by Maggie Ford
‘I’ll ask me mum if she’d look after her,’ she decided. ‘I’ll pop round there and ask her.’ After all, she might as well take advantage of her mother’s offers, and it was so seldom she could enjoy a little pleasure.
‘All right,’ said Doris with a brisk nod. Having no children she didn’t understand the half of it. ‘I’ll come round to you and we can catch a bus up to the West End and see how the queues are.’
It had been a long time since she’d visited a West End cinema, and they got there early in the afternoon, but still had to queue for over an hour before being let in halfway through the big picture.
They stayed on until where they’d come in came round again; Doris, completely absorbed in it, whispered wickedly, ‘Let’s stay and watch the rest through again? The usherettes won’t know.’ But Brenda shook her head.
‘I must get back and pick up Addie. I can’t leave her with Mum all that time. It wouldn’t be fair. And it wouldn’t be fair to stay ’ere with people still standing in the queues outside.’ At which Doris had to relent.
‘I really enjoyed that,’ she announced as they came out. ‘We ought to go to the flicks more often. We could go once a week reg’lar.’
‘I can’t afford once a week.’
‘Well, once a fortnight then, or every three weeks.’
But somehow they didn’t. With July touching shoulders with August, Hitler finally decided to launch his delayed attacks on a now-isolated Britain. After Dunkirk, everyone had expected him to invade straight away. When he hadn’t, they sat back with a sigh of relief. Now he had begun to send his Luftwaffe to bomb south coast towns and had ideas of reaching London itself, though that hope was thwarted by the RAF. By August Doris suddenly found her husband being thrown into the thick of it all.
She had told Brenda proudly that while her John had gone to just an ordinary school, he had passed all his exams to go on to a grammar school and joining the RAF had passed their tests with flying colours, as it were; Brenda’s assumption that pilots came solely from public schools proved false, because Doris added that men found by the RAF to be as bright as her John were now pilots.
For a long time Brenda had felt the stigma of her own man being just a mere soldier, but now the boot was on the other foot. Now it was her friend whose face grew strained and fearful. Brenda would never have gloated over it yet there was a form of guilt in feeling for Doris, as if she really was gloating.
One day in mid-August Doris, who never missed a Thursday, didn’t show up at the young wives’ club.
‘She sent me a note,’ said the secretary, ‘to say she wasn’t well.’
‘Will she be coming next week?’ enquired Brenda.
‘I don’t know,’ replied the secretary. ‘She just said she wasn’t well, and she didn’t know if she’d be coming again. She’d see. That was all. Never even had the courtesy to say what was wrong with her.’
At the huffy tones Brenda allowed an apologetic smile on behalf of her friend. She knew Doris’s address but had never gone to her house. Now she decided to pop round and see how she was. Probably she had a summer cold – they could be horrible, and she’d be feeling pretty down, the reason perhaps for saying she didn’t know when she’d be back.
It might be that she hadn’t wanted to go out after London had its first air raid last week. But it had been south of the river and didn’t touch anywhere else in London, though the fact that over sixty people had been killed had had an effect and no doubt Doris was one who didn’t want to venture far from home. After another couple of raids it had all gone quiet, thanks to the RAF doing such a marvellous job keeping the Luftwaffe at bay by shooting down huge numbers of German planes. It was said that people in Kent and Essex could stand and watch dogfights going on high up in the blue summer skies just as if they were spectators at a game of football or a motor race.
For weeks Doris had told her proudly of her husband’s part in it all. ‘He flies Hurricanes,’ she said. ‘He’s now stationed in Kent and he can’t get home because he’s so busy but he writes to me about it all.’
It was only these last few weeks that she’d begun to look worried and say less. At the time of Churchill’s speech stating how never in the field of human conflict had so much been owed by so many to so few, Doris had appeared at the young wives’ club with her face strained in the way Brenda remembered her own face feeling over Dunkirk.
‘I know he’ll be orright,’ she’d said with determination that had all the look of being forced to its limit. Brenda prayed silently for her friend, knowing that she mustn’t crow with her Harry safely stationed in this country having done his bit.
Now Doris said she was ill. Poor thing, on top of all her worry. With this in mind, Brenda put Addie in her pram and pushed her in the direction of Lincoln Street where Doris lived not far from Mile End Station.
Her knock on Doris’s door went unanswered and she had to knock twice more before it was. What greeted her was the most haggard expression she had ever seen. She would never have thought in a million years that Doris could ever have looked paler than she always was. But now she did. The only colour visible was her eyes, bloodshot and red-rimmed as they stared out at her. Behind her gazed another pallid face like a ghost of the first. ‘I said I’d open the door for yer, Doll.’
‘It’s orright, Mum.’ There came a hesitation, then, ‘It’s me friend.’
‘Are you orright?’ was all Brenda could utter, thoroughly taken aback by the sight confronting her.
Doris nodded uncertainly, then shook her head, then nodded again as uncertainly as before. Before she could say anything, if indeed she had been going to, she was whisked aside and the older woman moved into her place.
‘I’m sorry, we can’t ask you in. We’ve ’ad a bit of a shock.’ Turning to her daughter, she added, ‘Go back in, Doll. I’ll explain to yer friend for yer. Go on, now, I’ll be in in a minute.’
As Doris seemed to half walk, half float back into the dimness of the passageway to disappear as though utterly engulfed by lack of light, Mrs Osborne turned back to Brenda.
‘It’s like this. My Doll’s ’usband was killed four days ago. Shot down in a dogfight somewhere over Kent. We got the news next day – in the evenin’. We can’t ask yer in. I ’ope yer don’t mind. She ain’t in no fit state ter see anyone. I know yer a friend but I ’ope you understand, we can’t ask you in.’
Brenda found herself nodding her understanding, unable to find any word of comfort to say. Incapable of speech, she merely nodded again, automatically turning the pram round.
Seconds later the words came. ‘Tell Doris I’m so terribly sorry . . .’
But when she turned her head to say them she found the door had already closed.
For a moment she thought to knock again, just so she could at least give her message, but wisdom prevailed and she merely carried on walking, tears filling her eyes.
‘I didn’t know what ter say,’ she told her mother. ‘I should of at least said something, but I didn’t. If only I could of.’
For a time she had wandered, pushing Addie’s pram blindly ahead of her, not sure where to go. Eventually she’d turned in the direction of her mother’s in desperate need of company – someone to talk to, to share the turmoil that was going through her breast. All that resentment she had harboured against Doris because her husband had it so cushy while her own husband had been in the thick of fighting and bloodshed! Now she could hardly contain the burden of it all. She’d felt dreadful, totally unable to put into words how she felt, but if she got Mum alone she could pour her heart out to her. By the time she got there however Vera had come home from work.
Sitting now at the kitchen table wishing Vera wasn’t hovering there listening in, she added, ‘Who’d of thought it’d be her. It don’t seem right, our boys being killed in our own country. It just don’t seem right.’
‘There’s ordinary people bein’ killed anyway,’ Mum pointed out. ‘Sixty-odd ordinary people went when South Londo
n was bombed the other day. All innocent people what ’ave nothink ter do with fighting. ’Ow long’s it goin’ ter be before it’s our turn, I cringe ter think. Just a matter of time, it seems ter me. I wonder what’s goin’ ter ’appen to us all.’
Brenda chewed at her lip, angry at Vera. Because of her she hadn’t got what she wanted off her chest at all, and there was Vera gawping, taking it all in while she buffed at her polished nails and added her two penn’orth, her thoughts only on herself, it seemed to Brenda.
‘Glad my Ron ain’t in the Air Force,’ she remarked airily, her eyes trained on her nails.
‘An’ I just thank Gawd Davy weren’t clever enough ter be taken into it either,’ their mother added with more depth. ‘Or I’d be worried out of me life for ’im. It’s like what they say, ignorance is bliss. In ’is case I’d say it was a blessed sight safer too.’
Brenda picked at the edge of the tablecloth. ‘I feel so sorry for Doris. I wish I’d of said something to ’er. I’ve a feeling I won’t be seeing her again. She ain’t likely to go to the young wives’ club any more, is she? But come ter that, I’m not sure as I want ter go any more. Us making friends like we did, we didn’t much mix with the others.’
Her mother looked at her in concern. ‘You should keep on going, Bren. It’ll keep yer mind orf things.’
‘I’ve got me hairdressing.’ The thought of her clients cheered her up a bit. She’d go and see Doris some time or other to show that she cared, perhaps to alleviate in some part this weight of guilt. ‘I’ve got quite a few regulars now. I prefer them coming in the evening if they can. Addie’s asleep then. I don’t keep having to stop and see to her. That’s the only problem, having to interrupt what I’m doing to sort her out. And it ain’t fair leaving her to cry. Most don’t mind coming in the evenings. Though I do worry in case Harry was to come ’ome unexpected. It could ’appen.’
She watched her mother get up from the table, going to the cupboard under the sink to collect potatoes ready for their evening meal. Dad would be home before long, and Brian too. She began peeling them on the draining board, her back to Brenda. Tonight by the look of it they would eat sausage and chips together with baked beans.
‘You ought ter tell ’im, yer know,’ murmured her mother, her back still to Brenda. ‘Put yer cards on the table and be honest wiv ’im. He wouldn’t thank yer fer being under’anded. Though he oughtn’t start laying down the law about yer work when he ain’t really living there.’
‘It’s still his home.’
‘But he ain’t there. Yer ain’t got him ter run to for decisions. You left on yer own, you ’ave ter make yer own now. So he oughtn’t to moan if yer do.’
‘I know. But he was always so against me working.’
‘So what yer going ter do? I think it’s better ter tell him than tell lies. Yer might be surprised, he might be all for it.’
‘Until his mother gets her say in.’
‘It ain’t nothink ter do with her.’
‘She’d say I was neglecting Addie. And that’d put the cat among the pigeons straight away.’
‘Well, if your ’Arry takes his mum’s word against his wife’s, he ain’t much of a man in my estimation. And if somethink ’appened and you was left on yer own, yer’d ’ave ter work then and . . .’
‘Mum!’ Brenda was on her feet, a premonition racing through her. ‘Don’t say things like that. Nothing’s goin’ to happen to Harry.’
But things could happen right here. Enemy bombers had broken through the RAF’s defence, bombs had fallen on south London suburbs, sixty people were dead. They could fall here as easily and it might not be her but Harry who could be grieving.
Mum was gazing at her, appalled by what she’d said ‘I didn’t mean that, Bren. I was just sayin’ . . .’
‘Then don’t!’
‘But he’s safe in this country, like Davy is.’
Brenda shook her head wildly. ‘You never know, Mum. None of us know what’s in the future for us.’ She knew her face had gone white, white as Vera’s, who was standing there with her mouth wide open. ‘I don’t want you talkin’ like that, Mum,’ she ploughed on. ‘Putting the mockers on us all.’
Mum was trying to make amends. ‘All I’m trying ter say is, you’ve got yourself and Addie ter look after while Harry’s away. He shouldn’t ’ave no say in what yer do when he ain’t here ter lay down the law. Yer should tell ’im. And if he cuts up rough, tell ’im ’is fortune. You’re ’olding the fort now. You’ve got ter make yer own decisions. When he’s ’ome fer good, that’s a different matter when he’s the breadwinner again. I mean, do he really want you and Addie ter live on the scrimpy little bit of wife’s allowance they give yer? And you all on yer own night after night. What’s he expect yer ter do? All the old values ’ave gorn out the winder. You’re yer own mistress, Bren. Tell ’im and ’ave done wiv it. That’s all I was tryin’ ter say. I didn’t mean nothink else.’
Brenda took a deep breath to calm herself. She nodded compliance, but left soon after, refusing a share of sausage, beans and chips. Mum’s words concerning anything happening to Harry, even hypothetically, still hovered over her like some evil omen. Pushing little Addie’s pram agitatedly before her, she decided to stay away from Mum’s for a while. She wasn’t angry, her feelings weren’t hurt, there was just something she couldn’t quite define that made her not want to be there, at least until she was over this.
‘What the ’ell’s that?’ Annie started up, her eyes on her husband as sirens sounded in the distance, the far-off ominous wail quickly taken up by one much nearer, warning that they might be about to experience an air raid on their very own doorstep. ‘Oh, my Gawd! Air raid. Bren’s on ’er own wiv the baby.’ A week had passed since Brenda had put a foot over her doorstep.
It was Sunday night. August’s double summertime dusk had melted into the usual total blackout some time ago. Vera was at the table reading her Film Goer. Brian had come in, not having found his mates, not having found a girl either, sullenly taking off his coat with a dismal, ‘Watcher all!’ She and David were thinking of bed; he was about to turn off the wireless, she was going to wash up the cocoa cups. They paused at the approaching sound. Vera looked up, sat for a moment like a statue while Brian, equally stunned, stood in the doorway. Annie was first to come to life.
‘I’ve got ter go round ter Bren!’ She was already making for the passage where her coat hung on its stand and David had to catch her by the arm to stop her.
‘Yer can’t go out in that,’ he snapped. ‘Listen!’
There came the low, distant crump-crump of an explosion, whether bombs or anti-aircraft guns, it wasn’t certain. It wasn’t the first time they’d heard it; after the air raid warning that had sent families who had shelters scurrying down to them, they’d listened fearfully to that identical sound across the river a few days earlier. That time it hadn’t come any closer. This time it was much nearer. Then to startle them all out of their wits, their local siren started up, almost defeaning them.
‘Quick! Everyone down the shelter!’ David roared. Everything seemed to happen at once. Opening the back door, all lights switched off, they stepped out into a warm night to the drone of enemy bombers almost overhead. Vera shrieked and fled down the path and down the two steps into the shelter, while Brian held back not to look cowardly by following with the same haste. Their mother stood rooted to the spot, looking up and around trying to pierce the darkness, glimpsing the fitful glimmer of an electric torch as the Johnstons scuttled down their own short garden path to their Anderson, their voices filled with fear as searchlights pierced the night sky. Over the opposite fence someone called out, ‘You orright Mrs Wilson, Mr Wilson?’ to which David answered that they were.
‘Come on, gel!’ he snapped at her. ‘Get down there.’
‘Brenda’s on ’er own,’ Annie reminded him. ‘What’s she gonna do?’
‘We can’t do nothink now. Get in! Oh, bloody Jesus!’ This as guns cracked out, splitting
the blackout with a flash of light. ‘That’s from bleedin’ Victoria Park. Them bombers is right over’ead. Come on, Annie – inside!’
On her own as the sirens struck up, Brenda went and got Adele out of her cot. She fought to stay calm but her mind was a turmoil. They’d not had a Morrison shelter constructed. The flat was far too small. The thought of running through the streets with Adele to the nearest public shelter scared the living daylights out of her.
She did the next best thing. Dressing Adele as warmly as she could, because despite it being a warm night they could be spending it virtually in the open, and putting on her own coat, she hurriedly collected gas mask, the double eiderdown from her own bed, and two pillows. Then, loaded up, she carried Adele down the iron stairs as best she could. She was sure she’d drop something on the way, but somehow she managed not to. Each foot cautiously felt for the next step; it seemed to take ages to reach the shed against the wall of Mr Stebbings’ shop where she kept the pram.
With half the eiderdown underneath to shield her from the concrete floor, the rest wrapped over them, and the pillows propped up behind her head, she sat with Addie in her arms, knees drawn up, the shed door closed tight with the pram between her and the door. With luck it would give some modicum of protection.
The drone overhead sounded as though it were inches from the shed roof as she prayed for the planes to go away, drop their bombs on someone else, to discover a lack of fuel and head back to Germany, anything. But it was apparent this was where they intended to be. She knew it as a sudden explosion jolted the floor and the shed door rattled. Moments later came an ugly tearing sound and an even nearer explosion.
Panting with terror, Brenda bent her body over her baby. If she was going to die, Addie mustn’t. The iron stairs might offer protection. The safest place was said to be underneath a staircase in the absence of any other shelter and maybe these stairs might help.
