CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Carnahan O'Connell estate, October 6, early afternoon, after lunch


"Alex, while your father and I do the dishes, why not read the third letter from Jonathan?" Evie said to Alex. "I'm anxious to hear from him."

"Is there anything I can help with?" Ardeth asked but Evie shook her head.

"No, you've done more than enough already and I'm sure my menfolk will have you running to and fro with Operation Take Out," Evie replied.

Rick faked being offended. "Why do I have to do dishes then?"

"Because I want to stand next to you," his wife whispered to him, which caused a huge grin to play on Rick's face as he willingly followed his wife to the kitchen sink.

Alex picked up the third letter from Jonathan. "It's postmarked Edinburgh and posted on the 23rd of September," he said as he started reading the rather thick stack of paper.




Dear Sis,

Continuing from my last letter, after the relatively smooth ferry ride across the Irish Sea, I landed upon the shores of western Scotland, in a tiny fishing village located in the Solway Firth, my legs barely able to support my weight on land. It appears that I have developed sea legs and a taste for the salt air on my face (and in my hair and permeating my clothes).

Once again, despite their arranging this part of my extensive travels around our mother land, our government failed to provide adequate transportation and instead relied upon a graduate of their esteemed educational system to wend his way around Scotland on foot or by thumbing a ride.

Having landed near Hadrian's Wall, I finagled a ride with a lorry driver for about thirteen kilometers along the Wall before we turned northwards through Gretna Green. There are advantages to traveling along the backroads, for I stayed the night in the village where William Wallace is rumoured to have been born, although the exact date and place of his birth are yet unknown.

From the village, I was able to take a small private supply plane to my next destination and I will be able to catch a return ride all the way to Liverpool, thereby cutting my travel time back to London drastically.

I was able to get these plane rides because the pilots needed not only the supplies I was willing to barter (the tea, all my books, all my extra clean and dry socks, my leather bomber jacket, my thick tweed coat and remaining chocolates came in quite handy and not to mention cut way down on the weight of my luggage!) but they also needed the conversation. So, willingly, I bartered my supplies for the plane ride.

Nevertheless, I did manage to acquire my target relatively safely and without major hassle. The vaults are being readied and the transport of the goods to our northern neighbors is arranged.

The owners of the vaults expressed surprise at the northern location our two governments chose for the storage, but I pointed out that even with permanent British Summer Time, night time in our northern neighbor comes early and anyone flying in to raid the goods would have precious little daylight in which to carry out their operations.

Of course, we are now approaching winter and in anticipation of next summer's double British Summer Time, there is a greater opportunity for the goods to be discovered and ransacked should Hitler be successful in his endeavor to take down England.

Whereever did our esteemed Parliament get come up with 'double British Summer Time?' Summer time itself confuses me and the double summer time order absolutely confounded my mind! Now, with fall in the air, we are back on permanent summer time. I have had ample time to wonder about Parliament--it seems that food rationing has affected their analytical abilities.

I mentioned in my last letter that I was applying to Children's Services to become Ian Mathewson's foster father and I am pleased my application was accepted. The CS worker looked rather skeptical that an unmarried man of my 'years' would want to become a foster father but I assured her that I was quite willing, after having helped raise Alex.

And I am not so old, am I? I certainly don't think so, but when one approaches the age at which one expects to live as many years in the future that they have lived in the past, one tends to reflect more upon their mortality.

As soon as I've posted this letter, I shall be off in a private plane towards that industrial city of Liverpool, the pilot wearing my bomber jacket. It looks rather striking on him, if I say so myself.

I am expecting, barring extreme circumstances, to be back in London by the end of September, in time for the next transport of children to the Irish countryside. I apologize if there isn't much time to spend with you in between trips to evacuate the children, sister dear, and that is the reason for my rather extensive letters.

I am running short on writing paper, and I shall have need of you to purchase several reams of writing paper for me, and if you would so kindly arrange it, you would please me greatly. But as I am nearing the end of this round of traveling, I can make do with a greatly reduced stack of writing paper. It does lighten my load a lot, and my weary arms are thanking me greatly!

As I hear the pilot--another Jonathan by name, Jonathan Wilkes-- shouting at me to 'get my arse in gear' I shall end this letter with my usual words,

Always much love,
Jonathan



"He really means to become a foster father," Alex commented as he put down Jonathan's letter on the table.

"I suppose so. He didn't say anything about it during his brief--very brief--time in London before he went out with the children again," Evie said. "But I rather like the idea of his being a foster father."

"As do I. I've never had a sibling before," Alex commeted.

"Did you ever want a sibling?" Rick asked his son.

"I never much thought about it," Alex replied.

"Ardeth, while we're finishing up, do we get to hear your story now?" Evie asked.

"You are an insistent one, aren't you? I shall tell you all my story later on, as I've replied before," Ardeth said. "Now, Rick, Alex, tell me about Operation Take Out."

"Well, today we're going to the neighborhood near the Docklands. We'll go house by house, rummage around to see if there are any valuables worth salvaging. Those items we find, we photograph, take a note of the location and item, then put the item in our lorry," Alex told Ardeth.

"I shall do the rummaging," Ardeth said. "I don't think I'm very good with photographs," he finished, sipping a fresh cup of tea.

"Then I'll do the photographing, and dad can do the inventory. His handwriting's much better than mine," Alex said.

"Ok, men. Let's go. Evie, you sure you'll be all right here?"

"Of course, dear. Take care," Evie said, hugging her husband and son.

"Nuit will rumble to let us know when the Luftwaffe is on the horizon," Alex said.

"The Docklands are a bit far for Nuit to rumble," Evie noted.

"Not with Ardeth here. She'll protect him," Alex replied as the men filed out the door, Ardeth silent and very preoccupied.

"I wonder what happened to rattle him like that?" Evie said to herself as she went to sit down for an after lunch cup of tea, then thought better and went to the loo instead.



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Early October. Letter from Jonathan, lying on the table at the farmhouse where Ian Mathewson is staying. Jonathan is preparing an envelope to post to his sister



Dear Sis,

The English folk never cease to amaze me. As I traveled for the third time across rainy England to relatively sunny Ireland (and I've big news later on in this letter), the children and I were watching from the train windows the English country folk prepare an amazingly large load of supplies.

Several people who boarded the now-infrequent passenger train to Wales told us the legend is going around western England that King Arthur would be arriving in London to liberate the beseiged city, and that King Arthur would be the recipient of all the supplies he would need: food as well as young men and women ready to help with paper work, Red Cross, whatever needs to be done.

I presume the English countryfolk are meaning Ardeth, who apparently has arrived in England safely, and that Arthur is the English pronunciation of his name. I have to comment that I am rather pleased to know King Arthur will be assisting us--I will try to avoid having him move stones this time around!

You will be pleased to know that our compatriots in the countryside are sending along fresh vegetables, fresh chickens (keep some on the estate!), eggs, and something we've not had in a long time: cheddar cheese. Yes, the small town of Cheddar will be sending along to London thousands of wheels of cheese (both ripe and unripe; and the unripened wheels can be stored in your wine cellar until they are ready)--all by horse power provided for by the Cornish natives.

To move on, Irish Customs was its usual pleasant self. Missing their dogs, and bringing man's best friend to work with them, more of the Agents' dogs are sniffing the arriving luggage, much to the dismay of the owners. The Agents don't seem to understand that the dogs' noses can smell food hidden in secret compartments and that the dogs' insistent pawing and barking at luggage which has already been inspected means that there is something edible hidden in a secret compartment.

Leave it to the dogs to sniff out something edible! I suppose they are hungry too, for with food rationing, the dogs also get less to eat. I had thought of that, and brought along a few dozen bags of dried dog food, which I gave to the Customs agents. Surprised, and pleased, they opened a bag and fed the dogs, who left my luggage alone!

The last shipment of boxes that our beloved Tallulah sent ahead before she passed on was awaiting me at the post office. Our newest friend was more than pleased to hide the boxes for us. It appears that my earlier worries that someone might nose around at a large quantity of boxes being shipped to the same postal office and grow suspicious were bang on.

Five kilograms of tea this time around has more than bought the eternal gratitude of our lady friend. I tallied up the amount of tea Tallulah has stored in one of the old wine cellars.

Over three hundred kilograms of tea! For how long was she purchasing tea? With that quantity, Tallulah must have been going to and fro to the tea merchants for several years. She must have thought we would need to feed an army, but with the blitz and the depressed economy, I suppose if necessary, we could barter the tea for whatever other supplies we need.

This time around to Ireland, I was prepared and had a lorry waiting for me to drive the children and their boxes full of necessities to their various destinations. Despite being separated from their parents, the children seem to be happy to be in Ireland--away from the daily bombings, the air raid drills, the long nights packed tighter in the bomb shelters than they would be had they been packed into a sardine can.

The fresh air, the smells of the farm, and passing hour after hour without hearing the squeal as bombs drop from the underbelly of a Messerschmitt seem to have improved the dispositions of even the most irascible of the children.

And naturally, word going around London that the children Jonathan Carnahan escorts to the countryside will receive presents of chocolate, socks, and games had my latest charges pestering me for their presents even before the train left the station. I do hope, sister dear, that we will not run out of games, or socks, or chocolates, for the transported children would be sorely disappointed!

After I had seen the last of the children to their foster parents, I returned back to the farm where I had left Ian Mathewson on my first trip to Ireland. Sister dear, this is the big news I alluded to at the beginning of my letter!

Children's Services has approved me as a foster father to Ian, with the very potential possibilty of my becoming his adoptive parent! I was to relay the official letter to Ian in person, to gauge his reaction. I admit, I was at a loss for words when the CS worker informed me I was to be a foster father. Their turnaround time on my application was absolutely astounding!

I am sorry, sis, that I didn't tell you the news before I left London this last time around. I was afraid that, somehow, the news wasn't true and I sorely needed time to digest the news.

During the train ride, and between being amazed at the industrious English country folk and the children, I was distracted a lot and tried to figure out a way to let Ian know he is to have me as a foster father. But I had no need to worry, Ian was more than pleased to know that I was to be his foster father but, in his words, "Dad, can I stay here at the farm for a while longer? I don't like the sound of the bombs over London."

He called me 'dad' straight away. Ian told me that the time I spent talking with him on the trip over to Ireland was the most time anyone had ever spent with him in his entire life. He'd been sorely wanting to stay on with me. He showed me a letter he had written to me but hadn't sent because he was scared of being rejected. And in his letter, he told me he wished I could be his foster father.

His wish--and mine--came true.

Ian wants to remain on the farm and I think that's a splendid idea. The owners have two children of their own but not nearly enough farm help, for with the war, most of the young men have left their villages to sign up.

The work isn't too strenuous, for CS sees to it the children are not turned into free farm help, but there are farm chores that the children can do (milking and mucking and such), and knowing that the vegetables they're picking, washing and packing are going to London cheers the children and gives them self-confidence..

The sun, and the extra food have transformed my new foster son--and the three other foster kids--into healthy, happy children inside of a few short weeks, and I want Ian--and the other kids--to remain that way.

I shall be staying on the farm a few weeks, to get the most time with Ian; I was only scheduled for three trips but should the need arise to evacuate more children, I am only a telegram away.

And as always, I remain,
Your loving brother,
Jonathan



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