Doctor Albert Venables grumbled irritably to himself as he squelched his way towards the dilapidated wooden pavilion that passed for Upton Severill's village hall. For the past three days and three nights the rain had lashed down from the heavens without respite. The downpour was bordering on biblical in its intensity and had turned all the dusty roads around the sleepy little village into a veritable quagmire of mud. The clinging brown mess was doing its damndest to suck the doctor's wellington boots right off his tired and aching feet.
It had been a very long night for the old village doctor. The newest addition to the Dawson family had been less than keen to leave the warmth and safety of her mother. Thankfully both Mrs Dawson and her wailing new daughter were now doing quite well. He had had finally been able to leave their home and was intent on returning to his own. There was the promise of a warm hearth and perhaps a bite to eat. His hopes were dashed by the news that he was to report to the village hall.
Heavy raindrops pattered steadily off his bright yellow Sou'wester and his ancient grubby brown mackintosh. The outfit was heavy but it did a marvellous job of keeping his clothing and fur dry. Once upon a time doctor Venables had been famous for his magnificent ginger pelt. These days however it had become dulled and greyed. The advancing years spared no one. With his heavy black leather medical bag swinging at his side the tired feline unleashed an enormous yawn. Today was not his day. Every single door he passed seemed to burst open as he passed. Each yielded yet another ailment in need of his urgent attention. At least in the eyes of the complaining party. Old Colonel Hughes' gout was playing up again. Mrs Smyth had a nasty case of bronchitis that was not being helped by her smoking habit. By mid-day an exhausted doctor Venables was on the verge of disowning the whole whining lot of them. If it was not ancient folk with sniffles and simple colds it was babies and children with upset tummies. His bed remained oh so far away.
Abruptly the rain stopped and the clouds thinned. Through cracks in the billowing grey mess overhead brilliant lances of golden sunlight lit up the glistening, lush, green English countryside. The tired old tomcat stood at the side of the road and drank in the magnificent sight. His sigh of wonder and momentary contentment was swiftly drowned out by the sudden passing of a fleet of huge green trucks. With his arms wind-milling the startled doctor lost his balance and fell with a wet splat into the mud. Through mud encrusted glasses he glared at the lumbering machines with the white stars painted on the doors. He disliked the loud, vile engines and the nasty stench they left in their wake.
"Bloody yanks!" he hollered after them.
Retrieving himself from the undignified sprawl the doctor sighed at the impression his bulk had left in the mud. He patted his gut ruefully for a moment before squelching once more on his way to the village hall. Perhaps the rationing would do him some good. He could do with losing a few pounds. Well, perhaps more than a few.
When he finally arrived the doctor saw discovered a stranger sat a table inside the dingy old building.
"Doctor Venableth?" enquired the visitor, an enormously fat bulldog with an unfortunate lisp and an equally unfortunate face. The doctor idly wondered if the poor chap broke mirrors with his countenance.
"Reporting as ordered, sah." the doctor chuckled to the hideous and as it turned out, humourless fellow.
"Yeth. Tho I thee. I am the billeting offither for thith dithtrict." the feline almost bit his tongue in half with the effort to keep his face straight. The bulldog went on without noticing. "Well, ath you are no doubt aware, London and thome of the bigger thitieth have been hit hard in the blitth. Thith being the cathe, thome of the more...vulnerable rethidentth are being evacuated to thafe thoneth in the countrythide."
Doctor Venables was glad he had not taken off his coat and hat. The constant spray of spittle from the lips of the bulldog was rather impressive. As the old cat nodded along to the words he wondered if he would drown before a point to the one sided conversation was reached. "Tho, you are to take in an evacuee. It ith for the war effort. Ath thutch, complianth is mandatory. You are of courth entitled to choothe your child, but thadly, your late arrival meanth that thith choithe hath been made for you by thircumthtanth."
Wiping a smear of saliva from his little round spectacles the cat sighed and nodded. He had been informed that this was going to happen sooner or later and he was too exhausted to even contemplate fighting it now. He and his wife had a spare room at home so the government wanted to fill it for as long as the war lasted. No doubt a gaggle of ill mannered and foul mouthed street urchins had been deposited in the hall. Whichever of them had been left for him must be the very incarnation of the devil himself.
As the doctor idly wondered about where best to hide the silver for the duration his preconceptions were abruptly torpedoed by reality and the appearance of his new young charge. The bulldog had retrieved her from the shadows of the hall and pushed her into view with a paw between her bony shoulders.
The evacuee was a russet furred spaniel. She was filthy and poorly clad. She had no coat and stood before him damp and shivering. A piece of string was tied around her neck to the end of which was tied a large cardboard label. It read 'Margaret Willis' and listed an address in one of the poorest areas of the capital.
When the cat reached out and gently placed his paw upon her shoulder the pup flinched and went stiff as a board. When he drew his hand back she returned to shivering. The old cat felt his jaw set and his eyes softened. Now he knew why she had been left for him. Her tightly shut eyes and the stubby little cane clutched in her paw made it perfectly clear. She was blind.
"Hello Margaret." old doctor Venables ventured. His voice was tight with pity. The child did not reply though one of her scruffy ears perked for a moment.
"Her file thatyth that thee ith blind. I think thee might be mute too. Not thaid a word to anyone. Not even a grunt." The bulldog dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief. Dr Venables flicked his eyes up. It was perfectly clear that the oaf of a dog wanted rid of the child. She was so very thin and sickly looking. Bones poked at her dull russet pelt and her tail hung limply down between her legs without moving. The poor thing looked like a stiff breeze would be the end of her. Doctor Venables glared at the billeting officer and fair snatched the pen from his hand when it came to signing the documents regarding trembling little Margaret Willis.
*
On the far side of the village lay a small thatched cottage. Outside in the garden Josephine Venables was in a sour mood. It had been a hectic and troublesome day and there were no signs of it improving. She had struggled along without her portly ginger lump of a husband as best she could. Now her patience was wearing thin. She was tired of the steady stream of callers. She was equally tired of telling them that the surgery was closed because the doctor was not in it and no she could not help them instead. Then of course there was the garden. Her neat little sanctuary had been violated. Propped up against the garden wall were the makings of an Anderson air raid shelter. Corrugated iron, bags of concrete, wood and empty sandbags were now making her little territory look like a builder's yard. Wartime requirements indeed. She seriously doubted that the Germans would want to waste ordinance by bombing her home.
Sucking on a cigarette the doctor's wife surveyed her garden moodily. A choice needed to be made. The shelter needed to go somewhere. Her black tail twitched behind her as she ran through her options. She needed the herb garden and the vegetable patch would be more important than ever now that rationing was in full swing. That left her precious flowers. Her shoulders fell and she found herself cursing Hitler. A lot of people were doing that these days. She gnashed her teeth and rolled up her sleeves. The Fuehrer had just become a very personal enemy to Mrs Venables. He had cost the black cat her prize petunias.
Flowers and plants were ripped from the earth and the foundations for the shelter were marked out by the sinewy and determined Mrs Venables. Her tail bristled at the sound of fat drops of rain hitting the leaves of plants. The disjointed patting soon became a roar and the heavens opened. Gathering her tools the sodden feline sprinted for the shelter of her home and banged the back door closed behind her. She had been so engrossed in destroying her garden on behalf of the war effort that she had missed the return of boiling black clouds. They rolled in overhead to blot out the sun. It seemed that the rain had not quite finished with the village of Severill just yet.
The deluge had derailed her plans for the garden. She resolved to fit the heavy blackout curtains instead. At night all windows and doors had to be smothered in heavy fabric lest any wandering Nazi bombers use the sight a flickering gaslight as a cue to unload a high explosive payload. Mrs Venables did not think that their little thatched home presented much interest to the German war machine but it would not do to incur the wrath of the local ARP warden. Mr Macnair had gone from being the village busybody to full time jobsworth with frightening speed. He now had what he felt was a valid excuse to carry out his snooping habit with impunity. He roamed the streets of an evening with his brightly polished tin hat and gasmask case at his side to threaten and sneer at any home that failed to meet his or governmental standards.
The rain turned out to be the herald of a rather nasty and violent storm. Rain hammered at the windows and thunder rumbled with distant menace. Josephine began to worry. Albert had missed not only breakfast but also lunch. If he did not hurry back he would miss supper as well. She was halfway up a ladder with a measuring tape between her teeth when she was startled by a thunderous knocking at the door. Her blood chilled. Albert never knocked. Had something happened to him? Was it about Thomas? Even now she began to picture the cold, impersonal typed wording 'We regret to inform you'. Hurrying to the door she fumbled with the lock then tore it open. It was not the postman with a telegram. Nor was it the vicar come bearing bad news. It was Albert. He was soaked through. Water poured off the rims of his glasses and plastered his fur flat. His arms were full and he had draped his mackintosh over the cargo.
The sad little bundle moved feebly.
*
They always came just after dark. The first warning was the distant sound of gunfire followed by the unsynchronised drone of the bombers. The distinctive crack of the A.A. guns, the pom-pom-pom of the Bofors guns and the clatter of shell shrapnel on the roads and roof tops blended together into the terrifying rhythm section of the raid. Then came the sirens, the explosions and the clattering shower of dozens of incendiary bombs falling. Screams and the bells of fire engines and ambulances joined in and all the while the waves of planes droned overhead with their motors seeming to grind rather than roar. They had an angry pulsation like bees buzzing in maddened fury. It was music to die to.
Maggie dreaded the death march. Boom, crump, crump, crump. The sound of heavy bombs at their work of tearing buildings apart. They marched closer and closer like the crushing boots of a giant. They were never far away. The burning warehouses by the docks gave off strange odours that mixed with the acrid smell of explosives and gas from damaged pipes. These were joined in turn by the smell of burst sewers and smoke. It was overpowering.
The bombers were after her personally. A plane overhead suddenly changed in its sound and got louder until it became a wailing screech. It was after her. Chasing her. She ran along the road and stumbled on loose bricks. Her cane flailed uselessly before her. In her haste to get away she was missing every single obstacle in her path. The bomber behind her suddenly swept overhead and there was a dull thud. Then the world tore. A terrible noise filled her ears and seemed to stick there. Like a syrup made of noise had been poured into her ears. It blocked out all other sound and left a high pitched whine as she was scooped off her feet by some horrible force and sent sprawling. A second later and a fierce wind that was thick with dust pushed her flat on her back and left her gasping and clawing for air.
All she could smell was the hot brick-dust in her nose and all she could hear was the whine. She had been deafened. She could not even hear her own terrified screaming. Shut off from all of her senses she scrabbled about on her hands and knees. Helpless, lost and with the fires closing in all around her, Maggie covered her head in her hands and trembled.
After an eternity the whine in her ears began to fade. The world was pushing its way back into her ears and was forcing the syrup away. She could hear the sirens, the guns, the crackle of flames and the collapse of buildings. She also heard the approach of booted feet. It was him. It was the German. Strong hands slipped under her arms and she was hefted up against a broad chest. She struggled. She kicked. It was no good.
"Ist alles in Ordnung?" the voice rumbled. It was terrifying. Guttural and monstrous. He had come for her. Just as the other children had said he would. He had come from the sky after the bombs to kill or claim whatever and whoever had survived the dreaded Blitzkrieg. Maggie felt him begin to walk. He carried her as easily as a child would a dolly. She sobbed. Was she being taken to be shot? The Nazis shot people who were disabled. Everyone said so. They would shoot her for being blind.
The German spoke to her. His voice was deep and cold. Alien and terrifying. She was set down on the ground rather suddenly. With legs trembling she covered her face in her paws. She knew this was it. The firing squad. She heard the guns cocking.
"Nein. Nein. Bitte. Ich ergebe mich." the guttural voice boomed like thunder. Her fear trickled down her legs. She did not want to die.
The guns fired.
*
With a crack the log split in the hearth. Sparks whirled up the chimney as embers spat and popped. Albert glared at the fireplace with fuzzy headed annoyance. He had been dreaming of fishing again and again the monstrous catch had gotten away. Shifting in his armchair the cat yawned, stretched and then rubbed his eyes. His wife hovered in the doorway to the kitchen with a tray laden with a pot of tea and a few rounds of cold chicken sandwiches. Once she saw that her husband was no longer asleep she set the tray before him, poured the tea and flopped into the other armchair with a cup in her paws.
Josephine sipped her tea and stared at the rug before the fire where Thomas used to lay on his belly pushing his little wooden biplane back and forth and making suitable engine sounds. She sniffed and stirred, forcing the memory away.
"How is she?" she ventured. Albert was in deep brooding thought again. He was staring into the hearth. He snorted at the question and smiled grimly at her. The little pup was tossing and fretting upstairs in Thomas' old bed beneath thick warm blankets. No doubt in the grip of some horrible fever dream.
"Sleeping. Ish. Touch of the bronchitis I think." Josephine nodded and her husband continued. "She is malnourished. Probably never seen a decent meal let alone had one. I'll also need to pick up some delousing powder tomorrow in town. Poor thing is crawling. And here, look at this..." he took a small tight ring of stiff wire from his top pocket then tossed it over to his wife. It had been neatly snipped through with cutters. The lithe black cat turned it over and over in her fingers. It was spotted with rust here and there. "Some silly sod tried to dock her tail with that. Cut into the skin but nothing else. I've stopped any tetanus with an injection. I'll need to keep an eye on the wound though. Might go septic."
Josephine's eyes were as hard as diamonds as she glared at the wire in her fingers. Children could be badly cared for without malice. Simple ignorance or poverty could be the reason and perhaps understood if not forgiven. She was not extending forgiveness to Margaret's family. The poor, half starved little thing had all the signs of having endured wanton cruelty. She hurled the wire into the hearth. Sparks swirled as the fire swallowed it.
"Well, I'll need to get some more vittles in. She'll need some feeding up. I won't have her skin and bones. People'll talk." She had made up her mind. She was determined to care for the little waif. Already she was planning a hearty breakfast of bacon, scrambled eggs, thick slices of toast, mushrooms and perhaps a few tomatoes from the greenhouse. Albert saw her resolve. With a sigh he shook his head.
"Can't do that love." He began.
"Why not, won't be no trouble. Rations or no, this place is surrounded by farms. People owe you and I can beg, borrow or steal the rest! Don't you tell me we can't afford to do it neither!" Albert put up a paw to silence her and sighed again.
"Look, it's not that we can't, it's that we mustn't. Stuff her full of good food and her stomach'll bring it back up and torture her something horrid for the trouble. Her belly's not used to it, see? Broth and fresh milk will have to do until she is a little stronger. Then we can try her on soup and work up to something better. We need to see it stays down." Josephine nodded. She did not like it but she knew her husband was right. Her lips pursed pencil thin and she sipped at her tea. Albert sank back into his chair with his own cup in his lap. He looked more tired than she had ever seen him. When he spoke again his voice was husky.
"I'm worried about this fever, Jo. In a normal lass or lad it would not be much of a worry. But for her. Well." he took a long sip of tea and closed his eyes. "It could very well be the death of her."
