Rose in the Blitz

by Rebecca Stevens

  They looked at each other and the same thought dropped into their minds.

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘Oh . . . no!’

  ‘He knew, Rosemary.’

  ‘He . . . knew!’

  ‘He must have heard you on the train, heard you telling me when you and Johnny were going to meet—’

  ‘And he went there instead, made up some lie, told Johnny I didn’t want to see him.’ Rosemary stamped her foot, almost like her old self. ‘Billy!’

  But before she could say any more the phone started ringing again. Her forehead crinkled in a frown and then she squeezed past Rose to pick up the receiver and—

  ‘Billy?!’ she said again. ‘No, I just got back. I’ve been with Mother in Surrey.’ Her eyes met Rose’s. Then: ‘I don’t care how long you’ve been trying to get hold of me, Billy. I don’t care if you’ve been ringing all night, every night since New Year’s Day. I don’t care how sorry you are. I know what you did!’

  Rose could almost see Billy’s white face, the spots on his chin, the Adam’s apple moving in his skinny neck as he swallowed and tried to find the words he wanted to say in the face of Rosemary’s fury. She kept her eyes fixed on Rose, her mouth set in a straight, determined line.

  ‘Soho,’ she said. ‘Johnny’s post is in Soho.’ Then: ‘What?!’ Her fist clenched as she listened to Billy’s reply. Rose could hear her breath coming faster and faster. What was going on? What was Billy saying? Now Rosemary was talking again. ‘Have you got use of a vehicle?’ she said. ‘A van or something?’ She waited for his reply. ‘Then come and get us! Right now, Billy! If you really are sorry, if you really want to make up for what you did, you come and get us right now!’

  Rosemary slammed down the handpiece of the phone and stared at Rose.

  ‘It was like we thought. He told Johnny I’d changed my mind, that I didn’t want to see him after all.’

  ‘Oh, Rosemary . . .’

  ‘I know. Still, he can make up for it now, the little worm.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘This raid tonight,’ said Rosemary. ‘Billy says it’s the worst yet. It’s not just the East End, it’s Piccadilly, it’s Westminster, Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, it’s everywhere. Everything’s on fire, Rose. It’s like they’re trying to burn down the whole city.’

  ‘And Johnny’s based in Soho? He’ll be right in the middle of it.’

  Rosemary nodded.

  ‘So what are we going to do?’

  ‘Billy’s coming to pick us up. We’re going to find him.’

  ‘Drive on!’ Rosemary had to shout to make Billy hear above the noise of the engine. ‘Drive on, drive on, drive on!’

  They were getting close to the river now. There were buildings on fire on both sides of the street, warehouses mostly, with shops at ground level, and old brick blocks of offices and flats. Billy’s hands on the steering wheel of the old taxi glowed orange in the light of the flames and his pale, greasy face gleamed red, then pink, then yellow as they drove past the fires. His eyes flicked nervously left and right and he licked his lips. There were beads of sweat on his forehead and his upper lip and black smears around his nose. Rose could feel the heat of the fires through the windscreen and the burn of the smoke in her chest and there was the now familiar, sweet, choking taste in her mouth.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she said. She and Rosemary were sitting in the back of the taxi with Tommy on the floor at their feet.

  ‘Westminster.’ Rosemary was watching the burning streets pass the windows, her hands clenched in her lap. ‘Every fire unit in London’s been ordered there.’

  ‘Why? What’s so special about Westminster?’

  ‘They’re not to let the Abbey burn, that’s the orders from the top. Or the Houses of Parliament.’

  Billy swerved to avoid a crater in the road. Smoke was pouring from the windows of a block of flats nearby and people with coats over their pyjamas were being helped out of the front door by wardens and rescue workers. Rose saw a mother with a baby in her arms and an old lady holding a birdcage.

  Nobody was trying to put out the fire. There were no fire engines to do it.

  ‘But Westminster’s not the only area that’s being bombed!’ Rose felt the anger rising in her chest. ‘What about them?’ They’d just passed another family on the pavement. An older girl holding a toddler who was nearly as big as her, a little boy clutching his teddy. Their mum was being helped out of the front door by a female rescue worker in a white tin helmet. There was blood on her face. ‘What about the people who actually live in this city?’

  Rosemary nodded. ‘I know.’

  ‘They’re protecting empty buildings while the people burn!’

  Rosemary nodded again, her eyes still on the burning buildings outside the windows of the cab. ‘We’re nearly at the bridge,’ she said. ‘We’ll soon be there.’

  A fire engine rattled past, bell ringing. Rose was almost embarrassed to find the old nursery rhyme going round in her head.

  London’s burning, London’s burning

  Fetch the engines, fetch the engines

  Fire fire! Fire fire!

  Pour on water, pour on—

  Then, a sudden jolt as Billy stopped the taxi.

  ‘Billy?’

  He turned to speak to them through the driver’s window. ‘I’m not going any further,’ he said.

  What?

  Another fire engine rattled past, followed by a taxi pulling some kind of machine on a trailer. Rose and Rosemary looked at each other.

  ‘Billy,’ said Rosemary. ‘This is your job.’

  ‘It is not,’ he said. ‘Actually. For your information, I’m a musician, a trumpet player. And when I’m not playing the trumpet, I’m a warden. Not a fireman. My job is to turn up when the fire has been put out and dig people out of the ruins, all right? I do not drive mad girls into the heart of hell. That. Is not. My job. And it’s not yours either, come to that.’

  ‘I’ve got to find Johnny.’

  He turned his whole body round in his seat to look at her. ‘How?’ he said. ‘How are you going to find him? The whole of the north bank of the Thames is on fire. Look at it.’

  It was true. Across the river the city glowed orange and red and crimson. Smoke poured up to join the brooding cloud that hung in the air overhead like a bruise that moved and churned and glowed dull pink with the light from the fires.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Rosemary said. ‘But I’ve got to try.’

  Rose could see the Houses of Parliament, silhouetted against the orange glow on the other side of the river, the tower of Big Ben standing upright at the end, its outline blurred by a covering of scaffolding. She understood why Billy was angry. She understood why he was scared. She was too. But Rosemary had other things to think about.

  ‘I’m going to find him, Billy. With you, or without you, I don’t care.’

  ‘Without me, then.’ He turned away and stared out through the windscreen of the cab. ‘There’s the bridge. You can walk.’

  ‘You’d let us do that?’

  ‘I couldn’t stop you, could I?’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Rosemary. ‘You really made up for what you did, didn’t you, Billy? You drove us all the way to Westminster Bridge and then turned back.’

  Billy said nothing. He just carried on staring straight ahead. Rosemary opened the door. She was halfway out of the cab when she turned.

  ‘Rose? You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.’

  Rose looked at her. This was what she had come for – this was why Aunt Cosy had led her into her past, so they could face this together. There was no way she was going to back out now.

  ‘I’m coming,’ she said, and slid out of the cab after Rosemary. Outside, she could hear the throb of the planes overhead and a dull roar from the fires across the river.

  ‘You can leave the dog if you want.’ Billy’s voice came from the front.

  Rose couldn’t believe her ears. The cheek of him
, the cheek.

  ‘What, with you?’ she said. ‘No thanks, Billy. He’s better off on the streets. Come on, Tom.’

  Tommy jumped out and they started to walk. Rose hadn’t quite believed that Billy would leave them there, but he did. As they set out across the road, she heard the taxi’s engine start up and looked back over her shoulder to see it swing around, back the way they’d come. Rose walked on, her back stiff with anger. She was filled with so much fury at Billy’s cowardice that she had no room left to feel anything else. Rosemary held out her hand.

  ‘All right, Strange Girl?’

  Rose nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m absolutely fine.’

  And she was, actually. She took Rosemary’s hand and, with Tommy beside them, they set out across the bridge. The river looked like black silk in the moonlight, streaked with orange and red where the flames on the other side were reflected in the water. Billy had been right. The whole of the north bank was on fire. Only the Houses of Parliament and the tower of Big Ben seemed untouched. But there was more to come. Overhead the sky throbbed with the now familiar drone of the bombers.

  Where are you? Where are you? Where are you?

  They didn’t need to ask that any more, Rose thought. They can see exactly where we are. The whole of London is lit up like a Christmas tree. She looked up at the planes and for one mad moment felt like waving. ‘We’re here!’ she would call. ‘Come and get us!’

  And then:

  Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!

  A horrible tearing sound ripped through the air. It sounded as if the sky was being ripped apart like an old sheet. Then, silence. And:

  BOOM.

  The bridge shuddered beneath their feet as the bomb hit its target somewhere south of the river. They walked on, another old taxi rattled past them, dragging a trailer. It didn’t stop. A plane passed overhead, low enough for its dark shape to block out the stars. Things were whistling down from the sky and splashing into the river on either side of the bridge. Rose didn’t know what they were until one fell with a tinny clatter on the road in front of them. It hissed and started to fizz with greenish-white light, sending out sparks like a firework. That was when Rose realised. It was like the thing that the man in Balham had put out with his helmet.

  It was an incendiary bomb.

  Rosemary had stopped, unsure of what to do, but Rose felt her fear melt away as all the bottled-up fury of the last hour rose up in her chest. How dare they, how DARE they drop these things on them?

  ‘Hold Tom,’ she said to Rosemary, who nodded and bent to grab his collar, all the time watching Rose with big eyes, wondering what she was going to do.

  Rose took a step towards the bomb and then, with a mad yell, jumped up with both feet and landed right on top of it. She felt its metal tube collapse beneath her weight and then started to jump up and down, stomping on the sparks and the hissing white light until it hissed no more.

  ‘You did it!’ When the last spark was out, Rosemary rushed up and hugged her tightly while Tommy barked at their excitement. ‘You did it, Rose! You killed a bomb!’

  ‘I did, didn’t I?’ Rose felt breathless and giggly. ‘Just as well I was wearing my good boots.’

  Their eyes met and they collapsed into laughter, standing there on Westminster Bridge while Tommy wagged his tail and London burned around them. Rosemary was the first to pull herself together.

  ‘Come on.’

  She held out her hand. Rose took it, but then, when she tried to walk on, she found she couldn’t. Her legs refused to move and she realised that she was trembling. Now the anger had left her, she felt the full craziness of what she had just done and what they were about to do. Billy was right. They should have gone back.

  ‘I don’t know if I can do this, Rosemary,’ she said. ‘I really don’t.’

  Rosemary didn’t seem to hear her. She’d stopped quite still and was staring at something at the other end of the bridge. A fire engine rattled past, its bell clanging. ‘Look, Rose. Look!’

  It was Aunt Cosy, her tiny figure silhouetted against the orange glow of the burning buildings. She was standing in the middle of the road and – she was waving.

  ‘Who is that, Rose?’ said Rosemary. ‘Who is that old lady?’

  Before Rose could reply, another truck sped past, heading towards the heart of the fires, but Aunt Cosy didn’t budge. The truck seemed to pass right through her, and after it had disappeared into the smoke at the other end of the bridge, she’d gone too.

  Rose took a deep breath. If Aunt Cosy was here, then Johnny was too. And she and Rosemary were going to find him. She stood up straight, pulled back her shoulders, and this time it was she who held out her hand to her friend.

  ‘Come on,’ she said.

  Rosemary took her hand and together they set off towards the fire.

  ‘You all right, Strange Girl?’

  Rose nodded. They’d reached the end of the bridge and were standing at the edge of Parliament Square beneath the tower of Big Ben. Smoke was pouring from nearly every building around the square, and the streets leading off were edged with solid walls of flame. Only the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben’s tower, prickly in its scaffolding, were still untouched.

  But for how long? thought Rose. How long?

  She felt hot and cold at the same time. The heat burned her face and the air was full of smoke and tiny dancing embers that swirled around her head like a crimson snowstorm, but the night was cold: a bitter wind cut through her parka and whipped her hair around her face. The streets ran with water from the firemen’s hoses, reflecting the orange light of the flames and soaking through Rose’s boots.

  ‘Get back!’

  There were vehicles everywhere, and noise, men with pumps and hoses, black against the smoke, directing long streams of water up, up, up, into the heart of the fires. Nobody seemed to notice the two girls and the dog amidst the rattle of the pumps, the roar of the flames and the ever-present thrum of the planes overhead.

  Where are you? Where are you?

  ‘Take cover!’

  The men threw themselves on to the road as a bomb screamed down and exploded with a bone-juddering thud. Rose turned her face to the sky and thought of the men in the plane. She couldn’t see the moon any more, or the stars. They had been blotted out by smoke.

  ‘Over here, mate! Here!’

  And still the planes kept coming, dropping their incendiary bombs in showers to clatter like rain on the pavements and roofs around the square and hiss into life like poisonous fiery snakes. The burning buildings cracked and groaned as if their bones were breaking, and always there was the joyful cruel roar of the flames.

  ‘Rose!’ Rosemary clutched her hand so tightly it hurt.

  Two men had appeared like ghosts out of the smoke. One was injured, supported by his friend. Their faces were blackened by the smoke, just their eyes showed white, they could’ve been anybody. But neither of them was Johnny. Rose felt Rosemary’s hand go limp with disappointment.

  Where is he? Where is he? Where is Johnny?

  And then, through the smoke she saw them. Two firefighters, manhandling a hose between them, directing the line of white water against the wall of one of the buildings in a side street. The water was blowing back towards them, the men were soaked, their faces streaming as they battled with the hose, using all their strength to keep themselves upright, to keep the water flowing towards the pulsing heart of the fire. One of them was tall, slim . . .

  And then he turned towards them and she saw his face.

  And it wasn’t Johnny.

  All the men looked the same, with their helmets and their overalls, their boots and their blackened faces, streaked with sweat or water or both, their voices croaking orders to each other as they worked the pumps and heaved the great lengths of hose, directing the water at the burning buildings. It was as if they were part of the fire, as if it was some huge furnace that needed to be kept alight, that they were working to feed, instead of trying to put it out.

&nbs
p; I can’t see. I can’t see, Tommy!

  He was beside them, close enough to touch, Rose could feel his body against her leg. But the smoke was so thick and her eyes burned. She thought she saw the moon through the smoke but it was just the huge clock face on the tower of Big Ben, glowing orange in the reflected light. As she looked, trying to make out the time, it started to chime.

  The familiar notes sounded strange amidst the rattle of the pumps and the roar of the flames and the thrum of the bombers’ engines. How come it was still working in the middle of all this, when everything else was broken? Was that why it was covered in scaffolding?

  The big bell started to strike the hour.

  There were four bongs, Rose counted them. So it was morning. A new day had begun and still the fires burned on. And still they hadn’t found Johnny.

  Where is he? hummed the planes. Where is he? Where’s Johnny?

  ‘Take cover!’

  The men threw themselves on to the road as another high-explosive bomb screamed down. It was close, this time, very close. When Rose opened her eyes, the men were struggling to their feet, weary but determined to battle on. And then she saw the looks of horror on their faces as they realised that this bomb had found its mark. It had gone through the roof of the building they had come to protect. It had hit the Houses of Parliament.

  ‘All hands!’

  ‘All hands!’

  ‘All hands to Old Palace Yard!’

  The men’s boots pounded on the paving stones as they ran past, heaving hoses, manhandling pumps, shouting their desperate instructions. Smoke was already pouring out of the gaping hole in the roof and flames were creeping along the gutters. And then Rose saw something else.

  ‘Rosemary!’

  High up on the scaffolding that surrounded the tower of Big Ben was a lurid white light, fizzing and crackling away like an evil firework. An incendiary bomb had landed on the wooden scaffolding just below the face of the clock. The fire hadn’t got hold yet, but when it did, Rose knew that London’s best-loved landmark would go up in smoke.

  ‘Someone’s got to climb up there and put it out!’ she yelled. ‘If they don’t—’