Wunderkind ❄ A Chronicles of Narnia Tale {Wattys 2018}

Ruth Leaves for the Country

Ruth Woodall stood with her mother as children boarded the train around them. They were neither the first, nor the last to be sent away to the country to escape the war.

Mothers wept, the younger children with stuffed animals tucked under their arms asked why couldn't Mama go? and the older ones said because she had to look after the house and make sure supper wouldn't get cold. Cases were packed aboard, papers were checked, and children already leaned out of the train, waving and shouting. "I'll see you soon! I love you!"

Ruth's mother handed her a small, lumpy bundle and kissed the top of her forehead, reaching out to adjust her coat. "I've packed you some books and food for the journey. Are you all warm?"

Ruth nodded, not quite trusting her voice. She knew, if she said something now, before she was ready, it would waver and she would lose all pretence of being the responsible girl her mother wanted her to be. Not that anyone in this bustling train station would care much (for there were girls much older than herself who were sobbing) but Ruth didn't care for the idea of others seeing her cry.

Her mother smiled, her eyes filling with tears, and embraced her tightly. "I'm so sorry, darling. I would keep you with me if I could, but it simply isn't safe for you. You'll be a big girl for me, won't you? Promise me you'll be a big girl."

Ruth nodded again. "I will, Mum," she murmured, her voice cracking. A lump appeared in her throat and she swallowed hard, trying not to burst into tears.

"Attention," said a loud voice over the speakers, "attention. Would all parents ensure that their children have the correct identification papers."

A woman howled behind them, and Ruth and her mother turned. The woman was hysterical, clutching a young child tightly. An older girl, perhaps a little older than Ruth, pressed her hands to the woman's face and said, "Mama, Mama, please don't cry, I simply can't bear it. We'll be home soon, I promise." Ruth turned away, biting her lip.

"You've got your papers, haven't you darling?" Mrs Woodall pulled away, running a hand over Ruth's hair.

"Yes, they're in my pocket," Ruth replied. Just to be sure, she plunged a hand into her coat and rifled around, then drew out an identity card and several other folded papers.

Her mother smiled. "There now, you'll be home very soon. Make sure you keep your label pinned to your coat, there's a good girl."

The train conductor's whistle blew, and Ruth hugged her mother one last time. "I love you, Mum."

"I love you so much, my darling. Go on, now. You don't want to miss the train."

As Ruth handed her identification papers to the conductor and boarded the train, she threw a desperate glance at her mother. The lump in her throat grew, but it wasn't until she had found an empty carriage and heaved her case onto the luggage compartment that she allowed herself a moment. The whistle blew again and the train began to pull out slowly.

Ruth panicked, thinking she would miss her mother. She fiddled with the catch on the window and leaned right out, waving frantically. "Mum!" she shouted. Her eyes searched the sea of hands clutching handkerchiefs and her gaze fell on her mother, who was now pushing through the crowd to the barrier. "I love you, Mum! Goodbye!"

Her shouts were echoed by dozens of children all around her as the train pulled away. She kept waving until the station was long out of sight, then she sat down heavily. She choked on a sob and pressed a knuckle to her mouth. If it weren't for the Germans, Dad would still be alive and she wouldn't have to go to a stranger's house in the middle of the country.

Her cheeks flushed red with the injustice of it all. She'd read about the Great War at school, but then she had thought the idea of tramping through mud and coming up with clever plans to catch the enemy was rather exciting. She now knew how foolish it was to think such things. From the moment she took that fateful letter from the postman one bitterly cold morning in March and wept with her mother in the kitchen, she had been consumed by a desire to see every blasted Kraut dead. It was perhaps childish thinking and awfully petty, but what more could she wish upon the very people who had killed her father?