Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: GREEN (01/19/17)
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TITLE: The War Effort. | Previous Challenge Entry
By Danielle King
01/26/17 -
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“Times are hard, Molly.”
Mam was in the barn plucking Henrietta when I came home from school. Her hips swayed spontaneously with the hand action. Only my mam could make a tribal-dance out of stripping a bird.
I was eight. The war was over, but food rations were a recent memory.
“Mam, don’t try making me eat Netty,” I warned.
“Go hungry then!” She shot me the raised eyebrows before reaching to unhook dinner from the beam. “She’d gone off lay, silly. We can’t afford passengers. Times are hard, Molly.”
Mam reared chickens to sell eggs to the Marketing Board. But those grown up chicks became my friends. So, after Dad wrung their necks and Mam plucked ‘n’ cooked ‘em, I tended to chuck up at the table while others devoured ‘em.
“Mam, we’re starting proper needlework this term. Miss Thompson says we can choose — sewing or knitting.” I held my breath. Mam sighed and dunked Netty in a bucket of water.
“How much, Molly?” I cringed.
“A shilling. But we can take a penny a week if it helps.”
Mam, swinging Netty by the legs strode out with purpose, down the field and into our kitchen. “Later,” she called. “Later.”
Later came after dinner when Mam put Netty’s carcass in the iron pan to simmer on the fire-grate. Soup tomorrow — Mam wasted nothing, but she’d softened to my queasy tum dilemma and served me a lump of cheese.
“Watch little Dora near the fire,” she said. “I’ll be a while.”
I could hear Mam bumping and rummaging, cursing and chuntering, until eventually, “Molly, catch this.” From the top of the loft ladder she dropped a huge woolly jumper into my arms.
“Granny knit this for Uncle Fred, Mam.”
“Well, he’ll be warm enough where he’s gone, Molly!”
We sat by the fire and began the tedious job of unravelling Granny’s masterpiece. “Waste not, want not. Times are hard, Molly.”
I daren’t tell Mam that I’d told Miss Thompson I would like to sew — a dirndl skirt, like the other girls. I’d chosen pink and white checked material. I was so excited. I’d never worn anything new before.
Instead, the following morning, I carried four giant balls of my dead Uncle Fred’s jumper in Mam’s shopping bag. My best friend Violet skipped across the playground. “What’s in the bag?” She asked.
“Oh… that. Changed my mind Vi. Decided to knit instead.” She peeped inside.
“Ewww!” Class monitor rang the bell and we scurried to line up for registration. Maggie Smith nudged me, and then nodded at my bag.
“Special wool,” I whispered. “Look…”
“Ugh!”
Headmistress called us to Morning Prayer. I skipped ‘forgive us our trespasses’ until I’d done telling fibs.
“Right girls, has anyone brought a shilling today?” Miss Thompson peered over her spectacles.
A dozen hands shot up. “Me Miss, Me Miss…”
“Now, has anyone been unable to bring anything today?” Mary Jenkins burst into tears, the Smith twins stared at their toes, and my arm was half-mast. “Up or down, Molly?”
“Well Miss,” I held aloft Mam’s bag. “I’ve brought something...” I rolled the contents onto her desk.
“Oh… Hmm… An interesting colour, Molly.”
“Yes Miss. And an interesting past.”
“Do you like it?” I shrugged.
“Times are hard, Miss.”
She studied me for a moment before addressing the class. “Who can tell me the name of this colour? No-one? Well, what does it make you think of?” The hands shot up again.
Cabbage stalks; runny poo; green sick; slime; the fun quickly spiralled out of control…
“Now, listen carefully girls. The shade of this wool is far more important than you think. Who can spell, ‘Camouflage?’
“Me Miss.” She passed the chalk.
CAMELSCHARGED. “Hmm… Interesting Molly.
Now pay attention girls. This wool is quite similar in colour to the uniforms provided for our very, very brave soldiers when they fought and won the war for us. It’s called, ‘Olive Drab.’ Perhaps some of your dads or uncles fought in the war?”
Suddenly, I felt rather patriotic, but I didn’t mention the secret about Uncle Fred being a deserter.
I decided to knit some scarves in class, in case of another war, to keep the soldier’s necks warm. I shared my wool with the twins and Mary Jenkins.
Miss Thompson awarded me the merit badge that week. She said it was because I’d shown thoughtfulness and generosity of spirit.
“Waste not, want not,” I said. “Times are hard, Miss Thompson!”
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