what you have there,” she said, holding out her hand.
Alf backed up against a bush, there was a suspicious thunk, and he held out both hands, empty. “You’ve been throwing rocks at cars,” she said, but even as she said it, she was remembering that Alf had been gazing toward the manor, clearly waiting for a car to come from there, and it couldn’t be Lady Caroline’s Bentley. She was at a Red Cross meeting in Nuneaton, and the vicar had gone with her, so it couldn’t be the Austin. “Alf, who’s at the manor?” she asked.
He frowned at her, trying to decide if this was a trick question. “I dunno. Strangers.”
Finally, Eileen thought. “Who did they come to see?”
“I dunno. I just seen ’em drive by.”
“In a car?”
He nodded. “One like Lady Caroline’s. But I wasn’t goin’ to throw rocks at it, I swear, only clods. I was practicin’ for when the jerries invade. Me’n Binnie’s gonna throw rocks at their tanks.”
She wasn’t listening. A car like Lady Caroline’s. A Bentley. The retrieval team could have practiced on one in Oxford, just as she’d done, and then come through, hired one, and driven it here to fetch her. She took off for the manor at a run.
The Bentley was drawn up to the front door. Eileen started up the steps, and then remembered she was still a servant, at least for a few more hours, and ran around to the servants’ entrance, hoping Mrs. Bascombe was in the kitchen. She was, with a bowl of batter in the crook of one arm, stirring it violently with a wooden spoon. “Who’s here?” Eileen asked, trying to keep the eagerness out of her voice. “I saw a car out in front as I—”
“They’re from the War Office.”
“But…” The War Office? Why would the retrieval team tell Lady Caroline that?
“They’re here to look over the house and grounds to see if they’re suitable.”
“Clods don’t hurt nothing,” Alf said at her elbow. “It’s only dirt.”
Eileen ignored him. “Suitable for what?” she asked Mrs. Bascombe.
“For shooting,” Mrs. Bascombe said, stirring viciously. “The government’s taking over the manor for the duration. They’re turning it into a riflery training school.”
The horns are to butt with and the mouth is to moo with.
—LETTER FROM AN EVACUEE EXPLAINING WHAT A COW IS, 1939
Kent—April 1944
THE BULL STARED AT ERNEST FROM ACROSS THE PASTURE for a long, menacing moment. “Worthing! Run! There’s a bull!” Cess shouted from behind the lorry.
“Naw look wot ya done!” the farmer said. “Ya’ve upset my bull. This is his pasture—”
“Yes, I can see that,” Ernest said without taking his eye off the bull.
The bull hadn’t taken its little eyes off him either. Where the hell was the fog when you needed it?
The bull lowered its massive head. Oh, Christ, here he comes! Ernest thought, pushing his back against the tank.
The bull began to paw the ground. Ernest shot a frantic look at the farmer, who was standing by the fence with his arms folded belligerently. “Now ye’ve torn it,” he said. “He don’t like what ye’ve done to his pasture, nor do I. Look at this great mess of tracks. Ye’ve chewed up the whole meadow with your bloody tanks, and that’s made him mad.”
“I know,” Ernest said. “What do you suggest I do now?”
“Run!” Cess shouted.
The bull swung its massive head around to see who’d said that, and then turned back to Ernest. It snorted.
“Don’t—” Ernest said, putting his hand out like a traffic policeman, but the bull was already barreling across the grass straight at him.
“Run!” Cess bellowed, and Ernest took off for the end of the tank and around to the other side, as if crouching behind it was going to offer any protection.
The bull roared straight at the tank.
“Stop! Ye’ll hurt yourself,” the farmer shouted, finally moving. “Ye’re no match for a tank. Stop!”
But the bull wasn’t listening. It lowered its head and charged, its horns thrusting out like bayonets, and plowed straight into the tank. Its horns went all the way in.
There was another endless moment, and then a high, thin wail, like an air-raid siren. “Ye’ve killed him,” the farmer shouted, pelting across the pasture. “Ye bloody bast—” And stopped, his mouth open.
The bull’s mouth was open, too. It stood for a few more seconds, its horns impaled in the tank, then took a skittish step backward, freeing itself. The tank slowly shriveled and shrank into a limp gray-green mass of rubber. The wail became a squeal and then