The War That Saved My Life: Chapters 8–15

“That’s over,” I said. “Here I can go where I like.”
He wavered. “How do you know?”

“They’re pretty severely malnourished,” he said. “Looks like rickets starting in the girl. Lots of sunlight for her. Good food. Milk.”

The shopkeeper, an unpleasant man with hairy eyebrows, said, “These evacuees is nothing but trouble, isn’t they, miss? My missus is that fed up already, she’s wanting to send them home. Filthy little rats wet the bed.”

I tackled Jamie. I grabbed a piece of tomato off the floor and mashed it between his lips. He spat it at me. “Eat it!” I roared. I grabbed peas and shoved those down his gullet. He choked and gagged.

“Bedtime, Jamie!” Miss Smith grabbed his flailing arm. “Bath, then bed!” She pulled him off the floor and carried him kicking and screaming up the stairs.

I remembered the surly salesman who’d complained about his evacuees’ bedwetting, and I gave Jamie such a glare that he burst into tears.

She told Jamie to put the radio on. A deep, sonorous voice came out of it, very solemn and slow.

She told Jamie to put the radio on. A deep, sonorous voice came out of it, very solemn and slow.

I perched on the edge of the chair beside her. The voice on the radio droned on.

“Never mind,” she said. “Don’t look so stricken. You’ll wash.”
Jamie shouted, “Another BATH?”

I let Jamie rummage through the cupboard and eat anything he liked, and I did too, though I was pretty sure I’d get in trouble for it later on.

“And I can’t stand it, being away from them,” she went on. “It feels wrong. I reckon we’ll stick the war out together.”

Billy’s mom scowled. “He won’t come,” she said. “Thinks he’s important, he does.” She gave me another odd look. “I’m that surprised to see you out with ordinary people. I thought they’d put you in an asylum.”

As we continued down the street, Jamie subdued but still whimpering, I said, “That’s three pounds sixteen shillings a month, miss. You could take in more of us and get rich.”

I knew how overwhelmed I felt sometimes, going into a shop full of things I’d never seen before.

Miss Smith read it aloud, tapping the words with her fingers as she went, ‘“Your courage, your cheerfulness, your resolution, will bring us victory.’”

“I shouldn’t underestimate you, should I?” Miss Smith went on.
How should I know? I scowled.

I touched his gnarled dry hand. He snatched my fingers and shook them up and down. “Say, ‘Nice to meet you, Colonel McPherson,’” he ordered.

“‘Freedom is in peril,’” Miss Smith read.

“More like deciding that you want to be a—I don’t know—a solicitor. When you grow up. Or, perhaps, a teacher. Or deciding that you’d like to live in Wales. Big decisions. If Germany invades, we’ll probably still be able to go shopping, but we might not get to decide much else.”

“I noticed,” Miss Smith said. “I’m sorry to see the colonel looking so frail. He was one of Becky’s foxhunting friends—one of the huntin’, shootin’, and fishin’ sort. I didn’t realize he was so old.”

Miss Smith grinned. I didn’t know why. “Skeptical child,” she said, making me frown even harder. She grabbed the end of my plait and swung it. “ Your courage, your cheerfulness, your resolution”—she was saying it wrong. I scowled—“will bring you victory, my dear.”

Miss Smith grinned. I didn’t know why. “Skeptical child,” she said, making me frown even harder. She grabbed the end of my plait and swung it. “ Your courage, your cheerfulness, your resolution”—she was saying it wrong. I scowled—“will bring you victory, my dear.”

We’d all four been sitting in the main room of Miss Smith’s house, on the squishy purple chairs and sofa. Miss Smith had made tea. Now she smiled quizzically at the teacher and said, “Ada too, of course.”

Miss Smith didn’t answer. She said, “This book is called The Swiss Family Robinson. Listen.” She cleared her throat and began. “‘For many days we had been tempest -tossed. Six times darkness closed over a wild and terrific scene...’”

She started to sit up, then fell back, nodding. “Dizzy,” she said. “And my shoulder hurts something awful. Bet I broke my collarbone.” She touched a place below her neck, and winced.

“My mother broke hers last year, hunting. Easy to do. Where’s the wretched horse?”

The saddle felt snug and comfortable after the loose sliding expanse of Butter’s bare back.

“Oh, clubfoot.” Her voice slurred. “I’ve heard of that. We had a foal born with a clubfoot.”

“Did it die, then?” I asked.
“What? Oh, the horse. The clubfoot horse. No. Grimes fixed it. Grimes and the farrier.”