Main Force Country (Until the Night Book 1) by James Philip

Author:James Philip [Philip, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-12-23T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

Friday 24th September, 1943

The Rectory, Ansham Wolds, Lincolnshire

Eleanor opened the gate and shepherded Johnny and Emmy along the path to the Rectory. Retrieving the key from beneath the upturned flower pot in the porch, she unlocked the big oaken front door. It had been a mild, cloudy day and there was more than a hint of rain in the air. Hopefully, the rain would hold off, otherwise she and the children were going to get wet walking home through the woods. She stooped, replaced the key where she had found it.

“Simon! Adelaide!” She called, shutting the door at her back. “You two go through to the parlour,” she suggested to the children.

The Reverend Simon Naismith-Parry, tall grey and thin, emerged from his study, his reading glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose. He smiled benignly at Emmy, patted Johnny’s head, and looked up at the youngsters’ mother.

“Adelaide’s retired to her bed,” he explained, softly. “Her hip is troubling her more than somewhat, I fear.”

Eleanor took off her coat and hung it on the peg in the hallway.

“How are you today, Simon?” She asked, stepping up to the old man and planting a brief, pecking kiss on his cheek. “I hope you’ve stayed in. Remember what the doctor said about your chest yesterday.”

The Rector took the gentle scolding in good heart.

“I’ve been a model patient.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

The Rector and his wife had welcomed Eleanor with open arms when she arrived in the village. They had been her only friends in those early days and now she watched over them. Adelaide was very frail, increasingly troubled with arthritis. Her husband was plagued by his weak chest but steadfastly refused to take care of himself, insisting on carrying on as if he was still a young man, hale and hearty. The Rector and Adelaide’s only son, a Stirling pilot, had died the same month Eleanor’s husband, Harry, had been killed in the Western Desert. Eleanor, the children, the Rector and his wife had become a new family; and Eleanor was devoted to the elderly couple like a daughter.

“Shall I put the kettle on?”

“Capital idea, my dear.”

The Rector focussed his attention on Johnny and Emmy. “It’s rather wet in the garden, I don’t think your mummy would appreciate you getting covered in mud playing outside.”

“No she won’t!” Eleanor laughed, from the kitchen.

“So? What’s it to be, a story or would you like me to read to you?”

“A story,” the boy declared.

“Read!” Emmy demanded.

The old man grimaced. “A story then I shall read something,” he compromised.

Eleanor busied herself in the kitchen. Soon the kettle was steaming. Outside the sky was quiet. The bombers had been away the last two nights. Big raids on successive nights were rare so she assumed the skies would be quiet tonight. She washed up the dishes from lunch, piled them on the drainer. Flecks of rain ran down the window. Presently, she took the tea tray into the parlour. Emmy was perched on the Rector’s knee, listening avidly as he read from The Wind in the Willows.

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