Maggie stood motionless; she had never seen anything quite like it.
“You okay Maggie?” asked Pete gently, a little concerned.
“I want a turn,” she said with excitement as she held out her hands for the catapult. Pete produced another small apple from his pocket and stood behind Maggie to teach her how to fire.
“Not too close to your face or it could hurt,” said Billy absently stroking his ear and recalling a time when he’d caught his ear and the elastic had pinged near his eye. “Better to put it to the side, away from your eyes. I’ll help you with the first go and then you can do it.”
Maggie stood to attention and let Pete guide her hands into position before they fired, aiming at the gate this time. It was a good launch; the apple flew out of the catapult and hit the target splitting on impact. The juice dripped down to the middle section of the gate that would soon be a magnet for all kinds of bugs to feed on.
“Again,” she said excitedly.
“Load her up, Billy,” said Pete joyfully.
Maggie again stood to attention and unconsciously stuck out her tongue as she concentrated with all her might on hitting the gate. She carefully pulled the elastic backwards and closed her eyes before she released with gusto. To their amazement and amusement, the apple bounced a few inches skywards and then plonked at her feet. All three of them burst out laughing. There was a definite skill involved, as it wasn’t as easy as it looked.
For the second attempt they decided to move closer to the gate. Maggie loaded, aimed and fired and the elastic bounded upwards and pinged her fingers much to the amusement of the boys.
“This is heaps fun,” said Pete laughing.
“Again,” said Maggie, with a more determined look on her face while trying to ignore her stinging fingers. She re-loaded, aimed and fired. The apple left the catapult in a non-urgent manner and landed three feet away. Maggie was impressed at this improvement. Just then, the familiar sound announced the morning break. The echo carried around the orchard as one of the ladies banged on an old metal drum with a small wooden plank.
“Race you,” shouted Maggie, dropping the catapult and running towards the shed. Pete retrieved the catapult and tucked it back in his pocket, out of sight of the adults, before running after Maggie. They caught up easily and Billy crouched down for Maggie to climb up for a piggyback.
The workers and children sat together in the orchard in a circle enjoying the glorious late summer’s day. The younger children sat on the grass and swished their feet through the long blades whereas the older children and adults sat on apple boxes. Mrs Farley, in particular, believed that if she sat on the grass she wouldn’t be able to get up again.
Mothers passed their children beakers of squash and sandwiches and often shared their rations of homemade buns. The adults had flasks of tea and chatted, catching up on local topics and what was happening with the war.
“Do you know what bothers me the most?” said Iris. “It’s the fact that the war is all that my poor Maggie knows. She was only three when this started. What kind of a childhood is that? We could be killed at any minute, like when we were out during the air raid recently, my life, and her life, could be over before it has had a chance to start. It’s not fair.” She bit her lip. It wasn’t Maggie’s life that she was particularly worried about.
“Ay, know what you’re saying love,” said old Mr Gibbs, “Maggie’ll be alright, you’ll see. Kids are pretty resilient, but they haven’t the freedom growing up that we knew and took for granted. Yes, I’ve seen some tragic things in my lifetime with living through both wars, this one’ll be over soon, mark my words.”
“Maggie’s a bright happy child, Iris,” said Betty, “We were more or less kids ourselves during the last war. Okay, we were older than my Pete and Billy but we coped unscathed didn’t we? It’ll be the same for your Maggie, we’re tough ’ol birds in the country.” She laughed which lifted the conversation.
“You’re a real tonic Bet,” said Iris, smiling tightly. “You should be Prime Minister.”
“I’ve just about heard it all now,” said Mr Gibbs shaking his head, “Goodness help us all. Okay, ladies and gentlemen back to work I believe.”
“Are you alright Bet?” asked Mrs Sharp, noticing that Betty looked a little uncomfortable.
Slightly bewildered, she answered, “These trousers are tight but yesterday they were absolutely fine.” She ran her fingers around the waistband. When she looked up she noticed the women were staring at her questionably. “Goodness no.” Betty flushed, fully understanding the other women’s looks. “Nothing like that, it’s just these trousers, it’s as if the elastic has shrunk.”
At the word elastic, Maggie looked up towards Pete and Billy who both gave a swift simultaneous shake of their heads in warning. In that instant all that could be heard was the sudden burst of laughter from Maggie who instantly knew where the catapult elastic had come from. The women looked at Maggie wondering what was so funny? Maggie continued to get the giggles throughout the rest of the day whenever she thought about it.
Chapter Four
Clover’s Yard adjoined the Manor and that was where William was working. The tractor he had used to deliver the apple boxes had developed an oil leak and he was underneath it assessing where the leak was coming from.
“What is the damage William, can it be fixed quickly?” asked the Squire as he addressed William’s old and worn work boots from under the tractor. “We need this back out in the orchard today to bring back the harvest ready for Parkes & Son’s pick-up in the morning.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem Squire,” came William’s muffled voice, “I can make it a temporary job today and then take it directly to the workshop tomorrow afternoon after Parkes’s truck has left to do a proper repair. It should take around half a day at least.”
Smiling at William’s satisfactory answer caused the Squire’s pencil thin grey moustache to overstretch making a near perfect straight line. He was in his early sixties, tall and skinny as a rake and attired as per a country gentleman with his trade mark flat brown and beige chequered cap.
He had never been shy of getting his hands dirty and had on numerous occasions rolled up his shirt sleeves to help with the maintenance of farm machinery and often drove the tractors around the orchards to collect or distribute apple boxes. Gerald Marsh liked to keep his feet metaphorically placed on the ground in touch with the day-to-day operation of his estate. He effortlessly carried a natural air of authority and breeding of English aristocracy where his attitude of mucking in and helping the workers was a quality that had maintained the respect of his employees and the villagers.
Primrose Farm Estate consisted of six hundred acres divided into a number of orchards harvesting seasonal fruits, vegetables and hops, currently for the war effort. Gerald was a fifth generation Squire and took great pride in the estate that he ran like clockwork.
“Splendid ’ol fellow, that’s good news. Now, I’ll be in town for the rest of the day at that agricultural meeting I told you about. Let’s hope that the blasted idiots on the committee can all agree on our suggestions for better and faster distribution before all our toils are wasted.” He nodded slightly to William as he walked back to the Manor.
Over the generations the Manor had been fully restored to its former glory. The thatched roof was particularly worrying in times of war and more so in this part of Kent, known as ‘Hell’s Corner’ due to being en route to London for the German bombers who, on occasions, off loaded their bombs on their return to base. The thatch miraculously survived the First World War so Gerald optimistically saw no reason why it shouldn’t survive this war also.