***Chapter 27***

***The War Years***

It was a bright, sunny Sunday morning when the Maddocks requested their employees gather in the polished, cluttered parlour with its bright, airy windows and panoramic views of the distant moors. In preparation for its closure, most of Follyfoot Farm was boarded up and unused now and its remaining occupants very few indeed. Prudence and Arthur still kept a distance from their staff, but the old-fashioned, almost Victorian, upstairs/downstairs etiquette of the old days had gone, to be replaced by a guarded friendliness. Now this might have been the sombre realization that death makes all of us equal or it might have been the influence of the eccentric genius Colonel Maddocks. Ignoring Arthur and Prudence's frowns, Geoffrey would often stop to chat with anyone at Follyfoot, no matter how lowly their status, usually about animals or the wildlife that abounded in the glorious Yorkshire countryside.

"For an Army man, who ought to be occupying himself with fighting men and matters of war, my brother is a deal too concerned about horses, dogs, ducks, shrews, foxes and bally well ANYTHING that has four legs or fur or wings," Arthur was heard sighing to his wife. And he quaffed his brandy so quickly that his moustache received an unexpected soaking.

But in time and by that fateful morning their dreadful snobbery was slowly crumbling tier by tier. Dust motes danced in through sun-sparkled windows, the crisp scents of autumn swept inside, and birds chirped merrily down from roofs and treetops, welcoming the beauty of the day. But in the manor house everyone stared gravely at the wireless set.

Two or three of the group kept their hands clasped and their eyes cast down; even the garrulous Slugger Jones was quiet for once, and a single, silent tear rolled unchecked down the cheek of Mrs Crane, the cook, to sink unheard into the luxurious thick carpet. It was no surprise to anyone in Britain that war was on the horizon; the only question on anyone's lips was when. All that morning there had been frequent pauses in the lofty classical music while the BBC broadcaster warned the nation to "stand by for an announcement of international importance".

And at 11.15, just as the antique pendulum clock, for the first time ever in its 125-year-old history, skipped a tick like a heartbeat, that announcement came.

Neville Chambelain's sombre voice broke through the crackling airwaves:-

"I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Room at 10, Downing Street. This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final note stating that unless we heard from them by 11.00 a.m. that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us.

I have to tell you that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany."

Mrs Crane's silent tears turned into muffled sobs. Outside, the tree branches suddenly shook like fists as the wind whistled eerily down from the wild, barren moors.

The war dragged on longer than anyone had anticipated and in time every man, including Davey, received his call-up papers. "Caretaker to Follyfoot Farm" was NOT considered an exempt occupation, even if your employers had once been members of Parliament (only the prime minister and a handful of trusted people knew that Arthur and Prudence were secretly still very much involved in war work; to all intents and purposes they had quit the political scene altogether). Although they tried, the Maddocks could pull no strings to prevent his conscription without blowing their own cover and, in truth, Davey, being young and idealistic, and having established that both Rose and Beth were more than capable of managing on their own, was quite glad to go.

"I'm proud to wear a man's uniform," he told a weeping Beth as he bolted the doors at Follyfoot for the last time. "Don't fret, lass. And make sure yer keeps that kettle on the boil, I'll sort out the Jerries and be back before yer've blinked."

Changes were afoot everywhere, and, just as in the First World War, women took on new responsibilities. Beth, missing her husband greatly and itching to play her part, went to train as a nurse. Rose too was kept extremely busy, being very much involved in Whistedown School and the invasion of the evacuees.

Like many villages, Whistledown had received an influx of city children, rough, ragged urchins, pale, skinny and nasal, who stared in wide-eyed disbelief at the open countryside, picked fights with the local youngsters, and ran away screaming from sheep and cows, the like of which they'd never seen before. But the dust settled and those not taken back home by anxious mothers pining for their offspring soon thrived on the country air, and grew healthy and strong.

One in particular, Tom Stokes, arriving as a sturdy, scowling boy of twelve, motherless from the age of seven, and having nobody in the world but a violent, heavy drinking stepfather rejected even by the Army in their hour of greatest need, progressed in two years from loud-mouthed bully to an extremely likeable youth. Tom would often help Peggy and Johnjo take groups of little ones out pony-riding and it gladdened Rose's heart to watch as they headed towards Follyfoot Farm, taking the same scenic route as Davey used when they rode on Beauty. And though she worried that Tom and Peggy were of an age when innocent kisses might lead to much, much more, and Peggy turned pink as the sunset sky when her mother told her of the birds and bees, the two teenagers proved surprisingly responsible.

At Ashtree Picture House, an impromptu conga dance spilled out onto the streets when Pathe News reported on the overwhelming success of D-Day and, as other victories followed thick and fast, a wonderful mood of optimism prevailed. Everyone talked excitedly of being reunited with loved ones, Winston Churchill made stirring speeches, and it seemed nothing could mar the happiness as an end to hostilities became an ever brighter glimmer on the horizon.

But one bleak morning when, for the third day in a row, rain fell in a steady grey drizzle, and farmers despaired of waterlogged fields and ruined crops, a telegram boy cycled from Ashtree Telegraph Office to Whistledown to call at a certain pretty little cottage with a horse-shoe nailed on its door…