She sighed and looked round at me. “I don’t know why you came to see Colonel Mallard tonight, and I’m not asking that you tell me, but please don’t mix yourself up in this war, Kitty.”
“But we’re all mixed up in it, whether we like it or not.”
“Some of us are, Kitty. Some of us are.” She looked at me with a sudden sadness in her eyes, and I could see how David worries her. She gave my shoulder a squeeze with her hand. “Now, off you go, and do please try to stay away from trouble.”
As I went into the hall, I overheard Colonel Mallard on the telephone. “Yes, the exhaust is blown, and I need a replacement,” he was saying. “Immediately.” All my revelations and he was busy talking about his motorcar.
Mrs. Tilling opened the front door for me, and we heard the distant hum of aircraft coming from the south. I stepped out onto the path to get a better look, closely followed by Mrs. Tilling, who stood behind me like a still squirrel listening for danger, Colonel Mallard silently joining us. The droning got much busier and messier, as if a lot of engines of different pitches were sputtering toward us. We watched the skyline behind the church tower, the moon suddenly appearing from behind dense cloud cover—a slim bright crescent, its silver light covering the side of the church with a heavenly gleam.
And then we saw them. The spots grew distinct, first one Nazi bomber, then two behind, a precise, forward-moving mechanical arrow of doom.
We watched in awe as they came toward us, a wave of Nazi destruction passing overhead. Had they overshot Dover? Were they heading for the Thames? The Colonel walked down to the road to better gauge their path.
The siren started blaring loudly—the first time it’s gone off for a real air raid—shrill and frightening, like a ghost bellowing at us to get inside.
“Let’s go to the cellar,” Mrs. Tilling said briskly, ushering us back into the house. “I think they’re heading over us, but best be on the safe side, especially since we have Kitty here.”
She led the way through a slim door in the kitchen and down the narrow wooden staircase. As she switched the light on, I was relieved to see that it was decorated and cozy, not as grimy and insect-ridden as our cellar. Mrs. Tilling had put a worn-out rug in front of a small old settee and an armchair, complete with hand-embroidered cushions. A small bookshelf housed a clock, a dozen books, and a black metal box, which I hoped might be full of provisions. Rolled up to one side were some pillows and blankets, and I thought how comfortable it would be, curled up on the floor in such a snug little burrow.
The Colonel squashed himself into the armchair and asked Mrs. Tilling if she had a pen and paper as he may as well catch up with his correspondence. She flustered around the bookshelf, found some, and gave them to him without a word. I wonder why she doesn’t like him. He seems rather nice to me.
“Now, Kitty,” she said, “what do we have for you?” She bent down and looked over the bookcase. “Great Expectations? Have you read that? Or there’s Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, which may be a little too old for you.”
Nothing’s too old for me, so I took the Anna Karenina from her and opened it on the first page. All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. It was all too strange. Chilbury the center of unscrupulous dealings, Proggett a dangerous spy, Venetia’s Mr. Slater a black marketeer. Obviously it’s a good thing that the Colonel’s people are on top of all this, but I confess I was slightly upset that my one and only offering to help the war effort had been trounced in a short conversation.
All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. Our first air raid. Maybe the beginning of many, with bombs coming down on our houses, destroying everything we have. I listened hard, but the planes must have gone. And as the ticking of the clock dissolved into the background, I started feeling trapped by time itself. It was as if every moment had become both longer and shorter, more meaningful in case it’s our last, yet so fleeting and pointless. And all these moments join together to build my life, like it’s a patchwork quilt of different colors and shapes, good days and bad, that together make an uncomfortable, badly fitting whole.
Then the all clear sounded, a single siren call that somehow sounds comforting and friendly, even though it’s the same awful air raid siren but only played once. The Colonel looked at Mrs. Tilling, who stood up and brushed down her brown woolen skirt, turning to me, as if he weren’t even there, and saying, “Well, Kitty, I hope it’s not too late for you to be running home? You can always stay in the back room if you’d like?”
“Thanks, Mrs. Tilling, but Mama will worry about me.”
As she led the way back upstairs, I turned back to the large Colonel, still finishing his letter, and bid him good night.