by Maggie Ford
‘I wonder this Mr Stebbings ain’t been called up,’ Mrs Hutton said darkly after Brenda, over Sunday dinner, had mentioned how she and Addie always felt so much safer in the basement under his shop during the nightly air raids.
She had only mentioned it because Mrs Hutton had expressed surprise that she had never availed herself of her parents’ air raid shelter. Brenda found herself having to defend them in that there wouldn’t be time to run round there if the bombers arrived as soon as the sirens had gone off; again making excuses for the intimation that it was a wonder they hadn’t invited her to stay there permanently. ‘All by yourself in that flat,’ Mrs Hutton had remarked. ‘I’d of thought they’d of been more worried for yer.’
No amount of insistence that of course they were worried and it was her decision would alter her mother-in-law’s conviction that they were neglecting their own daughter. ‘Not as if they ain’t got room, now yer two brothers ain’t there,’ she had once said.
Brenda shrugged at her mother-in-law’s latest remark, this time on the verge of retorting that what Mr Stebbings did or did not do was no concern of hers. Her father-in-law came to her aid.
‘It’s probably somethink medical, like flat feet or a weak chest.’
‘He looks healthy enough to me whenever I see ’im.’
Which was all of twice, Brenda thought, hugging vexation.
‘And, if you ask me—’ Mrs Hutton went on, to be cut short by her husband.
‘If it’s medical,’ he said as he munched reflectively on a hard bit of the Sunday meat, ‘I don’t s’pose he’d want ter bandy it about. I don’t s’pose he’d confide it to our Brenda. Nice that he lets ’er use the basement. Some wouldn’t.’
Daphne was having dinner here too today. Bob was stationed somewhere up near Birmingham. ‘He could be a conscientious objector, this Stebbings chap. The government do let them off, though I sometimes think it’s just a cover for being too scared to fight.’
She said it with a bitter ring to her tone. At any moment her husband could be sent into some battle. Brenda leapt in fiercely. Anyone would think she was the only one.
‘I don’t think so. He does ARP and fire-watching. That can be just as dangerous, stuck up on some flat roof with incendiaries falling all around, running to people’s aid through a rain of shrapnel. He could get blown up any time. I don’t think that’s being cowardly. I don’t think there’s a cowardly bone in his body when he volunteers ter do things like that.’
Immediately she knew she had spoken out of turn as Daphne, potato and cabbage pronged on a fork suspended halfway between her plate and her mouth, gave Brenda a curious glance.
‘Sounds like you’re quite familiar with what he does.’
‘Familiar!’ Brenda shot at her, already fearing that the stab of guilt that propelled her upright had revealed itself in her eyes. She fought to brazen it out, her voice going up one tone. ‘All I know is that people what go out during a raid to look out and watch over other people can’t be cowards.’
Daphne wilted. ‘You know what I mean. Him letting you use his basement, I thought he might of confided in you why he ain’t in the forces.’
‘Well, he hasn’t. And he doesn’t.’ That sounded too hasty for comfort. The truth was, he had.
‘When I did try to enlist,’ he told her once, ‘and they found I had asthma as a youngster. They rejected me. So here I am. It can be most embarrassing, trying to explain why you’re not in the forces and feeling you’re not being believed. It’s not as if I were exempted on some essential public service.’
She had felt so sorry for him. He was doing his bit. He was every bit as needed as anyone in the front line, ironically much of the front line being right here at home. And here she was getting letters from Harry who was in the forces and writing of the great time he was having! When he had fought it had been against an enemy with no real interest in combat, easy-going Italians who seemed happier being captured than fighting, according to the pictures in all the newspapers of them with their hands in the air, faces wreathed in smiles.
His letters to her during March were still describing the marvels of Egypt with just a passing concern here and there at how was she faring. She wondered if she was plaguing him too much telling of the continuing blitz, how exhausted she was from loss of sleep and oppressive rationing, where some bomb had dropped locally, and her fear for Addie.
Perhaps in an effort not to worry him, in her last letter she had tried to make light of its ferocity, but had been angered by his blithe reply that he was glad she was weathering it. ‘I know you, Brenda, you’re made of strong stuff. You won’t let them get you down.’
Had he been here she’d have aimed a saucepan at him!
That night, as bombs fell and the abrasive jangling of fire engine and ambulance bells split the lurid, dust-filled air that stank of the burning contents of warehouse after warehouse along the Thames, she poured it all out to John Stebbings when he popped into the basement during a brief lull to see if she and Addie were still in one piece.
Taking her tight expression for fear, he soothed, ‘You mustn’t give way,’ and had her look up at him from where she sat on the bottom edge of the bed, fury in her eyes.
‘I don’t care about the bloody bombing!’ she burst out.
Addie, fast asleep on the narrow camp bed, didn’t stir as Brenda raised her voice in pent-up indignation.
‘It’s Harry and his bloody happy letters. He don’t have any idea what I’m going through and cares even less.’
John Stebbings came and sat on the edge of the bed beside her. His arm came about her shoulder. ‘Now, that’s not true,’ he murmured slowly. ‘Of course he cares. He’s worried being so far away from you, but how can he keep on saying the same thing in letter after letter?’
The arm was comforting, offering safety from all that went on outside. She let herself lean against him and despite the harsh ARP dungarees and jacket he wore felt his warmth begin to transmit itself to her own body. All at once it emphasised how alone she was. She had Mum. But Mum had her own worries and she was a grown woman with a child of her own. The wish to be a child herself in her mother’s arms only drove her to fiercer independence even if Mum had attempted to cuddle her.
Now a man was offering his protection, something she’d not had in over six months, and she missed it so. In the chill basement, Addie asleep, above their heads the ringing of fire and ambulance bells, and in the brief lull in the bombing the low crump-crump of some distant ack-ack gunfire where bombers still played havoc, Brenda lay against the strong, comforting body of John Stebbings.
A well-known fluttering had begun to make itself known deep in the pit of her stomach. And maybe it was the way she had taken a deep breath, maybe it was the way she had moved, but its message was clear enough to him and maybe he was feeling the same way himself. His arm tightened and as she looked up at him, he lowered his face to hers so that their lips touched. It may have been that he was trying to comfort her, no more, but she felt the hunger there, and her lips too had grown hungry.
She felt her muscles grow taut against the terrible desire that had come over her, heard herself whisper, ‘We mustn’t . . . I’m married . . .’ but the wonderful feel of those lips, the warmth coming from them, the need not to be alone, stopped all further protest. As if she was floating, the world rolled away and with it all need to be responsible, to think, to consider what must come afterwards.
Addie’s little body twitched irritably, her voice protesting briefly at the disturbance from two lonely people seeking respite from their lonely lives before resuming sleep. Accustomed as she was to noise and disturbance, this was nothing by comparison. She neither knew nor cared when the two people finally lay still, not speaking, each wrapped in thought. Each now knew that they had been taken over and already they regretted it. They felt awkward with each other, and did not exchange any look as, getting up from the narrow bed while the ack-ack grew from a low grumble to sharper cracks announ
cing an end to the lull, he adjusted his dress and murmured, ‘I must get back.’
Brenda didn’t answer. Hating herself for what she had let happen, she watched him start up the short flight of stone stairs that led up to the shop, one hand clutching the thin iron rail.
Two steps up he stopped to look down at her. No doubt he saw the way her teeth had lightly caught at her lower lip, probably interpreting the mute appeal on her face as love, or more correctly as shame, she couldn’t tell. His voice was barely audible. ‘I’m sorry, Brenda. I shouldn’t have . . .’
‘John!’ She came to life as he made to ascend the rest of the stairs, as his face began to be hidden from her by the floor of the shop above. He bent his long body, his features coming into view again, his expression enquiring, eager.
‘John, I’m not sorry,’ she burst out.
No, she wasn’t . . . yes, she was . . . but only for some things. For the fact that she still loved Harry but that a war had torn . . . no, was tearing them apart – that his letters never seemed to convey a deep enough concern for her, only told of the unexpected good life and fine adventure he was experiencing while she, stuck in a humdrum existence, must battle on against food rationing, bombing, loneliness . . . oh, such loneliness and longing. And now it had led to this. Yes, she was sorry, but not because of what had just occurred. She felt alive, real, wanted, a person again.
She saw him nod and could not say whether it translated into regret or reassurance. Then he’d gone, the door above her closing quietly while the noise of anti-aircraft gunfire grew louder and the low menacing drone of the searching bombers grew in volume. Soon came the tearing sound of falling bombs, the explosions, the fine dust of ages trickling down from the wooden ceiling, the shuddering of the old bookshelves as yet a few more books tumbled to the floor. She was alone, guarding her child. It was as if the love she and John Stebbings had made had never been.
One particular huge explosion that rocked the cellar made her cry out and throw herself across Addie, waking the child enough to protest with her little fists and arms flailing before turning over in sleep. Brenda too fell asleep as the bombers finally departed with the first glimmer of dawn. But when she awoke she had a distinct feeling that during that time John Stebbings had peeked down at her and had gone away again without waking her. It was just a feeling, but a warm and comforting one.
At first light she crept out to a grey day to survey the wide Mile End Road. It was never possible to do this without a strange sense of being in some primeval time as she gazed around at the result of the previous night’s bombing. Oddly deserted, yet there were people. Unnaturally quiet, yet with London making its own sounds. Probably early morning had always been like this, but in these unnatural times, yes, it felt different. The pavements were all littered with shards of glass, broken slates, pieces of wooden railings, and bits of grotesquely twisted exploded metal, shrapnel with edges sharp enough to cut the careless hands of young children snapping up the most interesting examples as souvenirs, to their harassed mothers’ disgust.
John Stebbings had gone, no doubt to see if his own home was still in one piece. He would come back later to take stock of the shop’s front windowpane that now lay in smithereens on the pavement, already being swept back into the kerb by a thoughtful warden who said ‘Mornin’!’ to Brenda as she appeared, as though it were the morning of any day before the Blitz.
More windows to be replaced in her flat, she thought distractedly, returning the man’s salutation with a sociable smile, or if not, they’d have to be boarded up with old cardboard if she could find any, anything to keep out the early March winds. More, she thought about how she was going to face John this morning. How would they greet each other? Would they smile like friends? Avoid each other, ashamed? Would he not look at her or would he approach her with that usual directness of his, put an arm round her, behave as though he belonged now?
How would she react to whatever it would be? It was best not to be there when he did return. Hurrying up the back stairs with Addie in her arms, Brenda set about her normal daily tasks, first feeding Addie and then herself. She got a little angry when Addie seemed not to want her breakfast, as often happened, unsettled as the child was by all the to-ing and fro-ing. Then scrupulously and furiously, before Addie hurt herself, she swept up the bits of broken glass from yet another small windowpane which had taken the brunt of one blast or other from last night. Dust lay everywhere, veils of it as though she hadn’t dusted for years. Hurriedly she went over everything with a wet cloth, the only way to deal with it, then a dry one. A woman was coming to have her hair done this morning, unless she had more important things to deal with like a wrecked home, or had been taken to hospital injured, or was even dead.
Then she must write to Harry, the only way to rid herself of the guilt that last night had gripped her. Where had her mind been? How could she have let such a thing happen? And yet, as the thought brought the face of John Stebbings before her, there came fresh flutterings in her stomach. How could one be in love with two people at the same time? Harry was her husband, she loved him – it was just that she had been so lonely, lonely and afraid.
Glad of an anaesthetising burst of energy, she methodically set herself to giving the flat a thorough if hurried tidy-up in readiness for her client, and to dealing with Adele’s needs.
It was best to keep John at arm’s length if she possibly could. Keep away from temptation, common sense shouted at her. But how? He’d never let it go at that. It was Mum who came to her rescue without realising it.
‘Them raids is gettin’ worse an’ worse,’ she said, gazing in distress at Brenda when she popped round there that afternoon with the usual need to find out if they were all right. She’d have known soon enough if they weren’t – Mum had enough good neighbours to come hurrying round to convey the bad news if they’d been hurt or . . . She dared not think of anything worse. Mum had come out with the right solution to the need to stay clear of the shop basement for a while.
‘I do wish yer’d stay ’ere with us while things are so bad. It can’t go on forever. They’ve got ter stop some time or we’ll all be six feet under or in some bloomin’ lunatic asylum. I do worry about yer, yer know, Bren.’
‘And I worry about you, Mum. All of you.’
‘I say, if we ’ave ter go, we all go tergether.’
Brenda pursed her lips in assumed contemplation, gazing down at Addie sitting on the floor with a biscuit Mum had given her. Addie had been upset when her cat had failed to come home after a raid and had never been seen again. How could she explain to a child? Being here would make Addie get over it.
‘Well look, Mum,’ she said. ‘If that’s how you feel about it, p’haps I could stay with you for a while, see how it goes.’
Mum’s eyes lit up, and before much more could be said, it was all settled. ‘Bring what yer need with yer this evening, I’ll supply whatever else yer need. Oh, Bren, it won’t ’alf take a weight off me mind, you bein’ ’ere.’
Waiting until John closed up to go home no doubt to return later to go on duty, Brenda left him a note on the little bedside table in the cellar to say she’d had to go and see her parents. Later she would explain to him when she saw him tomorrow that with her mother being so concerned for her she had agreed to go there each evening for a while, coming home in the morning. ‘Just for a little while,’ she wrote. Then packing a few things for the night she hurried off, her mind in a turmoil as she pushed Addie in her pram across Bow Road and through the streets to Trellis Street, her parents’ home a quarter-mile walk away.
How would he take it? She didn’t want him to think she was spurning him. She didn’t want to upset him, give him to believe he had gone too far. She was as guilty as he in that respect. It was her head telling her they must stay away from each other, but it was her heart that with each step she took wanted to turn back, to go down into the cellar and hope he would come to her again tonight.
Sternly she put the thought out of
her mind and strode on. It wouldn’t do. She had a husband. How would he feel if this grew into an affair while he was thousands of miles away? It had been bad enough losing control that once. It mustn’t happen again. It wouldn’t happen again.
She’d have to come back tomorrow morning of course. There was her hairdressing business, that couldn’t be let go to pot. In the evening she’d go back to Mum and Dad’s for yet another night huddled in the shelter. A real blessed chore, but it avoided the temptation that no matter what she did or thought continued to lurk at the back of her brain: that she wanted more.
Three weeks later found her still trundling round to her parents. It was hard to tell them that she’d had enough of huddling in the cramped air raid shelter night after night, with just enough room for the four hard, eighteen-inch-wide wooden bunks. Mum and Dad had one each, she and Vera took the other two, with Addie squashed in beside her unable to stretch her small limbs so that her whining woke everyone from what fitful sleep they were able to get.
Every night spent there where even to turn over disturbed the others, set her thinking of the comfy if makeshift little bed in John’s cellar, of the warm halo glow from the small table lamp, or candlelight when electricity got cut off. It was shared by only herself and Addie, and it provided the pure luxury of being able to get up when she wanted, stretch her legs and walk around the dusty bookshelves. Before long she was making excuses about it being inconvenient traipsing round there every evening and home again every morning.
‘It do disrupt Addie’s routine, Mum.’
‘Better disrupt that than ’er little body buried under a pile of bricks. I never thought basements safe. Look at them as what’s been buried under there fer days and ’ave ter be dug out. No, love, yer better orf ’ere.’
But how nice to go straight on upstairs as dawn broke rather than walk through rubble-strewn streets in the cold early dawn, depressed by the sight of a couple of dwellings blasted to the ground, the gap they left like a tooth pulled from a previous complete row, wondering if people were underneath as men in boiler suits and tin helmets dug in the pile of pulverised plaster, shattered furniture, splintered wood and blackened bricks that constituted the remnants of someone’s home. Wallpaper could still be seen on one exposed wall.
