standing beside her, a presence, was strong. She wanted to turn her head, wanted to look, but, frozen with fear, she couldn’t move a muscle.
‘Come on, Hilda,’ Gertie called.
In that instant the spell was broken, leaving Hilda shaken and bewildered. At last she was able to move, to turn her head, but saw nobody there. Still trembling, she picked up the cake, and somehow managed to plant a smile on her face as she carried it into the living room. Her voice sounded a bit quivery, but this was a special moment for Ellen and she didn’t want to spoil it as she sang, ‘Happy birthday to you … Happy birthday to you …’
Gertie joined in and Hilda saw her daughter’s delighted smile. There had been few real treats since the war had started, and suddenly she found her eyes moist with tears. If only Doug were here – if only he hadn’t missed his daughter’s birthday again. Hilda shivered; the incident in the scullery was still with her and now she almost cried out against the thought that crossed her mind. Of course it hadn’t been Doug. She didn’t really believe in ghosts, in spirits, so why was she letting it get to her? It was just fear, Hilda told herself, that was all, the day-in, day-out fear for Doug’s safety.
‘Oh, Mum, it’s smashing,’ Ellen said, her eyes on the cake that Mrs Brandon had decorated so beautifully with pink and white icing.
‘Blow out the candles and make a wish,’ Gertie urged.
‘I … I wish my dad …’
‘Don’t say it out loud,’ Gertie warned. ‘If you do, it won’t come true.’
Ellen closed her eyes, this time making the wish silently, and then opening them she blew out all of the candles in one go. ‘There, it’ll come true now,’ she said, smiling happily.
Hilda fought to pull herself together. She could guess what her daughter had wished for and hoped it would be fulfilled – that Doug would get leave again soon, or, even better, that this rotten war would end and he would come home for good.
All Hilda’s worries and imaginings left her early in December when she got a letter from Doug. Christmas came, a spartan one, followed by a dismal New Year. There hadn’t been any more strange incidents, but sometimes Hilda found herself thinking about the feeling of someone being there, beside her in the scullery, yet she still couldn’t come up with an explanation.
One day in early January, Hilda decided to talk to Gertie about it, and said, ‘Gertie, do you believe in ghosts?’
‘Of course not. Why?’
‘You’ll think I’m mad, and anyway, it happened over two months ago.’
‘What happened?’
Hilda told her and, seeing the expression on Gertie’s face, she wished she’d continued to keep her mouth shut. ‘All right, I know it sounds potty.’
‘Our mind, senses and eyes can play all sorts of tricks on us, and if you want my opinion, that’s all it was. I refuse to believe in any of the mumbo jumbo that people come up with: ectoplasm, speaking to the dead, or, even worse, fairies at the bottom of our gardens.’
‘What on earth is ectoplasm?’
‘A substance emerges from so-called mediums and is supposed to be spirit, but if you ask me it’s just a clever conjuring trick, an illusion.’
‘So you don’t believe in life after death?’
‘I’d like to think there is, but there lies the problem. Scientists have looked into these claims and so far nothing has been proved. Until it is, I’ll stick with the scientists who deal with fact, not fiction.’
When Gertie talked about ectoplasm and fairies in the garden, Hilda had to admit it sounded a bit silly, yet she still wasn’t convinced. What happened to her had felt so real, yet if investigated she couldn’t offer proof. Oh, she was tired. With windows shut and curtains drawn to keep out the cold, she found the room stuffy and yawned widely. ‘I think I’ll turn in.’
‘All right and goodnight, dear.’
Hilda lit a candle to guide her upstairs, nervous as the flames flickered, illuminating some areas while others remained creepily shadowed. It was this old place, having no electricity, along with being stuck in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps Gertie was right and her mind had played tricks on her. In fact, if she stayed here for much longer, Hilda was beginning to think that it would slowly drive her mad.
Another couple of months passed and at last winter changed to spring again. Ellen loved this time of year when new green shoots emerged on plants and trees. It would be a time of planting again, working outdoors, something she loved.
It was still cold though, and any time spent on the smallholding meant wrapping up well, but digging was a great way to warm up. All three of them worked steadily and, at last, close to the end of March, Ellen’s wish came true. The cottage was too remote for visitors, so when there was a knock on the door they all looked at each other in surprise; Ellen was the one to answer it.
‘Dad! Oh, Dad!’
Moments later her mum was there. ‘Doug! I can’t believe it! It’s nearly two years since you were last here and I was beginning to despair of you ever getting leave again.’
Ellen moved aside as her father took her mother into his arms and their hug seemed to go on for ever.
‘Well, are you going to let me in?’ he finally asked.
Smiling with joy, Ellen walked in ahead of them, but Gertie looked less than pleased. ‘Doug. How long are you here for?’
‘Three weeks.’
‘Is that all?’ Hilda wailed.
‘I know, love, but considering the journey was a bloody nightmare, at least I’m here.’
‘Did you come on that motorbike again?’
‘No, pumpkin, I had to get a train this time.’
‘How did you get here from the station?’ asked Gertie.
‘I managed to get a lift for part of the way, but had to walk the rest.’
Ellen couldn’t take her eyes off her father. He looked so handsome in his navy blue uniform, sailor’s hat worn at a jaunty angle and blue eyes shining as he held his arms out to her mum. She ran into them again, the two of them locked in an embrace. ‘I’ve missed you so much,’ he murmured.
‘I’ve missed you too, but look at me, in trousers, no make-up, and my hair in a turban.’
‘Darlin’, to me you’d look great in a sack, in fact, I can’t wait to get you into one.’
‘Doug! Ellen’s listening.’
‘Sorry, but how about a kiss?’
Ellen looked
