Heartwarming and emotional story of one girl's courage in WW2, Fenella Miller [best pdf ebook reader for android TXT] 📗

mother wasn’t down. Dad would have had to get his own breakfast – if she’d known she would have got up early and done it for him. Mum must have a migraine. She couldn’t think of anything else that would keep her from her sacred duty.

The Aga never went out which made the kitchen unpleasantly hot in the summer. Fortunately, at seven in the morning the room was still bearable. Her brother and Greg would be down soon expecting a hot breakfast. The farm produced its own bacon, eggs and milk so there was always plenty to eat. The vegetable garden produced more than enough to feed the family and the three workers they employed.

There’d be no fresh bread this morning so they would have to make do with yesterday’s and toast it. The kettle was singing, the bacon crisp and the eggs ready to go in when Neil and Greg wandered in.

‘Good morning, little sister, where’s Mum?’

‘She’s probably got one of her headaches. Everything’s ready so why don’t you sit down?’

‘Anything I can do?’ Greg asked.

‘No, all under control, thank you.’

She deftly flipped the eggs then began to dish up. Soon they were all sitting down to a perfectly cooked breakfast. They munched in companionable silence for a while.

‘Are you going up to see if Mum wants anything?’ Neil said.

‘She doesn’t like to be disturbed when she’s got a migraine. But I do have to sort something out for lunch.’

Whilst they continued to devour everything in sight she threw together four plates of ham salad and put them under a damp cloth in the pantry. Next to this was the remainder of the sherry trifle. It was a bit grand for a working man’s lunch, but couldn’t be helped.

Normally Dad and the men would get a hot meal – working on a farm was hard work. They wouldn’t be impressed with her cold offering. By the time she’d finished her domestic duties her brother and Greg had finished and were busy clearing the table.

‘We’ll wash this up for you. Better we don’t smell of chickens when we go back later.’

Neil knew this was her next task as Mum was in charge of the fowl. ‘Thanks, I won’t be long. Are you coming down to the airfield or pottering about here?’

‘I’m going to show Greg round the farm and then take him into Romford. We’ll grab a bite to eat there and join you after that.’

‘I’ve got two pupils going solo this afternoon so won’t be up myself.’

The chickens were clucking and fussing in the barn. They were used to being let out at dawn and their displeasure was audible. ‘All right, stop that racket, I’m here now.’ She grabbed three scoops of grain and tipped them into a bucket before opening the door.

Three dozen grumpy hens and half a dozen cockerels rushed out. She scattered the feed and left them happily munching. She quickly checked their water feeder was full and then went to collect any overnight eggs.

There were three broody hens sitting on clutches and she left them a handful of grain each. Mum did well out of the eggs. Ellie wondered if things would change when the war began. There would be rationing but she couldn’t see how the government could prevent farmers from eating more than their ration when they produced all their own food. No doubt some officious bloke would come and tell them what to do when it all kicked off.

Her first pupil was due at nine o’clock which meant she didn’t have time to clean the eggs before she left for work. The two that were taking their first solo flight would have a final lesson this morning as well.

The eggs must be left in the scullery to be dealt with later. When she burst in, the washing-up was finished but there was no sign of the visitors. She hadn’t heard the car leaving so they must be somewhere outside but she had no time to look for them.

The kitchen was pristine, the kettle refilled and the table laid. Her brother had done all her chores so she could leave immediately. Her bicycle was propped where she’d left it. She didn’t want to yell her goodbyes as Mum’s bedroom faced the yard.

Cycling to the airfield every day was a pleasure unless it was tipping down or knee deep in snow. From her vantage point on the saddle she could see over the hedges. Their prize dairy herd was grazing peacefully in one field, the porkers were snuffling around in another. Glebe Farm was mixed arable and livestock, as were most of the farms locally.

From the look of the wheat and barley it would be an early harvest and a good one. They were already lifting the early potatoes and if she pedalled along here after nine o’clock she would hear the chirpy voices of the local women, who came in en masse to potato pick. They brought their children with them and the little ones played happily together whilst their mothers worked.

The horses had gone several years ago and everything was mechanised now. Tractors were much quicker and more efficient but she missed the two shires. Her happy reminiscences were rudely brought to a halt when a car hooted loudly behind her. She lost her balance and rode straight into the hedge.

*

Jack turned into the track that led to the airfield and saw the Simpson girl riding along oblivious to the fact she was blocking the way. The Austin Seven he was driving was new and purred like a contented kitten. Perhaps she couldn’t hear his approach. He pressed the horn and to his horror she wobbled and went headfirst into the bushes.

Shit and derision! He stamped on the brake and jumped out of the car not bothering to close the door behind him. It was ominously silent. Why wasn’t she yelling and swearing at him?

If she was hurt he’d never forgive himself. The rear wheel of the bike was still spinning