by Maggie Ford
He was hardly ever home, stationed up in the Orkneys of all places. What good was a bloke up in the Orkneys – to her or the country? Might as well be on the other side of the world. Might as well be a sailor for all she saw of him. A photo or two to look at and a letter every fortnight, that’s all she had, and having to reply to the letters. She hated letter-writing. It took so long, keeping her indoors to do it. It was like she said to Brenda:
‘After all, I should be seeing a bit of life. He wouldn’t expect me to stay in all the time wasting me life away, would he? It don’t do no harm goin’ out sometimes, just up the West End with a few friends from work.’
She usually went up the West End with them on a Saturday, though Mum wasn’t too happy about that.
‘I don’t like yer going there when there’s air raids going on, luv.’
‘I get home before they start, don’t I?’ she challenged. ‘I make sure of that. And I need ter get out, Mum. I’m sick of being stuck in a factory doing rotten war work. If you was doing it, yer’d understand. You don’t get no let up. It’s go, go, go, till yer want to drop. I ’ave to get out or I’ll wither away!’
Anyway, raids had become more spasmodic lately. Like they’d been prior to Christmas, when the Luftwaffe had been kept away by the bad weather. True, they hadn’t really stopped. A terrible one had taken place on the Sunday after Christmas just as people had begun to think the worst was over. Then bang! the most horrendous raid of all.
She recalled peeping out from the door of the shelter sometime in the early hours after cowering there for hours with her family while explosions rocked the ground all around. Before being quickly dragged back into it by Mum, what she had seen had appeared to be the whole of London going up in flames, the sky in every direction lurid red like a dozen sunrises all at once, the tinsel freckling of exploding shells and the greenish light of parachute flares lighting everything up even above the fires, white cascades of incendiaries coming down creating more fires. Some lay burning in gardens, some landed on nearby homes – she’d heard them, as always, rattling on the tiles, some going through into the attic to be dealt with by whoever could get up there in time to save their house. And all the time searchlights were crossing and recrossing in long stiff fingers.
With a shriek of, ‘Whatyer fink yer doing?’ Mum had dragged her bodily backwards into the shelter before the lethal blast of a high explosive bomb coming down too close for comfort with a tremendous roar could reach her, though not before she’d seen the upward surge of white flame from the gasholder it had struck.
Later that night it had been Dad’s turn to rush out and into their house as incendiaries landed on their roof. Dad had stood outside watching for them despite bombs and shrapnel. Mum had been silent with terror on being told to stay where she was, praying the house wouldn’t be hit as he dealt with the thing. He’d come back shortly after, almost falling into the shelter out of the noise and chaos, to say the bloody thing was out, covered in sand. Fortunately it had been one of the nights he wasn’t fire-watching for his employers, or helping the local warden as he sometimes did.
After that, for a lot of January and this month the weather had again been too foul for the Luftwaffe, which targeted other cities like Birmingham and Bristol instead. But there was always the certainty of clearing skies and a bomber’s moon during the middle of the month, attracting them back to the capital. Hence Mum’s worry about Vera being out too late.
But sometimes she and her friends couldn’t help meeting a few boys, usually in uniform of one kind or another, and did leave it a bit late. Then they’d have to scamper like mad for the tube, or a bus, the rest of the way home having to be covered on foot. They would stop in shop doorways when shrapnel came down, being warned by an air-raid warden or Civil Defence bloke to get under cover quick!
Vera preferred the bus even if it was slower. The underground always stank of people sheltering. Even though it was better organised than it had first been, now with proper bunks and proper sanitation, that nasty fetid odour of close-packed bodies lingered. It was so depressing seeing them preparing for the night, wrapped up in overcoats and scarves and sorting out bedding and belongings, even though there was music and they made their own lively entertainment.
They’d arrive well in advance of the warning, and the queues to get down there could be seen growing longer and longer during the day to stake their claim. Vera was glad of her own Anderson and thought of Brenda all on her own in that basement with just little Addie for company and that cat she’d got her.
Brenda should have accepted Mum’s offer to stay with them while all this was going on. With both Brian and Davy away now, there was enough room. But she’d always been independent and stubborn. One day though she’d rue it.
On the bus coming home this Saturday after seeing Only Angels Have Wings at the Regal, Marble Arch, she and the two friends she’d gone there with mooning over the suave and sophisticated Cary Grant, and all wishing they had the same husky, seductive tones as his co-star Jean Arthur, Vera thought momentarily of her independent sister, then put her aside. It had been a wonderful film. They’d sat through it twice and the time had gone on.
If only Mum wouldn’t be so concerned at her being up West. There had been a bit of bombing but it was still safer than her end, where the docks and industry attracted raids, in the process devastating the poor people who lived there.
Vera gazed dismally at the bombed and gutted buildings growing more and more numerous as they approached her part of London. February 1941 and still no sign of the Blitz letting up. As dusk began to creep down she just hoped she’d be home before the warning struck up, not relishing being in some strange shelter during an air raid usually lasting all night. She should have kept an eye on the time and not sat through the film again, even though the other two had wanted to.
She turned in her seat and raised her voice to them over the rattling of the bus. ‘My mum’s gonna be ever so worried,’ she said in a sort of reprimand.
Buses would sometimes stop if things got too hot; then passengers were obliged to get off to seek immediate shelter. It had happened before. Nothing worried Mum more than her not being home during an air raid. ‘I’d rather us all be tergether,’ she’d say as if that made all the difference to a direct hit if there was one.
The two girls paused in their conversation, from which Vera had been partially excluded. Madge leaned forward briefly to concur that all their mums would be worried, then went back to what she’d been saying to Gladys.
Isolated from their chatter by her seat’s high back-rest, Vera extricated Ron’s latest letter, somewhat crumpled, from her handbag. The joggling bus and the gloom made it difficult to read, the unlit interior growing darker by the second with the fading of a glorious sunset that promised a clear, frosty night, perfect for bombers, when a full moon would light up the Thames like a silver ribbon, guiding them to their targets.
Vera held the letter as steady as she could, peering at it closely. No good, the words remained a blur. His letters had become boring anyway. So little to say, she supposed, stuck up there in the Orkneys. Not that she had much to say herself either these days. She no longer felt any eagerness about his mail, in fact a sigh of apathy came from her when a letter did land on the mat because it meant having to write back. She had never much enjoyed letter-writing.
Giving up, she stuffed the letter back into the handbag and twisted round to the two girls. ‘Nearly home.’ But neither of them heard her.
They’d both found dates for tomorrow. She too could have had one – the tall, loose-limbed matelot with his hat set at a jaunty angle on his fair hair. But she’d hesitated, half shaken her head, not wanting to be disloyal to Ron. To her horror the matelot had shrugged and placed an arm about Madge instead. Now he and Madge would see each other tomorrow. Damn all this loyalty! She should have taken the offer up there and then instead of thinking of Ron. She could bet he wouldn’t have given her a second thought if some girl had nodded
to him. She’d been a silly fool.
‘That was gorgeous, Mum,’ Brenda sighed, pushing away her empty plate.
She went to Mum’s for dinner every other Sunday, seeing Harry’s parents on the alternate ones. She’d have offered to have them come to her on occasion but she was only one mouth to feed – Addie at two years old did not count – and having to feed several wasn’t easy in these days of rationing. She couldn’t very well ask them to bring along their own food. It was all very awkward. Better going to them instead, armed of course with a bit of meat from her rations though Mum always insisted on her taking it back home.
‘If I can’t feed me own daughter wiv a couple of slices of meat, what sort of mother am I? Take it back ’ome an’ make a stew for Addie.’
Harry’s mum was often the same, though now and again would look embarrassed and accept the offering, saying, ‘We ’ave been a bit short this week. Harry’s grandma do like ’er food. I can’t keep up with ’er and she’s got no idea of rationing. She’d ’ave our share too if we let ’er, poor ole thing.’
These Sunday visits did at least get Brenda out of herself. She saw so few people, save on occasion John Stebbings, who had said to call him by his first name – ‘Mr Stebbings sounds so formal, and we do know each other by now’ – and of course her regulars coming to have their hair done.
Dinner at Mum’s this week had been liver, off ration, and for which Mum had queued for at the butcher’s for half an hour, she said. The word going round that he’d got offal, she’d been off like a shot, streaking ahead of her neighbours, she said proudly. But she’d still found a sizeable queue there already.
‘I’m sure some of ’em are up at dawn just in case there’s anything. I think I was the last but four to get any,’ she said as she cleared away the dinner plates ready to dish up date pudding with custard. ‘I felt sorry for them what had stood all that time queuing up to have him run out of the stuff just as they get there. Still, that’s ’ow it goes, don’ it?’
After they’d washed up she asked if Brenda fancied staying over. ‘You ain’t got nowhere to rush orf to termorrer. Looks like it’s goin’ ter be another moonlit night an’ them buggers’ll be coming back ternight fer sure. Sunday night – why can’t they give it a rest on Sunday? Yer’ll be safe in our shelter, love.’
But on Monday morning Brenda had a woman coming at nine, a new lady who’d heard of her. She told Mum. ‘So I’ve got ter go home.’ She was also worried about the cat. It would need feeding. Also the guns terrified it even down in the cellar, crawling under the bed cover to lie shivering.
‘Yer can still make it in time termorrer,’ Mum protested, backed up by Dad, with Vera chipping in that she never saw her for all that long these days and it would be nice to have a nice long talk.
‘I don’t like thinking of you down there in that cellar all on yer own.’
But she wouldn’t be alone. Over the months she had settled herself in quite nicely, like everyone else now in the habit of taking shelter whether the Luftwaffe came or not, because you never knew if it would, and she had John Stebbings for company. He now did ARP duty in the area, saying he had little to rush off home for.
If things were quiet, and during bad weather they often were, he’d pop down there to see if she was all right. The warden’s post only stood just a hundred yards down on the corner, and they’d talk or play draughts; he would leave them set up if he did have to hurry off.
He was teaching her to play chess as well. She had begun to look forward to his company and if a raid was heavy, he’d make it his business to look in briefly to see how she was. It left her feeling safe even when he had to leave during a raid.
It was best not to say too much about it though. Even Mum might get the wrong end of the stick.
One good thing was that not that many bombs had fallen too close. Mile End Road for some reason lay slightly outside what had become known as Bomb Alley, the susceptible corridor either side of the bright guiding ribbon of the Thames in moonlight with wharves and docks and industry the target.
Sometimes there was a near one. One on the corner of Burdett Road, demolished the La Boheme cinema where she had so often gone with girls from work or a boyfriend, and then of course with Harry. Its name had changed only this year to the Vogue; it was now rubble. It was as if her youthful years had been obliterated along with the beautiful decor, plush seating, romantic atmosphere, the ice creams steadily licked and the sweets steadily munched through Walt Disney cartoons, short second features and thrilling main films. The cinema looked so sad, all wrecked, its once glorious facade and hoarding flattened like a badly tossed pancake.
She wrote and told Harry all about it. He was in North Africa, his air letters bearing name, number, unit and area, giving her very little idea as to exactly where he was. Her own address on one quarter of the single folded flimsy blue sheet, as ever, bore the censor’s black stamp and the words ON ACTIVE SERVICE.
She awaited each letter with eagerness, with fear too when reading in January that he’d seen a bit of fighting early in that month, and then that he was in hospital in Alexandria having gone down with sandfly fever. Their separation had been more than she could bear. But his next one had again bucked her up because he was hoping to go to a convalescent camp.
She had even hoped in her innocence that he might be sent home but that was soon scotched. His next letter, bright and cheerful, said he was in good health again and ready to be sent back to his battalion. He would write again as soon as he could, leaving her to stew for his safety all over again.
He seemed to be viewing it all as a sort of game as he told of all the Italians they were capturing. She felt torn between seeing him as her hero and experiencing twinges of irritation that he appeared to have no notion of what she was going through back home with the Blitz and rationing, though he did mention his concern here and there in between referring to the pleasant way his Christmas had passed with double rations, flowing beer and plenty of singsong. He said he’d been given some leave and had spent it in Cairo, taking a train there.
Her own Christmas had been miserably got through with no respite from the Luftwaffe. It was horrible to think of those buried, injured, or killed during what should normally be a festive season.
The world of course was being made alive to the fact that Britain could take it. But for ordinary people it was becoming an endurance test many felt would see them go under if it went on for much longer. That was her view as she traipsed round to her parents after a particularly bad raid to let them know she was all right and to be sure they were too. She had become thin and edgy. If it hadn’t been for her hairdressing, she sometimes felt she would have gone mad.
She had regulars with a few new ones besides. Signor Alfio Fichera had been interned the moment Italy came into the war, his salon had closed and with a wartime shortage of hairdressing materials no one had opened another in its place. It now sold second-hand clothes. Although Brenda felt sorry for the inoffensive little man his going had been a boon; some of the old customers who had known her heard from one or two old colleagues what she was doing, and now came to her.
Her only worry was that if any should happen to know her in-laws, her secret would be out. Lately she wasn’t quite so worried about them as about how she was going to keep her little business going. Shortages of what were termed luxury materials made it hard enough for large hairdressers to keep going let alone a woman on her own trying to subsidise her allowance. By making do and mending and not getting too ambitious, she struggled on.
She thanked heaven for John Stebbings, who had become quite a friend, a tower of strength and generosity. When blast blew out some of the windows of her flat and shattered some of its roof tiles he had got an elderly man and a young lad he knew to replace them, not waiting for the landlord or the council to sort it out.
Leased though his shop was, he no doubt had an interest in that books could suffer if water came through in a heavy downpour. Of course, nature being as
bloody-minded as ever, weather liable to keep enemy planes from doing their job never occurred. But it was still generous of him in refusing her offer to pay for the repairs. The trouble was the stab of guilt she felt in thanking him, of rebellion too, recalling that bit tagged on to the end of Harry’s first letter after he’d gone back off embarkation leave:
. . . And Bren, just one more thing. Better not to get too familiar with that Stebbings bloke. You don’t know what he’s got in mind, offering you his basement like that. Bit too generous for my liking. I know you won’t let yourself get involved or anythink, but I’m not there to protect you. Men like that can prey on a woman under a cloak of being kind-hearted. There’s never no smoke without fire. So I’m just saying be careful . . .
The rest had been filled with longing to be home with her, and how he hated the heat and the flies, the awful food, the feeling of being on the edge of nowhere; sending his love and hoping she was all right with the bloody blitz still going on. But she couldn’t get out of her mind what seemed to her his lack of trust. It made her angry and hurt, and uncomfortable too, that by writing to say he could trust her implicitly, the mere fact that he needed to only made it seem otherwise.
Even so, for a while she found herself backing away from Stebbings’ obvious good intentions, guilty about that as well. ‘I hate this bloody war!’ she said to herself again and again as the February days crept into double figures with raids continuing with what often seemed mounting ferocity, and Harry’s letters arrived all bright and cheerful again, seeming to have lost a little of his concern for what she was going through at home.
Even his news that he was now guarding a prisoner of war camp full of thousands of cheerful Italian prisoners of war who all seemed quite nice blokes really, made it appear that he was seeing his war as a kind of game. Though she wouldn’t have wished it otherwise.
Chapter Sixteen
