Free Lucky Bunny (9780062202512) by Jill Dawson

the Fens. You were spoiled indeed. I was so touched when he brought that splendid Suffolk Punch with him to show you, that very first day—how kind was that?—and I remember neither of you batted an eyelid . . .”
    I’m not listening to her. I’m surprised to hear from some of the others now marching down Fore Hill in a crocodile towards the station, that they’ve had letters, sixpenny postal orders and even visits from their mums and dads. It’s cold now, and the leaves aren’t conker-colored; they’re gone altogether, just skeleton trees. It’s hard to hear what Peggy Burchwell is saying, but I can make out the tune, and I know the words. It’s “ Build a bonfire, build a bonfire, put the teachers at the top. Put Miss Clarkson in the middle and we’ll burn the blinkin’ lot ” until we get to Ely station and are allowed to mill about a bit, like a bag of marbles that’s been opened. We can roll out and bump into each other.
    Archie Markham is carrying a funny thing that’s as big as him. It looks like a vase made out of a basket, which Bobby is jealous of, because it’s an eel hive and Archie can use it back home to catch eels; the man he’s been staying with is an eel catcher and he let Archie bait the hives with dead cats and rats and horrible stuff like that, and this makes Bobby more and more jealous, until Bobby says, “If your eel catcher likes you so much why is he sending you back?” And then Archie bursts into tears and they start a fight, which they have both missed a lot.
    Archie tells Bobby that he smells of beets and farts and they laugh and make up.
    Archie whoops then—he’s spied some Beech-Nut on the floor. He shares it with us, biting the piece in three, and then says that anyway this is only a “phony war,” and hasn’t been a war at all, no bombs falling, all our families are hunky-dory. We’ve only been away three months. We’ll be back in time for Christmas.
    That word though. Bombs. I’ve managed not to think about them until now. Bobby and Archie love talking about them, running about with their arms out, like airplanes, making bombing noises. Is our house—Nan, I can’t think of Nan—all blasted to the ground then or bursting into flames? My fingers curl around the bar of soap in my pocket. I lift my hand to my nose to secretly sniff the silky smell and then hold it again, feeling its smoothness, turning it over and over. How happy Nan is going to be with me. She’ll never want to leave, or go anywhere at all, after she’s got the soap.
    And then—horrible!—here’s Elsie bustling onto the platform in her dreaded camel coat. We’re on the train, we’re just sitting down, the billeting lady is going to travel to London with us, and she stands up as she sees Elsie, and rushes to the window, lifting the curtain and pushing the window down: I think she’s worried that it’s something important, something forgotten. But I know what it is and my heart nearly stops. Elsie’s found out. She’s coming to get her blinkin’ soap back! I clasp my hand tightly around it and begin singing, loudly as I can, so that no one will hear what Elsie is saying: I’m going to hang out the washing on the Siegfried line!
    The guard blows his whistle and the train slides away. When I look down, the tracks are blurring into lines. Elsie is hurrying beside us on the platform, mouthing something and waving, but it’s hard for her to keep up. She doesn’t give up. She’s breathless and redder than ever and at last I hear what she’s saying, just as the train is picking up speed.
    â€œBert! Uncle Bert sends you his love! He says goodbye.”
    What, she ran all the way to tell us that?
    Elsie’s round face through the window is strange, worried. I remember that when I first met her I didn’t think her expression