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  Peggy Dickinson strode on. Usually people would yell after her to slow down, but when she checked to see if she was leaving her daughter behind, she discovered that Rusty was walking firmly beside her.

  ‘Why do they call you Rusty?’

  ‘On account of my hair. Uncle Bruno started it, and it sort of stuck. Say,’ she said suddenly, ‘look at that house there. It’s like a stage set.’

  Peggy stopped to look.

  It was a familiar sight. Haifa house swept away, leaving the other half intact.

  ‘It reminds me of an Andrew Wyeth painting I’ve seen,’

  whispered Rusty, stepping off the kerb and running across the road. ‘There’s this painting, see,’ she said, attempting to explain. ‘And it’s just a plate and a cup on a table, and out back of the window you can see someone’s been sawing up wood. And it’s the wallpaper, see, it’s old and faded and peeling and the sun is shining through the window.’

  Her mother looked puzzled.

  ‘I don’t see what there is to get excited about old faded wallpaper.’

  ‘Well, in the painting it’s a sort of parchment-yellow colour, and the sun makes it kind of alive and, oh, I don’t know.’ She swung around to look back at the building. One room on the upper floor, complete with floor, doorway, and a little staircase at the side, was suspended in mid-air. ‘It could be a terrific open-air theatre,’ she said. ‘And it’s raised, too. That means that the audience would be able to see what was going on. You could get chairs out here and…’

  Virginia reminded Peggy so much of Harvey Lindon, it unnerved her. Suddenly she remembered him standing in Beatie’s garden, a broad grin on his face, his G.I. cap askew.

  ‘Impossible,’ she had said the first time he had suggested taking a picnic out in a boat. ‘You’ll never find one, and even if you did, it’d be full of holes.’

  ‘Difficult, yes; impossible, no,’ he had remarked. And within twenty-four hours, there they were drifting lazily up the river in a hired dinghy.

  Peggy had insisted they turn back after an hour.

  ‘Your wish is my command,’ he had said, standing up and bowing, and the boat had immediately capsized. Luckily it had been near a wooded bank, but it had meant that Peggy was forced to relax in the sun until their clothes had dried.

  Listening to her daughter’s voice brought it all back with disturbing clarity. Her accent sounded like a strange mixture of Katharine Hepburn and James Cagney. Peggy knew that Bruno Omsk was a New Yorker and that Hannah was a New Englander, but somehow she had not been prepared for her daughter to have picked up their accent.

  ‘We have to be going,’ she said abruptly.

  ‘But,’ said Rusty, running after her, ‘don’t you think it’d be a good idea?’

  Her mother didn’t answer.

  They stepped into an alleyway that lay alongside an old church.

  ‘Is that medieval?’ asked Rusty.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It looks so old.’

  ‘Don’t you remember anything about England?’

  Rusty looked at her mother’s face. It was pale and taut.

  ‘Some.’

  Next to the church a large Ford van was standing in the road. Two young women in green overalls were carrying old furniture out of a red-brick house. An elderly woman stepped out smartly from the front door.

  ‘So this is Virginia,’ she remarked, eyeing Rusty’s clothes. ‘Quite the young American.’

  Peggy Dickinson smiled politely.

  Rusty stood by the chicken-wire netting that served as a fence. No one spoke.

  ‘Nice day, isn’t it?’ she began.

  It wasn’t a nice day at all. It was dull and clammy.

  ‘Yes. We’re lucky it isn’t raining,’ said the woman.

  ‘That would be too bad, with all the furniture and stuff. Can I help carry some?’

  ‘I’m afraid some of it’s rather dusty. You’d spoil your nice clothes.’

  ‘Dusty Rusty, that’s me!’

  The woman looked blank. Her mother cleared her throat awkwardly.

  ‘Rusty is my daughter’s nickname.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She smiled. ‘No need for you to help, dear,’ she said. ‘That’s the last piece going in now.’

  Her mother walked over to the van.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Rusty. ‘Are you gonna drive that?’

  Her mother nodded.

  ‘But it’s so big.’

  ‘Your mother,’ said the woman, ‘can drive anything. She can also make a vehicle run on almost nothing but elastic bands. We’re going to miss her dreadfully.’

  ‘Well,’ said Peggy briskly, ‘let’s climb in.’

  Rusty moved towards the door.

  ‘That’s the driver’s side.’

  ‘Oh, I forgot, you drive on the wrong side.’

  Her mother flinched.

  ‘I mean,’ Rusty added hastily, ‘on a different side than we do.’

  Rusty followed her around to the passenger side. Her mother made a cup with her hands.

  ‘For you to step into,’ she explained.

  Rusty noticed how stubby and dirty her mother’s nails were.

  ‘I’m awfully heavy,’ she protested.

  ‘I’m used to it.’

  ‘O.K. Here goes.’

  She stepped on them gingerly and hauled herself up to the seat. Her mother ran to the other side and pulled herself effortlessly into the driver’s seat. Rusty watched as she swiftly lowered her hand towards the three gear-levers. The van gave a shudder and her mother released the hand brake.

  Rusty looked at her mother. She hadn’t expected her to be so quiet. She thought she would have had a warmer welcome, that there would have been more people to greet her; but her mother was acting as if it was an ordinary day. She hadn’t even dressed up for her. She could at least have worn some stockings. After all, Rusty had tried to look nice, and her mother hadn’t even noticed.

  She leaned back and hugged her L.L. Bean coat, her ‘Beanie’. It was like wrapping a piece of home around herself. The van rumbled and hummed around her, and her mother kept her eyes fixed intently on the road. Rusty stared miserably out of the window and thought of the Omsks. Her eyes filled again. She closed them quickly and sank back into the seat.

  Peggy Dickinson glanced at her daughter. For years she had imagined how this reunion would be, how they’d chatter away and how her daughter would slip her hand into hers and look up at her with a sweet smile, like she used to do. It had hurt her deeply when Virginia had stopped calling her Mummy in her letters and called her Mother instead. It sounded so formal. Now here they were, together at last. No more endless sea between them. And yet she couldn’t seem to find anything to say. And Virginia looked far from happy to be home. It had never occurred to her that she would feel so tongue-tied.

  She drove on in silence.

  Several hours later, Peggy parked the van outside a large, drab hall.

  ‘This is Exeter, where we’re leaving the furniture,’ she said.

  She cupped her hands again.

  ‘It’s O.K. I can make it,’ said Rusty.

  ‘Hand me down your luggage first, then.’

  After several more So this is Virginia’s from various other green-clad women, Rusty and her mother made their way to a railway station.

  Rusty couldn’t help comparing the small shabby train that chugged into the station with the ones back in America. The English train had none of the grace and power of a Pullman. It was pathetic in comparison.

  ‘Why is there a First Class and a Third Class and no Second Class?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said her mother.

  ‘Weird,’ said Rusty.

  They stepped into a compartment that consisted of two long seats and a door at either end.

  ‘Isn’t there an aisle?’ said Rusty.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What happens if you want to go to the bathroom?’

  ‘The bathroom? Oh, you mean the
lavatory?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘You get out at a station and ask the station-master to make the train wait.’

  Inside the compartment were several men and women in uniform. They glanced at Rusty’s ringlets and bright clothes.

  The train drew out of Exeter station.

  ‘When do I get to see Charles?’ asked Rusty.

  ‘When we get home.’

  Charles was the four-year-old brother she had never met. He had been born a year after she had left for America.

  ‘I thought maybe he’d be around to meet me.’

  ‘It’s a long journey for a little boy to make.’

  ‘I guess so.’

  Her mother gazed out of the window.

  ‘And Father? When will he be back from the Far East?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m keeping my fingers crossed for Christmas, but it depends how long this war with Japan goes on.’

  The train had just drawn out of another station when suddenly the land on one side disappeared, and the train seemed to be running alongside water.

  Rusty leapt to her feet and ran towards the door. ‘How do I open this window?’

  ‘I think it would be safer if you sat down.’

  Rusty sat back down in her seat and stared at the soldiers in the carriage.

  Eventually they drew into a small station called Totnes.

  As Rusty hopped down on to the platform, she noticed another green-clad woman by the entrance. The woman, who was tall and lanky, visibly sighed with relief when she spotted her mother. Then she noticed Rusty, and her face fell.

  Some welcome, thought Rusty.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Robins,’ said Peggy. ‘Anything the matter?’

  ‘Afraid so,’ said the woman, still eyeing Rusty. ‘The van’s broken down. I saw the Bomb outside, and I just hoped you’d be arriving soon. I’m supposed to be picking up half a dozen Dutch children and bringing them back here.’

  ‘I see.’

  Peggy knew what a terrible state the children would be in. The W.V.S. had begun organizing holidays in Devon for war-torn children, in the hope that it would help them recuperate.

  ‘The Bomb!’ said Rusty, alarmed.

  ‘That’s your mother’s car,’ explained the woman.

  ‘Where’s the van?’ said her mother suddenly.

  ‘On this side of the bridge.’

  ‘I’ll pick up my tools and see what I can do.’

  ‘Oh, you’re an angel!’

  Peggy moved swiftly out of the station and headed for her car, which was parked outside.

  The Bomb was an old Morris, painted navy blue. ‘It looks like a gangsters’ car,’ whispered Rusty. It was large and L-shaped, with a running-board on either side. Through the windows Rusty could make out a rolled-up blind at the back and an armrest in the middle of the back seat. Several chains kept the old black-leather seats upright.

  Her mother patted the car fondly and swung open the front door.

  ‘Put your things in the car, Virginia,’ she said. ‘If you like, you can wait here, but it’d be quite nice for you to see the town.’

  As Rusty threw her belongings into the back, she noticed a grubby pair of overalls and a large toolbox. Her mother opened the car door opposite. For a moment they paused and looked at each other. Then her mother grabbed the overalls and toolbox and drew herself out.

  This was about the meanest thing anyone could do, thought Rusty, just to go off and look at someone else’s van on her first day back.

  Meanwhile Peggy strode hurriedly on, anxious to get the job over and done with so that she could be with her daughter. As she clutched her overalls and toolkit, it suddenly occurred to her that her daughter wouldn’t have seen this side of her. When Virginia had left for America, Peggy couldn’t even drive.

  As the three of them half ran, half briskly walked through the town, Rusty felt as though she was travelling through a picture book, so quaint and tiny were the buildings. Green hills and trees sloped gently behind it. Even the small streets wound upwards.

  Ahead, her mother and Mrs Robins stopped by a rickety old W.V.S. van, painted that interminable green. To Rusty’s amazement, her mother stepped deftly into the overalls, whisked a scarf from a pocket, and wound it into a turban around her head. Within seconds the engine was exposed to the clammy, overcast sky and her mother was bent over it, her fingers tracing the wires.

  It had been like pulling teeth, trying to get her mother to talk to her. Now she was smiling and murmuring gently to the engine as if it was an invalid that needed comforting. ‘Your mother says that if talking to plants helps them grow, talking to engines makes them run better,’ Mrs Robins explained.

  Oh, yeah, thought Rusty, angry tears welling up in her eyes. She can talk to a machine all right, but not to me.

  Her mother glanced up at her.

  ‘Virginia, why don’t you go on up to the bridge?’ She wanted to add, ‘It’s lovely there. One of my favourite spots.’ But somehow the words felt too intimate, and they stuck in her throat.

  Rusty, who thought she was merely being got rid of, nodded and ambled past them. She held her head up high, pretending she didn’t care.

  Peggy returned hastily to the engine.

  As Rusty approached the bridge, a cluster of grey-blue clouds drifted behind the grey spire of a church. Even the darned churches were grey, she thought. She leaned over the wall of the bridge. Two boats bobbed against the muddy slope of the river. She looked out to where it wound and curved past an old mill. She longed to be able to turn to Skeet and say, ‘Hey, let’s go take the rowboats and see what’s around that corner.’ Skeet would have yelled, ‘Sure thing. Let’s go.’

  A cloud of cigarette smoke came wafting across the bridge. She turned to find her mother approaching, her hands covered with oil. Rusty glanced at the cigarette. She didn’t remember her mother smoking.

  Peggy leaned on the wall beside her and gazed out at the river. She was about to ask her daughter what she thought of the town when she caught sight of the two dinghies. It reminded her of Harvey rowing her and some fishing tackle smoothly along the water. He loved the River Dart.

  A sudden breeze shook the trees along the banks, and the sky grew darker.

  ‘We’d best be moving,’ she said hoarsely. ‘The others will be waiting.’

  Rusty soon discovered why her mother’s car was called the Bomb. As it bumped, spluttered and banged its way along the narrow lanes with their high hedges, Rusty’s seat leapt at every bump and hole in the road. Behind them smoke poured from the exhaust.

  Rusty had just gripped the sides of her seat when the car swung up a dirt road leading to a sheltered and untidy garden.

  They stopped in front of a dilapidated and rambling house. Underneath an arched porch the front door was flung wide open. An old tyre was hanging from the lowest branch of a tall, leafy tree. Behind the upper branches sat a five-year-old girl.

  ‘Charlie!’ she yelled. ‘Hee, hee, hee. Can’t find me.’ And she hid quickly behind the leaves.

  A freckled four-year-old boy, wearing nothing but grey flannel shorts held up by braces, came tumbling out of the doorway. His thick curly hair was a blonder version of Rusty’s. He stopped when he saw the car, ran up to it, and leapt deftly on to the running-board, his bare feet firmly gripping the frayed rubber.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ said Peggy.

  She leaned back as Charlie hauled himself up to the open windows to peer inside.

  ‘Virginia,’ she said, turning to Rusty, ‘this is your brother.’

  3

  Charlie gazed for an instant at his sister and then frowned. He jumped off the running-board and headed in the direction of the tree.

  ‘He doesn’t really understand,’ said Peggy gently. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to give him a little time.’

  ‘Sure.’

  But her mother could see that Rusty was disappointed.

  Just then, a short robust woman in her eighties came bounding out of the
house. A young woman, dark-haired and lean, followed her. The old woman flung the car door open and grabbed Rusty’s hand. She then proceeded to pump it up and down vigorously.

  ‘Welcome to England, Virginia. My, you look fit.’

  One look at the beaming face of this ruddy, white-haired woman, and Rusty instantly couldn’t help liking her.

  ‘You must be absolutely ravenous,’ the woman exclaimed, and she released Rusty’s hand, opened the back door and proceeded to drag out the luggage.

  ‘Let me,’ Rusty insisted.

  ‘For the next hour you’re a guest, and after that,’ she added, throwing Rusty’s coat untidily over her arms, ‘you’re part of the family.’

  Rusty had had no idea her grandmother was like this. Grandma Fitz and Gramps would just adore her. She noticed the dark-haired woman smiling shyly.

  ‘Afternoon,’ said the woman.

  ‘Hi!’

  The woman laughed. ‘Oh, you sound so American.’

  The young woman had a strange accent. It reminded Rusty of Maine.

  ‘I’m Ivy Woods. I’m billeted here, too. I’m from Plymouth. You’ll have to tell me all about America. I’m going there next year.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Chatham New Jersey. I’m marrying one of the G.I.s stationed near here.’

  ‘Hasn’t he told you about it?’

  ‘Oh yes. But it sounds so wonderful, I don’t know whether to believe him or not.’

  ‘It is wonderful,’ said Rusty. ‘You better believe it.’ She turned to her mother. ‘I guess I’d better go inside. Grandmother will be wondering what’s keeping us.’

  Her mother looked alarmed.

  ‘That’s not your grandmother. She’s still in Guildford. She doesn’t like travelling long distances. That’s the Honourable Mrs Langley –’

  ‘Beatie, if you don’t mind,’ interrupted a loud voice from behind. ‘If you call me by my full name you’ll die of exhaustion.’

  Rusty turned and grinned.

  ‘You can call me Rusty if you like. Everyone BackHome does.’

  There was a terrible silence. Out of the corner of her eye Rusty could see that her mother had become still. She hadn’t meant to say ‘back home’. It had just slipped out.

  Beatie put her arm around her and gave her a squeeze.