false morels 3

The train is quite full so we have to stand in the corridor. I watch the guard pacing up and down the platform, passing up luggage and the occasional small child through windows. He has a permanent frown on his face as he peers first to one end of the train and then the other. Eventually he blows his whistle and pulls his flag down to his side. The train jolts, grumbles and starts to roll.

I’m pressed right up against the door and, as the rickety tat rickety tat gets faster, I hope the guard’s remembered to lock it. It’s very green out of the window, well compared to Putney anyway. Gradually fields give way to luscious forests, which in turn give way to rolling hills. More forests, and more hills.

“It’s very beautiful isn’t it?”  Mr Blythe smells a bit like Father as he leans over to get a better view. I take a long breath of him. I wonder where Father is, and what he’s doing. Being heroic somewhere I expect, even though Mother told him to keep his head down and not be a hero. She said nothing’s worth dying for, not even things that are worth dying for. Father kissed her on her nose then. He’s only been gone for seven weeks and already I have to think about certain times, like him kissing Mother on her nose, in order to properly picture him. I hope Mother’s feeling alright on her own at home.

“I do love Yorkshire,” smiles Mr Blythe, as the countryside trots by. His eyes flicker at the passing countryside like Molly Silver’s, a girl in my class at school. Mother said I wasn’t to talk about it, she had a condition. She disappeared shortly after the beginning of term, people said her whole family had upped sticks and gone. Which Mother said was shifty behaviour. I don’t think Mr Blythe has a condition.

“What’s Yorkshire?” This is just the sort of thing Freddie says for effect, but Mr Blythe seems to fall for it.

“This is Yorkshire,” he says, spreading his hand out. “It’s a county. In fact it’s the biggest county in England.”

“What, bigger than London?”

“Oh Yorkshire is much bigger than London. Although London’s not exactly a county as such…”

“Gosh,” Freddie grins. “Wait till I tell Billy Jenkins that I’m living in the biggest county in England.”

“Indeed,” says Mr Blythe. “But Whitby is quite a small town though.”

“That doesn’t matter. I don’t have to tell him that.”

“You’ll like Whitby. You’ll have so much to do there. There are the beaches. And you can count the steps all the way up to the Abbey and back…”

“I’m really good at counting. I can count up to a hundred.”

“Well you’ll need to count even higher than that to count the Whitby steps.” Freddie looks dismayed.

“But I can’t.”

“Then you can learn. It isn’t difficult is it Rose?” I put my clever face on.

“No, it’s easy. You just start again. But add ‘a-hundred-and’ on the beginning. Like a-hundred-and  one, a-hundred-and two…”

“…a-hundred-and three, a-hundred-and four, a-hundred-and five, a-hundred-and…”

“And you can just keep going on forever…”

“…six, a-hundred-and seven, a-hundred-and eight…

I raise my eyebrows at Mr Blythe. I don’t think he realises how annoying Freddie can be, that he will just keep on and on. But then Mr Blythe says,

“Save the rest of it for counting the steps.” Freddie carries on but at least he’s got the message, and starts speaking under his breath now.

“Tell us some more about Whitby,” I ask.

“Well it’s full of fishing boats, you can almost walk from one side of the harbour to the other just by stepping from one fishing boat to the next. And there’s a funny bridge that opens sideways to let the boats go up the river.” That stops Freddie from counting. He’s trying to work out how a bridge can open sideways. “And you’ll be able to eat the freshest crab and lobster, all kinds of different fish in fact. Whitby’s famous for it.”

“Ugh.” Freddie pulls a face. “Crabs. How can you eat crabs? Don’t they pinch your tongue with their pincers!

“Not when they’re dead you dimwit.”

“Well a wasp can still sting you when it’s dead.”

I can’t think how to answer that one so I just shake my head at him as though I’m despairing of him in that fond way grown-ups sometimes do.

Mr Blythe laughs. “You’ll see. They’re delicious.”

I turn back to the Yorkshire landscape and almost gasp at the sight. We’ve surely come to the edge of the world. Or the top of the world. A heavy mist hangs over a purple land as though not daring to touch it.  I smell my father again as Mr Blythe leans across.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it? A true wilderness. It’s the North Yorkshire Moors.”

 “A wilderness? Is this where Jesus came?” asks Freddie.

Mr Blythe laughs. “Perhaps. You never know. Yorkshire folk call it ‘God’s Own Country’ so maybe it is. It won’t be long now. Can you see over there? You can’t quite make it out…look, it’s where the sky goes a slightly different colour.”

We press our noses against the glass and squint into the distance.

“That’s the sea. And there’s the Abbey look, on the top of the cliffs.”

I gasp and enjoy the thrill of the first glimpse of the steely blue. Then I feel bad. I shouldn’t really feel excited should I? Not when Mother is in London facing bombs. And Father is away fighting the Jerries. My eyes smart with shameful tears as I peer through the mist towards Whitby.  I blink furiously and swallow hard, making sure nobody notices. This is definitely the downside of being a grown-up, this needing to be strong and brave.  

 

 “Do you remember when we went to Clacton-on-Sea?” Freddie chirrups. “When Father got my trousers all wet?”

I swallow again and breathe deeply. Freddie grips my sleeve and shakes it. “Do you remember? How he made me fall into the sea?”

“Hmm...well that’s not quite how it was,” I smile. I’ve regained my equilibrium. I love that word. Mother uses it all the time, and suddenly I think I know exactly what it means.

“It was. I got soaking wet and Mother had to wrap me up in the picnic blanket until we got back to the guest house.”

“I know but it wasn’t Father’s fault. You were standing right by the shoreline and he ran down to pull you back. He got there just a moment too late and the wave came over both of you.” I turn to Mr Blythe. “It was very funny.”

“And they all laughed but I nearly died.” Freddie pouts but I can tell he’s trying not to smile. He can’t keep it up either. He screws his fists up into little balls, which always means he’s excited. Or over-excited as Mother would say.

“I hope Great Aunt Alice lives by the sea.”

“No-one in Whitby lives far from the sea, so I wouldn’t worry on that score young man. Now let’s get ready, we’re just about there.”

Not that we’ve much getting ready to do this time. We’ve got our suitcases already because we’re in the corridor, but nevertheless we join in with the heaving activity around us as people prepare to leave the train. My heart is thumping through my whole body. I take a deep breath once more.

“So, can you see your Great Aunt Alice yet?” We peer out of the window at the faces on the station, mainly women’s, searching for loved ones. 

“I can’t see anyone who sounds like the person Mother described to us.” My voice comes out a bit squeaky. I clear my throat. “Is there anyone meeting you, Mr Blythe?” This is one of the things I’m learning. If you think you’re about to let yourself down by getting upset about something, ask someone else a question. It not only takes the attention away from you but also gives you something else to think about.

“Oh goodness gracious no,” he shakes his head. “No-one at the station at any rate.  Only my Bessie to greet me when I reach home. I’ll wait with you until your Great Aunt Alice arrives though. Can’t have you children standing at a strange station all by yourselves.”

I smile, relieved. “Thank you Mr Blythe. That would be really kind of you. I expect she’ll be here somewhere.”

But she isn’t. We clamber out of the train and stand to the side of the station watching the embraces and tears, and listening to the excited chatter as people exchange news and joy.

“Where is she Rose?” Freddie whispers.

“How do I know? She’ll be here in a minute I’m sure. Why are you whispering?”

“I don’t know. I just feel a bit…”

I put my arm round his shoulders. He doesn’t know how to explain how he’s feeling but I bet it’s a bit like how I’m feeling. Which I don’t know how to explain either.

“Don’t you worry, you two,” says Mr Blythe, taking the little bag of lemon sherbets out of his pocket.  “I expect she’ll be here soon. And if she isn’t, well I’ll take you to her house. You have got her address haven’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” I say pulling the envelope from the front of my satchel. “Here’s a card from my Mother for Great Aunt Alice. It’s got the address on it.”

Mr Blythe takes the envelope and holds it at arm’s length. Squinting, he reads, “19 Back End Row, Whitby.” And then he bursts out laughing. “Well that explains a lot,” he laughs. “That explains a lot.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…well, you’ll see. She’ll be here all right, don’t you worry.”

The platform is empty now. Apart from us and a guard who disappears through a small door at the end of the platform. “Listen to those seagulls. That’s all you can hear.” 

“They sound as though they’re laughing at us,” says Freddie.

“Sort of,” I say. But I don’t think it sounds like laughter. I think it sounds rather eerie. I give a little shiver.

“Are you cold?” asks Mr Blythe. “Let’s go and wait in the waiting room. It should be a bit warmer in there.”

We have just picked up our cases and begun to head towards the green door next to the ticket office when the silence is shattered by the roar of an engine and a series of cracks and bangs which sound rather like an extra loud firework.

“Ah,” smiles Mr Blythe. “Come on.” He steers us through the waiting area and out towards the front of the station. There parked outside, splutters a gloriously shining motorcycle with a kind of a large box stuck on the side of it. Astride the bike sits a tall figure, silver hair pulled back in a large bun. A pair of goggles hides most of her face. She fiddles around with something on the motorbike for a few moments and the engine fizzes and spats a little and then cuts out. She swings her leg over the back of the bike and strides towards us.

“So what have you got here then Bill?” she says to Mr Blythe, shifting the huge goggles up onto her forehead.

“Well I do believe they might belong to you Al,” he replies, with a smile.

“And do they do anything but gawk?” she asks. He laughs. I close my mouth.

“They’re a charming pair of children. I happened on the same train at Doncaster, and we’ve had a fine time ever since. You didn’t tell me you were having evacuees, Al.”

“It’s all been a bit of a rush,” says Great Aunt Alice. I flick a look at Freddie. He is still staring, his mouth drooping wide. I nudge him but he carries on staring. “Do you remember me telling you about Harriet and the big argument there was at her funeral? Well, it appears that’s all history now. Beryl has apologised to Angus, which means that Mary can now speak to the Grangers again. It’s all been such a muddle but at least with the Grangers and the Armitages on speaking terms again, well it means there’ll be a lot less kerfuffle.”

“You’ve lost me,” laughs Mr Blythe.

She’s lost me too. All I can think about as they are talking is how loud her voice is and wondering whether Mother knows that Great Aunt Alice wears trousers. She’d be horrified if she ever found out. I’m pretty sure she would never let us go to stay with an old woman who wears trousers. I must remember to tell Freddie not to let it slip.

She turns to us. “So you must be Frederick and this must be the lovely Rose. Have I got that right?”

“Yes Ma’am.”  My voice doesn’t come out quite right. Freddie just nods. He’s still got his mouth open so I nudge him again. It does the trick this time. He closes it and thrusts his hand out in front of him.

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” he says solemnly. Great Aunt Alice looks like she wants to laugh, but she takes his hand and does a little curtsey. It looks a bit wrong. Partly, I suppose, because she’s so much taller than Freddie and partly because she’s wearing trousers. She turns to me and holds her hand out. I’m not sure what to do but decide I should probably curtsey too. It wasn’t like this somehow when we were practising in the front parlour at home. But then Mother won’t have expected us to be greeting a woman in trousers I decided, so how was she to have known we would be bowing and curtseying left, right and centre.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   &