The Time Travelling Teacher

“Run, Rabbit, Run”

1.

The lesson staggered to its end and, as the bell rang, the children gathered their belongings

from the cloakroom and formed what could only be described as a loosely gathered collection

of boys and girls – it certainly wasn’t the line that he hoped every day that they could make, a

line which would snake tidily from the door, along the front wall of the classroom and end,

finally, by his desk. He called for a little quiet, waited until the boys at the back had

eventually finished discussing what tactics they would employ on Fortnite when they got

home, and then led them through the school and onto the playground, where some were

collected by their waiting parents, while others declared that they were “Walking!”. He

watched them all leave, bidding some of them goodbye and waving at others as they trotted

off across the concrete and disappeared out of the school gate. Then, when they had all gone,

he turned and made his way slowly back to his classroom.

Mr Rabbit - yes, that was really his name and he cursed his parents every day that they

hadn’t been called something normal, like Jones or Robinson, or Montague-Smythe – had

been a teacher for over twenty years and in all that time there hadn’t been a day when he

hadn’t wished that he’d paid more attention at school so that he could have been a scientist,

or a doctor, or a lawyer. He hadn’t been an unintelligent boy – which is why, in the end, he’d

been able to become a teacher – but he’d never really given any thought to what he wanted to

do when he left school (although cowboy and science fiction writer had often been the things

he’d mentioned when asked). As a consequence, he hadn’t chosen the subjects he’d studied

with any great care, instead giving greater consideration to which teachers he’d liked rather

than to any possible career path that he might have followed, and so it was that he had

become the proverbial Jack of All Trades and Master of None. With no obvious next steps (a

promising career as a table tennis star had been ruined before it began by his utter lack of

hand-eye co-ordination) the teaching profession beckoned and he grabbed – surprisingly

easily considering his inability to hit a ping pong ball – the opportunity with both hands.

The rest, as they say, was history.

Although, as a teacher of Year Six children, he taught every subject, not just history.

Mr Rabbit, and I really must make this clear from the start, was a tall man, with what could

only be described as a rather round tummy. His once dark brown hair was now almost

entirely grey – a change for which he often blamed his pupils – and his blue eyes sparkled

(or, at least, they shone a little bit under the bright classroom lights). Contrary to his name –

and just to reinforce that he was, in fact, a man and not a member of the rabbit family – his

ears, whilst a little large, were not long and pointed, and his teeth were quite straight and not

in the slightest bunny-like. Generally, he would wear a loose fitting grey suit – all the better

to hide his expanding waistline – over a crumpled white shirt and, very occasionally, he

would mix it up by adding a matching waistcoat to the ensemble. In short, he was a mostly

unremarkable looking man.

What was remarkable about him, however, was that he was one of those teachers that his

pupils actually liked. He liked to think that he was, as all good teachers should be, a fair man,

but one who would brook no argument over discipline; a teacher who liked to make lessons

fun, instead of simply regurgitating facts and figures for the sake of it; an educator and an

entertainer. Now, of course, as they tend to be, the children in his care were often reluctant to

show how much they liked him to his face – hence the inability to line up properly, the

distinct lack of silence when called for, and the obvious disinterest in the face of any kind of

school work – but they were always sad to leave his class at the end of the year and their

parents were always very complimentary about his efforts. Most importantly (from Mr

Rabbit’s perspective, anyway) they respected him enough to never mock him for his name

and, for the most part, his classes would even agree to call him Mr R. It certainly made a

change from when he had been at Primary School himself and the other children had relished

in their ability to tell him to “Hop it!” every time he asked if he could play.

As he walked back into his classroom, Mr R wasn’t surprised to find a small group of

children sitting around one of the desks. It was club night, after all, and he had made sure that

he had signed up to do his bit by running an after school activity. What he was surprised by,

however, was how few children had actually turned up. He quickly counted in his head, then

double-checked the umber on his fingers. One … two … three. Yes, he’d definitely been

right the first time.

Three.

And they weren’t even his favourite three.

Now, of course, they weren’t his favourite three children because, like every sensible

teacher, he didn’t have favourite pupils, but if he’d had to pick three children to be stuck in

an adventure with – and I hope I haven’t given away where this story is heading by using that

word – or even in an after school club, it certainly wouldn’t have been these three.

Mr Rabbit smiled at them and hoped that it was a more convincing smile than it felt. “Is

this all of you?” he asked.

The three children – two boys and a girl – looked around the classroom and then, as one,

shrugged.

Mr Rabbit tried again. “Do you know if anyone else is joining us?”

One of the boys shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. “Dunno.”

The girl raised her hand and Mr Rabbit nodded. She didn’t speak, and so he nodded at her

again. When she still didn’t speak, he sighed. “Yes, Stella, how can I help you?”

The girl, whose name was Stella – Mr Rabbit hadn’t just picked a random name to call her

because, if he had, it would most likely have been Barry – leaned forward in her seat. “Oh,

yeah, right,” she began, acknowledging that she had been called upon to speak. Stella was

one of the children in Year Six but not in Mr Rabbit’s class. He’d seen her in the cloakrooms,

pushing the other children out of her way to get at her coat, and had heard her through the

wall, her high-pitched shriek almost loud enough to crack the windows, but he’d never had

the pleasure of teaching her. “What club is this?” she asked.

Mr Rabbit rubbed at his ear, trying to get rid of the ringing, and then opened his mouth,

about to speak. The words, however, failed to arrive. It wasn’t unusual for his pupils not to

know what lesson they were being taught – he veered off onto so many tangents that a simple

Science lesson could easily end up in a discussion about geography or, in some cases, even

PE – but he thought that all the children would know which clubs they had signed up for. It

was their choice, after all.

“Yeah,” one of the boys chimed in. His name was Gareth, although his friends all called

him Gruff, mostly because he had a lot of dark brown hair which made him look a little bit

like the Gruffalo. Gareth was in Mr Rabbit’s class and had spent much of the year acting as if

he didn’t know very much. Mr R wasn’t entirely sure that it was an act. “What club is this?”

he asked, repeating Stella’s question.

With another sigh, Mr Rabbit held his hands up in despair. “It’s History club,” he told

them, trying – but failing – to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “What club did you

think it was?”

The boy who had shuffled in his seat was now leaning back on his chair, only one of its

feet still touching the floor. This was Martin, a boy whose reputation for misbehaviour was

legendary. It was alleged that he was attempting to break the school’s record for collecting

Red Cards, and there were some stories that suggested he had been responsible for the rule

that no-one was allowed to bring pencil cases into school, after the Headteacher had seen

what he kept in his (although this story had never fully been substantiated). Fortunately for

Mr Rabbit, he had managed to avoid teaching Martin throughout his time at the school. It was

only a matter of months, though, before he would be in Year Six and then Mr R would have

nowhere to hide.

“My Mum told me I had to come,” Martin mumbled through the chewing gum that he was

busily chewing. “Didn’t matter what the club was!”

“Me too,” echoed both Stella and Gareth.

“As I say,” Mr Rabbit told them, reaching for the button to turn on his Smart Board, “this

is History club.”

“’Istory?” asked Martin, his chair swivelling beneath him. “What’s the point in that? Why

ain’t it football, or basketball, or …”

“Some other kind of ball?” Mr Rabbit completed the sentence for him. “We can call it

History-ball if that makes it better for you?”

“What’s that then?” Gareth grunted.

Mr Rabbit shook his head. “It’s what’s known as a joke, Gareth,” he explained, turning his

back on the children and watching as the Smart Board slowly began to come to life. It began

to glow and within seconds, pictures began to form on the screen – pictures which Mr Rabbit

had prepared earlier, of Henry VIII, of a spitfire caught up in a dogfight, of the great Fire of

London, of a variety of different historical events. “There are no balls in this club, it’s just

about things that happened in the past.”

“What?” called Stella, her voice echoing around the almost empty classroom again. “Like

when you were born?”

The three children laughed and Mr Rabbit managed a strained smile. They were starting to

give him a headache but he wasn’t going to let that put him off. He loved History. All those

things that had happened in the past to shape their present: the Kings and Queens who had

dictated the laws; the scientists who had discovered how the world worked; the wars which

had moulded the way the planet was today. There were so many things to learn, and so much

to teach to anyone who was interested. He hoped – although he knew it was most likely a

vain hope – that Stella, Gareth and Martin would quickly come to realise just how lucky they

were to have been put in his club.

Without warning, the Smart Board screen began to flash. Mr Rabbit moved towards it,

reaching for the button to switch it off, but before he could something even stranger

happened. The room began to spin, and the pictures which had been forming on the Smart

Board suddenly leapt from the screen and into the room. Henry VIII danced a jig around the

room, pausing only to loom over Stella and shout “Off with her head!” The spitfire swooped

low over the desks, rattling its machine guns and leaving what Mr Rabbit could only hope

weren’t bullet holes across the backs of his bookcases. A caveman reared up behind Gareth

and grunted something incomprehensible, to which Gareth replied with something equally

incomprehensible. And then, outside the classroom window, Samuel Pepys began hammering

on the glass, yelling something about how London was burning and they should fetch the

engines.

“Well,” Mr Rabbit thought, as everything suddenly went black and he felt himself fall to

the floor, “that’s never happened before.”

2.

When Mr Rabbit finally opened his eyes, he wasn’t at all surprised to find Stella, Gareth

and Martin standing over him, looking worried. What surprised him more was what he saw

behind them.

Behind Martin’s head stood what appeared to be a small stone building, cuboid in shape,

with a narrow opening hallway up its wall and a flat roof; over Stella’s shoulder he noticed

seagulls flying in a blue sky; and just beyond Gareth, Mr Rabbit was almost certain that he

could see the rolling grey waves of the ocean. None of these things in themselves were

unusual. What surprised Mr Rabbit was that they were in his classroom. He sat up slowly and

looked around, taking in the fact that his desks, chairs and even the walls of his classroom

had disappeared, to be replaced by an almost empty, green field, a clear (aside from the

screeching gulls – blue sky and, rather too close for comfort, a cliff top. He blinked, half-

expecting his classroom to reappear when he opened his eyes again.

It didn’t.

Mr Rabbit, however didn’t panic.

Instead, he did the next best thing which was to leap up from the grass, stumble backwards

away from the cliff edge and then fall into a heap again. His jacket fell over his head, hiding

his face from sight and, for a few moments, all the children could hear from beneath the grey

material were mumbled phrases, such as “I must be dreaming”, “I’ll wake up soon” and “It’s

all a big practical joke, like that time they tipped Mr Thorne’s car onto its roof!”.

The three children waited patiently and finally he pulled the jacket away from his face and

stared at them, his eyes wide.

“How on earth,” he demanded, “did we get here?”

“We thought it was a school trip,” Martin replied, shrugging. “You know, like when we

went to the zoo – only with less animals and no long, boring coach ride.”

Mr Rabbit’s mouth dropped open, only marginally wider than his eyes. “But I just closed

my eyes …”

“That’s what my Mum says when we go to my Gran’s,” Stella told him. “It’s a long way

away and I hate having to go, but she says ‘Just close your eyes for a minute and then we’ll

be there,’ and do you know what?”

Mr Rabbit shook his head.

“She’s never right. It always takes forever!”

“Was there,” Mr Rabbit asked, “a point to your story?”

“Only that you shutting your eyes probably isn’t why we’re here,” Stella replied, looking

around. “Wherever we are.”

She was, Mr Rabbit had to admit, absolutely correct. Unless he was actually asleep and

this was all a dream, which he very much doubted because he wasn’t in the habit of dreaming

about being at the seaside with three of his (least favourite) pupils, then closing his eyes

hadn’t brought them here. He shut them again, though, just on the off-chance that when he

opened them the four of them would have been transported back to school. As he slowly

lifted his eyelids and saw Martin, Stella and Gareth still standing in a field in front of him, he

realised that, rather than relying on magic and hope, he was actually going to have to do

something practical to get them home.

He patted the pockets of his suit and let out a small yelp of triumph. From inside his jacket

pocket, he pulled his mobile phone.

“Well, wherever we are,” he told the children, echoing Stella’s words, “and however we

got here, we can at least call someone to come and get us!”

He swiped and pressed the screen, and then held the phone to his ear. Aside from the crash

of the waves, the screech of the gulls and the sound of Gareth chewing something rather

sticky, there was silence.

Mr Rabbit looked at the phone, not at all surprised to be greeted by the notice that there

was ‘No Signal’. He held the phone up in the air, hoping that bars would appear and, when

none did, he waved the phone around his head, desperately trying to find even the slightest

bit of signal.

Nothing.

No bars.

No signal.

No luck.

Mr Rabbit could feel his face growing red as his fingers tightened around the utterly

useless piece of glass, plastic and wiring that he was holding up in the air. He was just

imagining the great satisfaction it would give him to throw the phone onto the floor and

dance up and down on it when he heard a sound. Not, he reflected sadly, the sound of his

phone ringing, nor that of a friendly, laughing voice calling across the field to him to say that

the joke was over and it was time to go home now. Instead, it was a sound which he hadn’t

heard for quite a long time, not since he’d been on holiday to Yorkshire and taken a ride on a

real-life steam train, in fact.

Spinning around, it took him only a moment to locate where the sound was coming from.

There, in the distance, just beyond the small, stone building, he could see a really rather

old-fashioned train, steam trailing out behind it as it raced along a track, heading, if he

guessed correctly, for what looked very much like a railway station. It was this train that he

had heard, blowing its whistle to announce its arrival at its destination and it was this train

that suddenly offered Mr Rabbit hope that the four of them might just get home before it got

dark. The station stood about a mile away – Mr Rabbit was guessing that it was a mile,

anyway, but he wasn’t a geography teacher and so not the best at judging distance – and if

they could cover that distance quite quickly then perhaps they could catch the train and let it

take them at least some of the way home.

Mr Rabbit pointed towards the train and the station. “Look!” he exclaimed.

The three children stared at where he was pointing. “What’s that then?” asked Gareth,

through a mouthful of chewing gum.

“It’s a railway station, Dumbo!” Stella replied. “Ain’t you never seen one before?”

“Nah, we don’t go on railways,” Gareth answered her, shaking his head. “We only go on

trains.”

Before Stella could comment further, Mr Rabbit interrupted them. “If we can get to the

station,” he told them, dropping his phone back into his pocket, “we should be able to catch a

train.”

He started off in the direction of the station, signalling that they should follow him. “At the

very least,” he continued, “we should be able to find out where we are. And they’ll probably

have a telephone so we can phone your parents and let them know what’s happened. Not that

I really know. But we can tell them where you are. They might offer to come and get us. And

if they don’t, I’ll phone Mrs Hardacre. She might be able to help.”

Mrs Hardacre was the Headteacher of the school where Mr Rabbit went through the

motions of teaching and where the three children socialised with their friends. She was,

unfortunately, the stereotypical Headteacher (you’ll know the sort if you’ve read any books

where the children are the heroes and their teachers are there to stop them having fun). She

was stern of face and stern of attitude, quick to dish out punishment while reluctant to dish

out praise, and her heart was the stone that Mr Rabbit often used to explain what a metaphor

was. He didn’t genuinely believe that she would help them – he wasn’t quite that naïve – but

he was still in something of a state of panic at finding himself in the middle of nowhere with

three children and no risk assessment and he really wasn’t sure what he was saying anymore.

The three children laughed at the foolishness of his suggestion, but set off behind him

nonetheless. They knew that Mrs Hardacre was never going to come galloping to their rescue

– not on a horse, you understand, that was just how she moved – but there was a good chance

that Mr Rabbit would be able to find someone to come and get them.

They could never have guessed, however, what it was that they would find.

*

“It’s called a pillbox,” Mr Rabbit explained as they trudged across the field towards the

railway station. Stella had made the mistake of asking what the small, concrete building they

had seen was and he had taken upon himself to educate the children as – he hoped – they

made their way home. “That one would have been used as a beach defence during World War

Two. They would have had machine guns inside and would have been used to hold back any

invading soldiers. Did you know that, in 1940, almost twenty thousand were built? And it

was because of the pillbox – as well as the spitfires and other planes that defended the skies –

that Britain wasn’t invaded during the war!”

He was excited to share his knowledge with the children but he could tell from their

expressions that they weren’t interested in what he had to say. It wasn’t uncommon – Mr

Rabbit often found that he couldn’t enthuse the children just through his own love of a

subject. He was a firm believer that they had to experience something to fully understand it,

and that was why he insisted on taking them on so many field trips and educational visits, to

local battlefields, to museums and even, on one memorable occasion, as far as Hadrian’s

Wall. It had been a few years ago, and part of the annual Year Six residential trip, and it was

enough to say that his idea of dressing some of the children as Romans and some as invading

Celts hadn’t been one of his best notions. Since then, residential trips had consisted of a few

days at an outward bound centre, where no-one could do serious injury with a sharpened stick

to anyone else.

Finally, and in silence, they reached the station. Mr Rabbit looked at the sign on the station

wall – it read St. Martin’s-Under-Lyme, a place he had never heard of – and then led the

children through an old wooden gate and onto the platform where, almost immediately, they

dashed away from him, running the length of the station and up onto the bridge which

spanned the rails. Mr Rabbit walked slowly behind them, looking for either a working

telephone or, failing that, a ticket office. Unfortunately, there were none of the former and the

door to the latter was firmly locked. He rattled the handle impatiently, hoping that it would

miraculously unlock and then, when the miracle failed to happen, he turned away and looked

at the timetable that was pinned to the wall next to the door. With his finger, he found St.

Martin’s-Under-Lyme and then traced the list of names below it until he reached another

name he recognised – Waterloo. If they could get there, he reasoned, then they could get

home. Quickly, he scanned the train times, glanced up at the clock hanging from one of the

beams that supported the station’s roof, and calculated how long it would be before the next

train.

Only twenty minutes to wait!

He was just patting his pockets to check that he had his wallet with him when he heard a

voice from the other end of the platform. He looked up in time to see Gareth dangling from

the underside of the bridge’s stairs and a man, dressed in a dark blue uniform with red piping,

shouting at him to get down at once. Shaking his head in dismay, Mr Rabbit set off along the

platform.

“Gareth, get down from there!” he called, as he approached the man and offered an

apology. “I’m so sorry, I sometimes think he has a little bit of ape in him! I’ll try to keep

them under control while we wait.”

The uniformed man grunted, looking over Mr Rabbit’s shoulder and the teacher followed

his gaze. On the other side of the tracks, he could see Stella and Martin dangling their legs

over the edge of the platform. He shook his head again.

“I really am sorry about this,” he told the uniformed man. “They’re not used to … erm …

all the fresh air! Martin, Stella, come here!”

The two children stared at him, almost as if they didn’t understand the instruction.

“Now!” he shouted. Reluctantly, the children pulled themselves up from the edge of the

platform.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” the uniformed man asked. “Are you just down

from London?”

Mr Rabbit nodded. “To be honest, we’re a little bit lost,” he explained, choosing not to

mention that he had no idea of how they had even got there. The man didn’t seem too pleased

to see them anyway – Mr Rabbit didn’t want to give him any more reason to be surly with

them.

“I thought you might be.” The man’s voice had a slight West Country accent to it, and Mr

Rabbit wondered if perhaps they were in Somerset or somewhere similar. “Everyone else has

already gone down to the village. You should be meeting in the Village Hall.”

With a frown, Mr Rabbit asked, “Everyone else?”

“That’s right, all the other school children and teachers.”

“So, you’re saying that we’re not the only ones here?”

The man nodded. “Well, of course. You didn’t think you were the only ones here, did

you?”

Gareth had dropped down from the bridge and Stella and Martin had finally joined them.

“What’s he saying?” Stella asked.

Mr Rabbit shook his head, utterly confused. He really didn’t understand what was going

on. The last thing he could definitely remember was being in his classroom, just about to start

History club. After that, everything was a blur. How and why they were here was a mystery

to him. If they’d been on a coach, he didn’t remember, and he certainly couldn’t recall

organising any kind of educational visit to a place that he’d never even heard of.

Perhaps, he thought, Mrs Hardacre had arranged it without telling him. That definitely

sounded like something the Headteacher would do – after all, she certainly had a history of

organising things for her staff to do and not mentioning it to them until the very last moment.

He vividly recalled the time he’d been expected to put on a production of The Lion King, for

the whole school and their parents, with only three days’ notice … but at least he could

remember having to do that. This was different – but it didn’t mean that Mrs Hardacre wasn’t

behind it.

He shook his head, looking at the blank faces of the three children. “It seems you were

right,” he said, finally accepting what he thought was probably the truth of the situation. “It is

a school trip!”

3.

The Village Hall sat in the centre of the village of St. Martin’s-Under-Lyme, in the middle

of a small patch grass which, according to a road sign, was the Village Green. The uniformed

man – who had finally introduced himself as Mr Carter, the station master – had offered Mr

Rabbit and the three children a ride into the village in the rear of his vintage, open-backed

truck (Mr Rabbit hadn’t seen one like it since he had been a boy, and even then it had been a

museum piece, only driven on special occasions by his Grandad) and, as he pulled the truck

over beside the Village Hall, Martin and Gareth leaped over the side and onto the grass,

laughing as they landed in a heap. Mr Rabbit climbed down from the back, helping Stella

down, and then walked round to the cab and, leaning in through the passenger’s side window,

thanked Mr Carter for his help. The station master grunted something in reply and then pulled

away, very slowly disappearing up the road.

Mr Rabbit turned to the children. “Right,” he said, helping the two boys to their feet, “let’s

go and see what’s going on.”

The children followed him into the hall.

Inside, it was a hive of activity. The hall was filled with children, all dressed in school

uniform – dark grey shorts, white shirts, light grey jumpers and stripy ties, for the most part –

amongst whom loitered some adults, who Mr Rabbit guessed were their teachers. They were

all women, wearing long, flowing dresses of muted colours, and looking rather nervous as

they tried to keep the children in check. Mr Rabbit didn’t recognise any of the other teachers

and, judging by the differences in the uniforms of the children, he guessed that they were

most likely all from different schools. As they bustled around the room, their voices a loud,

tuneless hum, the children and the adults had just one thing in common – a small box which

hung on a strap either from their shoulders or around their necks.

At the front of the hall, in front of a small raised platform which could, at a push, have

been described as a stage, stood another set of adults, nervously talking to each other and

looking out at the children gathered before them. On the stage stood three men and a woman.

One of the men was dressed in a smart, khaki uniform. He had a stick tucked under his arm

and a military style peaked cap upon his head. The woman was wearing a smart, floral dress

and straw hat, similar to the outfit Mr Rabbit’s Grandmother had worn on those occasions

they had been allowed to go for a drive in his Grandad’s truck. And finally, the other two

men were dressed in dark blue uniforms – not dissimilar to Mr Carter’s, but without the red

piping – and white, metal helmets. Wrapped around their arms were white bands with some

writing on which Mr Rabbit couldn’t read from this distance. He did, however, recognise the

uniforms as those of Air Raid Wardens.

Suddenly, things seemed to become a little clearer to Mr Rabbit. He still didn’t know how

they had come here, or indeed when it had been arranged or by whom, but it did seem

obvious that they had come to visit a recreation of life at home during the Second World

War. The children were all dressed as evacuees – the small boxes they carried were obviously

their gas masks – and the adults on the stage were the billeting officers, who would organise

for the children to be placed with local families (the adults in front of the stage, he guessed)

while they stayed in the countryside, away from the dangers of the cities. It was all very

realistic. There were no signs of any modern electronics – even the speakers on either side of

the stage looked as if they were of the era – and all of the clothes and uniforms seemed very

authentic. Mr Rabbit was very impressed and suddenly felt as if he, and his three children,

stood out like sore thumbs in their Converse, Nikes and, in Martin’s case, jeans.

Perhaps, he thought, there would be someone he could talk to about getting the right

costumes. At the very least, they ought to have gas masks.

As he began to push his way into the hall, a hush fell and the woman on the stage stepped

forward, a clipboard in her hand.

“Good morning,” she called. She had a posh voice, the tone clipped in exactly the way the

voices of the radio presenters of the thirties and forties had been. “My name is Mrs Worthing,

I am the billeting officer for St. Martin’s-Under-Lyme and it’s my job to place you with the

families with whom you will be staying.

“Firstly, I’d like to welcome you to the village of St. Martin’s-Under-Lyme. It’s lovely to

see so many of you here and we are very much looking forward to welcoming you to our

homes during these unusual and dangerous times. I realise that it will be scary for some, if

not all of you, but we will make sure that we do everything we can to make you feel

comfortable with us while you stay here in St. Martin’s-Under-Lyme. We want you to feel

like this is your home, no matter how long or short your stay may be, and if there is anything

at all that we can do to make things easier for you – absolutely anything at all – please don’t

hesitate to ask. We are here to help you, to look after you, and to make sure that you are safe

and, most importantly happy.”

Mrs Worthing paused, removed some sheets of paper from her clipboard, and handed them

to the three men on the stage. She then looked back out at the assembled crowd in front of

her.

“This is Captain Stewart of the Home Guard, and Mr Giles and Mr Worthing.” She smiled

broadly. “Yes, he is my husband. They are going to speak to your teachers and make sure that

everyone knows which adults they will be staying with and where they will be staying. When

you have met your adults, you’ll be able to gather your belongings and they’ll take you home.

If we’re all very quiet and sensible, it won’t take us very long at all.”

There was a buzz of excitement as the three men stepped down from the stage and began

to make their way through the crowds, speaking to the adults who were still busy shepherding

the children. Mr Rabbit looked around the hall and was surprised to see how into the re-

enactment some of the children were getting. Some of the children were grinning as they

were led off, obviously keen to experience what life had been like for the evacuees, but some

of the children looked petrified. As they were separated from their teachers, he could see

tears streaming down the faces of some of the youngest children there, and he could hear

their anxious voices asking if they had to go, as the adults they had been assigned to took

them by the hands and led them out of the hall.

Slowly, the crowd thinned as the children and their teachers left with their families, until

finally only Mr Rabbit and his three children were left. Mrs Worthing stepped down from the

stage and approached, flanked by her husband and the man she had called Captain Stewart.

They stopped in front of Mr Rabbit.

“Hello,” she greeted them politely. Her expression as she scanned her clipboard, however,

was a puzzled one. “You seem to be the only ones left! Have you come to us from London?”

“That’s right,” Mr Rabbit replied. “ Turnpike Lane Junior School. I’m Mr Rabbit.”

She looked again at the clipboard. “You don’t appear to be on our list,” she told him with a

frown. She sounded a little disappointed and Mr Rabbit couldn’t decide if it was because they

hadn’t been assigned to someone or if it was simply that they weren’t on her list and were

going to cause her some measure of trouble.

“I’m not sure who organised this for us,” he tried to explain, wondering if perhaps Mrs

Hardacre or one of her secretaries had put their name down as party leader instead of his. “If I

could just –“

Mrs Worthing snatched the clipboard away before he could take it from her. “This has

been arranged at the highest levels,” she snapped, her friendly expression suddenly slipping,

replaced by a more suspicious one. Her tone was accusatory when she continued. “If your

name isn’t on my list, then you’ve come to the wrong place. Perhaps you should have stayed

on the train until you reached the next stop. They may have been expecting you there.”

Mr Rabbit shook his head again – he seemed to be doing that a lot, he thought. “We

weren’t on the train,” he began.

“Not on the train?” Mrs Worthing’s eyes widened. “Then how did you get here?”

He was about to reply, and explain that he actually didn’t have any idea how they had got

there, when a hand touched his shoulder and a gentle voice stopped him.

“It’s all right, Mrs W.”

A man was suddenly at Mr Rabbit’s shoulder, and he immediately recognised him as the

third man from the stage, Mr Giles. He had an open face, with wide blue eyes and an easy

going smile. Like Mr Carter, he had a soft, West Country twang to his voice and, as he

slipped an arm casually over Mr Rabbit’s shoulder, the teacher felt suddenly reassured.

“Why don’t I look after this young fella and his charges? I’ve got a couple of spare beds

and I’m sure the missus can find a cot for the girl to sleep in.”

Mr Rabbit smiled and not just because he hadn’t been referred to as a young fella in a very

long time. Mr Giles had such a friendly manner about him that he was almost glad that they’d

been left off the list. This would be the perfect person to guide these three particular children,

and he was looking forward to learning everything he could from the man – although he

wondered if they were really going to be staying overnight, or if a coach would be sent to

collect them ready for home time. He would still need to have very firm words with Mrs

Hardacre when they got back to school, of course, but perhaps not being told what was

happening would work out for him for once.

“That’s awfully kind of you, Mr Giles,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “If you were able

to look after us, we’d be really grateful to you.”

“That’s not a problem at all,” Mr Giles insisted, patting Mr Rabbit on the back. “As long as

that’s okay with Mrs W here?”

He looked at the woman who made a show of checking her list once more, before finally

nodding.

“I’ll have to telephone Mr Stephens, though,” she said, straightening her back and lifting

her nose rather snootily into the air. “Something has gone wrong somewhere and we ought to

know what.”

“Of course, Mrs W, you know what’s best.” Mr Giles put his hand on Mr Rabbit’s

shoulder once again. “Give your details to Mrs W here and I’ll be waiting outside. It’s just a

short walk back to the farm, we’ll be there in no time.”

He patted each of the children on the head as he passed them – surprisingly, none of them

attempted to bite him, or even flinched, as he did – and then Mr Rabbit turned to Mrs

Worthing, quickly giving her his full name, the names of the children and the name of the

school. When he had added Mrs Hardacre’s name to the list of details, he thanked her and led

the children out of the hall.

Mr Giles was leaning against the wall, waiting for them and, as they approached, he

beckoned for them to follow him.

4.

The farm was, as Mr Giles had suggested, a short walk away and, as they approached

down a narrow country lane, Mr Rabbit was again impressed by how authentic everything

looked. As they walked through a rickety wooden gate, the first thing they saw was an old red

tractor, attached to a rusty old trailer. The tractor was really nothing more than an engine,

four wheels – two about the size of Martin, and two much smaller and narrower – and a

bucket shaped seat. Emerging from the red case that barely covered the engine was a small

exhaust pipe, and under the seat were a couple of heavy looking springs which, Mr Rabbit

guessed, acted as the suspension. The trailer it was attached to was little more than a long

wooden board resting on top of two hard, rubber wheels.

Across the yard from the tractor sat a barn – or, at least, Mr Rabbit guessed it was a barn –

which was little more than a falling down wooden structure and, next to that, stood the

farmhouse. It was the stereotypical farmhouse, with a neat thatched roof and flower boxes at

the windows. The flower boxes, however, were empty of flowers and the windows had tape

plastered in crosses over them, replicating what Mr Rabbit recognised as the windows of the

period. Washing – clothes of the period, obviously – hung from a length of rope that

stretched from the side of the house to one of the walls of the barn and a metal tub sat

underneath the line and, as Mr Giles closed the gate behind them, a black and white collie

pranced across the yard and ran around the farmer’s feet, panting heavily.

Mr Giles waved a hand at everything they could see. “Home sweet home,” he told them,

then called, “Susan, I’m home!”

The door to the farmhouse swung open and a woman, dressed in black dungarees and what

appeared to be one of her husband’s plaid shirts, burst out and greeted Giles with her arms

wide. It was only then that she noticed Mr Rabbit and the children.

“Hello there!” she greeted them warmly. “And who do we have here?”

“This is Mr Rabbit,” Giles told her, pointing at the teacher. “And these three are …”

“Stella!”

“I’m Martin.”

“Gruff,” Gareth said, raising a hand.

“Why does that one bark?” asked Mrs Giles, pointing at Gareth. Then she ruffled his hair

and laughed. “Hello, all!” She peered at them closely. “Have you not got your cases with

you?”

Mr Rabbit looked momentarily blank and then smiled weakly. “We weren’t expecting to

stay long,” he told her, shrugging, “so we … erm … didn’t bring anything.”

“Not staying for long? I hope that’s the truth!” Mrs Giles laughed again. “Not that you’re

not welcome, of course. I just meant that I hope this war doesn’t last too long – all those

young boys.” She looked sad for a moment, but then her smile returned. “Not to worry, we’ll

find you something to wear if you’ve nothing of your own. Old Mr Giles there is about your

size and we’ve got plenty of children’s clothes from when ours were growing up. They’ll fit

you lot, I’m sure. Now, I bet you need to wash up after your long journey, don’t you?”

“Yes, please,” replied Mr Rabbit, suddenly feeling very dirty. “That would be lovely.”

“And I need a wee!” Martin was hopping back and forth, from foot to foot. “Desperately!”

“Well, if you follow the path around the side of the house, you’ll find the lav at the end of

the garden. Mind the hole, though. Mr Giles has just started digging out our shelter.”

Martin’s face creased into what could only be described as a disgusted frown. “In the

garden?” he asked.

“That’s right,” replied Mr Giles. “Where do you have your lav?”

Before Martin could say anything – and knowing Martin, it wouldn’t have been polite –

Mr Rabbit interrupted. “Why don’t you go and find it, Martin? You can let us know what it’s

like when you get back.”

“But –“

“It’s all part of the experience,” Mr Rabbit explained in a patient whisper, before Martin

could argue. “Everyone has outdoor toilets in the forties. Now, off you go.”

For a moment, Martin glared at his teacher. Then, grumbling something about how

experience was just another word for having a rubbish time, he stomped off around the side

of the house. Mr Rabbit watched him go before turning back to Mrs Giles.

“You said something about washing up?” he reminded her.

“That’s right,” she replied, already heading back into the farmhouse. “Follow me and I’ll

fetch you some warm water.”

*

When Mr Rabbit had finished washing – it wasn’t that unusual having to use a ceramic

bowl filled with warm water, although the harsh, unscented soap left his skin feeling a little

raw – he put on the clothes which Mr Giles had found for him (he loved the braces, thought

he’d probably rock the flat cap and decided it was a look he might go for when he got back to

school). Then, he found his way to the kitchen, where Martin, Gareth and Stella were sitting

at the table, tucking into some freshly baked bread and lumps of cheese. Mrs Giles was

standing over them, listening as Martin described in great detail his experience of using the

outside toilet. When he had finished, the children all laughed. Mrs Giles simply looked

puzzled, but didn’t comment. Instead, she looked up at Mr Rabbit with a smile.

“Can I get you some lunch, Mr Rabbit?”

He looked at the bread and cheese and felt his mouth watering. “I’d be happy with some of

this,” he told her, pulling up a chair and sitting beside Gareth. “If that’s okay?”

“Help yourself,” Mrs Giles replied, still smiling. “There’s plenty more where that came

from. It’s all made here on the farm.”

Mr Rabbit took a bite of the still warm bread. It was delicious and when he added some

cheese to it, he thought he’d died and gone to heaven. A few minutes passed as they all sat

and chewed contentedly.

When they had finished eating, the children fussed over the collie dog – his name, Mrs

Giles told them, was Timmy, but when Mr Rabbit had asked if he was named for the dog in

the Famous Five, she had just looked at him blankly – and Mr Rabbit helped his hostess rinse

the plates that they had used. It was then that a thought occurred to him. Excusing himself, he

stepped outside and checked his phone. There was still no signal and, worse, the battery was

almost dead. He switched it off and went back into the farmhouse.

“Would you mind if I used your telephone?” he asked Mrs Giles. “I don’t seem to be able

to get any signal.”

Mrs Giles looked puzzled. “We don’t have a telephone,” she told him, almost as if he had

asked an incredibly stupid question. “You can send a telegram from the Post Office in the

Village, though.”

“I was hoping to call school and let them know what was happening. Perhaps one of your

neighbours has a phone?”

Mrs Giles shook her head. “Mrs Worthing – you’ve met her – at the Post Office has a

telephone, but I don’t think she’ll let you use it. Besides, your school will know you’re here –

she’ll have been on to that nice Mr Stephens in London and let him know already.”

“Mr Stephens?” Mrs Worthing had also mentioned him but Mr Rabbit still didn’t know

who he was.

“He’s the one as organises the evacuees for St. Martin’s,” she explained. “Mrs Worthing

will have let him know you’re safe and sound with us. Now, don’t you worry.”

Mr Rabbit wanted to respond, at the very least to commend Mrs Giles on her commitment

to her role, but he decided not to for now. Perhaps, he thought, the staff at this experience had

to stay in character while the children were around and, after they had gone to bed, he would

be able to find out a little bit more about how things worked here. And, when everyone was

out of character, perhaps they might let him use a phone. For now, though, he would play

along.

“I’m sure she will,” he replied, taking a plate from her and drying it with the rough cloth

she had given him. “I’ll check with her later.”

Mrs Giles nodded and passed him another plate.

5.

For the rest of the afternoon, Mr Rabbit and the children explored the farm, tramping

through the acres of grass, encountering different animals grazing in different fields. Stella

insisted that they stay and talk to the sheep for almost an hour, and the two boys laughed – a

lot – when Mr Rabbit stepped in cow poo as they ran through the cow’s field, trying to avoid

the attentions of what Gareth had described as “a massive bull” but which turned out to be

nothing more than one amongst a dozen other cows.

As Mr Rabbit had grumbled and attempted to clean his dirty Converse by dragging it

through the long grass, the children had talked about what they would do if they had to stay

on the farm for longer than just that afternoon. Martin had suggested finding a football and

setting up goals in the farmyard – using their jumpers, of course – so that they could have a

kick-around; Gareth had been keen on that idea but had also suggested playing hide and seek,

although he had given away that he would hide in the barn before he’d even finished telling

them his idea; and, most surprisingly of all, Stella had told the boys that they could find some

of the other children they’d seen earlier and perhaps make plans with them. Mr R had been

most impressed with that suggestion – he hadn’t expected these three children to want to stay

on the farm, let alone socialise with anyone. If the coach didn’t come and pick them up

before bedtime, then he would certainly be encouraging them to mix with the other children

on the trip. It would do them good to spend some time with children from other schools and,

he hoped, they might even learn a few manners!

Finally, the light began to grow dim and the four of them made their way back to the

farmhouse, where Mrs Giles was busily preparing them a dinner of what looked and smelled

very much like roast chicken. Mr Rabbit imagined that the chicken had probably been

pecking at the ground somewhere on the farm earlier that day, but didn’t mention it to the

children. While they went to wash their hands, Mr R stood in the kitchen, watching Mrs Giles

busy at work, and feeling very much like a spare part, until eventually she shooed him away,

reminding him that he had wanted to return to the village and speak to Mrs Worthing. He had

nodded his agreement and set off confidently from the farmhouse, reaching into his pocket

for his phone to check both for missed messages and to see if any signal had returned. Before

he could look at it, though, the farmer’s wife was chasing down the lane, calling after him.

He stopped, returned the phone to his pocket, and listened carefully as she spoke slowly and

patiently to him, giving him directions to the Post Office – not because he’d asked for them,

but because, even though it had only been a short walk from the village to the farm, his sense

of direction had already failed him and he had set off in the wrong direction. If he’d

continued going that way, Mrs Giles, explained, he would have found himself on a Cliffside

somewhere near Great Yarmouth.

So they weren’t in Somerset at all, he realised as he turned round and headed in the right

direction. If his Geography was correct – which, given that he hadn’t even been able to walk

in the right direction to find the village, it probably wasn’t! – they were actually somewhere

in Norfolk. It was reassuring to have some idea of where they were, he thought, but it didn’t

help with the how they had got there. Or the why.

Eventually, the village came into sight, and Mr Rabbit made for where he thought the Post

Office ought to be – although when he found himself on the far side of the Village Green and

then heading away from it, down a narrow alleyway, he realised that perhaps he hadn’t

listened carefully enough to Mrs Giles’ instructions. He turned around and made for the

Green again, pausing as he reached the edge of the grass.

It was starting to get dark by now and none of the streetlamps that surrounded the grassy

area had come on, making it difficult for Mr Rabbit to see anything further than a couple of

metres ahead. He was again impressed by the authenticity of the experience. Of course there

wouldn’t have been street lights at this time of day, because there would have been a black

out in force. As dusk settled, lights would have been going out across the entire country.

Blackout curtains would have been drawn across windows, lights in houses only used

sparingly and, even then, only behind those curtains, and there certainly wouldn’t have been

outside lights to draw the attention of approaching aircraft. Nobody wanted the Luftwaffe –

the German air force who took to the skies daily – to be able to use their lights as a reference

point for an attack. Children had been evacuated to the countryside to escape from the

constant barrage of bombs falling on the cities, that danger didn’t need to be invited here by

the careless use of uncovered lights.

Mr Rabbit peered into the half-darkness and finally located what he thought was a red

pillar box standing outside a small brick building. He began to pick his way carefully across

the Green, anxious not to get any more mess on his Converse, but as he reached the entrance

to the Village Hall, he stopped. The door was open just a crack and, from inside, a sliver of

light spilled onto the pavement. For a moment, Mr Rabbit was tempted to leave the door open

– after all, everyone here was just acting and there wasn’t really any danger from German

aeroplanes. Everyone else, though, was taking the re-enactment very seriously, he realised,

and he didn’t want to be a spoilsport. Maybe, he thought, it might even be a test, to see if

anyone would take responsibility and actually do something about the light.

There might, he decided, even be a prize for the school who did notice and act upon it –

there had always been prizes on the other residential trips he’d been on. It was true that those

prizes were for swimming, or climbing, or dancing, or being victorious in a pitched battle

between Romans and Celts, but they were prizes nonetheless. And Mr Rabbit loved to win

prizes!

He stepped up to the door to pull it closed but, as he reached for the handle, he paused.

From inside, he could hear two voices, a man and a woman, and it sounded like they were

arguing. Their voices were certainly raised and there was something harsh about the man’s

tone, almost as if he were trying to keep his temper but not really doing a very good job of it.

Normally, Mr Rabbit would have left them to it – their argument was nothing to do with him,

and he still needed to phone school and speak to Mrs Hardacre – but even as he was thinking

this, he recognised the woman’s snooty tone.

It was Mrs Worthing.

Quickly and quietly, he slipped into the hall and pulled the door closed behind him. At the

front of the hall, next to the stage, stood Mrs Worthing and a man that Mr Rabbit didn’t

recognise, deep in discussion.

Neither of them noticed Mr Rabbit.

“It must happen on schedule,” the man was insisting. “We must carry out our orders. It is

vital to the war effort that everything goes according to plan!”

“I understand that,” Mrs Worthing replied, “but we must also be careful. This isn’t –“

Mr Rabbit cleared his throat and stepped forward, interrupting them.

“I’m really sorry to disturb you,” he apologised with a shy smile. “I was wondering if I

could have a word with Mrs Worthing?”

Both Mrs Worthing and the man looked at him, shocked by the sudden interruption. The

man’s face went bright red, but Mrs Worthing stepped forward, quickly regaining her

composure. Before Mr Rabbit could take another step into the hall, she was upon him,

guiding him towards the door.

He didn’t notice the other man sidling towards the rear of the hall and disappearing behind

the curtains.

“It was Mr Rabbit, wasn’t it?” Mrs Worthing said, switching off the lights of the hall,

opening the door and almost physically pushing him through it. “I thought you’d gone with

Mr Giles?”

Mr Rabbit watched as she closed and locked the hall door. He couldn’t help wondering

what the other man was doing inside, but he didn’t ask. He was probably preparing some

activity or other for the children to do tomorrow and he really didn’t want to spoil any of the

surprises.

“Yes, that’s right,” he replied, following Mrs Worthing as she began to walk away. “Mr

Giles has kindly said we can stay at his farm, but I was very keen to get in touch with my

school to let them know we arrived safely.” He thought it was easier to play along with the

story that they had been evacuated, rather than try to explain the complexities of working

with Mrs Hardacre. “Mrs Giles suggested you might have a telephone I could use.”

Mrs Worthing stopped and stared at him, although for a moment it looked as if she might

have been looking over his shoulder towards the Village Hall. He glanced over his shoulder

but could only see the building, standing in darkness, at the centre of the Green.

“Mr Rabbit, I can assure you that your school knows where you are and that you are safe.

Mr Worthing and I contacted all of the schools, including yours, to let them know you were

here and billeted. You really have nothing to worry about.”

She was, Mr Rabbit guessed, aiming for reassurance but all he could hear in her voice was

impatience. The way that she shifted from foot to foot as if she were keen to get away didn’t

detract from that impression.

“I was just a little worried, because you said that you had no record of us,” he began, but

before he could explain any further Mrs Worthing cut him off.

“It’s all been sorted out now, Mr Rabbit. Mr Stevens in London assures me that you are

where you are supposed to be. Mr Giles will take care of you now and will be able to answer

any more of your questions, and we’ll look forward to seeing you in the school house on

Monday morning.” She paused and offered him what he imagined was supposed to be a kind

smile. It looked more like a sneer, but that could just have been the light. “Now,” she

continued, “if there’s nothing else, I really ought to be getting home to Mr Worthing.”

Mr Rabbit had hundreds of other questions – where were they, how had they got here,

what were they doing here and who had sent them were just four – but he could see from Mrs

Worthing’s face that she wasn’t going to answer anything else. Instead of questioning her

further, then, he nodded and thanked her for her help.

“You’re welcome,” she replied, glancing again over his shoulder. “I will see you on

Monday. Have a nice weekend.”

And with that, Mrs Worthing hurried away.

For a moment, Mr Rabbit watched her go but then he turned back towards the Village Hall,

peering into the darkness towards where Mrs Worthing had been looking. He couldn’t be

certain, but he thought he saw a figure dash out from behind some trees that stood at the rear

of the building, and then disappear quickly down one of the alleyways that led away from the

Green. He watched for a few seconds more, but there was no more movement. Finally, he

shook his head, dismissing what he’d seen as none of his business.

He looked around, at the Green, at the Hall, and all the different roads and alleys which led

away from the centre of St. Mary’s-Under-Lyme.

“Now,” he murmured to himself, “how do I get back to the farm?”

6.

He’d only got lost once on the way back – which had led to an hour long detour which

took in the Village pond, an orchard and the railway station – but finally Mr Rabbit found his

way back to the farm. He was just pushing open the gate when Martin, Stella and Gareth

emerged from the farmhouse and rushed towards him, all talking at once.

“Mr Rabbit, you’ll never guess what!”

“Mr R, it’s completely insane!”

“Mrs Giles reckons it’s 1941!”

Mr Rabbit locked the gate, then grinned at them.

“That explains the blackout, then,” he told them.

“Eh?” grunted Gareth, looking puzzled. Stella and Martin didn’t look particularly

enlightened either.

“The blackout.” Mr Rabbit quickly explained about the precautions the people had taken

during the war, pointing out the blackout curtains in Mrs Giles’ windows and the absence of

any lights as he pointed across the fields towards where he thought the village was. “If it was

2020, the whole area would be lit up like a Christmas tree,” he told them.

“So, what?” asked Stella, her brow creasing in a frown. “’Ave we travelled back in time?”

Mr Rabbit shook his head. “Of course not. This is an open air museum. It’s been set up so

that people like us can experience what life would have been like during the war. That’s why

there’s a blackout, and why everyone is dressed up in forties clothes. It’s very authentic,” he

finished, sounding impressed.

“But, the Mrs showed us this thing …” Martin struggled to find the word. “What did she

call it, Gruff?”

Gareth frowned. “A newspaper, I think.”

“Yeah, that was it. A newspaper.”

Mr Rabbit wasn’t surprised that Martin had struggled to recall the word – newspapers

probably didn’t feature highly in his life, either at home or at school. In class, he would have

seen and heard his news on the interactive whiteboard or on the internet; at home … well, at

home, they probably didn’t even discuss current affairs, except when it meant their fruit cake

had less raisins in it.

“And it had the date on,” Martin continued. “14th of March, 1941. I remember the date cos

it’s my Dad’s birthday. Not 1941, of course, cos he ain’t as old as you, Mr R, but the 14th of

March part.”

“The newspaper will be a reproduction,” Mr Rabbit explained patiently, beginning to lead

the children back towards the farmhouse. “There’ll be all sorts of things like that for you to

look out for. Newspapers, gas masks, the food that you’ll eat. You see how even the windows

are taped to stop them shattering? It’s all very realistic.”

He opened the door and one by one they filed into the farmhouse and made their way to

the kitchen. Mr and Mrs Giles were sitting at the table, reading by candlelight. The windows

behind them were covered by heavy grey blankets.

Mr Giles looked up from his newspaper. “Were you able to get in touch with your

school?” he asked.

Mr Rabbit shook his head. “Mrs Worthing said it was all taken care of, though, so

hopefully it’ll all be fine. The children are going to go to bed now,” he continued, pulling out

a chair and sitting opposite the Giles’. “But before they go, they have something to say to you

both.”

It was something of a ritual, one they performed whenever they went on a school trip or

had a visitor into school, and the children knew the correct response.

“Thank you,” they chimed, even though Mr Rabbit could see that they were all desperate

to complain about being sent off to bed so early. He imagined that, at home, they would still

have been up at midnight, playing on their X-Boxes or Playstations, or whatever it was that

young people got up to these days. It would make a nice change for them to be away from

technology and in the fresh air for a while, and an early night would definitely do them no

harm.

“You’re welcome,” the Giles’ told them, before adding, “Goodnight.”

The three children grunted their good nights and then reluctantly shuffled out of the

kitchen. Mr Rabbit listened to them clumping their way up the stairs and into their rooms

before he turned to the Giles’.

“Well, that was an interesting day!” he told them, leaning his elbows on the table. “What

do you have planned for us tomorrow?”

Mr Giles looked blankly at him.

“Well, I’ll be up in the top field, fixing the fence, and Mrs Giles will be helping out in the

village, making sure the school rooms are ready for you on Monday. It ain’t nothing exciting,

but you’re welcome to lend a hand if you’d like to.”

“We thought you’d be wanting to get settled in,” Mrs Giles continued. “Make sure

everything’s ready for the children and such.”

Mr Rabbit was puzzled. “I assumed there’d be some activities planned for the children,” he

told his hosts. “You know like looking at an air raid shelter, digging for victory, that kind of

thing?”

The Giles’ faces remained blank.

“Do the activities start on Monday, then?” he asked.

Mrs Giles nodded slowly, almost as if Mr Rabbit were an idiot. “Yes,” she replied. “You’ll

be teaching in the school. Reading, Writing and ‘Rithmetic. I don’t think anyone wants the

children to be digging, and they certainly don’t need to be playing in the shelters. Best to save

those for when they’re needed.”

Mr Rabbit couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Usually on this kind of trip, the Museum

workers would have led all of the activities and the teachers would have taken a back seat,

only offering support if behaviour became unruly, or if the children struggled to participate –

both things which Mr Rabbit was used to doing. He certainly hadn’t been expecting to lead

the learning (well, he hadn’t even expected to be here, so it wasn’t really that surprising) and

didn’t really fancy the idea of spending his whole weekend planning activities for Monday.

He shook his head.

“Are there any resources that teachers would usually use?” he asked. It seemed an easier

option than preparing something completely from scratch. “I could probably adapt

something. Or if you have a computer, I could download something.”

Mr Giles put his newspaper down and yawned. “We don’t often have visitors from

London,” he laughed, standing up and stretching his arms. “Especially not under these

circumstances. So, I don’t imagine there’s anything that anyone would usually use. And we

certainly don’t have combuders or whatever you’re talking about. They must be some fancy

city things.” He tucked his chair under the table and chuckled to himself. “We’re lucky to get

the newspaper out here some days.”

He pushed the paper across the table and Mr Rabbit picked it up, studying the front page.

Martin was right – the date was 14th of March, 1941 – and the paper itself certainly didn’t

look like a reproduction. It felt, oddly, almost as if it were brand new.

A horrible thought suddenly struck him.

“Could we just talk out of role for a moment?” he asked as he placed the newspaper back

on the table. If he could just get the pair of actors to speak to him as themselves, rather than

as the characters they were playing, it would reassure him so much. If his thought was

correct, though … “I really need to know what’s going on here.”

Mrs Giles stepped up beside her husband, her brow as furrowed as his.

“Out of role?” she asked, and it was suddenly clear to Mr Rabbit that confusion wasn’t a

pretence. “I don’t know what you mean?”

“Come along, young fella,” Mr Giles added. “Say what you mean. You’re a confusing one

and no mistake.”

Mr Rabbit’s eyes widened as the truth began to dawn on him.

“What’s the date?” he asked.

Mr Giles pointed to the top of the newspaper. “It’s the 14th of March.”

“Yes, but what year?”

Mrs Giles laughed. “Did you fall down and bang your head while you were out in the

dark?” she asked, moving around the table and putting a hand on his shoulder. Her smile was

genuine and her voice kind. “Don’t you remember what year it is?”

Mr Rabbit shook his head.

“It’s 1941,” she told him, and somehow he knew that she was telling the truth.

It was 1941.

They had travelled backwards through time.

7.

Mr Rabbit found himself, once more, standing at the edge of the Village Green.

He had woken early that morning, after a night disturbed by what sounded and – when

he’d peered out of his darkened window into the sky above – looked very much like low-

flying aeroplanes. They had been dark grey against the almost black sky, but he was certain

that he’d recognised them as the Luftwaffe, the German airforce. He’d tried to go back to

sleep once they had passed but hadn’t been able to settle – there was just too much going on

in his head. Finally, he had given up. He had climbed out of bed, thrown on his clothes and

set off for the Cliffside where he and the children had first arrived.

Because that was how he was now thinking of it. They had arrived, somehow, in a small

village, eighty years and one hundred and fifty miles from home. He didn’t want to believe it

– even he knew that time travel was impossible – but he couldn’t come up with any other

explanation for what had happened to them. It was all too realistic to be a re-enactment or an

outdoors museum. The people were all so genuine that he couldn’t believe they were simply

acting; the clothes, vehicles, even the newspapers were all of the period; and then there were

the planes, flying through the night to wherever the Germans planned to bomb. It couldn’t all

be simulated just for a school party to get a feel of what the war was like. He had to accept

what was in front of his eyes. No matter where he went, or who he spoke to, the evidence was

clear – it was 1941 and the Second World War had been raging for well over a year.

He reached the cliff not long after the sun had risen and for a few minutes had stared at the

burning disc as it hung low on the horizon. He knew, if he had finally got his Geography

correct, that somewhere out there, across the sea, lay a Europe that was burning, laid waste

by the ever-moving German war machine. Half of the continent was already under the control

of Hitler’s Reich and plans were being drawn up to conquer the other half – including the tiny

island that he lived on. Thousands of lives had already been lost and many millions more

would die before that fateful day, four years from now, when the German High Command

finally surrendered. Knowing that was difficult enough for Mr Rabbit to bear, but knowing

that there was nothing he could do to stop it, despite everything he knew, was somehow even

worse. He felt somehow responsible for what was going to happen, even though he knew that

it had all happened thirty years before he had even been born.

His silent contemplation was interrupted by a voice from behind him, and he turned to find

a small group of uniformed men approaching. In the lead was the Home Guard officer that he

had seen at the Village Hall the night before, Captain Stewart. He looked, to say the least,

unimpressed with Mr Rabbit’s presence, a sentiment which he quickly expressed.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, his voice a gruff growl.

Mr Rabbit shrugged. “I didn’t realise –“

“Didn’t you see the signs?”

“What signs?”

Stewart pointed to the cliff edge and then behind him, towards the Pill Box and beyond,

where Mr Rabbit knew the railway station lay. His cheeks were red and his bristling white

beard gave him the look of a special Father Christmas edition of Action Man. “There are

signs everywhere. No entry! Can you not read? I would have thought that a teacher from

London would have the basic skills!”

“I … I … I ..,” stammered Mr Rabbit, unable to offer any defence to the rapidly

approaching soldier’s tirade. “I didn’t …”

“Can’t even speak in proper sentences!” barked Stewart, almost in Mr Rabbit’s face now.

“Perhaps it would be best if you made yourself scarce before I start to think that you’re a

cleverly disguised German agent.” The Captain paused and threw a look over his shoulder at

the men gathered just behind him. “Although if you’re illiterate and unable to speak, the use

of the word ‘cleverly’ might be inaccurate.”

He laughed and Mr Rabbit could feel his breath in his face. Although the Captain was

standing so close now that it could just as easily have been the bristles of his beard that Mr

Rabbit felt.

He took a deep breath and composed himself before speaking again.

“I was up here yesterday, with the children,” he told the Captain, offering the best – if not

the most accurate – explanation for why he was there. After all, he could hardly tell the

soldier that he had come here in the hope that he could find some explanation as to how and

why he had travelled through time. The old man would have thought he was mad, which

when he thought about it, was as good an explanation for what had happened as any. “One of

the boys lost their … their wrist watch and I was hoping to find it. It was … a gift, yes, a gift

from his father before he joined up.”

It wasn’t true, of course – the closest either of the boy’s fathers had come to fighting in a

war was when, two years ago, they had joined in with the riot outside PC World during the

Black Friday sale – but Mr Rabbit hoped that Captain Stewart would be fooled by it. The old

soldier was bound to have some sympathy for a boy whose father was at war.

“And have you found it?” Stewart demanded, some of the anger gone from his tone.

Perhaps, Mr Rabbit hoped, his story had hit the right note. He put his hands behind his

back and very carefully unfastened his own watch, letting it drop into his hand. He held it out

for the Captain to see.

“I have, actually, just before you arrived. I’m sorry, I was just about to leave, but I got

caught up in the sunrise.” He pointed out at the sun which was beginning to slip behind some

clouds, staining them a burnt red. “Isn’t it beautiful.”

Captain Stewart nodded. “Makes you proud to be an Englishman,” he murmured, his voice

solemn. “Reminds you just what our boys are fighting for.”

Mr Rabbit smiled. “Freedom,” he replied.

“Exactly.”

For a moment they stood there together, staring out over the sea, a comfortable silence

between them as they thought about what was happening miles away on the other side of the

water. Finally, Captain Stewart cleared his throat.

“Right, lad,” he said, taking Mr Rabbit by the arm and guiding him away from the edge of

the cliff. “We have work to be doing here, so you’d best be getting back to the Village. Make

sure that boy of yours gets his watch back, eh? He’ll want it to give to his father when he

comes home, I’m sure!”

“I’m certain he will,” Mr Rabbit replied, tucking the watch into his pocket. “I’ll leave you

to your work, Captain.”

Slowly, he began to walk away, pausing as a sudden urge grabbed him. He turned to the

Captain, who was still watching him, and offered a crisp salute.

“Thank you, Captain,” he said, his voice quiet and respectful. “You’re a credit to your

country.”

*

By the time he reached the Village, Mr Rabbit was starving and regretting that he had left

the farmhouse before breakfast could be served. He had considered returning to the Giles’

home, but he had something he wanted to do in the village that he didn’t want the children

tagging along for. Hands thrust deep into his pockets, he walked across the Green and

stopped outside the Village Hall.

When he had been here the night before, he had seen Mrs Worthing talking to a man who

had clearly not wanted to be seen. As soon as Mr Rabbit had revealed himself, the man had

slipped away and Mr R was sure that it had been this man that he had seen creeping away

from the Hall as he and Mrs Worthing had talked. There was probably some completely

innocent explanation as to who he was – like, for example, someone employed to clean the

hall, or Mrs Worthing’s secret boyfriend! – but during his long career as a teacher Mr Rabbit

had developed a sixth sense for detecting bad behaviour and he couldn’t help thinking that

this man, and therefore Mrs Worthing, were up to no good. He wasn’t sure what he would

find in the Hall, but he knew that it would have bugged him if he hadn’t looked.

Casually, he walked round the whole building, trying hard to look as if he was meant to be

there, while actually standing out like the proverbial sore thumb. Occasionally, he paused,

trying to peer in through the windows but, even on tiptoes, he wasn’t quite tall enough to see

over the sill. When he reached the back of the Hall, he stopped and bent to one knee,

pretending to tie his shoelace, while reaching up and testing the door handle. It didn’t move.

He tried again, and when it still didn’t budge, he gave up on it. It was, he decided, most likely

locked and he didn’t want to draw attention to himself by forcing the lock. Instead, he carried

on with what he thought was his casual – but which was, in fact, really rather suspicious –

tour of the building.

When he finally reached the front doors again, he made a decision. He might not find out

anything by going into the Hall, but he certainly wasn’t going to learn anything by waiting

outside.

Cautiously, he looked around and then tried the handle.

The door opened.

With another glance around to make sure he wasn’t being watched, Mr Rabbit slipped into

the Hall.

The windows of the hall were not only taped over but also rather dirty, filling the Hall with

a rather murky light, and so Mr Rabbit turned on the lights. He wasn’t surprised when they

didn’t make much difference and so he pulled out his phone and switched it on. Although

there was only a small amount of battery left, there would, he hoped, be enough for what he

needed – he wouldn’t be making calls or sending texts for at least the next fifty years, so he

didn’t need to save the power for that. As he stepped into the centre of the Hall, he switched

on the Torch App.

He glanced around the room, checking the floor and the stage for any clues, and then

sweeping the beam of his torch into the shadows and corners, looking for anything. Apart

from dust, which looked as if it had been gathering there since the start of the war – ruling

out the explanation that the man had been a cleaner, at least – Mr Rabbit could find nothing.

Carefully, he pushed past the curtains at the side of the stage and moved into the darkness

beyond, lighting his way with the torch.

He was about to give up when the light from his phone caught something shiny, nestled in

the folds at the bottom of the stage curtains. Rushing over, he shut off the torch light, tucked

the phone in his pocket, and knelt down, reaching for the small piece of metal. Then, he stood

up and crossed to the window, holding the thing up into the light, studying it through

squinting eyes. It wasn’t something that he had seen at first hand before but he recognised it

immediately and knew it could mean only one thing.

It was a swastika badge.

There was a Nazi in St. Martin’s-Under-Lyme.

8.

Gareth, Martin and Stella woke very early the next morning and were eager to be up and

doing something, but when they went to find Mr Rabbit, he was nowhere to be seen. The

three children searched all over the farm – in the fields, in the barn, even along the lane – but

there was no sign of their teacher. Finally, frustrated that they couldn’t find him but, more

importantly, clutching their grumbling their stomachs, they returned to the farmhouse for

breakfast. As they sat down at the table to freshly boiled eggs and toasted bread, Mrs Giles

explained that Mr Rabbit had gone into the village – she didn’t know what for, but he’d said

it was important – and would be back later that afternoon.

He had, she told them, left instructions that they were to keep themselves amused and out

of trouble but no ideas as to what they could do, and so they would have to think of

something themselves. Normally, she went on, she would have loved to find things for them

to do – baking, crafting, picking fruit and making jams, that kind of thing – but she was busy

herself and so sadly that would all have to wait for another day. She did, however, have one

suggestion for them and it was something that, surprisingly, all three of them leaped at. Mrs

Giles would make them some sandwiches, pack them up with some fruit for their lunch, and

then the children could spend the day exploring. Not just around the farm, because of course,

they’d already done that, but even farther afield. There were so many places in St. Martin’s-

Under-Lyme that Mrs Giles had enjoyed exploring when she had been a girl; places that her

two boys had spent hours in when they had been younger; places which the three children

would have to find; places where they could find a souvenir which would prove to Mrs Giles

that they had actually been there. They could pretend, she said, to be pirates, and that this was

their treasure hunt.

They loved the idea.

While they ate the rest of their breakfast, Mrs Giles made them rough pirate hats from the

previous day’s newspaper and, as soon as their packed lunches were ready, they jammed

them on their heads and rushed out into the farmyard. Nimbly, they clambered over the gate

and raced off up the lane, pausing only to pull sticks from the hedgerow. As they ran, they

waved the sticks in the air, as if they were pirate swords, occasionally clashing them together

in a pretend fight but, more often than not, simply hacking away at the bushes and branches

that lined the lane. They talked to each other in pirate voices, laughed pirate-y laughs, and

soon they found themselves looking down a hill towards a pond.

There were a handful of ducks floating peacefully on the water, but Martin made short

work of them, chasing them away with his stick, while Gareth ran along behind him,

growling. Stella watched the boys, hoping that one of them would trip and fall into the pond

and, when neither of them did, she joined them and suggested a game they could play while

they were here. It was a good game, she told them, and all they had to do was try to push

each other into the water. Taking it in turns, they would stand by the edge of the pond while

one of the other two took a run at them and shoved with all their might. Stella pushed at

Martin, but he wouldn’t budge. Martin charged headlong at Gareth, but the two boys simply

ended up in a heap on the floor, laughing. Finally, both boys teamed up against Stella,

thinking that their combined strength would easily force her back into the pond. It was only

when she neatly sidestepped them, sending the two boys careering headlong into the water,

that they realised they had been outsmarted.

Dripping wet, they grabbed a feather from the grass beside the pond and continued on their

quest. It wasn’t long before the three pirates arrived at a field, filled with nothing more than

grass – grass which stood at least as tall as Gareth. They raced into the field, swords slashing

at the greenery around them, creating trails wherever they moved, but it wasn’t long before

they had come up with an even better game. This time, they would split up, each heading to

separate corners of the field. When Stella shouted “Go!” they would move into the field,

trying to find the others which, because the grass was so long, should not have been an easy

thing to do. If they could creep up on one of the other pirates, without being spotted, then

they were the winner.

As it turned out, Martin was remarkably bad at the game. Instead of moving quietly

through the grass, he charged headlong from one side of the field to the other, yelling at the

top of his lungs. Anytime he came near, Stella and Gareth were able to disappear gracefully

into the grass and then tag him as he passed by them. Fortunately, this didn’t stop Martin

enjoying himself, and it wasn’t until the children realised just how hungry they were that they

stopped.

They found a flattened area of grass in the very middle of the field and sat down to tuck

into their sandwiches, completely hidden from anyone who might come looking for them.

After lunch, they moved on again, bypassing fields where crops were beginning to grow –

pausing only to grab a souvenir of a carrot leaf as they passed – and heading towards the trail

of steam they could see which told them they were close to the railway station. Stealthily, as

if they were commandos on a daring mission, they crept into the station and relieved the

ticket office of a train timetable each, and then headed back out into the fields, back towards

the cliff side where they had found themselves with Mr Rabbit, only the day before. Their

destination was the Pill Box. The day before, it had seemed empty and the three children had

decided, after their drenching in the pond, that it would be a great place to play, pretending to

defend the shores of Britain as Mr Rabbit had told them it had been designed for.

Since they had walked this way the previous day, however, rolls of barbed wire had

appeared close to the edge of the cliff and around the concrete shelter. Picking their way

around the razor sharp wire, they stopped close to the Pill Box and checked their

surroundings, making sure that no-one was nearby and, when they were happy that they were

alone, they moved on. When they reached the structure, Gareth pulled himself up onto its

roof and lay flat on it, pretending to enjoy the meagre rays of spring sun.

Martin and Stella were scrambling up beside him when a voice from inside the Pill Box

emerged. Hurriedly, they pulled themselves up and lay flat beside their friend.

“The first boat will arrive at twenty two hundred hours.” The voice which drifted up to

them from inside the box had a slight accent to it, but none of the children could recognise

what kind of accent it was. It was enough that it was different to their own to make them

smirk. “There will be twelve soldiers aboard and they will ascend to the cliff top here.”

“And what if they’re seen?” This was a woman’s voice. She sounded, especially to the

children who weren’t used to that kind of thing where they came from, rather posh.

“They won’t be. It will be during the blackout and they will be camouflaged.”

“But what if they are?” insisted the woman.

There was a sneer to the accented voice as it replied, “Then any resistance will be dealt

with. Our plan cannot fail.”

Martin looked at Stella with a frown. Stella simply shrugged, equally uncertain what they

were hearing.

“Go through it once more,” the snooty woman said, almost as if for the benefit of the

children hiding above her. “I need to be sure.”

“Of course,” the man replied. “My Eagle unit will depart at nineteen hundred hours from

the Dutch coast, under the cover of the fading light. They will travel across the North Sea and

then wait a mile off the coast, just out of sight of anyone who may be on this cliff. When the

air raids begin, the boats will move closer to the coast, during the blackout. Each boat will

contain twelve soldiers. You –“

“I will be waiting here, with Bernard,” she interrupted him. “We will ensure that the threat

of the machine gun placements has been neutralised and that your unit will encounter no

resistance.”

“Precisely. Then, at twenty two hundred hours, the first boat will land below the cliff here.

The men will ascend and take control of the machine gun defences, preventing their recovery

by your pathetic Home Guard. At that point, the remainder of my force will land and ascend

the cliff before moving into St. Martin’s and occupying the village. We will then send word

to the rest of our forces on the Dutch coast who will set sail immediately. With our foothold

secure here, it will then be safe to land the rest of the troops. The occupation of Great Britain

will then be unstoppable.”

“And the people in the village?”

“They will follow orders or be imprisoned, of course.”

There was a moment’s silence and the three children looked at each other. What they had

heard was ludicrous. Mr Rabbit had told them that no German force had landed on British

soil during the Second World War and yet, here they were, listening to people discussing

plans for exactly that.

“I need to get back to the village now,” the woman said, and it sounded as if she were

close to the door. “Someone is bound to miss me if I’m gone too long.”

“Very well,” the man replied. “I will return to my … what did you call it? My hiding

place?” He laughed. “But we will not have to hide for much longer!”

The children flattened themselves even more as, just below them, a woman emerged from

the Pill Box, her back to them. Quickly, she moved away, her floral dress flowing around her

as she made her way across the windy fields. Moments later, a man dressed all in black

stepped out from the doorway. For a minute or two, he watched the woman as she picked her

way around the barbed wire, making for the railway station beyond. Then, without looking

back, he strode off towards the cliff’s edge.

As silently as possible – which wasn’t that silent, given the grunting caused by Gareth’s

exertions – the three children slipped off the roof and huddled together behind the structure,

hidden from both the man and the woman should they turn to look back. Stella looked at the

boys.

“What are we going to do?” she asked them.

“What do you mean?” Martin looked confused. “Aren’t we pirates anymore?”

With the back of her hand, Stella batted him around the head.

“They must have been Germans,” she explained, slowly and patiently. “Mr Rabbit said

they didn’t invade Britain, but that’s what they’re planning to do. We have to do something!”

“But didn’t Mr R say this was all just a game?”

“That’s right,” grunted Gareth in agreement.

“So?”

“So, it doesn’t matter what happens, then, does it?” Martin continued. “We’ll still go home

when it’s all finished, won’t we?”

“Maybe,” Stella replied, getting to her feet and peering round the corner of the Pill Box.

She could see neither the man nor the woman anymore. “Even if it is just a game, I still think

we should tell Mr R.”

“But why?” the boys chorused.

Stella offered them a wicked smile. “Because,” she told them, “I don’t like to lose!”

9.

Mr Rabbit was in the lane outside the Giles’ farm when he saw the three children. They

were running headlong towards him, their faces filled with what he could only imagine was

excitement. He certainly hoped it was excitement because what else it could have been didn’t

bear thinking about. It was almost exactly the kind of look they had when they had been in

some kind of mischief – although mischief was a very forgiving word for the trouble that

these three often found themselves in – and had been hauled off to Mrs Hardacre’s office. If

he hadn’t already been concerned about what he had found in the Village Hall, Mr Rabbit

would probably have felt a chill run down his spine.

He stopped outside the rickety old gate and waited for them to catch up before he began to

unlatch it. It didn’t really surprise him to see that Martin and Gareth looked a little damp, but

he resolved not to ask them about it.

“What have you three been up to?” he asked them instead, not really wanting to hear a

truthful answer.

Martin and Gareth were bouncing up and down, desperate to speak, but Stella put a hand

on each of their shoulders and silenced them before they could open their mouths.

“Mrs Giles sent us off on a treasure hunt,” she told Mr Rabbit, and although she was trying

to stay calm, Mr R could still see the excitement on her face. “We went to some fields and

played by the lake.” Which explained why the boys were damp. “And then we went back to

that Kill Box we saw yesterday.”

Kill Box? Mr Rabbit looked puzzled.

“You know, that place where we were yesterday. Where they had the machine guns.”

Stella sounded rather impatient. “By the cliffs.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed, as it dawned on him what she meant. “The Pillbox. Did you see the

soldiers?” he asked, remembering his own encounter.

All three children shook their heads.

“We did see something else, though,” burst out Gareth, unable to control himself.

Stella glared at him.

“We agreed I would tell him,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “Didn’t we?”

“Yes, Stella.” Gareth looked embarrassed and looked away. “Sorry, Stella.”

“You will be,” she murmured, before turning back to Mr Rabbit. The teacher raised an

eyebrow and her face went red, as she realised that he had heard what she had said. “Sorry. I

was joking.”

“Of course you were,” Mr Rabbit replied, shrugging off Stella’s casual threat. “Will one of

you please tell me what you saw?”

Stella nodded. “Yeah, so, we were out by the Kill … Pillbox and there were these two

people inside.”

“Right.”

“So we hid on top of it and listened to them talking.”

Mr Rabbit looked very disappointed.

“You know what happens when you eavesdrop, Stella. We don’t want a repeat of what

happened with Mr Gardner.”

When she had been in Year Four, Stella had garnered quite the reputation for loitering

outside the Staff Room, listening for exciting bits of gossip, which she would then sell to

other children throughout the school. It had been Stella who had started the rumour that Mr

Gardner, the PE coach, had killed at least five children from a rival school’s football team, a

rumour which had almost ended in the police launching an investigation into the poor man,

even though she had simply overheard him telling another member of staff that his boys had

“absolutely murdered them” while describing his team’s victory in a five-a-side tournament.

After that incident, her eavesdropping activities had been severely punished and Stella had

seemed to become a reformed character – at least in that respect, anyway.

Mr Rabbit hoped that this was not the first step on a slippery slope.

“We weren’t spying, honest,” she protested, looking at the boys. “Were we?”

Both boys shook their heads but, as good as their word, didn’t speak. Martin, however, was

hopping back and forth, from foot to foot. If Mr Rabbit hadn’t been able to see the excitement

on his face, he would have sworn that the boy needed to use the toilet again.

“We thought we probably shouldn’t be there,” Stella confessed. “You know, because of all

the barbed wire. So, when we heard them, we got on the roof and hid.”

Mr Rabbit nodded. “Carry on,” he told her.

“One was a woman,” she told him, “and one of them was a bloke with a funny accent.

They were talking about a plan, about how they were going to come from the sea and land on

the beaches. They were going to bring beagles with them.”

Mr Rabbit frowned.

“No,” Martin interrupted, finally unable to contain himself. “It was seagulls. Cos we’re at

the beach! They’re gonna fly over the sea on seagulls.”

“Hold on!” Mr Rabbit held his hands up and quietened the children. “What are you talking

about?”

Gareth shoved past Stella and stood right in front of Mr R, his arms spread wide.

“Some seagulls, or beagles, or some illegal immigrants is coming across the sea and is

going to take over the village and if anyone doesn’t do what they’re told then they’ll be told

off, or something,” he finished, breathlessly.

Suddenly, the children’s random words became quite clear to Mr Rabbit.

“You’re talking about an invasion,” he declared. “A German invasion.”

The children nodded.

“The eagle has landed.”

“Nah,” Stella muttered. “It was definitely a beagle.”

Mr Rabbit unlatched the gate and hurried the children through. “But the Germans never

landed in Britain,” he said, guiding them across the yard and into the farmhouse. “There was

never an invasion.”

“Maybe it’s all part of the game,” Martin suggested, following Mr R into the kitchen.

“That’s what you said, wasn’t it? That it was all a game?”

“I thought it was,” Mr Rabbit nodded, sitting at the kitchen table and reaching into his

pocket. “But now …”

He paused, and the children looked at him for a moment in silence. He gestured that they

should sit and, when they had, he continued.

He told them what had happened the night before with Mr and Mrs Giles, and how he had

realised that they had travelled backwards in time. He explained to them that he had spoken

to Mrs Worthing at the Village Hall, and how he had been suspicious about the man she had

been speaking to. And, finally, he placed something on the table which he had pulled from

his pocket. The children looked at it and waited for him to continue.

“It’s a swastika,” he told them, turning the small metal pin over so that they could see the

image on the front. “It’s the symbol of the Nazis and means that you’re almost certainly right

about there being an invasion coming. Someone dropped it in the hall – I think it was

probably the man that Mrs Worthing was talking to.”

“Is she the posh bird what spoke to you yesterday?” asked Stella, curiously.

“The billeting officer. That’s right.”

Stella nodded. “I thought I recognised the voice,” she told him, a huge grin spreading over

her face. “That’s who was in the Kill Box.”

“Mrs Worthing?” Mr Rabbit’s jaw dropped. “Are you sure?”

“Snooty voice, like she was better than you. Bit stuck up. Really stuck up! Yeah, it was

definitely her.”

“But why?” Mr Rabbit didn’t understand. Why would Mrs Worthing be involved in a

German invasion? She must surely have seen what was happening on the continent – why

would she want that to happen here? He knew that there were people in Britain who hadn’t

wanted to go to war, people who had felt that words rather than actions could have ended the

conflict, but he hadn’t expected to find someone who would want Hitler to take control of the

whole of Europe. The Nazi leader’s ideas were so extreme that Mr Rabbit couldn’t believe

that people – even the German people who they were supposed to benefit – had been

invested in them but, he guessed, perhaps people would believe only what they wanted to

believe. And he knew, from years of teaching about it, that many people wanted to believe

that Hitler was only doing what was best for his people.

Even if it meant millions of people had to die to bring about his new world.

“Tell me what else you heard,” he asked them.

The children told him, in as much as they were able, everything that that had heard in the

Pillbox, concluding with the mysterious man heading off towards the cliff and his hiding

place. Mr Rabbit listened intently and then, when they had finished, closed his eyes for a

moment, in thought.

When he opened them again, the children were watching him expectantly.

“What are we going to do?” asked Gareth.

Mr Rabbit offered them a weak smile.

“You three are going to get washed up, ready for dinner,” he told them. “And we’ll talk

more about it before bed.”

“But –,“ the three children chimed, before Mr R cut them off.

“Go on,” he instructed them, pointing to the kitchen door. “I need to think about things for

a while.”

Slowly, reluctantly, the children filed out of the kitchen. Mr Rabbit listened as they

clumped heavily up the stairs and, when he heard a door slam somewhere above him, he

slumped into his chair.

What could he do?, he wondered. He was only a teacher and they were just children. Even

if they knew where the mysterious man was hiding, how exactly could they stop him and his

soldiers taking over St. Martin’s-Under-Lyme? Perhaps they could ask someone for help, he

thought, although he immediately questioned whether anyone even believe them if they told

them what they’d seen and heard. If he’d only had the children’s word to go on, he wouldn’t

have believed them – it was just lucky that he had seen what he had seen, and found what he

had found.

It was, he realised, an almost impossible situation.

Just then, the door opened and Mr Giles walked in, carrying a rather unpleasant looking

shotgun, draped over his arm, and a pair of rabbits in his other hand. He nodded at Mr Rabbit.

“How do, young fella,” he greeted the teacher, dropping the rabbits on the table between

them. “How has your day been?”

For a moment, Mr Rabbit considered telling the farmer the truth – that he and his three

children had uncovered a German plot to invade St. Martin’s-Under-Lyme. But, even as the

thought crossed his mind, he realised again how ridiculous it sounded.

Instead, he shrugged.

“It’s been okay,” he said, not looking up at the farmer. “Your wife sent the kids off on a

treasure hunt, so I had a bit of a walk, tried to familiarise myself with the area. I have an

awful sense of direction and really don’t want to keep getting lost if we’re going to be here

for a while so I went and had a look at the sea, walked down into the village and then …”

He tailed off as, finally, he realised that Mr Giles wasn’t listening.

He was, instead, looking at the small, metal pin badge that sat on the table between them.

“Wha’s that?” he demanded, his tone hard.

“I can explain …” Mr Rabbit began, but he stopped when the farmer lifted the shotgun

from his arm, and snapped it closed. The teacher’s face went white.

“I said what’s that?” Giles repeated.

This time, Mr Rabbit couldn’t speak. His eyes were locked on the horrific black hole that

stared at him from the end of the shotgun’s barrel.

“I’ll give you one more chance,” Mr Giles told him, the gun aimed squarely at his chest. “I

think it’s time you started talking!”

10.

Mr Rabbit raised his hands.

“It’s not mine,” he murmured through gritted teeth. “I found it in the Village Hall.”

Mr Giles lifted the shotgun a little higher. “And why would I believe that?” he asked, his

face dark.

“I don’t know. But it’s true.” He suddenly felt as if he were one of the children, summoned

to Mrs Hardacre’s office for a roasting about their behaviour. “It was behind the stage.

Someone had dropped it.”

“What were you doing in the Hall?” Mr Giles frowned, but Mr R noticed that he had

lowered the gun a little. “You said you’d been walking.”

Mr Rabbit nodded. “I have. But I noticed something last night when I went to see Mrs

Worthing, and so I went to have a look.” He quickly told Mr Giles exactly what had

happened, and what the children had seen and heard, leaving out none of the details. He knew

how far-fetched it sounded, but the gun pointed at his chest was most definitely an incentive

to tell the farmer the whole truth.

When he had finished his tale, he slumped back in his chair again and let his head fall on

his chest.

“That’s it,” he murmured, not looking up. “That’s the truth.”

The chair opposite him scraped across the floor, and Mr Rabbit looked up to see Giles

sitting down and placing the shotgun safely on the table between them. The farmer nodded.

“That,” he said, folding his arms across his chest, “is the most ridiculous story I’ve ever

heard.”

“But it’s true,” insisted Mr Rabbit.

Mr Giles nodded. “I reckon it is,” he agreed. “I don’t reckon that anyone would make up

something quite that stupid.”

“Thank you,” Mr Rabbit sighed, exhausted. “I think.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, neither one sure what else to say. They were finally

disturbed by what seemed to be the sound of tiny elephants coming down the stairs. The

kitchen door flew open and the three children burst in. Judging by how grubby both Gareth

and Martin still looked, Mr Rabbit suspected that they had entirely ignored his suggestion to

have a wash. He didn’t, though, have the energy to scold them for it.

“Mrs Giles will be back soon,” Mr Giles told them, as they gathered around the table,

looking at the rabbits and the shotgun. “She’ll have these little beauties in a pot and on the

table in no time.”

Stella’s face turned white. “We’re gonna eat those?” she asked, pointing at the rabbits.

“We are! We’ll have some in a stew and some in a pie. Very tasty.”

“But, it’s a bunny,” Stella protested.

“That’s right,” Mr Giles agreed. “And a very tasty bunny, too. Ain’t you never had

rabbit?”

All three children shook their heads.

“Well, you’re certainly in for a treat. Now, talking of bunnies, Mr Rabbit here tells me

you’ve had some excitement today?”

This time, all three heads turned towards their teacher, mouths open, eyes wide.

“It’s okay,” Mr Rabbit assured them. “We can trust Mr Giles.”

“That’s right,” the farmer agreed. “You can trust me. So,” he continued, winking

conspiratorially at them, “what are we going to do about these Nazis?”

*

There were many suggestions to answer Mr Giles’ question – Mr Rabbit’s particular

favourite was Gareth’s idea of freezing the North Sea so that the Germans couldn’t sail across

it – but by the time Mrs Giles had joined them in the kitchen, and begun skinning the rabbits,

they were no closer to finding a solution. They had managed to continue talking for a few

more minutes, but when the butcher’s knife had appeared and Mrs Giles had started to cut the

rabbits into pieces, Stella and Martin had begun to feel rather unwell and so Mr Giles had led

them all out into the barn. As they left, he joked with Mrs Giles that they would bring her

some rats back for breakfast.

Stella had not been amused.

They settled down on some hay bails in the barn and talk immediately turned back to their

dilemma – which, from Stella’s point of view, was a much better topic of conversation than

what dead animal they would be eating next.

“I think,” Mr Giles began, staring up at the ceiling of the barn and noting that there were

holes which he would need to patch before the autumn, “that we need to call the authorities

and let them know what’s happening.”

Mr Rabbit looked doubtful. “I’m not sure they’d believe us,” he said, sharing the thoughts

that he’d already had. “And even if they did, would there be enough time for them to do

anything about it? This is supposed to be happening tomorrow night, after all.”

“What about the soldiers from the village?” asked Martin, remembering what Mr Rabbit

had told them about his visit to the Pillbox that morning.

“The Home Guard?” Mr Giles asked.

Mr Rabbit nodded. “That’s right.”

“They might be able to help,” the farmer said, his voice not conveying any sense of

certainty. “But that Captain Stewart is a bit chummy with Mrs Worthing. I’m not sure he’d

accept that she were involved.”

“Don’t tell him about her, then,” Stella suggested. “We can deal with her ourselves.”

“And what do you have in mind,” her teacher asked, frowning.

“We find her, take her down and lock her up.”

“Take her down?” Mr Rabbit laughed. “And how do you propose doing that?”

“Mr G has a shotgun.”

“I’m not entirely comfortable with the idea of shooting her,” the teacher replied, a note of

panic creeping into his voice. “That might just be a little extreme.”

“We’d only need to shoot her in the leg,” Gareth said, joining in for the first time since his

frozen-sea solution. “The she wouldn’t be able to go anywhere!”

“We are not shooting anyone. And the next person who suggests it will stay in 1941 when

we finally go home!”

The children’s mouths suddenly clamped shut.

“Thank you,” continued Mr Rabbit. “I appreciate your input but it’s not really all that

helpful at the moment. What we need is a plan that means Mrs Worthing and whoever she

has been talking to are arrested, and that the Eagles –“

“Seagulls!”

“Beagles!”

“Illegals!”

“That the Eagles can’t land on British soil – or, if they do, are immediately driven back

into the North Sea.” He paused and looked at the children and Mr Giles. “We’re all agreed on

that, yes?”

They all nodded.

“I agree with you that we do need to inform the authorities, and I think having some help

from some of the locals would be really helpful, so Mr Giles, would you be able to organise

that?”

“I don’t know. As I said, Captain Stewart –“

“What if he had orders, telling him that it was an exercise?” Mr Rabbit suggested,

interrupting the farmer. Suddenly, an idea was forming in his mind. “If we could make him

believe that the orders came from whoever his superior officer is, then he’d have to follow

them, wouldn’t he?”

Mr Giles nodded.

“So, that’s the first thing we need to do. If I can get into the Post Office, I think I can

probably take care of that.”

“What about us?” asked Stella, her eyes twinkling with excitement.

“I have a plan,” he told them, leaning in and whispering as if someone might be listening.

“Listen very carefully – I shall say this only once!”

11.

It was sometime after midnight and the only light was from the moon.

Mr Rabbit and Gareth crouched low beside the Village Hall, dressed all in black – Mr and

Mrs Giles had been able to find them some old clothes to help them hide in the shadows –

and their faces covered by woollen hats which they had cut eye holes into. Gareth had crept

all the way from farm into the village, and Mr Rabbit could have sworn that he’d been

humming the theme from Mission Impossible the whole time. When he’d asked Gareth about

it, the boy had told him that he was a ninja, that the tune was his “ninja-ing music” and that,

if he wanted his help, he’d stop asking stupid questions. After that, Mr Rabbit had just left the

boy to it, trying not to laugh as he had ducked behind trees, crawled through long grass and

hidden in bushes, even when there was nothing to hide from. It had certainly kept them both

amused, albeit for very different reasons.

They had been crouching by the Hall for almost five minutes, making sure that they were

alone. Gareth was impatient to get on, Mr Rabbit could tell, but it was vital to his plan that

they weren’t discovered and so he kept his hand on the boy’s shoulder, holding him back

from charging headlong across the Green. Despite his obvious desire to play the silent

assassin, Gareth had nearly given the game away when they had first reached the green,

rushing straight towards the Post Office without thinking about who might be watching. If Mr

Rabbit hadn’t grabbed him and pulled him into the shadows surrounding the Village Hall, he

would have stumbled right into the Air Raid Warden, who was just finishing what the teacher

guessed was probably his last patrol of the night. They had waited for the man to disappear,

and then Mr Rabbit had insisted, in a quiet whisper, that they wait another couple of minutes

to make sure he wasn’t coming back. Gareth had frowned and grumbled something about his

teacher being no fun, but had waited nonetheless.

When the coast was finally clear enough to satisfy Mr Rabbit, the two of them crept out

from behind the bush and, almost on tiptoes, stealthily made their way across the green until

they stood outside the Post Office. Gareth crouched down by the door, reaching for

something from his pocket, whilst Mr Rabbit stood behind him, continuing to watch for

anyone who may have been out for an admittedly unusual midnight stroll. It was, he

reflected, lucky that Gareth was here. Although Mr Rabbit was quite used to being a lookout

– every day, a different member of staff was posted on guard at the door of the staffroom to

warn of approaching children or, more importantly, Mrs Hardacre – he didn’t have much

experience of breaking and entering. It seemed, however, that it was a subject that was very

close to Gareth’s heart.

While Mr Rabbit had been explaining his plan to Mr Giles and the children, he had noticed

Gareth’s eyes light up when he had mentioned that he would need to break into the Post

Office, but it hadn’t been until they were sitting eating their dinner that Stella had pulled him

aside and, in an urgent whisper, explained to him that he really needed to take Gareth with

him. Gareth’s Dad and Uncle, she told him, were famous (although Mr Rabbit preferred to

think of them as infamous) for their lock picking skills. Many were the times, she went on,

that they had been picked up by the police to discuss how certain buildings – both on the

local estate and in the shopping centre – had been entered and had precious and expensive

items removed from within. Such was their skill, however, that neither of them had ever been

arrested or charged with anything. This, apparently, was something worthy of respect and

Stella had told him almost as if it were a badge of honour.

Mr Rabbit had listened to her tale with a scowl of disapproval.

“And,” he had asked, “what is the point of this tale of criminal enterprise?”

Stella had winked at him. “It’s a family business,” she explained. “They pass the skills

down through the family. Gruff’s Grandad taught his Dad and Uncle. Gruff’s Uncle taught

his son. And …”

And Mr Rabbit had realised exactly why she was telling him this. Gareth’s Dad had passed

his skills onto Gareth. And if Gareth was half as skilled as his father …

“You’ll be in and out of that Post Office without anyone knowing,” Stella had continued.

“Do you reckon you could do that?”

Mr Rabbit had been forced to admit that his own lock picking skills would likely have

involved both his shoulder and his great weight being thrown against the door, and that

Gareth’s abilities would come in very handy. When he’d asked for the boy’s help, Gareth had

been incredibly excited and clearly, as he worked at the lock with a pair of tweezers and a

hairpin, the excitement hadn’t faded.

It was only a matter of moments before there was a click and the door swung quietly open.

“We’re in, Mr R!” Gareth exclaimed, slapping his hand over his mouth when he

remembered that he was supposed to have been keeping quiet. “Sorry!” he whispered.

Mr Rabbit grinned. “Well done, Gareth,” he told the boy, ruffling his hair as he stepped

round him. “Now it’s your turn to keep watch.”

Leaving Gareth in the doorway, Mr Rabbit crept into the Post Office, pulling out his phone

and switching on the Torch App so that he could see what he was doing. In some ways, it felt

more wrong to be illuminating the small room than it had breaking in, but the teacher tried to

ignore his feelings of guilt and focus on the task ahead.

The Post Office was not huge and Mr Rabbit had crossed the gap between door and

counter with only a handful of small steps. He opened the door that led behind the counter,

which was mercifully unlocked, and then shone the torch light over the shelves and

cupboards that filled the narrow space. He ran the beam of light along the counter itself. He

even illuminated the floor in front of him. Still, though, he couldn’t see the telegraph

machine. He could feel his calm beginning to desert him more rapidly than a packet of

biscuits disappeared from the staff room. Without the telegraph machine, he couldn’t print

out orders for Captain Stewart, which would mean that there would be no soldiers on the cliff

side when the German invasion force landed. His whole plan was based on this. He couldn’t

believe that it was going to fall at the first hurdle.

He waved the torch around in a panic, its light banishing the shadows from every corner of

the tiny shop, but still he couldn’t see the machine he was looking for.

Suddenly, he heard the door click shut and he swung the torch round until it shone in

Gareth’s no longer excited, but rather scared, face.

“Someone’s coming!” the boy hissed, throwing himself dramatically to the floor and

crawling across the dusty floorboards, until he was hidden just beneath the windowsill. If

anyone peered in, they would be hard pushed to see him there, but they would easily see Mr

Rabbit who was still standing behind the counter in plain view. It took him a moment to

realise the danger he was in, but as soon as he did, he moved. His heart racing, he ducked

quickly down behind the counter and lay flat on his ample stomach – it was only when he

was safely hidden that he remembered to turn off the torch.

Just as he extinguished the light, there was a rattling at the door and, then, voices.

“There was a light in there, I swear!”

“You’re imagining it, Fred! It was probably the moon on the glass. Why would someone

be in the Post Office in the middle of the night?”

“I dunno. Maybe they’ve got something urgent they need to send.”

“Like what?”

“Perhaps it’s someone’s birthday tomorrow.”

“So?”

“So, they want the birthday card to get there in time.”

“I reckon they’d have to have sent it weeks ago if they wanted it there for tomorrow. You

know what the post’s like at the moment. You’re lucky if anything gets where you want it to

go at all. And that’s not just because old Dotty Worthing’s got other things on her mind!”

“What’s that then, George? Are you talking about that bloke you reckon you saw her

with?”

“That’s it. Right handsome fella he was, tall, blond hair, military bearing.”

The voices began to fade, and Mr Rabbit guessed they were finally moving away from the

door. He risked kneeling up and peering over the top of the counter.

“Who do you reckon he is?”

“I dunno. Not seen him around here before.”

And then they were gone.

“Blimey,” murmured Gareth. “That was close.”

His heart was still racing but Mr Rabbit managed to nod.

“Have you found the machine, yet?” asked Gareth, crawling over to the counter and using

it to pull himself up. “We should probably get a move on in case those geezers come back.”

Mr Rabbit couldn’t believe quite how calm Gareth was being. They had nearly been

caught breaking into the Post Office which, during war time, was definitely punishable with

something much worse than the Red Card he would have received at school, and all the boy

could think of was finishing the job they had come to do. Perhaps nerves of steel ran in his

family – or maybe it was just the ability to steal which was hereditary. Mr Rabbit looked

along the counter and then at Gareth.

“I don’t know where it is,” he confessed, a hint of panic rising in his tone. “I thought it

would be –“

He stopped suddenly and his eyes widened. There, right in front of him, resting on a small

shelf just below the counter top, sat the telegraph machine.

“Actually,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief, “forget that. It’s right here.”

12.

It took Mr Rabbit about half an hour to work out the basics of how the telegraph machine

worked but once he had figured it out he was able to quickly send a message. He and Mr

Giles had decided that it would need to be simple, but equally clear enough to get Captain

Stewart and the Home Guard in position before the German forces began to land on the

beach. Finally, they had agreed on:

To: Captain Stewart

From: General K. N. O. Ledge VC MBE

Manoeuvres to begin March 16 14:00 hours Stop Full unit

presence required Stop Live ammunition to be used Stop

Defences to be manned Stop

As soon as it was sent, Mr Rabbit and Gareth slipped out of the Post Office – Gareth

making sure that the door was locked behind them – and then, once off the Village Green,

they made their way back to the farm, taking care to both avoid bumping into any further

patrols and to make sure that they weren’t being followed. By the time they reached the

rickety wooden gate, the first rays of sun were beginning to turn their surroundings from

black to grey.

Mr Giles, Stella and Martin were already up and waiting for them in the kitchen.

“’Ow did it go?” asked Mr Giles, pouring Mr Rabbit a cup of tea and passing a glass of

water to Gareth. “Did you get it done?”

Mr Rabbit began to tell the story but clearly wasn’t doing a good enough job of it because

Gareth soon took over, explaining in great detail just how he had saved the day when the Air

Raid Wardens had almost caught them, then how scared Mr Rabbit had been – “I know

rabbits are supposed to be good at running,” he had told them, “but he would have beaten

Usain Bolt!” – and finally how the teacher “couldn’t see past the end of his nose” when he’d

been looking for the telegraph machine.

Stella laughed. “My Dad does that,” she said, punching Mr Rabbit in what she probably

thought was a friendly way but which really hurt. “He looks all over the place for something

and it’s always there, right in front of him. It must be his age,” she concluded.

Mr Rabbit offered her a sarcastic smile. “Thank you, Stella!” he said, before taking a sip of

his tea. “It’s over to you and Martin now. Do you remember what to do?”

Stella nodded, but Martin’s face was the very picture of confusion.

“Are we going to milk the cows?” he asked, and he sounded even more confused than he

looked.

His mouth dropped open and Mr Rabbit was about to say something entirely rude and

inappropriate for the ears of his three pupils when Stella held a hand up and stopped him.

“Don’t worry, Mr R,” she told him, confidently. “I’ll explain on the way."

*

Stella knocked hesitantly on the door and then, when there was no answer, hammered on it

with her fist. When the door remained resolutely unopened, Martin stepped up and the two of

them used both their fists to bang and their feet to kick at the white door.

Eventually, from somewhere inside, they heard the heavy sound of footsteps and then a

weary voice.

“I’m coming,” it called, before the children heard a key turn in the lock and the door

slowly opened. Dressed in blue-striped cotton pyjamas and a very heavy looking navy

dressing gown, Mr Worthing did not look pleased to have been woken at seven o’clock on a

Sunday morning.

“Can I help you?” he asked as politely as he could.

“We need Mrs Worthing!” Stella announced, pushing past him and into the house. “It’s

really urgent,” she continued.

Martin followed her in, barging past Mr Worthing and crashing open a door which led into

a very neatly presented lounge. “We need her help!”

Mr Worthing yawned. “It’s seven o’clock in the morning,” he complained, wearily rubbing

at his eyes. “Could it not wait for another hour?”

Stella was suddenly in his face. “No!” she yelled, her face turning red. “It’s important. Our

friend needs her help!”

“He’s fallen down a mine!” Martin gasped.

Stella turned and scowled at him.

“No, Martin, he hasn’t,” she said firmly, her eyes boring into him. “He’s fallen over and

hurt his leg.”

“Yeah,” Martin agreed. “That!”

Mr Worthing frowned at them. “Who did you say you were?” he asked.

“I’m Stella and this is Martin. We arrived yesterday!”

“Oh yes. The children who were late” He yawned again. “Just wait here a moment and I’ll

fetch my wife.”

He left them alone in the lounge and the children listened as he stomped back up the stairs.

For a moment, there was silence and then they heard the sound of voices, talking quietly at

first, but then becoming clearer as the voices became raised. Finally, they heard footsteps

coming back down the stairs and Mrs Worthing burst into the room.

“What exactly is the meaning of this?” she demanded furiously, her face red, her hair

sticking up all over the place. The children had obviously woken her up and she looked

completely discombobulated – which was exactly what they had hoped for.

“Gareth’s fallen and hurt his leg,” Stella explained breathlessly, trying to add as much

drama to her tone as possible. “Mr Rabbit and Mr Giles said we needed to get you. They

don’t know what to do. They said only you would know what to do!”

Mrs Worthing pulled her pink dressing gown tightly around her.

“Where are they now?” she asked, her voice a little calmer than before.

“They’re at the –“ Martin began but Stella punched him hard on the arm. He yelped.

“They’re in the Village Hall,” she said, glaring again at her friend. “They said we had to

get you and take you there.”

“What precisely do they expect me to do?”

Mrs Worthing may have calmed down a little but she still didn’t seem like she was going

to budge. It was, Stella concluded, time to butter her up. It was a skill she had developed over

the years by watching her Mum. Whenever her Mum wanted to buy herself something nice,

or wanted Stella’s Dad to do something for her, or needed a little bit of time to find the rent

for the landlord, she would turn on the charm and, Stella had noticed, it had almost always

worked. She had, therefore, started trying it with the teachers at school. When she didn’t have

her homework, she’d tell Miss Grainger that her hair looked particularly lovely, and she’d get

a two day extension on the deadline; when she was late for school, she’d be absolutely certain

that Mrs Barlow would understand because she was the most kind and caring teacher in the

school; and when she wanted to stay in at lunchtime, rather than going out in the drizzle,

she’d tell whoever would listen that they were so much better at being a midday supervisor

than any of the other ladies. It didn’t matter what the situation was – there was always a

compliment that would deal with it.

“They said that you were the only person experienced enough to deal with it,” Stella told

Mrs Worthing, her voice almost sickly sweet. “You deal with all of the evacuees and they

wouldn’t want to do anything that you hadn’t authorised. Only you, they said, would know

exactly what to do and how to do it.”

Mrs Worthing’s creased brow uncreased and she offered up what can only be described as

a smug smile. “They are right, of course,” she murmured. Then, “Wait outside, I’ll get

dressed and you can take me to this injured child!”

Stella smiled a very satisfied smile as Mrs Worthing hurried out of the lounge and back up

the stairs.

*

Fifteen minutes later, Martin and Stella led Mrs Worthing into the Village Hall. She had

put on a long black dress, a purple, knitted cardigan and had quickly run a brush through her

hair.

“Where is he then?” she demanded, noting to her surprise the empty hall.

Stella pointed to the curtains that hung at the rear of the stage.

“Back there,” she said, taking the woman’s hand and pulling her across the floor.

Martin grabbed her other hand. “Yeah,” he agreed. “She’s back there.”

“She?” began Mrs Worthing, but before she had a chance to say anymore, she was being

dragged around the side of the stage and through the door which led behind it. As the door

closed behind them, Martin dropped Mrs Worthing’s hand and moved behind her, while

Stella continued dragging her on.

At the very back of the stage, hidden behind some old cardboard palm trees and wooden

pyramids was a door. It stood open, revealing … well, very little. There was no light beyond

the door and, apart from a doorway, Mrs Worthing could see very little. Nonetheless, Stella

pointed to the doorway and dragged the woman towards it.

“He’s in here!” she insisted.

But Mrs Worthing no longer looked convinced. When she had seen the empty hall, she had

become wary of the children’s claims – now, with what could only be called a cupboard

standing open before her, she became blatantly suspicious. Almost disbelieving, in fact.

She stood still and stared down at Stella.

“Are you trying to tell me,” she demanded, “that your friend, Mr Giles and Mr Rabbit are

in there?”

Stella nodded eagerly.

“And why on earth would I believe that? It’s tiny. They would not fit!”

“What if I told you it was a TARDIS?” Stella asked her.

“A what?”

“You know, a time machine. Dimensionally transcendental.”

“I have no idea what you are saying,” hissed Mrs Worthing, her suspicion becoming

impatience.

“What are you? Thick or something?” Martin moved towards her, shaking his head. “It

means,” he told her, suddenly breaking into a run, dropping his shoulder and barging her into

the cupboard, “that its bigger on the inside than the outside!”

And with that, he slammed the door shut and turned the key, locking it.

13.

Martin and Stella stumbled through the kitchen door, unable to control their laughter.

“What’s so funny?” asked Gareth, feeling as if he was missing out on something. He had

enjoyed sneaking into the Post Office with Mr Rabbit, but was a little put out that he hadn’t

been allowed to go with the other children.

“She wouldn’t go into the cupboard,” giggled Stella, “so Martin shoulder tackled her! If I

hadn’t been there, he probably would have dropped an elbow on her and gone for the pin!”

All three children were big wrestling fans, but Martin in particular devoured all of the

professional wrestling that he could find on his television. His favourite wrestler went by the

name of ‘The Stone’, an enormously muscled behemoth who specialised in shoulder tackles

and whose finishing move was an elbow drop from the top rope. Martin had been practising

these moves (both in and out of school, against the recommendations of the wrestling

promotions) and had been very pleased that he had finally been able to use at least one of

them in real life. The language coming from inside the cupboard, where they had left Mrs

Worthing, suggested that she hadn’t been quite as pleased.

“So, she’s all locked up?” asked Mr Rabbit, passing the two children glasses of water.

They nodded as they drank.

“We locked the cupboard and all the doors to the Hall,” Stella explained, wiping her

mouth. “And then we stuck the signs on the doors, like you asked.”

Mr Rabbit had drawn, on large pieces of paper, signs which read ‘Danger! Home Guard

exercises taking place! Keep clear!” He hoped that, when attached to the Village Hall doors,

they would discourage people from entering to investigate what the screaming from within

might be about. There was no guarantee that they would work, of course, but they only

needed Mrs Worthing out of the way for a few hours and this might just give them that

chance.

“Well done, fingers crossed that will give us the time we need.” Mr Rabbit looked at Mr

Giles. “Are we ready for the next stage?” he asked.

The farmer laid his shotgun on the table and placed some small red tubes next to it. “I’ve

loaded these with salt, like you asked,” he said, pointing to the shotgun shells. “I’m still not

sure –“

“It’s just safer with the children around,” the teacher explained patiently (and for about the

fifteenth time). “Hopefully, we won’t even have to use them. The gun itself should be enough

to scare off whoever Mrs Worthing’s friend turns out to be.”

Mr Giles nodded. “So, are we off to the beach, then?”

Gareth’s eyes lit up. “Are we going to the beach?” he asked.

“We’re going to the beach,” Mr Rabbit replied, pointing first to himself and then to Mr

Giles. “You three are staying here with Mrs Giles.”

“Aw, that’s not fair!” grumbled Gareth.

“I’ve never been to the beach,” complained Stella.

“I wanted to make sandwiches!” Martin added.

“Castles,” Mr Rabbit corrected.

“Eh?”

“You wanted to make sandcastles. At the beach.”

“No,” Martin said, shaking his head. “I wanted to make sandwiches for a picnic at the

beach. You can’t eat castles.”

“Very true, Martin.” Mr Rabbit smiled. “Perhaps we’ll have a beach picnic after we’ve

driven back a German officer invasion.”

*

The two men stood at the foot of the cliff and Mr Giles pointed along the beach.

“There are a lot of caves just along the coast,” he explained, nervously fiddling with the

shotgun that hung over his arm. “Seems to me that might be a good place to hide.”

Mr Rabbit agreed. He had been trying to come up with an idea as to where Mrs Worthing’s

friend might be hiding but without local knowledge – and he had absolutely none of that,

given he had been in East Anglia and 1941 for a little bit over thirty six hours – he hadn’t

been able to come up with anything. He really ought to have asked Mr Giles for his opinion

in the first place but, as a Primary School teacher, delegating anything wasn’t something that

he was very good at.

Silently, the two of them trudged along the beach, constantly scanning the horizon for

boats, and the clifftop for any signs of movement. Mr Rabbit could feel the sand beginning to

fill his Converse and began to think that perhaps Mrs Hardacre had been right about his

choice of footwear when she had rather forcefully suggested that he buy a pair of ‘sensible’

shoes. If he’d been wearing a nice pair of leather loafers, he reflected, he probably wouldn’t

be feeling quite as uncomfortable and there likely wouldn’t be grains of sand slipping

between his toes and causing an horrific amount of irritation. He could almost hear his

Headteacher’s voice somewhere at the back of his mind, making sure that he knew she had

been right.

He ought not complain, though – he knew that it could have been so much worse.

Somewhere on the other side of the sea, there were tens of thousands of men marching across

Europe, not just wearing ill-fitting boots, but fighting and dying in the mud, hundreds of

miles away from their family and friends, unsure if they would ever see home again. He

knew how that felt, at least. He was stuck here, almost eighty years in his past, not sure

whether he or the three children would ever get home, and he had no idea what he would do

if they couldn’t find a way back. Could he really be responsible for these three children’s

upbringing? Did he have the energy and, more importantly, the patience to cope with them?

He wasn’t sure of the answers to either question and hoped that he would never have to find

out.

Instead of worrying about it, he concentrated on what he would do when they found the

man who had become known to them as ‘Mrs Worthing’s friend’. The plan that he had

concocted relied entirely upon this man – most likely a member of the German officer

military – being scared off by the presence of a teacher and a farmer, and his squad of highly

trained soldiers turning back when they saw a small group of elderly men, dressed in second

hand uniforms and brandishing an array of unusual weaponry. It seemed unlikely, now that

he really thought about it, that trained soldiers would let something so ridiculous put them off

and that it was much more likely that they would simply eliminate – he preferred the

ambiguousness of the word ‘eliminate’ to the more direct ‘kill in cold blood’ – the problem.

Again, he was pinning everything on his faith that things would work out and keeping his

fingers (and toes) firmly crossed.

Eventually, and without incident, they reached a small, rocky cove and Mr Giles pointed

out the darker areas in the rocks which concealed the caves. Some, he explained, were far too

shallow to hide in; others were mostly submerged beneath the water for up to twenty hours a

day and so no-one could have been in those; but there were two or three which remained dry

and were deep enough to provide a reasonable measure of shelter. It was there that they

would start their search.

Cautiously picking their way across the rocks, Mr Giles and Mr Rabbit made their way

towards the caves – again, the Converse proved to be entirely inadequate to the task of

keeping Mr R’s feet dry and, by the time, they reached the first dark entrance, his socks were

soggy and his feet cold. He ignored the discomfort and followed Mr Giles into the cave,

switching on his phone and turning on the torch app once more to illuminate their way. Mr

Giles frowned at the phone.

“What’s that?” he asked in a whisper.

“It’s … erm … just a torch,” Mr Rabbit stuttered in response. He had forgotten that Mr

Giles wouldn’t have seen this kind of thing before. He thought fast. “All the teachers who are

evacuated are given one … erm … in case we lose the children during a blackout.”

It was a very poor explanation, but Mr Giles didn’t seem to be bothered. He peered into the

shadows and declared that there was no-one there and that they should move onto the next

cave.

It was the same story in the next cave but, in the third, it became clear very quickly that

someone had been camped out in there – cosying up to the seagulls which had clearly nested

there at some point – for quite some time. There was a sleeping bag rolled up neatly and

rested on top of a rock; a neat stack of unopened cans stood against one of the wall; some

empty cans had been thrown into one corner; and there was an awful smell, caused by what

Mr Rabbit could only imagine was where Mrs Worthing’s friend had been using a part of the

cave as a toilet. There was, however, no sign of the man himself.

“What do we do now, then?” asked Mr Giles, shifting the shotgun from one arm to the

other. “Do we wait here or go and look for him?”

Mr Rabbit shrugged. He still wasn’t sure how all of this had become his responsibility but

he knew that he now had an obligation to deal with it.

“I don’t really know,” he confessed. “If we stay here, he might not come back – he might

already be out there, helping his team come ashore. But, if we go and he comes back, we

might miss our chance to catch him.” He thought for a moment. “Perhaps one of us should go

and look and the other stay here? Cover both bases, so to speak.”

“Aye,” Mr Giles agreed. “Sounds like a sensible idea. I know the land, so –“

“If you know the land,” a faintly accented voice interrupted him, “then you will be very

useful to me!”

14.

Both men turned towards the voice.

A tall figure loomed in the cave entrance, his features hidden in shadow. He raised a hand

and beckoned them towards him.

“You!” he spat, pointing towards Mr Giles. “You will come with me and act as guide when

my men land. And you …” – he pointed at Mr Rabbit – “… you will stay here.”

The figure stepped into the cave and Mr Rabbit’s torchlight lit up his face. He was a

middle-aged man, his face almost as grey as the uniform he wore, his hair – obviously once

blond – now a fading white. The lines on his face – which were not dissimilar to those on Mr

Rabbit’s – suggested that he didn’t smile very often. He certainly wasn’t smiling now.

“How are you going to make me do that?” asked the teacher. “It’s not like you can lock me

in.”

“No,” the man said, reaching for something at his waist and then aiming it at Mr Rabbit.

“But I don’t need to lock you in if I just shoot you.”

It became suddenly clear what it was that the man was holding. Mr Rabbit shrank back.

“I’ll just wait here, then,” he murmured, lifting his hands above his head.

“Put down the weapon,” the man commanded Mr Giles, gesturing at the shotgun. He took

another step into the cave and this time pointed his own gun at the farmer. “I don’t think you

will be quick enough to use it, anyway.”

Mr Giles’ face went red as he struggled to control his temper, but he slowly crouched and

placed the shotgun on the damp stone floor nonetheless.

“Thank you.” The man moved further into the cave, still keeping some distance between

himself, Mr Rabbit and Mr Giles. “Now, if you do not mind, my men will begin arriving

soon, and I would like to be there to meet them.” He stepped behind Mr Giles and picked up

the shotgun. “We need to get to the rendezvous point to ensure their safe landing. I believe

the phrase you English use is ‘after you’.”

He laughed, as he used the barrel of the shotgun to push the farmer forward.

As Mr Giles hesitantly moved towards the entrance, Mr Rabbit stayed in the shadows at

the back of the cave. His worst fears – that a teacher and a farmer would be outmanoeuvred

by the German officer – had been realised, but he couldn’t help thinking that there must still

be something that he could do to turn things round. The German officer couldn’t concentrate

on both of them, especially after he left the cave with Mr Giles, and so if he waited patiently

he could, perhaps, follow them from a distance and then … pounce? It sounded ridiculous in

his head and he was pretty certain that it would be just as ridiculous in reality, but what else

could he do?

Mr Rabbit took a few stealthy steps towards them. The German officer either didn’t notice

or didn’t care. He continued to push Mr Giles out of the cave.

As he stepped out onto the rocks, however, Mr Giles stopped and slowly turned to face the

German officer.

“I don’t think you should do this,” he said, trying to sound brave but his voice faltering. He

glanced off to his right, almost as if he couldn’t bear to look at the man in front of him.

“Someone will get hurt.”

“Shut up!” barked the German officer, stepping out of the cave and onto the rocks. “You

will do as I say!”

As the words left his mouth, something hit him hard in the ribs, sending him stumbling

across the rocks, both the shotgun and his own pistol knocked from his hands. Mr Rabbit

watched on, open mouthed, as Martin leaped onto the German officer’s back, wrapping one

arm around his head and the other around his neck – a move which he recognised as a classic

Sleeper Hold. Even as Martin applied the hold, Stella and Gareth joined him in the fray.

Stella used a length of wood – it looked uncannily like one of Mr Giles’ fence posts – to

strike the German officer hard in the stomach, while Gareth waited until she was clear to

launch several hard kicks to the man’s thighs and then groin area.

The German officer sank heavily to his knees, a pained groan escaping him, and Mr Rabbit

could see Martin tightening his hold. For a moment, he left the boy to his own devices and

then, satisfied that the German officer had been subdued, he stepped forward and touched

Martin’s shoulder. The boy glared at him, growling, but finally relaxed his grip on the man’s

throat.

The German officer slumped forward and lay panting on the rocks. Mr Giles pointed the

pistol, which he had retrieved from a nearby rock pool, at his back.

“What will you do now?” the man hissed.

“Make sure that your soldiers don’t land,” replied Mr Rabbit, absent-mindedly patting

Martin on the head. The boy’s fierce expression slowly faded, replaced by a smug grin.

Gareth and Stella’s expressions were remarkably similar.

“And then,” he continued, mirroring their smiles, “we’ll hand you over to the authorities.”

*

Mr Rabbit led the way across the rocks and onto the beach, the three children happily

trailing along behind him. Mr Giles brought up the rear, dragging the German officer through

the sand until they reached what he claimed was the rendezvous point. Surprisingly, it was

directly below the pill box.

“Do you think they’re up there?” Mr Rabbit asked, looking up at the cliff top. He glanced

at his watch. “It’s almost time.”

The farmer lifted his eyes from the German officer. “I reckon they ought to be,” he replied

nervously, even now not sure that their plan would work. “If they’re not, we’re done for.”

“You don’t even know if your troops are assembled!” the German officer laughed bitterly.

He struggled against the ropes which Mr Giles had used to bind his hands, but to no avail.

“Soon, you will be in chains and I will be –“

To everyone’s surprise, Stella kicked him in the back.

“Shut up, Heinz!” she spat.

“Heinz?” muttered Martin. “Does he make the beans?”

“I don’t know, Martin. It’s just a name cos he’s German.”

“How do you know that’s his name, just because he’s German?”

Stella sighed. “I just do, Martin, okay?”

“I quite fancy some beans,” Gareth chimed in. “On toast.”

“Oh, yeah, that’d be great.” Martin licked his lips. “With loads of brown sauce!”

“Do these children ever stop talking?” the German officer shouted, his eyes blazing. “Their

incessant prattling is enough to drive anyone mad! They are idiots!”

Mr Rabbit knelt down beside him and looked him straight in the eyes. “That may well be

true,” he whispered, offering up a small smile. “But they’re my idiots and I haven’t given you

permission to comment. So, as Stella said, shut up!”

The German officer glowered at him but did as he was told and shut up.

Moments later, Gareth tugged Mr Rabbit’s sleeve.

“What’s that noise?” he asked.

Mr R listened.

Somewhere, out on the water, he could hear the sound of a motor.

“Is that them?” asked Mr Giles, looking down at the German officer.

He didn’t answer.

“You heard the man,” Gareth growled, leaning in until he was face to face with the officer.

“Is that them?”

Mr Rabbit put a hand on Gareth’s shoulder. “Could we all stop intimidating the German,

please? If I’ve taught you nothing else,” he continued, leading the boy away, “I’d like to

think that you’ve learned that violence should only be used as a last resort. Europe is ablaze

at the moment only because people couldn’t resolve things through talking. No-one wanted

the war – certainly no-one will ever want another one – but words just wouldn’t work.” He

turned to Mr Giles. “So, if he doesn’t answer the question next time, you can shoot him.”

Mr Giles lifted the pistol.

It had the desired effect.

“Yes,” blurted out the German officer. “Yes! It is them. They are on schedule.”

“Thank you.” Mr Rabbit smiled. “Now, you need to stand up.”

“Why?”

Mr Rabbit looked thoughtfully at him. “Because,” he said, “your Eagles need to see that

you’re our prisoner. They need to know that they can’t mess with us. They need to

understand what happens when you try to invade our country. Then perhaps they’ll go home

and leave us alone.”

Slowly, reluctantly, the German officer clambered to his feet. Mr Guiles stood on one side

of him, the pistol pointed towards him. On the other side stood Mr Rabbit, the shotgun

cradled in his arms. A metre or two in front of them, stood the three children, arms folded

across their chests. If he had been able, Mr Rabbit would have insisted on a selfie.

The dark, menacing shape of a boat appeared on the horizon, small at first but growing

larger as it moved towards them. On its deck, they could see soldiers crouching, rifles at the

ready, aimed at the beach. It was unmarked, no flags were flying from it, but even from this

distance, they could see that it meant trouble. Mr Rabbit swallowed hard, even as a smile

began to appear on the face of the German officer.

And then, from somewhere high above them, there came the roar of voices. Mr R, Mr

Giles and the three children looked up and there, standing just back from the edge of the cliff,

their rifles raised and pointed out to sea, were the St. Martin’s-Under-Lyme Home Guard.

For a moment, the boat continued towards the shore, undaunted by the troops amassed atop

the cliff. But then a machine gun rattled. With a fine spray of water from its rear, the boat

turned slowly but surely and headed back out to sea.

As a cheer erupted from the cliff top, the officer dropped to his knees, his face buried in his

hands.

Mr Giles nodded at Mr Rabbit.

“Well done, young fella,” he said, a huge grin all over his face. “I take my hat off to you.”

“Thank you,” Mr Rabbit replied, suddenly feeling all the tension of the last few minutes

flooding out of him. His shoulders slumped and, for a second, he thought he might be sick.

Then, it was gone and he smiled back at Mr Giles. “I think the kids should take most of the

credit, though. It wouldn’t have worked without them.”

Stella, Martin and Gareth laughed. “We won!”

“We did indeed,” Mr Rabbit agreed. He was about to offer them all high-fives, when Mr

Giles reached out and took his arm. Quietly, he led the teacher slightly apart from the

children.

“Just one thing,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“You didn’t really want me to shoot him, did you?” Mr Giles asked, frowning.

“God, no,” Mr Rabbit answered, breathing a very deep sigh of relief. “I was almost wetting

myself at the thought that he wouldn’t tell us what we wanted to know!”

15.

Mr Giles led them all back up to the top of the cliff, where they were greeted by Captain

Stewart and his Home Guard. They looked surprised to see the teacher and his three pupils,

but even more shocked at the bound German officer they were dragging reluctantly behind

them. The Captain stepped forward, a serious look on his face.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, his face beginning to turn pink. “You shouldn’t

be in this area – it’s been reserved for military manoeuvres. Giles?”

He looked at Mr Giles with a frown.

“You shouldn’t be bringing civilians to an exercise. Why aren’t you in uniform? And who

is that?” He pointed at the German officer.

Mr Giles was about to answer, but Mr Rabbit stopped him. “We snuck out early this

morning,” he explained, thinking quickly. “We wanted to see the beach – the children haven’t

seen it before, you see, because they’ve spent all their lives in London. When Mr Giles

noticed that we were gone, he guessed where we probably were and came down to tell us we

shouldn’t be here. He was just escorting us back to the farm when we heard your guns.”

Mr Giles nodded. He had heard enough to be able to add his own part of the explanation.

“I made them take cover until the firing was over, sir,” he continued, “and then I was just

taking them home now.”

The Captain wasn’t completely satisfied. He looked again at the man in the German

uniform. “You still haven’t told me who that is.”

For a moment, Mr Rabbit was stumped. He should just tell him the truth – that their

prisoner was a German officer who had been leading an invasion, that they had captured him

and that he, and his co-conspirator Mrs Worthing – needed to be taken into military custody

immediately. It was the most obvious thing to do, and the most sensible. The officer was a

danger to the safety of the country and Mrs Worthing had worked with him – they both

needed to be punished in some way for what they had done. But if he did tell that the truth, he

didn’t think the Captain would believe him – he hardly believed it himself – and then both the

German and Mrs Worthing would probably be released and left to make another attempt.

He opened and closed his mouth several times, unsure exactly what to say.

Finally, Stella spoke.

“He was in the caves,” she said, glaring at the others and almost daring them to interrupt

her. “He doesn’t speak any English, but we reckon he was washed up from a shipwreck or

something. Maybe they were trying to get here in a boat that got sunk and he swam the rest of

the way.”

Mr Rabbit’s eyes widened. It wasn’t the most convincing story he had ever heard but it

was certainly better than anything he could have come up with at such short notice.

And then she continued.

“We thought that maybe you could take him wherever he needs to go.” She almost batted

her eyelids. “You seem like a very clever bloke and would know exactly what to do with a

German soldier.”

The Captain blushed at the flattery but accepted it without comment.

“We’ll just leave him with you then, shall we, sir?” Mr Giles asked.

The Captain nodded, still a little flustered. After a moment, though, he looked at Giles.

“You should have been with us for the exercise,” he insisted.

“I know, sir. But I thought protecting the civilians was more important. And when we

found him …” Giles gestured towards the man in the German uniform and left the sentence

unfinished.

“Humph.” The Captain clearly wasn’t happy, but what else could he say? The whole point

of the Home Guard was to offer protection to the people who hadn’t gone to war – he could

hardly complain that one of his troops had made sure that the lives of four people weren’t in

danger. “Well, leave him in our custody,” he continued, “and get them out of here. I’ll make

sure he’s handed over to the relevant authorities and that your presence here isn’t mentioned

in my report.”

Of course, Mr Rabbit thought with a small smile. Because they weren’t supposed to be

there, he could leave them out of his report – so that he wouldn’t get into trouble for not

realising they were there. He would then also be able to take credit for capturing the German

officer, who would probably be thought of as a spy. No-one needed to know that he hadn’t

actually captured the man, nor did they need to know that it had been an evacuated teacher,

three school children – and a farmer.

The Captain might even get a medal out of it, if he played his cards right.

Mr Giles didn’t seem to mind, though. He simply saluted and said, “Thank you, sir,” in a

polite tone. Then, pushing the German officer towards the small group of Home Guard

troops, he led Mr Rabbit and the children away across the field.

When they were far enough away for the soldiers not to be able to hear they were just

passing the pill box, in fact, which the soldiers had deserted almost as soon as they had driven

back the approaching boat – Mr Rabbit patted Stella on the back. “That was quick thinking,”

he told her.

“Thanks, Mr R,” she grinned.

Then, he looked at Mr Giles.

“What are we going to do about Mrs Worthing?” he asked.

Mr Giles nodded slowly. “I’ve got some thoughts about that,” he replied. “What if –“

Mr Rabbit didn’t hear anything more.

Suddenly, the field was spinning. Somewhere in the distance, the railway line which he

knew led to the station began to blur. The grass all around him seemed to be growing at a

ridiculous speed, almost as if time had sped up and nature was out of control. The blue sky

that had been happily sitting where it always was, above him, was suddenly beneath his feet

and the firm ground that he had been standing on had vanished leaving him hanging in space.

A whooshing sound filled his head and a spitfire raced past him, not over his head exactly,

but somewhere nearer his feet. Faces filled his mind – Mr and Mrs Giles, Mrs Worthing, the

German officer, even Captain Stewart – and he could hear their voices echoing somewhere in

between his ears, asking him if he’d bumped his head, telling him that he shouldn’t be near

the cliff, casually informing him that it really was 1941.

And then everything went black.

*

After what seemed like forever, Mr Rabbit slowly opened his eyes.

He had, naturally, expected to find himself laying on his back on the grass, staring up at

the blue sky and a handful of seagulls that, perhaps, had thought they could nest in the unruly

mess that was his hair. He had also thought that he might be greeted by the faces of Stella,

Martin and Gareth.

In one of these respects, he was entirely wrong.

He blinked, as a ceiling began to come into focus, and then blinked again, as he recognised

the four walls of his classroom. He rolled his head back and saw the Smartboard filled with

the images from history that he had hoped to stimulate the children with.

And finally, he saw the three children from his history club, standing over him, staring

down at him like he was some kind of museum exhibit. They were no longer dressed in the

forties clothes that Mr and Mrs Giles had provided for them. Instead, they were dressed as

they always were – in school uniform (apart from Gareth’s jeans).

Mr Rabbit looked down at himself. He was back in his suit, he realised, reaching up to his

head. And the flat cap, which he had rocked, was gone!

“What happened?” he asked the children, his voice sounding tired even to himself.

“Dunno,” Stella replied, and there was something sad in her voice. “Looks like we’re back,

though.”

“Yeah,” grunted Gareth. “Just as I was starting to enjoy myself!”

Mr Rabbit struggled to sit up. His whole body ached, even more than it had after his last

residential trip when he had been persuaded by his group to ascend the climbing tower only

to be left hanging there for an hour while the children took photographs of him and posted

them on social media.

He shook his head, almost as if to clear the mist that was hanging over him.

“I know what you mean,” he said to Gareth. Despite the danger they had been in, and

despite the fact that they had been miles – and years – away from home, it had been a very

real and very exciting adventure. He had been a teacher for a long time, and taken part in a lot

of different, and sometimes unusual activities, but nothing he had ever done compared to this.

“I enjoyed it too.”

He grinned at the children.

“Same time next week?” he asked.

Unsurprisingly, all three of them nodded enthusiastically.

*