Wartime Family Read Online Free PDF

behind.
    ‘We’re moving like ballerinas,’ Lizzie laughed.
    Margot chuckled. ‘What, with these shoes?’
    They were each issued with cars that were roughly the same colour as their uniforms. Accordingly they set off for the transport pool on the other side of Lavenham. The weather was holding up well and it was daylight when they set out, following the route at a cracking pace despite the lack of signposts.
    They trundled through the main street of a village where most of the houses were half-timbered and leaning against each other for support. All three pulled in outside a pub.
    ‘I think this is Lavenham,’ said Margot.
    ‘It is Lavenham,’ said Lizzie. ‘I know it is,’ she repeated, about to get back in her car.
    ‘Really? How do you know that?’ asked Margot, looking suitably impressed.
    Lizzie pointed at a shop across the road. ‘It says Lavenham Butchers above that shop.’
    The other two looked over.
    ‘Clever clogs,’ said Bessie and got back into her car. Margot got back into hers and the three drove off.
    The transport pool was on the other side of the town, based in what had been a series of stables set around a central courtyard. They were housed above the present-day garages in what had been the hayloft. A long, beamed room had been sectioned off into three small but separate rooms.
    ‘Super,’ said Margot when they first entered.
    ‘Spiffing,’ said Bessie in a mocking tone. ‘It’ll soon seem like home.’
    ‘First things first,’ said Lizzie. The other two watched as she sat down on her bed and eased off her shoes. ‘It
is
home,’ she pronounced, sighing as she lay full stretch on her bed.
    Just two weeks after settling in and ferrying pretty ordinary army personnel from base to base and from one meeting to another, Lizzie was called into the office. The transport convenor was a hefty man of advancing years. He’d been brought out of retirement purely to run the unit.
    ‘By some toff who thought we weren’t up to it,’ Bessie had snapped when they’d heard.
    ‘You’re to go and pick up a wing commander from the railway station,’ the convenor said now. He gave Lizzie the basic details.
    The day was bright for late autumn, all orange trees and blue sky. The sun shone but the air was fresh, not humid and heavy with dust raised from beneath the heel of the plough as it had been in the summer.
    He gave her details of how to recognize him and told her that his name was Guy Hunter. ‘You’re to take him to his billet at Ainsley Hall. Your duties will be to drive him to airfields and suchlike. You’re to make sure that he sees everything he wants. Is that clear?’
    Reggie Stratfield was usually quite clear in his instructions, and never curmudgeonly. Today he was.
    Lizzie thought about asking him what was wrong. Poor old chap. He was always being teased about his age, asked whether he’d ever fought beside King Arthur or Henry the Fifth. He’d always taken it in good spirits. Today he was not himself. Lizzie took the plunge.
    ‘Is anything wrong, sir?’
    One watery eye peered up at her from beneath a snowy eyebrow.
    Before replying, he made a low, guttural sound, similar to a sleeping dog’s growl.
    ‘I just don’t like foreigners!’
    She didn’t press the matter, presuming one of the Polish contingent had upset him in some way, but she brought it up that night at the local pub.
    Bessie made a similar comment as before about seventeen hands when Lizzie mentioned the name Hunter.
    ‘She’s jealous,’ said Margot, eyeing Bessie as she joined in with the group of soldiers having a singsong around the old piano.
    ‘I can’t think why,’ said Lizzie. Bessie was fun, extremely popular with the rank and file.
    ‘She’s been ferrying local bigwigs around – or at least they’re bigwigs during the week. The rest of the time they command the Home Guard.’
    It still didn’t explain anything. ‘So?’
    Margot rested her arm on Lizzie’s shoulder. Lizzie smelled her