Love, War and Ice Cream: Family Stories

By M. Z. Fairtlough

Set in England, Italy and Spain during and after WWII, Love, War and Ice Cream paints a vivid portrait of Harry and Marina and their families, revealing their triumphs and tragedies, and the twists that ultimately bring them together.

Right from the start, we realize that this is not the usual account of family life. For one thing, its in short story form, and then there are the adorable photographs and hand-sketched illustrations. There are even instructions for many well-loved family games and recipes: a humble Northern Italian milk soupshares space with the quintessentially English ginger cake, and also with the exuberant tortilla mixta from Southern Spain, all of which serve to celebrate the people we meet in this refreshing and innovative memoir.

Harry's family membersthe Fairtloughswere overwhelmed by the enormous social changes that occurred after the Great War, and dismayed by the sudden disappearance of their way of life. Marina's peoplethe Camposwere resourceful, willing and able to work hard to better their lot. As war simmered, they emigrated from Italy to Spain, where they sold delicious ice cream. Then Harry met Marina.

Blue Ink described the book as a superbly written memoir of two families who represent vastly different cultures Readers will fall in love with the whole bunch of Fairtloughs and Campos For more information, please go to: http://www.lovewarandicecream.com

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781462093090

M. Z. Fairtlough

M.Z. Fairtlough is English by birth, Italian by childhood, and American by adoption. After working for many years in the life sciences sector, she came to write by accident, when she came across some old family photographs. “They told such a wonderful, compelling story that I wanted to share that,” she says of her first book, Love, War and Ice Cream. “In this saga-of-sorts I wanted to blend the personal and the historical into an exploration of love and duty, on the meaning of family, and about growing up in different times.” 

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Copyright © 2012 by M. Z. Fairtlough

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-9311-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-9310-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-9309-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011963505

iUniverse rev. date: 07/05/2012

About the Author

M.Z. Fairtlough was born in the village of Blandford St Mary, England, in 1965 and grew up in Rome, Italy, with her many brothers and sisters. She attended an international school there and then returned to England to complete her studies and work in health-related public affairs. She has spent the last fifteen years in the United States, raising her family and working on health care and industrial policy matters. Love, War and Ice Cream is her first book.

For My Parents

Contents

Preface

Family Trees

Timeline

1. The End and the Beginning

2. El Salon Italiano

3. Just Harry

4. Fire in the Sky

5. Trains, Tigers and Tea

6. Laundry Day

7. Summer Break

8. The Fight

9. Trial by Fishcakes

10. Dire Punishments and Difficult Lessons

11. The Dog in the Oven

12. The Sad Story of Mariquita Perez

13. The Coronation

14. Ice Cream for El Caudillo

15. Rebellion!

16. El Futbolista

17. Filling the Gap

18. Vanishing World

19. The Fork in the Road

20. Marina’s Revolution

21. Asclepius’ Prescription

22. Lecciones de Inglés

23. Love Letters

24. Wedding a la Gaditana

Sources

Preface

The idea for this book does not have a definite beginning. My father and I talked about writing a family history numerous times over the course of the last twenty years. The impetus for actually doing something arose from plans for my parents’ seventieth birthday celebrations, and a stack of old photographs evolved into what you are reading now.

Rather than write a complete chronological account, I decided to focus on moments in time to create stories that would interest and inform, and at the same time describe some of the family origins. In part, this approach was inspired by the stories that my great aunt, Victoire Fairtlough, told my father. Just as her tales about growing up in Victorian and Edwardian England spoke of specific moments, I began with happenings my parents remembered well. In the back of my mind I may also have wanted to put together a heritage manual of sorts for my children, not only to nurture their identities but also to allow them to remain connected with their extended family scattered across the world.

Our lives are so short, and most of the time all that remains after we have gone are a few photos, some letters and documents, and memories that are fading away. As I researched the lives of my grandparents, I was shocked at how little personal detail remained, and I began to gather as much as I could from many family members, in conversations over curries and tea, over the telephone and Skype, and via e-mail, as well as from more formal sources, including the Royal Arsenal Museum, the Imperial War Museum and the National Probate Office in London. I found resources about the history of Zoldo and ice cream in Italy, as well as the online archives of the Diario de Cadiz, and soon my desk was straining with an eclectic collection of items from army personnel files, wills and flaking black-and-white photographs, to travel brochures, yellowed newspaper cuttings and books about army history, ice cream making and bullfights.

This book tells of the people and events in the lives of Harry Fairtlough and Marina Campo from when they were born in 1942 in Blandford, England, and Cadiz, Spain, until they married in 1965. To add colour and flavour, I have included instructions for favourite games and recipes for family foods. While attempting to be accurate, I have consolidated some times and incidents to avoid unnecessary tedium. Occasionally, to avoid offence, I have changed names and contexts. I have called upon many people and sources to verify facts, but when memories and references failed, I imagined and embroidered. Any errors are mine alone.

I have loved every moment of effort on Love, War and Ice Cream, and I would like to thank my parents for letting me write about them and for their patience answering my endless and often impertinent questions. I thank my husband and children for putting up with my distracted state and for patiently repeating their requests when I daydreamed. And I thank my friends for bearing with my enthusiasm and for taking the time to read and comment on my various drafts: April, Michelle and Grant, your kind words were more encouraging than you know. In addition, for their help with recollections and tone-checking, I am grateful to my aunts Hilary, Lisa and Aida, my uncle Gianni, and my cousins Dan, Zoë and Venetia. I also want to acknowledge Chris Whately-Smith for his help with Hordle House history and photos, and Paul Evans at the Royal Artillery Museum and Simon Offord at the Imperial War Museum for their assistance with information about Fairtlough army history and facts about army life. This book could not have been completed without the expert help of Lisa Dale Norton, who nudged me ever so nicely to slap my manuscript into shape. Finally, I wanted to thank everyone at iUniverse for their care and consideration. It’s been a pleasure.

I hope you’ll enjoy the stories.

M.Z. Fairtlough

March 2012

Family Trees

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Timeline

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Love, War and Ice Cream

Iole slipped her shoes off at the door. Marina, where are you? she called. There was no sound in the flat apart from the drip-drip of the tap in the kitchen at the side. The only movement came from a yellowed wedge of patterned floor tiles, flickering as it pulled the timid light from the open window into the front room.

Where are you, Meri? It’s almost nine, she called again. On the dining table, she placed the stack of printed menus entitled Domingo, 2o de Abril, 1965.

She thought she heard a giggle from Marina’s room, but it could have been the coo roo c’too coo from a pigeon perched on the balcony. She tiptoed two steps and opened the door.

Unnoticed, she observed comics strewn all over the bed and floor, and her son and daughter, still in their nightclothes, reading and tittering together. They jumped when she stamped her foot. Gianni sprung off the sheets like they were on fire and began frantically to tidy up.

Marina stretched out her arms, her expression barely guilty. "Buenos Dias, Mama, she said. I was just getting up," and then she scooted around her mother and out of the room.

Iole chased after her, Meri! What are you doing? Why aren’t you ready? Don’t you want to get married?

Her daughter just laughed, but there was such joy in her voice that Iole had to laugh also, and then the song of the mass bells of San Antonio filled the air.

***

Arturo Campo scraped the ice cream out of the churn, flicking it with disgust into the stainless steel container tucked under his arm. Over the top of the swing doors he could see the heads and hats of more and more people crowding into the shop, even though it was still early. Such a sight would normally have buoyed his spirits but today his whole being felt dull and leaden.

Why couldn’t Meri find a nice Italian boy, a boy from Zoldo, someone more like us? Even a Spaniard would have been better than that Englishman. How could she even think of leaving her family?

He knew the answers to his questions. In that moment, remorse flooded over him, hot and bitter. He regretted his whole life, the way he had treated his daughter, the choices he had made, and not fighting harder for his dreams. His head ached and then the first stinging tears fell, and he sat down at the workbench, his head on his arms, and began to sob.

***

Despite the impatience that was permeating her every fibre, Zoë Fairtlough managed a stiff smile. I’m sure Marina will be here in a moment, she said. For her son, she composed her face into a picture of calm while in her mind one question throbbed. How dare that girl keep us waiting!

She wanted to embrace her boy, to wipe away the dismay that was creeping across his face, but she wasn’t sure whether she ought to; he might not like that. Harry was twenty-three now, and so grown-up in many ways—so handsome and clever, and a great sportsman. His life held so much promise. So like his father and yet not. No one had ever been late for Eric.

What would he have thought? What would he have made of Harry’s choice to marry someone so different from anyone they knew, and in another country so alien from their own?

She swallowed as she remembered her own wedding day, standing next to Eric in the old chapel. Everything was still so vivid: the scent of the lilies everywhere, the jewelled light dancing on the altar cloth, and her sense of wonder that the intriguing man at her side could love her and that she could be so much in love with him. The fifteen years’ gap in age had not mattered. That memory gave her pause.

Maybe these differences that I see are not so important after all. Maybe Marina will be the great wife Harry deserves.

A movement caught her eye and she glanced across the dusty square—dirty pigeons swooping down to the gaudy yellow cart of the street vendor who was shouting something unintelligible. She would have liked to bomb them all. Her hands gripped her handbag so tightly that they trembled.

***

He thought he saw a figure in white at the open window. Is that her?

From the entrance of the church of San Antonio, Harry squinted up once more across the tree-lined square, against the sun poking its face over the buildings. The balcony of the flat where Marina had lived all her life spilled over with geraniums, bright and cheerful as the pealing of the bells. Something brushed his arm. Mum’s gloved hand. For a moment, he had forgotten she was there.

In some countries, it’s the custom to keep the groom waiting, she said. Mum’s lips smiled as she nodded in reassurance, the multitude of gold feathers on her hat bobbing at the same time.

Those words, however, did not have the desired effect. Harry panicked. Has Don Arturo forbidden Marina to marry me after all? He weakened at the thought. Her father had been ambivalent about the engagement. Doña Iole couldn’t have been happier though, and she was the one who ruled the roost, no matter what her husband said. Marina must come, Harry told himself. Then, emerging from the leafy shadows, a figure came running. It was Marina’s brother, Gianni.

***

1. The End and the Beginning

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Harry Fairtlough, a first picture, 1942

He was in the motorcar and the three sticks in his fists bloomed magically into flags, as pretty as the flowers in the garden all around. He waved the flags and his brother and sisters did also, and the colours danced and flashed red and white and blue. Everyone was laughing and there was music and bells singing a happy song, soldiers were marching, drums and trumpets playing so cheerfully, and so many people, more people than he had ever seen in his life, were cheering and throwing handkerchiefs and flags and hats up in the air.

That was Harry’s earliest memory, the day the War ended.

He had a jolly little life, with Mum and, when they weren’t at school, his older brother and sisters: Gerard, Carola and Hilary. Mum was always there, with her sweet smile, her bright blue eyes, and the tidy saxon knots over her ears. He knew that was what they were called because earlier, when everyone was dressing for the celebration, Carola had been a bit rude about them.

Not boring old saxon knots again, Mum. Carola wrinkled her nose when Mum came out of her room. Why don’t you put it up at the back, like you wore it when the Bakers came last week?

I don’t have time to do that and this will be cooler anyway, Mum replied, checking herself in the hall mirror. She repositioned the sparkling crescent moon higher up on her lapel. Now please get into the car or we’ll be late.

Foster held the car door open. He also had dressed up, all in brown and on his head was a peaked cap with a shiny badge of a small cannon above the brim. He looked like someone else, like the picture of Dad near Mum’s bed.

When all the family was sitting down on the cracked black seats, Foster asked, Shall we leave now, Mrs Fairtlough? Mum nodded.

He shut the door and they drove off in a cloud of smoke, through the gates, up the lane past the cows in the field, and out onto the road. This was the first time Harry had been in the car, as far as he could remember.

Mum said, Would anyone like a toffee?

Harry watched as Carola eagerly unwrapped the little package from Mum’s hand, stuffed the golden lump into her mouth, and closed her eyes with a smile. Gerard and Hilary did the same. When Mum asked him if he wanted one, he nodded, even though he wasn’t sure what it was that he might be getting.

Mum peeled back the thin paper and quickly bit the lump in two. We’ll share this last one, she said and he opened his mouth to receive the scrap of toffee from her fingers. Sweeter and stickier than honey, it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted.

Wave to the people, Mum said. Harry copied Gerard, his hand rocking side to side. The people crowding along the road waved back and they all looked so happy that he could not keep still. All he wanted to do was bounce up and down on Mum’s knee. She shushed him and then the car stopped and Foster opened the door. The rumble Harry had heard in the car turned into a roar and he felt afraid for a moment at all the people shouting everywhere. But then he saw that they were laughing too, all of them except for the men standing on the green grass in front of the tall stone building with a spire that reached up to the clouds. The men were wearing peaked caps a bit like Foster’s, and shiny coins on their jackets, and they patted Harry on the head. Then they spoke to the crowd while Mum held his hand tight. When the guns fired, he hid his face in Mum’s rough skirt but then he heard everyone cheer and he cheered and jumped about too. Or at least as much as Mum would let him.

Suddenly Mum said, We’re going home now, and Foster was there again at the open car door, waiting for the family to get in. As they drove away, Harry looked through the back window and saw that everyone else had decided to stay.

***

When Zoë Fairtlough first moved to Blandford St Mary in 1938, the Manor House had seemed handsome enough. Although it had been renovated and added to several times, it retained a Tudor feel and function, with its steeply pitched roof, mullioned windows that let in the whistling wind, and towering chimneys topped with decorative chimney pots. Its numerous bedrooms, fine drawing room, and long dining room had been perfect when they had entertained, but now the main attractions of the house for her were the several acres of elegant lawns and gardens shaded by ancient trees, which gave her space to think and the children plenty of room to play.

It was late in the evening of May 7 1945 when the telephone rang, urgent and irritating against the gentle strains of Delibes playing on the wireless.

Blandford 323, she said. She hoped it was not bad news—no one ever called this late.

We’ve just heard that Germany has ratified the unconditional ceasefire! On the other end of the line, the Commander at Blandford Camp sounded tinny but jubilant.

Somehow, she managed to sit down on the chair near the telephone table as he continued in that pompous little way of his: The Prime Minister will be announcing the end of the War tomorrow morning, and I and the officers of Blandford Camp would be exceedingly honoured if you could join us in the celebrations after that, at fifteen hundred hours, outside the church of Peter and Paul on East Street. In consideration of all that General Fairtlough and you have done for our country, it is only right that you should be there. We are only sorry that the General cannot be with us. It’s a tremendous shame.

In someone else’s voice, she accepted the invitation. She fumbled as she placed the handset back on its cradle, and then she stumbled upstairs to her bedroom, throat-burning cries stifled into her handkerchief.

It was only six months since Eric had died, but while the War continued and others were losing their loved ones, she had managed to put her grief in a box to the side. Now that the prospect of normality had returned, now that everyone’s prayers for an end to the War had been answered, that box had burst open and the reality of life without him was suddenly unbearable.

That night she had a dreadful nightmare where it seemed as though she had never even been married, and everyone in Blandford had not only forgotten her, but did not know her at all. In the dream, Eric was alive and well, but even he would not acknowledge her and was leading an awful barrack room ballad with a troop of soldiers, all of whom were maimed. Despite their bleeding wounds, they kept on singing louder and louder.

She was thankful when day broke at last and she could get up to ready herself, the house and the children to join the rest of their world in celebrating the German surrender. After she had given the staff their instructions, she spent a quiet hour in the garden collecting flowers and greenery for new arrangements around the house. The daffodils and bluebells would look pretty against the hawthorn.

She decided she would tell the children about the news later, or they would be too excited and tire themselves out, and there would be tears in that case. Even so, she found she could not help glancing at her watch over and over again as the seconds dragged all morning and through lunch.

At 2.30 p.m. on the dot, Foster said he would start the motorcar. He was wearing his Royal Artillery uniform, the one he had worn when he had served Eric all those years. At the memory, she had to look away and spent the next few minutes overfussing with her brood, giving each of them three flags of the Allies who had won: the Union Jack, the Stars and Stripes, and the Hammer and Sickle. We’re going to celebrate the end of the War, she said to the elder children, Gerard, Carola and Hilary, and they cheered as expected and ran all around, making the air electric with happiness. In the car minutes later, they sat up straight and proud to be British, but little Harry was like a puppy, squirming on her lap with uncontainable excitement.

Foster drove slowly past the merry throngs making their way into town. Gay bunting hung around lampposts and draped across doorways of the houses on the side of the road, and someone had even begun to paint the side of their house red, white and blue. All she could think of was that the staff from the camp must have been handing out flags from the early hours.

But where did they get so many flags so quickly? And where did they get the paint?

The people crowding the way turned when they heard the growl of the rare car. The men doffed their caps, and the women and children waved uncertainly. She waved back, her gloved hand moving barely side to side, and put on her smile. And when they arrived at the church, after Foster unloaded them all and she was standing with her children through the marching and the playing of the brass bands and the waving of the pretty flags, she tried to envisage her life without the familiar wartime routines and found that she felt afraid. It was a relief when the ceremony ended and they could leave.

At home, however, there was no respite, with people dropping in and the telephone ringing incessantly. Her mother called in the evening, when the madness of the celebrations had ended and Zoë was back in the comfort of the rhythm of the Manor House. The children were all tucked into bed, and she was reading while the fire crackled in the grate in a most soothing manner.

How are you managing, darling?

The sound of her mother’s sweet, concerned voice was as much as Zoë could bear. She did not want this call to be long. Very well, thank you. How did you celebrate at Dulas?

"It was lovely…hmm… we thought we might have a weekend in London with all of us, a family V-day celebration… dinner at the Savoy. We could stay at Di’s. Would you be able to join us next week?" Her mother sounded tentative. Zoë could almost see her smoothing out the folds of her dress.

I’m sorry, Mummy. We need the petrol ration for school visits, even just to get to the station. Perhaps we can get together again for Christmas. That was far off enough that she could steel herself for all the fun and jollity that was to be expected from a gathering of her family.

…I understand, darling, but if you need help with finances or anything else, you know you can call upon us, don’t you?

Her parents lived life so well that Zoë wondered whether there was anything left at all of the fortune her father had inherited from his rich uncle. It had allowed her own childhood to be blessed with plenty, too much perhaps. She could scarcely believe that the girl in that life could have been her.

No need to worry about us. She swallowed as she held back the tears. What with Eric’s trust and pension, I can manage. I don’t need anything.

Of course, crooned her mother, but now that you must take care of everything on your own, are you managing all right? You’re going to have to make some major changes.

I know that! I’m not stupid! There was silence at the other end of the line. She inhaled deeply. It’s all right, Mummy. When Eric retired last year, I had already begun to rein in expenses. In any case, we never lived lavishly. I must go now—so much to do.

Before meeting Eric, she had not given any thought to money and had been happy to accompany her mother into London on the frequent shopping trips for the incessant buying of, in truth, mostly useless trinkets from Aspreys and Harrods and the smart shops in Bond Street. And the clothes! So many, so often cast aside after just a few wearings. In fact, after her wedding, it had been liberating not to have to keep up with the latest fashions, and she had settled happily into the routine of an officer’s wife with a much more limited budget. There were the twice-weekly meetings of the Welfare Committee to help soldiers and their families, lots of bridge, and an occasional evening of music. Then, as Eric’s career had advanced, when he was promoted to the rank of colonel and then major general, and as the children grew older, her life had become more interesting, she had to admit that. She blocked those memories before they could swim into her eyes.

In some ways, it’s lucky that Blandford St. Mary is a complete backwater, she thought. She rarely had to entertain now. When the Americans departed after D-Day almost a year earlier, their military-led social life had dwindled, more so when Eric died. With some regret she had let go of Cook and the housemaids and the gardener, retaining only Mrs Tomms from the village to help in the kitchen in the mornings. Foster, Eric’s army manservant, stayed on as chauffeur, gardener and general handyman. Her mother sent down Edna, a nice Welsh girl, to help with Harry, as Nursie Greenwood, who had raised the older Fairtlough children, had gone to the Clarkes at Saltwood Castle. Now Zoë’s daily routine was focused on the children and the garden, the church and the village, and on helping veterans and their families.

With the War ending, there seems to be nothing to look forward to any more. At this thought she felt the sadness envelope her again, heavy but familiar. She shook her head and marched out into the garden, where the night welcomed her with the scent of magnolia blooms and mowed lawns.

I’m being ridiculous. I should plan something, something fun that involves the children. Before the War that might have involved a picnic with cakes and sweets, but with rationing still severe there was hardly anything nice in the larder now. The toffees shared in the car had been the very last in the tin. Then she remembered the store of food that she and Eric had hidden in this very garden five years earlier, in July 1940, when German airplanes had first threatened England’s shores.

The Luftwaffe has attacked in the Straits of Dover. As Churchill predicted, the Battle of Britain has begun. As he spoke, Eric had looked on edge, with dark rings under his hot eyes and skin grey as stone. It is anticipated that the Germans will increase the range of their attacks to cover a wider front.

What’s going to happen? her voice had faltered, not so much at the news—everyone expected the enemy would attack—but rather at her husband’s haggard appearance. In the two weeks since she had last seen him, he had become so thin that his uniform hung about his shoulders.

We’re not sure what they’re going to do. Air raids are all very well, but the only way they can invade Britain is by sea, most likely on the Kent and Sussex beaches as they’re closest to France. His breathing was short as he patted his pocket and pulled out a yellow packet of Asthmatrol cigarettes. But we do expect German paratroops to land at any moment… Let’s talk outside. The house staff all had been vetted, but one could never be too careful. He said that it was better that they should not know anything, in the event that they let something slip by mistake to enemy spies.

The day could not have been prettier, in the way only England could be. Bees and butterflies hovered among the budding roses and the birds were trilling so that their entire purpose seemed to be to celebrate the beauty of life. Eric led her to the silvered bench at the very back of the garden, where the lavender mingled with the roses and honeysuckle. When he spoke again, his fingers moved gently over the back of her hand, tracing the blue veins. He told her that Germany aimed to gain control of the English Channel so that the Royal Navy would be unable to hinder their invasion fleet. They have thousands more planes than we do, really good planes. And thousands more trained pilots. The corners of his mouth were pulled down, and his left eye was twitching. He stood up and his breathing sounded ragged and forced.

Is it hopeless? As she searched her husband’s face, she gripped her fingers in her lap.

Difficult, not hopeless. His smile was not reassuring. Radar towers all along the south coast will warn us of approaching planes, and the Royal Observer Corps is watching the sky, he said, his voice low. With that information, we have ack-ack brigades well positioned to support the Royal Air Force and defend the country. He sat down again as he began to wheeze. She made to get up but he put his hand on her knee to make her stay.

So we just sit here and wait for the enemy to attack? She heard her own voice pitch higher.

No, we’re not just waiting, we are prepared. He seemed certain, but was he trying to persuade her or himself?

Not as prepared as we would like, mind you, but we stand a chance, a good chance, he said, his tone more decisive now. Our fighter planes can spend more time in the air because we can easily land for fuel and ammunition, while their fighter planes need to refuel in France. So, although the Germans have thousands of bombers, their fighters cannot always cover them. That means that they are open to attack. And we will attack, you can be sure of that. Despite the rational argument, there was a frightening grimness about his eyes as he spoke.

Will that be enough? She was still watching his every expression, thrilled that he should choose to share such confidential information with her, against all the rules, and proud that he should trust her, but she also trembled with apprehension at the knowledge that all was not as the newspapers portrayed.

If we are lucky, maybe it will be enough. He coughed as he stubbed out his cigarette. In the meantime, we should ready things in the event of an enemy invasion. Walking back with her toward the house, he laid out his plan. First, we’ll need to strengthen the ceiling of the cellar to make a shelter, and we’ll build an exit in case the house collapses. And we must put together an emergency food store to hide in the garden.

Later, Gerard’s chest had puffed out with pride when his father asked him to help. Just tell me what to do, Dad. We’ve learned all about shelters at school.

While the boys sorted out the cellar, she had taken Carola and little Hilary to the kitchen to talk with Cook. We’ll use the steamer trunk that’s in the attic and fill it with tins of flour, dried beans, biscuits, and chocolate, she decided.

That night, while the children and servants slept, the pale waning moon had been the only witness as she and Eric buried the trunk, together with the heavy metal box full of silver and other valuables, under the lilac shrubs in the back garden, camouflaging the disturbed earth with variegated ivy and periwinkle plants taken from the foot of the hemlocks nearby.

The morning after the V-Day celebrations, she spent some time gathering various digging implements and lined them up near the spot marked X. Then she called Edna, the nanny, to round up the children. We’re going on a treasure hunt! She hoped that her cheeriness did not sound too forced.

She needn’t have worried. Although they were well fed through the large vegetable garden and orchard, for the children the prospect of a cache of sweets was momentous, and they raced down the stairs with Edna to the hall to pull on wellingtons and jackets, chattering and laughing all the while.

I can almost taste that chocolate! cried Carola, her dark eyes widening with each eager shovelful. Hilary also was working very hard with her beach spade.

Did you say there might be mint humbugs? asked Gerard. Although his voice was beginning to break, and he had grown up so much in the last few months, it was at moments like these that she realised that he was still just a boy.

I want more toffee, said Harry, jumping up and down like a kangaroo.

The exhumation proved to be an anti-climax, however. Although the food had been stored in metal containers, little mice had managed to wriggle their way inside to nibble at the sweets, biscuits, tea and sugar, and the huge bars of chocolate had sprouted mould. The children were utterly dejected when the whole lot had to be binned.

Now she felt worse than she had before the hunt. Never mind, she said and she picked Harry up. We’ll get some more chocolate next time we go to London. She looked forward to planning that. It would be a bit of normality again.

But what to do to distract them now? "Seeing as the sun has come out, we’ll play croquet!" she announced.

The older children were quick to set up hoops and stakes on the back lawn but Edna took Harry’s hand and said, It’s time for your nap.

I’m not tired, he whined. Why should I sleep when everyone else gets to play?

You can be first and play with the red ball after your nap, Mum said.

This must have seemed reasonable to him because he took Edna’s hand and followed his nanny upstairs to the nursery.

***

When he awoke, he remembered Mum’s promise. He climbed out of his bed and took himself downstairs and out to the garden.

The bees were buzzing in the sweet-scented bushes near the open glass doors of the drawing room. Harry trotted past them outside into the sunshine. Everyone was still there.

He watched Carola kick her ball closer to the hoop while Gerard positioned his mallet. Her eyes were laughing and willing someone to notice, but only Harry saw. Then it was Hilary’s turn, and she licked the side of her top lip as she aimed with her usual care. When she looked up, her blue eyes met his.

Please may I play with you, he asked, seizing his moment. I know how to play.

What do you know about anything? teased Carola before Hilary could reply. You’ve never even seen a banana!

He scowled at his elder sister. That’s not fair! It wasn’t his fault that there were no bananas to be had after the War, at least in Blandford. His scowl turned into a grin when Hilary handed him the much-too-large mallet and the red ball, and they played until the light faded and Edna called them inside for supper.

Bubble and squeak again, Ed? He poked at the squishy mess of possibly cauliflower, potatoes and eggs. There may have been a dreaded turnip in there too.

"It’s Mrs Tomms’ day off. I did try one of the suggestions from "What’s left in the larder?" but it hasn’t turned out very well, has it? I didn’t have time to make anything else. Edna looked so very miserable that Harry felt sorry for her and put a forkful of mush into his mouth. It tasted awful.

I wish we didn’t have to eat this, muttered Carola as she prodded the food around her plate. Everything was so much better before the War.

It wasn’t the first time he had heard this complaint. Before the War seemed like another place, an altogether good place to be. The trips to London were famous, as were the toys, and the food was the stuff of legends. There had also been summers in Scotland and the family had travelled in a special train, with a whole carriage to themselves, to stay in a grand house in the hills above the Kyle of Bute. Before the War, there had been parties and dances and the theatre. And it had always been sunny, of course.

Now, even after the War had ended, they had to go to bed just to keep warm, and there was precious little petrol to drive anywhere or see anyone. It was all he had ever known, but he could tell from everyone else’s glum expressions that it was not as it should be, and he wished that he could have been there, in the Land Before the War. He watched his siblings intensely as they continued to speak about that glittering world he had missed entirely.

He greatly loved and admired his eldest brother. Gerard was fourteen now, practically a grown-up. His manner was gentle, and he was always happy to explain how something worked or what something meant. He wasn’t at home as much now that he was at boarding school—Marlborough, where Dad had gone. Harry couldn’t wait for his turn.

Carola had the best laugh, deep and full and loud. She was three years younger than Gerard, but sometimes she acted as if she were the eldest. She always seemed to be the first to try new things, new words, new ways of being. "When I grow up, I’m going to be