Lost Angel. Kitty Neale
horrible! I hate you,’ Ellen yelled before dashing outside again, but only five minutes later her dad found her.
‘You shouldn’t have yelled at Gertie like that. She knew you’d be upset, we all did, but Gertie hoped to make you feel better with a special surprise.’
‘Don’t care. I hate her.’
‘Let’s see if you feel the same in a minute,’ he said, taking her hand to pull her along. ‘Come back inside.’
Sullen, Ellen was dragged back to the cottage, but she refused to look at the cardboard box that Gertie held out.
‘Come on, Ellen, open it,’ her mother urged.
Gertie laid the box on the table. ‘It’s something for you, Ellen, something all of your own to love.’
‘Don’t want it.’
‘Are you sure?’ Gertie asked and opening the box herself she drew out a tiny bundle of black and white fluff.
There was a mewling sound and, unbidden, Ellen rushed forward. A kitten! Gertie had got her a kitten, and, her eyes brimming, Ellen took it from her hands.
‘Do you like him?’ Gertie asked.
‘Oh … oh … yes, and … and thank you.’
‘You need to apologise too,’ her mum cajoled.
‘No, it’s all right, Hilda. She was upset, and I understand that. Now then, Ellen, what are you going to call him?’
Ellen looked at the kitten. He was mostly black, but there was a white band at the bottom of both front legs. She grinned. ‘I’m gonna call him Socks.’
‘Socks,’ her dad chuckled. ‘Yeah, it kind of suits him.’
Bertie jumped up at her legs and Ellen held the kitten protectively to her chest.
‘It’s all right,’ Gertie said. ‘Bertie has had a few scuffles with Wilfred and knows better than to go up against a cat. Just let him smell Socks and he’ll be fine.’
Tentatively Ellen crouched down, her fears soon alleviated, but then the kitten burrowed inside her cardigan.
‘Right, Ellen, he’s your cat and you’ll have to look after him. It’ll be your job to feed him, and until he can go out you’ll have to change his litter box regularly,’ her mum said, then puffed out her cheeks. ‘I must have been mad to agree to this and heaven knows how we’ll get him back to London.’
‘London! But I don’t want to go back to London.’
‘I’m not talking about now, you daft moo, but the war won’t last for ever.’
Ellen pulled back her cardigan to look at Socks. He was almost under her arm, snuggled close, and though she wasn’t looking at her father she was aware of his words.
‘There isn’t an end in sight yet and, who knows, you could be here for years.’
‘Doug, I hope you’re wrong,’ sighed Hilda. ‘I’m going potty stuck here in the sticks.’
‘Well, thanks,’ Gertie snapped.
‘I’m not having a go at you, Gertie, and I’m really grateful that you took us in. It’s just that I’m not suited to life in the country, that’s all.’
‘Suited or not, it’s where you need to stay,’ Doug warned.
‘All right, don’t go on about it.’
Ellen’s emotions were mixed. She was thrilled with the kitten, sad that her dad would be leaving soon, but ecstatic at the thought of staying here with Gertie for a long, long time.
The next five days seemed to fly past, and soon Gertie was hiding her feelings of satisfaction as Doug said his goodbyes. It was irritating to see how Hilda clung to him, tears in her eyes, but touching to see Ellen doing the same.
Gertie shook Doug’s hand and then left them to it, pleased to hear the roar of the motorbike only minutes later as he sped away. It might take a few days, but then it would be back to normal, the three of them again living contentedly together.
Both Hilda and Ellen were in pieces when they came indoors, and Gertie did her best to sound sympathetic. ‘Oh dear. You poor things.’
‘I can’t believe how quickly the time went, and … and who knows when I’ll see him again …’ Hilda said as she dashed tears from her cheeks.
Ellen ran to pick up Socks, seeking comfort as she held the kitten close, and Gertie was pleased with her idea. Ellen had soon forgotten the pig in her joy at having her own pet, and as the farmer’s cat had just had kittens, the timing was perfect. Her own cat, Wilfred, rarely ventured indoors and so far hadn’t seen the kitten, but Gertie feared that fur might fly when he did.
‘How about a nice cup of tea?’ she suggested, deciding that there was time enough later to worry about Wilfred.
‘I won’t say no.’
Gertie busied herself with putting the kettle on the range and by time it came to the boil, Hilda had at last stopped sniffling. Gertie decided to try a touch of lightness as she poured the tea, saying with a smile, ‘I suppose you’ll be back to wearing trousers now.’
‘I suppose so. I never thought you’d get me to wear them, but must admit they’re comfortable. It was murder doing the planting in a skirt.’
‘Once summer’s here, we’ll all be in shorts.’
‘Things in London may have eased up by then. I might be able to go back; to find us somewhere to live, a home for Doug to return to.’
‘Don’t bank on it,’ Gertie said. There was no sign of a let up, the Luftwaffe still bombing the city and, as Doug had said, they could be with her for years. At least she hoped so – the thought of Hilda leaving was more than she could bear.
Hilda turned over in bed, hating that it was winter again, and loathing life in Somerset. She had come here expecting the war to be over long before this, but how long had they been here now? Nearly two years, but it felt like ten, and so long, so very long since she’d seen Doug. At least in London she saw people, had friends, heard a bit of music and jollity; but nothing happened here to break the month in, month out of boring routine.
Hilda heaved a sigh. She had stuck it out for Ellen’s sake, and Gertie had seemed to sense how she felt, taking her to the village at least once a week now. Though Hilda enjoyed a bit of gossip with the shopkeeper, and one or two other villagers, she felt she had little in common with them. They were nice folks who seemed content with their lot, with their sleepy, tiny community, but even after all this time in Somerset, Hilda knew she’d never feel the same.
Ellen woke beside her and as soon as the sleepiness left her eyes she said, ‘It’s my birthday.’
‘I know. Happy twelfth birthday, but don’t expect much,’ Hilda warned. This would be Ellen’s second birthday in Somerset, but there wasn’t a lot on offer in the village store now, though thanks to Mrs Brandon she had a little extra something up her sleeve. It was Monday, and with the shop closed yesterday they’d have to go into the village to pick it up today. It was a special treat and sure to bring a smile to her daughter’s face.
‘Mum, I feel a bit funny, sticky,’ Ellen said as she got out of bed. Her voice then rose to a yelp of fear. ‘Mum! Mum, I’m bleeding.’
Oh no, Hilda thought, already? What a thing to happen on her daughter’s birthday. ‘It’s all right. It’s nothing to worry about.’
‘But what’s wrong with me?’