In Darkling Wood Read Online Free

skirt hems were soaked and my best boots filthier than the ones I’d left at home.
    At eleven o’clock precisely, the church bells rang and our entire village filled the streets. Oh Alfred, you should’ve seen it! Everyone was waving flags and singing ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’. I supposed they meant the landlord of the White Lamb, who was handing out free cider. But Mama said they were singing for our prime minister, Mr Lloyd George.
    The bells rang for an hour without stopping. Imagine the agony to our ears! It’s probably why Mrs Burgess brought the schoolchildren out to listen. Though you’ll hardly believe it but our dear old headmistress was actually SMILING.
    She made a point of coming over and simpering at Mama – it was all ‘yes Mrs Waterhouse, no Mrs Waterhouse’ – though she didn’t once address me; I made sure of it by taking a great interest in my coat buttons.
    Afterwards, Mama asked where my manners had gone. It was time I acted more like a young lady, she said. Perhaps I could pin my hair up and swap my frocks for blouses and skirts. Well, I must have scowled because she laughed and said being ladylike wasn’t so terrible.
    But it is terrible, Alfred. I hate it when things have to change. Sometimes I’m even envious of that farm dog for how it roams around our woods without a care, though I’d not want Mr Glossop for a master.
    As for Papa, he is still recovering from his time at the Front. Mostly, he sits all day and reads – ghost stories are his favourite – which Mama rolls her eyes at because she says they’re what servants read. She thinks he needs a hobby, something to ‘take his mind off things’. But I don’t know if it helps, this not mentioning the war. After all, he has shrapnel in his leg that will never go away, and he still screams in the night.
    Sorry to sound dismal. Mostly I stay jolly by thinking of what we’ll do when you come home. We’ll climb the beech tree and sit in our favourite spot, where the branch splits and makes that funny O shape. We’ll take a picnic too, only this time I promise not to eat all the apple cake without sharing.
    Actually, I can’t promise that. Even now there is rationing, Mrs Cotter’s baking is still scrumptious. She’s already making lists of what to cook when you come home. She and Maisie have been saving up the rations – ‘stockpiling’, Mama called it, when she found more sugar in our larder than we’d had in months. So Alfred, do be sure to come home hungry. It would be torture to have to eat all that cake alone.
    And think of the woods, Alfred! Never mind that it’s winter, they’re still our special place. It’ll be wonderful to have you here again. Not like before, when you came home on leave for just two weeks. This time you’ll stay for good.
    Your sister.

TUESDAY 12 NOVEMBER
5
    ‘Good grief, is that toast dry ?’ Nell says at breakfast the next morning.
    I nod and gulp; there’s nothing in the cupboards to put on it, and better dry toast than nothing.
    She rolls her eyes. Pulling a £10 note from her shirt pocket, she hands it to me. ‘There’s a shop in the village. Get what you need.’
    I think she’s trying to be nice. Or maybe she just doesn’t want to be held responsible for me starving to death.
    The village is called Bexton. It’s about two miles away, through the woods and across some fields. Borage comes with me, though after last night I’m surprised Nell trusts me with her dog.
    ‘Just make sure you bring him back in one piece,’ is all she says.
    As I set off, I feel my mood lift. It’s better to be doing something. I hate sitting around, waiting for news from Mum. Darkling Wood looks different this morning. The trees are bare because it’s winter, and as the sun sparkles through their branches, I can almost see to the fields beyond. It’s so quiet here. No cars. No buses. No radios blaring. An aeroplane passes overhead but even that’s silent.
    All along the fence are the