Maggie sat atop the dry stump of a tree and kicked her heels gently against dried and long dead bark. The evening sun warmed her face even as a cool breeze ruffled her soft fur. At the edges of the fields fat bumblebees droned ponderously about their harvest. The flowers they were visiting provided the blind dog with an almost overwhelming array of scents. There was the sweetness of Honeysuckle, the muggy and syrupy tang of Dog Rose. Most she did not have names for yet. The bursts of floral sweetness were set to a background of dry wheat that swayed and rustled in the breeze. Maggie imagined the sound was similar to the sea. She had never been but she was sure it was like the lapping shores of the Thames when boats and ships went by. Magnified many times of course. There were very big ships in the ocean. The sound from the swaying crop reminded her of the static roar from the wireless. Only much softer and much more pleasant.
Though it had taken some getting used Maggie decided that she much preferred the countryside. At first she had hated it. It was all uneven ground, unexpected obstacles, damp earth, muck, slurry and the stink of cows, chickens and sheep. Later she had learned to filter off the more unpleasant scents just like she did in the city. What she had been left with was wheat, barley, rye, hedgerows and a bewildering array of plants that she was yet to learn the name of. It was exciting, rich and intoxicating. Every day was different.
Maggie sat up a little taller and her ears lifted. It was dinnertime. Back at the cottage Mrs Venables was calling her. The wind had carried the message to her. She hopped down off the stump, brushed off her dress and stuffed her pockets with the various unknown plants and flowers she had collected. If she showed them to Mrs Venables then the old cat would tell her the names and sometimes the uses of each plant. Maggie liked that. Nettles stung. Dock leaves cured the sting. Honey suckle was good for arthritis and sore throats. Chrysanthemums helped headaches.
Josephine dried her hands on a dishcloth. She could scarce believe that the pup carefully tapping her way along the road in front of the cottage was the same child that had arrived in her life all those months ago. She had been so sickly and weak back then. Bronchitis kept her in bed for almost a month. It took every trick her husband knew to get rid of it. When the illness finally lifted they finally discovered the rather sweet little girl beneath all the suffering. Blind she may have been, but Margaret was no invalid. As soon as she could breathe through her nose again she had set about sniffing and exploring. She investigated everything. She was sharp, clever and perceptive. Though she never spoke Josephine never had any trouble identifying the things the pup wanted to know about. Before long she had finished exploring the house and moved out into the garden.
Dr Venables had been worried when Margaret first ventured outside. What if she was to fall and hurt herself or accidently find herself beyond the garden and unable to find her way back? He need not have worried. Margaret was a natural explorer but she was also part homing pigeon. She never ventured too far away from the cottage. When she tripped and fell she got straight back up again without tears or complaint. The old doctor soon got used to cleaning and dressing scuffed knees, pricked paws and bruised shins. She was a tough little soul once she had begun to eat a little better. Simple broth had paved the way for hearty country food that she took to at once. She was getting stronger and her spindly arms and legs thicker and sturdier. Sadly the damage had already been done. Her growth had been stunted by malnutrition. She would never be tall. At least she could be healthy.
When the front door slammed shut the doctor tensed in surprise and stabbed himself painfully in the finger. He dropped the needle-sharp tool he had been using to pick the lock on the pups violin case and swore under his breath. He had been at it for days. Sucking ruefully on his injured finger he hurriedly returned the case to beneath Margaret's pillow and dropped the covers back in place. The pup lavished so much affection on the black, scuffed violin case. She gave it the kind of care and attention other little girls gave to a much loved dolly. Indeed when he had first tried to take it from her fevered paws she had bitten him sharply on the wrist.
The case had gone everywhere with her at first. She pottered about the house and garden while clutching it to her chest. When she began to range further afield she began leaving it beneath her pillow. Upon her return she always flew to the case to check it was where she had left it and still in one piece. During one of her little forrays into the fields Dr Venables had taken the opportunity to inspect the case. It was old and scuffed. It was held shut by three steel clasps. The middle one had a gleaming padlock affixed to it that meant the case could not be opened. Margaret did not have the key. Had it been lost in the bombing? Dr Venables did not know. He just wanted the pup to be able to gain a voice. If she would not speak with words she could do it with music. No matter how inexpert her skills with the instrument were. Sucking on his wounded finger he left her room. Dinner would be served soon. These days he faced competition over helpings.
Maggie lifted her ears as she heard a gasp from the waiting Mrs Venables.
"Oh Margaret Willis, you are filthy!" the pup flinched at once. At home her full name was usually only used before a sound beating. They were administered after any transgression. Real or imagined. No blow followed from Josephine. The scolded with words and not fists. Maggie relaxed and smiled a meek appology. "Get upstairs and change. I won't have half the mud in the country sharing dinner with us." Maggie nodded quickly and made her carefully up the stairs to her little room.
She sniffed the air. Her nose wrinkled. The lingering scent of sweat, medicine, cough linctus and sickness still contaminated the room. While she had sweated and shivered the smell had formed a thick miasma. Even after she had recovered thanks to the ceaseless efforts of Dr Venables and his wife the smell remained. It would take a while to disappear completely.
Maggie sniffed again. Stale cigarette smoke a subtle scent of lavender soap. That was Mrs Venables. She had remade the bed with freshly laundered sheets, blankets and quilt. The blind girl pushed those scents aside and breathed in her surroundings a little deeper. Wood polish. Yellowing paper. The cheap sort used in comics. Oil from a toy railway engine. Waxy polish used on the stock of an air rifle. They were all old scents. The only constant was the unmistakable scent of boy. As Maggie struggled into her pyjamas she traced the evolution of the scent. Boy became man. Childish scents replaced with boot polish, mothballs, starch. The smell of a uniform. When she had first caught that scent Maggie had sagged a little. Uniform meant war service. You went to war, you died. That is how it went. She had felt uncomfortable living amongst the smell of a dead mans childhood. Mostly she felt sorry for Mr and Mrs Venables. They were kind. Their son probably had been too.
Her brother had been kind like them. Softly spoken and gentle. He never teased her. Maggie pulled the violin case from beneath her pillow and hugged it to her chest. The instrument had been a gift from her brother. The last before he had boarded the train. The train that whisked him away to France. To fight. To lose. To die at Dunkirk. A lump welled in her throat and she cuddled the hard wood. Mam had not liked the violin. It was too fine a thing to waste on a cripple. Plus she did not like the sound it made. Indeed her mother had soon intended to sell it. She had sealed the case with the hated padlock and pocketed the key. She did not want Maggie to play the 'wretched thing' in the house. A German bomber had taken care of the house not long afterwards. And her mother.
The coppery tang of blood drew Maggie back to the present. She sniffed at the case. Dr Venables had been at the lock again. She smiled. She knew he was doing his best to make her happy. It was working. She slipped the case back under her pillow and emptied the pockets of her dress onto the bed. She lined up the flowers and plants she had collected. After that she struggled into her pyjamas and bundled up her dirty clothes to take down with her to the kitchen. Mrs Venables would wash them and when it was time for bed and Maggie was tucked up beneath the covers the old feline could tell the pup all about her miniature harvest. Maggie liked that.
A call from downstairs signalled that dinner was being served up. She smelled a chicken broth and crusty white bread and a vegetable pie. Her belly rumbled loudly and she fair flew to the door and down the stairs. Always one at a time. Always with one hand on the banister. It would not do to fall before dinner and allow Dr Venables a head start.
When the meal was finished and the dishes were being washed by Dr Venables, Josephine took Maggie away to wash the mud from her knees and put her to bed. They had moved the wireless into her room. It was only fair. They could read the papers or settle down with a book. She could listen to the BBC. After the ritual of plant identification was done the kindly feline kissed the pup on the forehead and turned down the radio. Then she joined her husband downstairs and left young Margaret to get some sleep. To suffer whatever nightmares left her shaking with terror in the mornings with sheets that would need to be stripped, washed and dried.
"I am going to borrow old Bill and his bolt cutters. That padlock is going to die by my hand for the suffering it has caused me." Josephine smirked as her husband waggled the bandaged finger in her direction. For the fuss he was making over a simple pricked finger it would be easier to amputate the digit. Doctors always made the worst patients. She flopped down before the fire and stretched out tired legs. Her husband soon followed suit and collapsed into his own chair. He wiggled his toes and sighed happily. "Did you read Tommy's letter?" Josephine nodded. Their son had been shot down over London. Again. This time he had a month of leave to recover after a wound to his neck. He was going to come home for a week or so. He wanted to meet 'the squatter' who had moved into his bedroom. The doctor's wife could almost see the smile behind the pen as it had scratched those words in black ink. Tommy was a good boy.
"How are the Americans doing at the old base?" she enquired. The doctor grunted. He did not approve of the 8th Air Force moving onto the site of the old RAF base. Disused grass runways were being enlarged and replaced with concrete. Nissen huts were springing up like ugly corrugated weeds all over the site. Bombers would fly from there eventually. All the way to Germany to take the fight to them for a change. Even now the yank engineers swarmed like ants, erecting hangars, control towers, bomb shelters and anti-aircraft dugouts. It would make the village a target for the Germans.
Opinion in the village was divided over the sudden appearance of their American allies. They arrived in big green trucks and churned up the roads and tracks. Quiet country life was invaded by hundreds of broad, coarse, surly engineers that dug, built, swore, sang and drank. When they were not at the base they were in the village, flashing money and things that rationing had made scarce. The children loved the Americans. They brought chocolate and candy. The older residents were a little more cynical. A lot of women were lonely now that their husbands and boyfriends had been called up. Lusty, drunken soldiers were a dangerous temptation. For the most part they need not have worried. The Americans may have been a little rough around the edges but they had come a long way. Many had left behind wives and girls of their own. They had worries and fears of their own and they acted as much like gentlemen as they could manage.
In the end a sort of grudging acceptance emerged among the villagers. That the Americans were coming at all was a good sign. Britain would need all the help it could get to win the war. Even if it came from the crass colonials from far over the Atlantic.
Josephine tactfully changed the subject when her husband's features nearly vanished beneath the wrinkles of his frown.
"We need to start some schooling for her." Judging from the grin that erupted over the plump face of her husband he had already thought of that and had done something about it. "Oh, I see." she chuckled. "What are you scheming, husband of mine?"
"Braille."
"Come again?"
"Braille. It is reading and writing for the blind." Josephine looked baffled. It took the doctor a good length of time and effort to explain the way that a series of six raised dots could tell, much like Morse code, the fingers of a blind reader a letter or word. She narrowed her eyes as he spoke. One day his head would burst. He was far too interested in...well...everything. She had to admit, the idea of teaching Margaret how to read was tempting.
"You can get whole books in Braille! Think of it Josephine. She could read!"
"All right, all right. Calm down. Just where are we going to get some of this dotty alphabet to learn? They don't sell it at the village shop. I would have noticed it I'm sure."
"I wrote to a friend in London. Then I wrote to Tommy. He will bring up some of the basic learning when he comes up next week. I am a genius, see?" The doctor tapped his skull. Then he winced and hissed. He had used his injured finger.
Above their heads Maggie stirred and smiled sleepily. So. Somehow the doctor was going to teach her to read bumps on paper. She reached over and traced her fingers along the rough texture at the corner of the violin case where the covering had been damaged. Who knew what words she could find the same way. The bedroom was less sinister now. The boy had not died. He was coming home. Her face fell in the darkness and she opened her eyes. Pure white, sightless orbs seemed to glow in the darkness. She never opened them during the day. They were disgusting and frightened people. Mam always said so.
Tommy was coming home. Would he hate her for being in his room? Why did Tommy get to come home? Her brother never came home. He had died. Was it God who chose who got to come home? Her lip trembled. Rolling over onto her belly she bit her lip and began to cry silently with jerking shoulders. She cried for her brother, for her horrid eyes, the awful war. She even cried for her mother.
When she finally wept herself to sleep, the German was waiting.
