer to her.

‘Weʼll fight the Germans if they come here. Youʼll have to help me protect Mama and Cook, oh, and that new girl who cleans.’

There is the sound of a bell and Cook calling across the garden ‘Come in for tea now, itʼs ready!’

They clamber out of the hollow, Emily brushes the mud and twigs off her smocked dress and wipes the sides of her shoes along the wet grass. Edward just rushes off. Emily follows him into the warm kitchen. There are low dark wooden beams, a grey flagstone floor and the delicious smell of baking. The wireless is playing songs quietly in the corner by the window.

‘So this is Emily,’ smiles Cook, wiping her hands on a tea towel which she hangs over a rail above the large range. Sitting beside the Aga, drinking a large mug of tea is an old man wearing a waistcoat and old-fashioned breeches with thick socks. His boots are by the door. He has a friendly crinkly face and bright blue eyes.

‘Hello Emily, and what has our little Ted been up to this afternoon?’ he asks.

‘He showed me round the garden,’ says Emily shyly ‘and we saw some sheep.’

‘This is Mr Greatwood who looks after the garden,’ says Cook. ‘Perhaps you can help him tomorrow with picking blackcurrants, I need to make some jam. Now, go wash your hands in the scullery. Edward, wash your face too.’

In the scullery is a deep porcelain sink with one big brass tap above it. The water gushes out loud and cold and the block of soap is hard and smells of disinfectant. Alongside are shelves laden with jars of pickles, jams and bottled fruit; Emily has never seen so many. They dry their hands on a rough striped towel and run back through to climb onto their chairs beside the long pine table. In front of the children are warm, brown-speckled eggs, one in a cup shaped like a chicken and the other a rabbit.

‘You can choose,’ says Edward, magnanimously.

There is a pile of hot buttered toast and milky tea in mugs to match the egg cups. Emily chooses the rabbit, sheʼd love to have a pet one. The neighbours in London kept rabbits in their back yard, but for meat. It was free, and not limited like at the butchers. The egg is rich with an orange yolk and the butter creamy and sweet. And then, Cook produces cake. And what a cake! It is soft and yellow, with real strawberries and cream in the middle instead of a smear of margarine and sugar icing. After two slices, Emily is happily full.

‘Edward, youʼd better show Emily her room now, itʼs getting late. Sheʼs in the old nursery. Then have your baths and come down to see your Mama in the drawing room before bed.’

‘Ok, come on Em!’ calls Edward, galloping away across the echoing hall. Emily follows him up the wide staircase and along a gloomy corridor. At the end is a pale, quiet room with the setting sun streaming through the tall windows. Everything seems still and unused. There is a large, scuffed rocking horse with real horsehair mane and tail, a pristine three storey dolls house, complete with tiny furniture and a trunk full of wooden toys and jigsaws.

In one corner stands a small bed with a high brass bedstead at the head and foot, a blue patterned eiderdown and creamy yellow blankets. Beside the bed is Emilyʼs little suitcase. She runs over and opens it, lifting out and hugging a small knitted rabbit. ‘This is Percy. Grandma made him for me when I was a baby.’

Edward walks over to the trunk, rummages and unearths a large, furry golden bear. ‘Heʼs mine but he doesnʼt have a name. I play with my soldiers now. Iʼll show you the bathroom – you can go first, and then weʼll go down to see Mama.’

There is patterned glass in the bathroom door which clatters as Emily closes it. Soon steam is rising from the enormous bath and Emily steps in. The soap smells of lavender and the water is soft and deep. When she gets out she leaves the water in the bath for Edward. She dries herself in the big fluffy towels and puts on her little flowered nightie with the pink ribbon around the neck.

‘Wonʼt be long’ shouts Edward, banging the bathroom door behind him. He is quick and soon they are careering down the stairs, Emily wearing one of Edwardʼs old dressing gowns. The drawing room is quiet, cool and serious. Straw-coloured panelling surrounds a marble fireplace, the fire unlit, with an elaborately carved mirror above it. The soft Chinese carpet has patterns of mustard and yellow and the flowered chintz curtains match it. To Emily, all the furniture seems too far apart, not like the cosy front room at home with lumpy old armchairs drawn up around a roaring fire and the snip rug made by Grandma. She runs her hand along the spindles of a delicate inlaid chair beside a small round table supporting an enormous vase of yellow roses.

Mrs Clemens is sitting at her desk reading a letter. Her lemon cashmere twinset and narrow camel skirt seem to match the room.  

‘Do sit down, Emily dear. Edward, you should do your piano practice.’

The brocade sofa feels high and stiff. Emily squirms to try to get more comfortable, then decides to join Edward beside the huge curved piano. Itʼs not at all like the upright one at home that Dad used to play or the one at Sunday school. Emily strokes the shiny mahogany. It is so silky and she can feel the vibrations of the keys as Edward attempts to play – mistaking lots of notes and banging down on the pedals.

‘Edward, what are we to do with you?’ sighs Mrs. Clemens. She turns back to the letter and Emily notices that she seems more upset than Edward’s playing merits. She thinks about her brothers and hopes they and Edward’s father are safe and well. There is so much the grown ups are not telling them.

The next morning, Emily is woken by the noise of Edward knocking on her door. It is warm and cosy next to Percy rabbit, but then she realizes where she is and that she wonʼt be seeing Mum and Dad for a long time. She curls up tight under the covers and hugs Percy close.

‘Come down for breakfast and then we can play!’ shouts Edward. She must rouse herself.

Breakfast is in the dining room.

‘Help yourself, dear,’ says Mrs Clemens, pouring tea from an elegant silver pot with matching milk jug. Upon the long sideboard are several covered dishes. Emily takes the lid off one to see a steaming orange kipper staring up at her. She shudders puts the lid back with a clang. She chooses porridge instead and ladles out a helping. She plops two lumps of sugar into her tea, using the funny little silver tongs that lie in the sugar bowl. There are two sorts of jam, and marmalade to put on thick slices of warm bread.

‘Please use your napkins, children,’ commands Mrs Clemens, expertly dissecting her kipper. ‘And what have you planned for today?’

Edward and Emily look out of the window at the Cornish rain lashing down.

‘We were going to help Mr Greatwood pick blackcurrants, but I think weʼll play

inside this morning, Mama. I can show you my secret hidey-holes,’ he whispers to Emily.

They quickly gobble up their breakfasts and are away. Across the hall are two heavy mahogany doors. Slowly, Edward pushes them open and Emily gasps to see a room as big as the church hall at home. The panelled walls are painted a cool, blue-green colour and there is elaborate moulding all around the ceiling. The pairs of long glass doors leading out on to the terrace are hung with soft velvet curtains, the colour of a mallard drake’s feathers. Great, luxurious swags of fabric hang above them.

‘Come on,’ shouts Edward, pulling off his shoes, ‘this floorʼs great for sliding!’

Emily follows him, her socks slipping easily across the shiny sprung maple floor. After a while they both fall over and lie gazing up at the enormous chandelier, like something out of Cinderellaʼs ball, the crystal glittering in the weak rainy sunshine.

‘Sometimes I try to get ping-pong balls into those little cups around the candles – Iʼve got some hidden over here.’ Edward opens the doors of a long rosewood cabinet, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Inside are scores of wine and champagne glasses and large silver platters, with the ping-pong balls nestling in a crystal dish. They try gallantly but in vain to achieve their goals, balls pinging and ponging all around the echoing room.

‘Before Father went away, he and Mama held big parties in here on New Yearʼs Eve and in the summer too. Sometimes I was allowed to come down for a while with Nanny. If they ever have one now, I can show you where we can hide and pretend to be spies.’

He leads her to a concealed door among panelling which opens into a small vestibule and a dark staircase, going both up and down.

‘Where does it go?’ asks Emily, rather frightened but intrigued. She keeps close to Edward, clutching his sleeve as they creep down. Suddenly, they are in the warm, welcoming kitchen with lovely Cook, an apron over her ample frame and her hands covered in flour, rolling out pastry.

‘Iʼve just made some currant buns,’ she says. Snatching the warm buns with hurried thank yous, they are off, back up the narrow stairs right to the top, which opens out onto the corridor leading to the nursery.

‘When I was little, we used to have meals brought up here from the kitchen for Nanny and me,’ remembers Edward. ‘Come and see my room.’

The floor is covered with a mixture of Romans, Vikings, Crusader knights, American civil war soldiers and British Red Coats, as well as some more recent ones in khaki. There are castles and tanks and a pirate ship. ‘These are the Baddies,’ he explains, pointing to a group of knights, ‘and this is their castle.’

While Edward is busy lining up his armies, Emily organizes farm animals around one of the castles. She doesnʼt really want to play battles. ‘Look, I think the rainʼs stopped, thereʼs a rainbow. Shall we play outside now?’ she suggests, hopefully.

‘No, I want to stay here! These soldiers have to attack the castle with their tanks and then the pirates sail up and rescue the prisoners!’

The battle commences with booms and crashes and lots of toy soldiers flung across the room. Emily sighs. This isn’t the sort of game she enjoys. She says, ‘Iʼd like to help Mr Greatwood in the garden now,’ and creeps down the backstairs into the kitchen to ask Cook where to find him.

‘’Spect heʼll be in the orchard today,’ says Cook. ‘Iʼm hoping heʼll bring in some fruit for lunch.’ Emily sometimes struggles to understand Cook and Mr Greatwood whose local accents have such soft round vowels, different to the London voices she is used to at home.

Outside, Molly and Minnie, the two Labrador gundogs, greet Emily, wiggling and wagging their tails around her, nuzzling her hands even when she tries to evade them. They happily follow as she wanders through the walled kitchen garden to the gate into the orchard. As she opens it, she is confronted by the beady eyes of a peacock, as tall as she is. He struts around her, pecking off flower heads and peapods, trailing his gloriously long tail behind him. [watercolour by Julia Jordan] On seeing the dogs, his tail shimmers into an enormous, iridescent fan.

‘Get that varmint out of here!’ Mr Greatwood appears out of the potting shed, brandishing a hoe and shooing the peacock back through the gate, helped by the two thrilled Labradors, delighted to have the opportunity to bark and chase. ‘He wonʼt be here much longer, like my vines and peaches – itʼs all going to be different. Come into the greenhouse, Iʼll show you.’

The greenhouse is warm and still with the smell of ripe fruit and damp earth. Trees laden with peaches and lemons span the old brick wall and bunches of purple grapes hang from the roof beams. On the wooden staging are pots of lilies and orchids ready to grace the dining table. Mr Greatwood plucks a peach and hands it to Emily. It is sun-warmed with soft, downy skin and intense sweetness.

‘Thank you, itʼs lovely.’ Emily has never tasted a fresh peach before, only out of a tin as a treat for Sunday tea.

‘Thereʼs them Dutch moving in next week.’

‘Are they going to be staying in the house?’ asks Emily, wondering what that will mean.

‘All these big houses, theyʼve got to be split up – things is going to be different. No more asparagus. It’ll be tomatoes and caulis in here. Donʼt know what Mrs C will think of that when she has visitors,’ he chuckles. ‘Weʼll be digging up the croquet lawn next.’

Edward arrives in a flurry of excitement. ‘Cook says the armyʼs down on the beach. Weʼre not allowed, but we can crawl up and look from the lower field. Letʼs go!’

Snatching a peach and tugging Emilyʼs hand, heʼs off. They race over late summer meadows, scattering butterflies that rise out of the long grass and delicate flowers, with Emily shouting, ‘You should have said thank you to Mr Greatwood – ‘.

‘Well, theyʼre all mine anyway!’ says Edward.

In the distance, they can see sand dunes. There are anti-tank boulders strewn across the beach and barbed wire stretching as far as they can see, blocking every access. An ugly concrete pillbox has been built and soldiers are busy unwinding even more barbed wire. They lie down and peer through the tall cow parsley.

‘When Father was home we used to swim here. We canʼt do that now even though itʼs our beach and these are our fields,’ says Edward, pulling his face into a frown. They trudge back up the fields to the manor house.

A week later, tucked up in bed, Emily hears a familiar sound, the rumbling of planes. Is it going to be the same as in London, but without Mum? Her door opens slowly and Edward runs over to climb on to her bed.

‘Is it the Germans? Are we going to be killed?’

Arms around each other, they tiptoe to the window and lift a corner of the blackout blind. On the horizon, they can see flashes and searchlights and hear the shrill whistles and thuds of bombs and cracking of anti-aircraft guns. The sky is lit up by an explosion in the distance, beyond Portglas. Edwardʼs mother comes into the room, wearing an embroidered silk negligee under her fur jacket and carrying a torch.

‘Come along children, put on your dressing gowns and slippers. Weʼre going to try out that lovely bunker that Father had built for us. It will be fun. Hurry now!’ They run swiftly across the dark garden, their slippers sodden in the wet grass. The gloomy grey block building is half buried and surrounded by rhododendrons. Inside are bunk beds with thin mattresses and quilts. Cook is already there, lighting a small flickering lamp. Mrs Clemens produces a bar of chocolate and hugs the children both tight.

‘Weʼll all sleep here together and by the morning it will all be over.’ she says brightly.

Emily and Edward both curl into their quilts and nestle close to her.

Chapter 21