‘Look, Mam, he’s been on duty for over twenty-four hours, twelve of them fighting fires. I can’t sit here any longer.’
‘What’s the point of going out looking for him? You’ll not find him in all the chaos.’
‘I don’t care. I’ll make him something to eat and a flask of tea and take them to the fire station. If he’s there I’ll see him, if not, maybe I’ll get news of him at least. Anyroad, I’m opening a tin of corned beef – you can take it out of my ration.’
Chapter 2
There were roof tiles strewn over the road and glass crunched under her feet. Brian Jenkins, the landlord at the Bird i’th’ Hand, was already trying to board up a window with an old door. ‘Bloody Germans,’ he shouted. ‘What kind of people would bomb you at Christmas?’
She walked as far as Rochdale Road, where there was no serious damage to the buildings, but here and there people were sweeping up or dousing smouldering fires caused by stray incendiaries. She hadn’t gone far when she heard a familiar sound behind her and turned in amazement to see a bus coming towards her. The nearest stop was a hundred yards away, but she stuck out her hand and the bus pulled up alongside her.
‘You all right, love?’ the conductor shouted as she jumped on the platform.
‘I am now I’ve seen you, didn’t think there’d be buses running today.’
‘Limited service only. I’ve heard it’s bad in the centre so we’ll just see how far we get.’
She handed him her fare, but he shook his head and laughed. ‘Nah, keep your money, love, there’ll be no inspectors checkin’ tickets today.’
She was surprised to see a dozen or so people sitting downstairs all looking like they were going to work. She sat next to a woman who told her she was a nurse at Ancoats Hospital. ‘They’ll have had a busy night – we’re so close to the centre of the bombing – but everybody’ll make it in today.’
The nearer they came to the city centre the more damage there was; buildings she’d known all her life were gone, others were unscathed. They were almost at Smithfield Market when the bus slowed to a stop. She could see the roof had all but gone and thick smoke was spiralling upwards. A policeman walked over to the driver’s window. ‘No access here, mate,’ he shouted, ‘too many unsafe buildings and fires everywhere. Best go back.’
Suddenly an ear-splitting scream filled the bus. A woman across the aisle had jumped on to her seat and was shaking and yelling. Helen followed her horrified gaze – the road on the other side of the junction seemed to be rippling like a moving carpet – she blinked, looked again and her stomach turned. Rats! Thousands of them, escaping from a burning building on Shudehill. They were rushing straight at the bus, but at the last minute they veered into Miller Street and headed for the river.
Meanwhile, the conductor had spoken to the driver. ‘Listen,’ he shouted to the passengers. ‘I think this is the end of the line. It’s not safe in the centre. If you want to go back, we’ll be leaving in five minutes. If you want to get off here, be very careful.’
Helen had no intention of going back home; she hadn’t come this close to walk away. Maybe if she used the side streets she could zigzag her way towards Piccadilly and on to the fire station – provided she didn’t come across any more rats.
The streets were narrower here and in places there was rubble in the road – more than once she had to clamber over it. Shop windows had been blown out and the stock with them. A rail of dresses stood upright in the middle of one street and for one awful moment she thought there were people lying dead on the ground, only to realise that they were mannequins. She walked around them and went on up the eerily silent street until an ARP warden appeared from nowhere and yelled, ‘Get out of here! There’s a burst gas main!’ She turned and ran down a side street, stopped to get her bearings, caught sight of Affleck and Brown’s department store and was amazed to see that it was open. Oldham Street was blocked off because of a parachute bomb strewn over the tram lines, but she knew another way. Now she was walking through a pall of smoke and the choking smell of burning, following the snaking hosepipes as though they would lead her to Jim.
She felt the heat of the fires before she saw them and there was that roaring sound again, a hundred times worse than she had heard in the night. She turned the corner and the shocking sight made her cry out. Across the ornamental gardens in Piccadilly, a row of warehouses several storeys high was a mass of flames giving off thick black smoke that blotted out the sky. Her eyes scanned the road for any sign of the fire brigade and she caught her breath at the sight of the red tenders, tin helmets, thick oilskin coats. Firemen! And then she was running across the gardens towards them, jumping over flowerbeds, dodging benches, oblivious to the rising heat coming from the fierce fires.
She didn’t hear the shouts. Didn’t sense someone running behind her. Her only thought was for Jim. He was there, she was sure of it. If she could see him for just a moment and give him the sandwiches. He must be starving. She swerved round someone trying to catch hold of her, jumped over a bed of pruned rose stems and all the time her eyes were streaming and her throat hoarse with calling his name.
Someone caught her arm, but still she tried to reach him. Next moment there were arms around her like a vice and she was lifted off her feet. ‘Let me go! Let me go!’ she screamed.
‘Whoa there! You can’t go near the fire.’ The policeman set her down. ‘It’s too dangerous. Go back, please.’
‘I’m looking for my husband.’ She shrugged him off and set off running again, but she didn’t get more than a few yards before he ran in front of her and blocked her way, his arms outstretched. ‘Now, listen here, you’ll go no further. Your husband won’t be anywhere near there. We’ve cleared the area. Can you not see those buildings could collapse any minute?’
She pushed him away. ‘He’s a fireman and this is his division. I’m sure he’s here. I’ve brought him something to eat and drink.’ She opened her bag to show him the package of sandwiches and the flask, as if that would be enough for him to let her through.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t let you go, it’s too dangerous. I’d be failing in my duty to keep people safe.’ He gripped her arm again to drag her away, but she dug her heels in.
‘I’ll have to arrest you if you don’t leave right now,’ he said sharply.
‘Please, please,’ she sobbed. ‘I have to see him just for a—’
Her pleas were interrupted by frantic shouts followed by a blaring klaxon coming from the direction of the burning buildings, and she watched in horror as the burnt-out gable end of one warehouse began to crumble.
Only then did she realise the danger, but she couldn’t move.
‘Run! Run!’ the policeman shouted.
‘But what if Jim—’
The policeman dragged her away and raced with her across the gardens. Within seconds there was a deep rumbling sound, followed by the crash of masonry, and they were enveloped by a thick cloud of dust. They didn’t stop running until they reached the far side. Her heart was bursting in her chest from running and breathing in the smoke and dust.
‘You could have been killed!’ the policeman shouted in her face.
Helen burst into tears. ‘I only want—’
‘Never mind what you want, just listen to me,’ he said. ‘My advice is that you go straight home. You’ve seen how dangerous it is and, if you were my wife, I wouldn’t want you anywhere near here.’
The fright of the building collapsing brought her to her senses. Jim would be furious if he found out that she’d gone looking for him. She wiped the tears from her stinging eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I just got it into my head that I had to see him. I’ve been worrying about him all night.’
For the first time since the constable had spoken to her, he didn’t look angry. ‘It’s understandable, of course you’re worried.’ He almost smiled. ‘But please go home now and wait for him there.’
She looked up at him, noticed the coating of ash on his uniform, the number on h
is collar, and she smiled back. ‘Am I as dusty as you, Constable A333?’
‘Oh, you’re much worse, your hair is grey and I don’t know whether it’s dust or fright. Even your husband wouldn’t recognise you.’
‘I’m sorry for being such a pain. I’m just so worried about him.’
‘You said your husband’s a fireman. Well, he knows what he’s doing, been well-trained, he tackles fires every day.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Go home, missus, let him get on with his job.’
‘All right, I’ll go home and wait. Thanks for… you know… looking after me.’
He touched his helmet. ‘You’re welcome.’
Helen set off intending to go home, but she hadn’t walked for more than a few minutes before a thought occurred to her. When she had left the house determined to see Jim her intention was to go to the fire station, but the sight of blazing warehouses and collapsing walls had sent her into a panic. But what if Jim was back at the fire station? She knew from previous bombings that fire crews worked a rota tackling big fires; a few hours on and a few hours’ rest. The station house was only a short walk away. What was the harm in calling in to ask when Jim would be off duty? He might even be there and she could give him the sandwiches.
The fire station was a huge, five-storey, red brick building with three blocks in the shape of a triangle. Jim had pointed it out to her once when they were courting and he had explained that it wasn’t just a fire house, there were police and ambulance stations there too, and a courtroom. A lot of the firemen even lived there.
From the outside everything seemed calm, given the scenes of destruction just down the road. She’d expected engines and firemen and urgent comings and goings. Maybe it would be all right to ask about Jim. She looked up at the elaborately carved sign above the main entrance – ‘Fire Brigade Head Quarters’. She hesitated again. What should she say? Don’t be daft, she told herself, just ask if Jim Harrison is in the station. She took a deep breath and pushed open the heavy mahogany door and the wall of noise hit her. Everywhere was chaos. She had imagined some sort of counter where she could state her business, instead the entrance hall was filled with noise and crowded with people, like an indoor market on a busy Saturday.
Most of them were in a state: clothes and hair dusty like hers; some with bandages seeping blood as though they had been given first aid in a rush. There was all manner of stuff littered in the fine entrance hall, probably what these poor people had managed to salvage from their homes.
There seemed to be no one in authority to ask about Jim. She’d been stupid to come looking for him; he had a job to do and if he saw her now, he’d give her a right telling-off. Just then a fireman pushed past her and one look at his grimy face and slumped shoulders told her he’d been up all night fighting fires. Without another thought, she followed in his wake, breathing in the smoky smell of him. They went through a door into an outside courtyard area – the triangle between the three blocks – and the sight that met her brought tears to her eyes. A hundred or more firemen were lying on the ground or sitting with their backs against the walls, faces blackened by smoke, their oilskin capes grey with ash. She stood a moment scanning the faces of the men nearest to her, hoping that one of them would be Jim. Each face was etched with exhaustion and despair, but she didn’t recognise any of them. Slowly, she moved round the courtyard and some of the men managed a grim smile at the sight of a girl in their station, the rest were hardly aware of her. She had walked the length of one block when there was a shout. ‘Hey, you’re not allowed here!’ An older man came towards her in a smart uniform; clearly, he had not been fighting fires. ‘You need to leave,’ he said. ‘Civilians are not allowed in here.’
‘I’m looking for my husband, he’s a fireman.’ She was close to tears. ‘I haven’t seen him for over twenty-four hours.’
‘And you might not see him for another twenty-four,’ he snapped. ‘We’re dealing with major life-threatening incidents and no fireman will go home until every fire is extinguished.’
He was right, the policeman was right, and the state of the firemen made her worries so trivial. ‘I’m sorry, I meant no harm,’ and without another word she walked away.
Then someone called her name. ‘Wait, wait, Helen,’ and she turned to see Frank, Jim’s second in command and best friend, coming towards her.
The officer intervened. ‘Is this your wife, Roberts?’ he demanded.
‘No, sir, she’s Leading-Fireman Harrison’s wife.’
Helen watched the man’s face change at the mention of Jim’s name. Something was wrong. She turned to Frank. One look was enough; she felt the shock like a blow to her stomach, her knees gave way and she sank to the floor. She couldn’t speak… couldn’t breathe… arms were lifting her up, half carrying her past the exhausted firemen and their averted eyes.
They took her to an office and sat her in a chair. The man in the smart uniform was speaking. ‘Mrs Harrison, I’m the station officer. Now, I need you to listen very carefully.’ She heard the words as though they came from far away and she tried to make sense of them, but her heart was beating wildly and she kept taking great gulps of air. Then Frank was kneeling beside her. ‘Helen, please, you need to listen so I can tell you what happened.’
Her breathing slowed and she looked from Frank to the station officer and back again, struggling to form the words screaming in her head. ‘Jim’s dead, isn’t he?’
Frank held her hand. ‘We think so. Our crew was at Piccadilly trying to contain the fires in the warehouses, but they were spreading to nearby buildings. We were going to set up explosions to form a gap, a firewall, but Jim thought we could get the extending ladder between the two buildings and maybe dampen down the worst of the fire. I volunteered, but Jim said no, he would do it. He was at the very top of the ladder. I watched him the whole time, high above me, a dark outline against the red sky. It looked like the flames had died back and he gave me a wave. I turned to give the thumbs up to the crew to cut the water and, when I looked back, the ladder was empty and Jim was gone.’
She couldn’t take it all in – Jim up a ladder putting out a fire she understood, but… ‘Gone, Frank? What do you mean he was gone?’
‘We don’t know exactly. The wall collapsed so he might’ve been knocked off the ladder, or he missed his footing.’
‘But where is he? Can I see him?’ she asked.
The station officer cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Harrison, the warehouses are still ablaze and the structures are unsafe. I hope you understand that I cannot order a search for your husband until such time as I deem it safe for my men to enter the ruined premises. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to compose yourself before you go.’
‘So, you’ve just left him in a collapsed building?’ Helen was on her feet and her voice was strong. ‘How do you know he’s dead, he could be buried under the rubble!’
‘Mrs Harrison, he fell from a great height into a burning building. I’m sorry, but he won’t have survived.’
She felt the strength leave her and she covered her face and sobbed as the shock swept over her. There wasn’t a coherent thought in her head, just snatches of anguish and images of Jim. She had no idea how long she sat there, only that Frank stayed with her holding her hand and, every now and again when she cried out, he would say, ‘Sssh now, Helen, sssh.’
She found a handkerchief in her pocket, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. The shock had passed and been replaced with a sadness so deep that she wished she were dead. ‘I’ll go home now, Frank,’ she said, and for the first time she saw the clean tracks of his tears on the sooty blackness of his face.
‘I’d take you home, Helen, but I have to go on duty again. You understand, don’t you?’
She nodded. ‘Jim would want you to stay and finish the job.’
It was raining when she came out of the station house. She turned up her collar and, with her head down, she set off walking. She had only gone a few steps when she
collided with someone coming the other way.
‘Whoa there, you need to look where you’re going.’
‘I’m sorry,’ and without looking up she walked on.
‘You didn’t go straight home, then? Did you find your husband?’
She turned to see Police Constable A333 smiling at her, but almost immediately his face was full of concern. ‘What’s the matter? Has something happened?’
She couldn’t bear to explain.
‘Come back into the station a moment,’ he said.
She stared at him, uncertain.
‘I’m just going off duty. The police station’s in here too. Come on, step out of the rain a minute.’
And she let herself be led back inside.
‘Have you had news?’ he said and she nodded. ‘About your husband?’
‘He’s gone, dead.’
The constable shook his head. ‘I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do to help you?’
‘No.’
‘Where are you going, home?’
She nodded.
‘You shouldn’t be on your own now.’ He bit his lip. ‘Look, I just have to sign off duty. It’ll take me about ten minutes. I want you to wait right here until I come back then I’ll get you home. I won’t be long. Don’t go anywhere.’
Helen stood a moment in the entrance hall not knowing what to do. She didn’t want someone to take her home. She wanted to be alone and maybe walking in the rain would calm the awful thoughts of Jim plummeting to his death. She slipped out the door and walked quickly away.
She remembered scarcely anything of the walk home. A bus raced past her and was gone before she realised. There were people about but she kept her head down, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, a steady rhythm matched by the words drumming in her head. ‘Oh, Jim. Oh, Jim.’
She pushed open the shop door, walked past the few people waiting to be served, and headed for the back room. Her mother looked up from wrapping a piece of cheese and shouted, ‘Where have you been? I was run off my feet at dinner time.’ Helen ignored her.
The Girl from the Corner Shop Page 2
