After tea, we went out into the garden because the weather was so nice. We stood on the path where on one side was an old table full of jars of cooling, fresh made gooseberry jam. A noisy wasp buzzed here and there among the paper-topped jars. On the other side of the path was a tall cabbage-rose bush, which had dropped some of its huge pink petals. I had a short argument with my grandmother because I wanted to pick one up, and she disagreed. The argument is the reason I remember quite clearly the atmosphere of that evening. The argument was short because Gran didn’t put up with such behaviour from a child.

As I was trying to decide whether I felt defiant toward her, or sulky because I couldn’t have the rose petal, I heard an excited voice in our neighbour’s yard. Mrs Watts was hurrying toward her garden gate. She was waving her arms over her head, and calling to us. She had not taken off her overall apron, and her hair was frizzing out of its tight white bun, all of this most unusual. Mrs. Watts was very plump, very proper in her appearance and seldom left her home, so to see her bustling through her front gate like this was an occasion.

“Doodle Bug” she shouted. Her stern voice was now high-pitched and singing out. “It’s coming!”

The words meant nothing to me at that moment. I was still mesmerized by her actions, but Gran and my mother immediately picked up my two little brothers and moved toward our gate. I followed along, and gradually became aware of a low, growling sound in the sky. It was far away, past the water-cress bog, and the river which was the boundary of my world at that age.

We joined Mrs. Watts on the sidewalk, and it was difficult to keep up with the adults. Other people came from their cottages as we passed, and soon there was a group of us all hurrying along together. At the big, five-bar wooden gate we stopped, and I managed to thread my way through the eight or nine neighbours crowding at the gate, trying not to be shoved into the prickly hedges on either side. I had known them all my life, some better than others, and it was strange to see them all talking together, discussing their fears about the latest terror weapon that was coming toward us. There were always fallings-out and changing friendships, all up and down the street, but arguments and grudges were forgotten now. As they talked, the words that I could hear reminded me of something Granddad had read a while ago.

A couple of evenings a week Granddad read the newspaper out loud, sitting at the table, using a small, octagonal, pink-rimmed magnifying glass (which I still own and treasure). He had read of a new type of flying weapon that had no pilot.

The little groaning and throbbing sound now was getting louder, and in my imagination sounded as though it came from across the water-cress bog and the river just beyond, only it sounded very low. How could it be an aircraft?”

Someone said “Here it comes! ‘When the engine stops, that means it’s coming down.”

“Then why are we standing here waiting for it?” Someone else said. There was some mumbling in agreement, but no one moved away.

The droning got louder still, and suddenly there it was, flying low over the Jennings’ house. Annie Jennings and her sistere were very old. I liked to see them walking to Evensong on summer Sundays. Their style of dress was very old-fashioned, long skirts and dark capes and bonnets. Their complexions were pretty and pale, pink and white like apple blossoms.

Annie was standing with us, but her sister was still in the thatched white cottage. Annie made a sort of girgling sound deep in her throat as she watched the drone. She put a hand over her mouth, but stayed beside the gate.

After tea, we went out into the garden because the weather was so nice. We stood on the path where on one side was an old table full of jars of cooling, fresh made gooseberry jam. A noisy wasp buzzed here and there among the paper-topped jars. On the other side of the path was a tall cabbage-rose bush, which had dropped some of its huge pink petals. I had a short argument with my grandmother because I wanted to pick one up, and she disagreed. The argument is the reason i remember quite clearly the atmosphere of that evening. The argument was short because Gran didn’t put up with such behaviour from a child.

As I was trying to decide whether I felt defiant toward her, or sulky because I couldn’t have the rose petal, I heard an excited voice in our neighbour’s yard. Mrs Watts was hurrying toward her garden gate. She was waving her arms over her had, and calling to us. She had not taken off her overall apron, and her hair was frizzing out of its tight white bun, all of this most unusual. Mrs. Watts was very plump, and seldom left her home, so to see her bustling through her front gate was an occasion.

“Doodle Bug” she shouted. Her usually deep and stern voice was now high-pitched and singing out. “It’s coming!”

The words meant nothing to me at that moment, and I was still mesmerized by her actions, but Gran and my mother immediately grabbed my brothers’ hands and started moving toward our gate. I followed along, and gradually became aware of a low, growling sound in the sky. It was far away, past the water-cress bog, and the river which was the boundary of my world during the war.

We joined Mrs. Watts on the sidewalk, and it was difficult to keep up with the adults. Other people came from their cottages as we passed, and soon there was a group of us all hurrying along together. At the big, five-bar wooden gate we stopped, and I managed to thread my way through the eight or nine neighbours crowding at the gate, trying not to be shoved into the prickly hedges on either side. I had known them all my life, some better than others, and it was strange to see them all talking together, discussing their fears about the latest terror weapon that was coming toward us. There were always fallings-out and changing friendships, all up and down the street, but arguments and grudges were forgotten now. As they talked, the words that I could hear reminded me of something Granddad had read a while ago.

A couple of evenings a week Granddad read the newspaper out loud, sitting at the table, using a small, octagonal, pink-rimmed magnifying glass (which I still own and treasure). He had read of a new type of flying weapon that had no pilot.

The little groaning and throbbing sound now was getting louder, and in my imagination sounded as though it came from across the water-cress bog and the river just beyond, only it sounded very low. How could it be an aircraft?”

Someone said “Here it comes! ‘When the engine stops, that means it’s coming down.”

“Then why are we standing here waiting for it?” Someone else said. There was some mumbling in agreement, but no one moved away.

The droning got louder still, and suddenly there it was, flying low over the Jennings’ house. Annie Jennings and her sistere were very old. I liked to see them walking to Evensong on summer Sundays. Their style of dress was very old-fashioned, long skirts and dark capes and bonnets. Their complexions were pretty and pale, pink and white like apple blossoms.

Annie was standing with us, but her sister was still in the thatched white cottage. Annie made a sort of girgling sound deep in her throat as she watched the drone. She put a hand over her mouth, but stayed beside the gate.

end of Part I

Everyone was silent now. The flying weapon went on its way, straight along the chain of meadows that were called The Valleys.
Its sound became sort of intermittent, and I thought I saw it wobble sometimes, which scared me more. It seemed as though everyone was holding their breath while the doodle-bug droned over the hill, along the path that we walked to school, dodging cow-pats at certain times of the year. A ditch ran beside the path, and in Spring the ditch filled with water that ran clear and rippling through the Valley. Kids loved the water, for pieces of tree bark that floated and piroueted along on the curls of water; for deep wading among those who risked being in trouble for walking into school with wet Wellington boots and socks; and for little yellow flowers that grew on the banks for those who liked more sanctioned activities. The cows liked to cluster there too, – hence the juggling of feet attempting to reach the precious ditch. Come to think of it, we all risked trouble being there, because we forgot time, and therefore would be late to school.

The terrifying airplane shape faded out of sight, but we could still hear the throbbing sound – and then it stopped! I looked around at the group of men and women, finally at my grandmother’s face, which was staring at where the weapon had been when she could see it. Everyone was still, everyone staring at where the bomb had been when we could see it. Someone’s voice said quietly
“it looks like it might hit the school”

“Thank goodness no one’s there at this time of day.”

“Miss Morehouse is at home in the schoolhouse”

“And the Barnard’s are just across the road”

I thought of the beautiful sycamore tree that stood just outside the cast-iron railings of the school gate, with its big root that would trip a child who was hurrying to get to the dinner hut, not paying attention to his feet. I thought of rabbits in their hutches in the orchard. Some of the big boys had tried tanning a rabbit hide during the year, and it turned out stiff and ugly.

“It mught hit that farm – the one where she makes the bread?”

I knew that farm. The brown bread was a favorite among our family. I grabbed my grandmother’s arm, and she looked down at me. “Don’t worry.” she said. Her voice said otherwise. I proceeded to worry.

Then there was a very quiet sort of “poof” sound, and a plume of brown smoke or dust went up, and then everything was quiet. I think it was Mr. Brown who said “the war has really come to us.”

There were small sounds of agreement, but someone said “don’t be a fool, it’s been here all the time. Aren’t you in the homeguard?”

” Yeah. I expect you’re right.”

Annie Jennings turned away, and went home. I heard her call her sister’s name as she closed the white gate. I wish I could remember the sister’s name.

Mr. and Mrs. Hadaway moved to the curb. They owned the little sweet shop just across the road from where we stood. He was tall and stooped, always wore a beige cardigan, and was kind and funny in a teasing sort of way. She was fussy and had an acid tongue. When I was allowed to walk to the shop and buy a sweet I always chose a Fry’s Peppermint Creme, and while she picked it from the boxes in the glass counter, she would say “Only stupid little girls eat such things. It’s a wicked indulgence. Surely such a child can come to no good!”

Now, Mr. Hadaway took his wife’s hand and led her across the road and through their gate, which was as white and perfect as was the Jennings’. Mrs. Hadaway looked a bit more pinched and sad as she glanced back.

The evening went a bit flat as people turned away, muttering about what had been bombed, and expressing their worries about neighbors from that end of the village.

When we came down to breakfast next morning, Mother told us that Granddad heard in the pub last night that the school was not hit by the Doodle-Bug. Instead the bomb had gone down in a field further away. Thankgoodness, it wasn’t the “brown bread farm” either.

We walked with Gran to our usual parting of ways, she walking to her job in town, my brothers and I taking the lane to school. We saw several of the people who had been with us last evening, watching the new weapon weaving its way over our widespread village. I expected that they would stop and talk about the dreadful occasion, and perhaps I would hear a bit more about the damage to the farm. But it didn’t happen.

Mrs. Watts was sweeping her little porch and took no notice of us as we walked by. Ted from the pump yard said “mornin'”, as usual. Others nodded and hurried along. By the time we came home that afternoon, it was hard to believe that anything had happened. The Doodle-Bug was never mentioned again.

The End.