The Sky is Falling Read online

  Norah was proud that her whole family was helping to fight. In January her older sisters, Muriel and Tibby, had joined the Auxiliary Territorial Service; they were stationed in Chester. “Not a nice thing for young girls, being in the forces like a man,” said nosy Mrs. Curteis next door. But Dad was proud. “My girls are as brave as any man,” he boasted. He was too old to enlist, so he joined the Home Guard. Mum spent every morning in the church hall, marking blankets and sewing hospital bags for wounded soldiers. Norah, besides performing her Skywatcher duties, had donated sixpence to the village Spitfire fund—enough to manufacture one rivet. Gavin wasn’t doing anything, but he was only five—too young and silly to count.

  The war was the most exciting thing that had ever happened in Norah’s ten years, and this summer was the best part of it. Other summers were a pleasant, mild blur of building sandcastles on the beach near Grandad’s house in Camber. But one day at the end of last August, Norah had found herself filling sandbags instead of playing.

  Now there was a bright edge to everything; even the weather was exaggerated. The coldest winter in a hundred years was followed by a short spring and an early summer. As the war news grew worse and the grown-ups huddled anxiously around the wireless, day after day dawned hot and clear. At night, the sky’s inky blackness was pinpointed with strangely brilliant stars, the only lights in Britain besides the searchlights that were not blacked out.

  Every evening this week the news announcer had given out the “scores” of the battle in the sky as if it were a football match. Norah could hardly remember what life had been like before this war. How could anyone bear to be sent away from it? Tom was right—they were lucky that their parents were so sensible.

  But then she felt afraid again, because she wasn’t at all sure that her parents would remain sensible.

  3

  Little Whitebull

  After Norah had run back to the fort and swished out the lemonade cups, they all started home for tea. When they reached the middle of the village, Harry and Jasper gave the Skywatchers’ secret signal—little finger and thumb extended like an aeroplane—and scampered down their lane. Tom and Norah put their fingers crossways under their noses and goose-stepped down the main street, singing loudly in time:

  Whistle while you work!

  Mussolini is a twerp!

  Hitler’s barmy

  So’s his army

  Whistle while you work!

  They passed the church and the stone vicarage beside it. The Smiths were probably inside, packing to go to Canada. Dulcie was in Norah’s class. She was the sort of girl who fretted if she forgot her handkerchief. Lucy was a little older than Gavin and spent a lot of her time whining.

  “Poor Goosey and Loosey,” mocked Norah. “I bet they’ll be afraid of wolves in Canada.” Being nasty helped her calm down a bit. Then she felt sorry for them—they would be left out of the war.

  She said goodbye to Tom at his mother’s grocery shop and ran to her house. She was late for tea, but Mum probably wouldn’t scold her.

  That was part of Norah’s increasing uneasiness. Her parents let her and Gavin stay up late, spoke to them in strange, gentle voices and gave them sad looks when they thought the children didn’t notice. Gavin probably didn’t. But every night Norah listened to Mum and Dad’s worried murmur downstairs.

  Norah paused at the front of her small, weather-boarded house. Its shabby exterior was brightened by the masses of zinnias and hollyhocks that flanked the door. A sign on the sagging gate said Little Whitebull in faded wooden letters. No one knew why their house was called that. It had been already named when her parents had bought it, just after Muriel was born.

  The gate needed painting as well as mending, but Dad was too busy these days to do much work around the house. Norah studied the loose hinges; perhaps she could fix it and show them how useful she was. She could paint the sign again in bright red. And she would start to keep her room tidier and help with the washing up. Feeling more cheerful, she ran into the house.

  “I’m home!” she shouted, clattering through the front room to the large kitchen where they spent most of their time. “Sorry I’m late, Mum.”

  Mrs. Stoakes came out of the scullery and wiped back the lank hair that always hung into her eyes. “Where have you been, Norah?” she asked anxiously. “You weren’t anywhere near that German plane, were you? I just heard about it.”

  “Not really,” mumbled Norah. Not near enough to touch it, she added to herself.

  Her mother shuddered. “It was terribly close. The next thing we know, we’ll have one on top of us. Sit down, sweetheart, there’s sausages.”

  Sweetheart? Mum never gushed; she was usually quick tempered and brusque. Now she was like a person in disguise.

  If she was going to play-act, then Norah would too. “Thanks, Mum,” she said politely. “Did you have to queue long at the butcher’s?” She forced herself to eat slowly instead of wolfing down her food as usual.

  Gavin was the only person who was himself. He sat at the table with his jammy bread divided into two, marching each one to collide with its twin and come apart in sticky strings. He hummed to himself with a dreamy expression, the way he always did in his private games.

  Norah glanced at her mother. Surely she’d have to react to such a mess: there was jam all over the tablecloth. But all Mum said was, “Here, pet, let me wipe your hands.”

  Norah sighed. Gavin usually got away with a lot, but not sloppy eating. She bent over her milky tea, her brain buzzing. Something was definitely up.

  The hens in the back garden chittered indignantly as Dad pushed through the scullery door. He removed the bicycle clips from his trouser legs, kissed Mum, ruffled Gavin’s hair and grinned at Norah. “What have you been up to today? Seen anything interesting?” His green-grey eyes, which everyone said were exactly like hers, teased her as usual.

  Norah forgot to be polite. “Oh, Dad, there was a crash-landed plane—a ME 109! You could see the bullet holes and the swastika and everything!”

  “I passed it on my way home—the lorry was taking it away.”

  “Norah!” snapped Mum. “I thought you said you weren’t close! You have to be more careful or I’ll make you stay in your own garden, like the Smith girls. I really don’t know what to do with you these days—the war is making you wild.”

  “Now, Jane, she couldn’t come to much harm looking at a plane that’s out of commission,” said Dad mildly.

  This was more normal. Norah relaxed and concentrated on her sausages, as Dad collapsed in his favourite chair with a groan. “Come and pull my shoes off, old man,” he said to Gavin. He had only an hour between arriving home from his bookkeeping job in Gilden and setting out for his Home Guard duties.

  Gavin picked up his small worn elephant and went over to his father. “Creature will pull your shoes off—he’s very strong.”

  What a baby Gavin was, still playing with toy animals. Jasper was only three years older, but he was as brave as Tom. Gavin was such a namby-pamby brother. Everyone said he should have been a girl, and Norah a boy.

  Dad looked up from the pages of the Kentish Express. “They’re letting the hop-pickers come from London as usual,” he said to Mum. “It says arrangements have been made for protection in case of air raids.”

  Mum opened the scullery door to cool off the steamy kitchen, which smelled pleasantly of hot fat and the clean clothes airing in front of the grate. Dad switched on the wireless and Gavin curled up in his lap. The familiar voice of Larry the Lamb filled the room.

  Norah pretended to be too old for “The Children’s Hour”, but she still liked hearing Dennis the Dachshund talk backwards. As she listened, she surprised her mother by first helping dry the dishes and then sitting down to struggle with her knitting. The oily grey wool, which was supposed to be turned into a “comfort” for a sailor, cut into her hands.

  “Good-night, children, everywhere,” said the voice from the wireless.

  “Good-night, Unc
le Mac,” said Gavin solemnly, as he always did.

  “Dad,” whispered Norah nervously, after the news was over and while Mum was still in the scullery. There was something she had to find out, even though it scared her to ask. “Do you know if they found the pilot?”

  Dad gave her a warning glance, the one that meant Don’t Worry Your Mother. “Yes,” he murmured. “They picked him up near Woodchurch. He was wounded, poor lad—gave himself up easily.”

  Norah’s chest felt lighter. At least she didn’t have to worry about him wandering into their village.

  Of course, if Hitler invaded Britain, as everyone thought he might, a lot of Nazis might come into Ringden—even into Little Whitebull! That thought made Norah feel choked up again and she shifted irritably. What was the matter with her? She had never been afraid before.

  Her father stood up and stretched. “Time to get changed.” He caught his wife’s eye before he added, “Don’t make any plans for the morning, Norah. Your mother and I want to discuss something with you. And I’ll help you finish your kite tomorrow, Gavin, since it’s Saturday.”

  “Can I stay up and listen to ‘ITMA’?” Norah asked desperately. If he said no, everything would be ordinary.

  “I don’t see why not,” said Dad gently.

  After he left, dressed in his World War I uniform and carrying a shotgun, Norah made herself into a tight ball in his chair. Her suspicions were growing to a terrible certainty.

  Before she had time to ponder further, the back door opened again and a tubby man with a snowy fringe around his otherwise bald head struggled in, loaded with packages and suitcases.

  “Grandad!” shouted Norah and Gavin.

  “Father! What on earth are you doing here?”

  The old man chuckled as he let his luggage drop. He lifted Gavin into the air. “Bombed out! The drafted Hun put one right through my roof! All rubble, my dears, all rubble. So I’ve come to stay with you.” He bent over to Norah and tickled her cheek with his stiff moustache. “What do you think of that, my fierce little soldier?”

  Mum sank to a chair. “Bombed out … Father, are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  “Don’t fret, Janie. I’m right as rain, because I wasn’t at home when they called. Came back from the pub to find a flattened house. So I just packed up what I could find and got on the bus. Better to live inland anyhow—the salt air was bad for my rheumatism.” His sea-blue eyes sparkled under his droopy white eyebrows. “Got enough room for your old dad?”

  “You know we have—we’d always give you a home. But you could have been killed! Oh, Father, this bloody war …”

  Norah froze, shocked, as her mother, whom she had never seen cry, began to shake with sobs. Her mouth trembled and the tears slid over her thin cheeks as her weeping grew louder.

  “Don’t, Muv!” cried Gavin, pulling on her arm. “Did you hurt yourself?” Mrs. Stoakes pulled him onto her knee and clutched him to her, burying her face in his neck. Gavin looked scared and tried to free himself.

  “Now, now, Jane, enough of that.” Grandad patted his daughter’s shoulder awkwardly. “I wasn’t killed. Never felt more alive, in fact. Nothing like a close call to make you see things in perspective! We’ll weather this war out together now—that’s how it should be, the whole family in one place.” He released Gavin from his mother’s grasp. “If you search my pockets, you might find a sweetie.”

  “To avoid watching her mother, Norah turned to the fire and lifted the heavy kettle of water onto the grate. She had never made tea on her own befoe, but she’d seen Mum do it often enough. When the water boiled she poured it carefully over the leaves and filled the cups with milk, sugar and tea. She offered one to Mum and one to Grandad.

  “Norah, what a help!” Mum’s tears had stopped and she gave a weak smile. “What would I do without you?” Then she looked as if she might cry again.

  Norah poured herself a cup, surprised her mother hadn’t said anything about using some of tomorrow’s rations. They all sat around the kitchen table and, to her relief, the adults began to talk normally.

  Norah stared incredulously at Grandad, hardly daring to believe he was here. The war was shifting people around too rapidly. Some, like Molly and Muriel and Tibby, suddenly went away; others turned up unannounced and homeless. A few days ago the whole of Mrs. Parker’s brother’s large family had arrived on her doorstep. Their house in Detling had been bombed and they, too, had been lucky enough to be out when it happened.

  Norah’s throat and chest constricted with fear as she thought of Grandad’s cottage, the one where she’d spent her summers, flattened to rubble. But Grandad was safe, and it would be wonderful to have him living with them. She wondered what Dad would think. Although Mum and Grandad often argued, they thrived on it. Dad was always polite, but Norah knew he and the old man didn’t agree on much.

  Grandad winked at Norah. “Now we’ll have a good time, eh young ones?”

  Norah winked back. She climbed onto Grandad’s knee and began to tell him about the plane.

  Later that night a commotion downstairs woke her up. Dad had arrived home and was exclaiming about finding Grandad there. Norah lay rigidly in bed, listening to the usual murmur of worried adult voices. Then Grandad’s rose above the rest, angry and accusing. She couldn’t make out his words but the stubborn strength in his voice cheered her up. If her parents were telling him the decision she dreaded, Grandad was on her side.

  4

  “I Won’t Go!”

  They told her after breakfast. Mum had sent Gavin over to play with Joey, who lived across the road. Norah was dismayed when Grandad went out as well, a furious expression on his face.

  She was invited to sit down in the front room. Muriel insisted on calling it the “drawing room”. It was only used on special occasions—when Muriel and Tibby entertained their young men, or when the vicar came to tea. The flimsy chairs were too stiff to be comfortable, as if they proclaimed “only serious matters are discussed here.”

  Norah tipped back her chair and waited. Mum had just polished the windows and a faint whiff of ammonia came from them. For the rest of her life, Norah would never smell ammonia without a flutter of panic.

  Dad began speaking in such a cheerful voice that she wanted to scream. “Well, Norah, you and Gavin are going to have a great adventure!”

  “No—” said Norah at once, but he waved her to be still. “Hold your horses! Just listen for a moment, then you can have your say. You’re going to travel on a big ship … all the way to Canada! Canadian families have offered to provide homes for British children until the war is over. Your mother and I would feel much more at ease if we knew you and Gavin were safe. And what an opportunity for you, to go overseas, to learn about another country …”

  His voice faltered at Norah’s expression. Mum looked as stricken as she was.

  “I know it’s upsetting,” Dad continued gently, “but I think you knew we were considering it.”

  Of course she had known. After France had fallen in June, all the grown-ups had talked about sending the children away. That was when Molly and Pete had gone. She’d heard Dad read aloud the newspaper notice about applying for overseas evacuation, but she was too worried to ask if they’d actually done it. A few days later Dad had asked casually, “Norah, if you could visit another country, which one would you prefer—Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, or Canada …”

  “None of them!” Norah had cried.

  Then Norah and Gavin had had their photographs taken in Gilden. Norah had wondered why.

  But after that, for a long time, nothing more had been said. She had almost forgotten about it in the growing excitement of the war. The possibility of being sent away had festered under the surface, however, and now at last it had burst open like a ripe boil. For a few seconds Norah sat in stunned disbelief. Then she jumped up, knocking over her chair.

  “I won’t go!”

  “Calm down,” said Dad. He reached out his arm, but Norah brushed it asi
de. Dad sighed. “Listen to me, Norah. You’ve had an easy, sheltered life up to now. Now we’re asking you to do something difficult. I know you can—you’ve always been my bravest girl.”

  “But I don’t want to!” She was astounded that they would force her. “I don’t want to go away to another country and leave you! I’d miss you! I’d miss out on the war! It’s braver to stay here, not to run away! And children are useful. I watch for paratroopers every day, just like the Observer Corps. I helped pull up the signposts. And I’ll do some of the housework so Mum can spend more time at the hall. I’ll think of something for Gavin to do, too. I’ll—I’ll teach him to knit!”

  Mum looked close to tears again. “Oh Norah, Norah, of course you don’t want to go. I wish so much you didn’t have to. But don’t you see how going would be helping the war? You’d free Dad and me from worrying about you. And …” She paused, as if she weren’t sure she should go on, “and if worse comes to worse, at least two members of the family will be safe and … free.”

  “And you’ll be like ambassadors!” broke in Dad. “You’ll meet children from another country and promote international understanding. That’s the best way I can think of to end war …”

  “Have you told her?” Grandad stood in the doorway, wiping his shining forehead with his handkerchief.

  Mum turned to him impatiently. “Father, we said we wanted to be alone with Norah! Yes, we’ve told her—but we haven’t finished. Please wait until we have.”

  But Grandad came into the room, muttering, “I’m part of this family too.” He pulled Norah onto his knee and Norah’s spirits lifted. Just in time!

  With an irritated glance at Grandad, Dad continued to explain to Norah why it would be safer if she and Gavin left England.

  “What will Hitler think if we start fleeing the country?” interrupted Grandad. “We’re supposed to be sticking together and fighting!”

  “Norah and Gavin are only children,” said Dad patiently.

  “Then what will he think about us panicking so much that we send away our children? I suppose you’ll send me next! Get rid of the young and the old! We’re useless, so send us away!”