A Soldier's Girl

by Maggie Ford

  There was silence. The silence went on and on, leaving her regretting the outburst. He didn’t deserve that. He had been kind and helpful and it wasn’t his fault that circumstances had made him love her, and she him. It wasn’t his fault. In a welter of remorse, she ran to the door. But he’d gone.

  All that week he did not come nigh or by. She in turn avoided him, peeping out of her kitchen door to make sure he wasn’t in the yard if she needed to go out, hurrying down to get Addie in her pram. Her heart would be in her mouth on returning in case she should bump into him. It was the same ritual in going down to use the toilet, peeping out of that door too to make sure the coast was clear when ready to go back upstairs. It was hateful.

  Even more hateful was during a raid, cowering under her bed cursing herself for a fool being up here when there was a safe basement there for her. Yet the next morning emerging all in one piece, she was glad she had resisted temptation. At least John couldn’t decently invade her flat without her sanction whereas he was free to enter his own cellar at any time. Even so, she missed him and a great void seemed to encircle her heart each time he crept into her thoughts.

  As time went by, though, she would overcome that, grow stronger in will, become braver and slowly more inured to sleeping up here in a raid. In an odd way, if only imaginary, it even felt safer with just a roof to fall on her, whereas in a cellar, she’d be buried alive by tons of masonry, waiting to be dug out – if she wasn’t killed . . .

  Over those four nights she told herself that she’d done the right thing. Then came Saturday night, the tenth of May. She had thought the raid in mid-April had been the very worst – it was nothing compared to this night.

  Beneath the bed, curled about a screaming Adele, her mouth dry with abject terror, her body quaking, the noise sounded unbelievable with no basement wall to muffle it. Every second felt that it would be her last as blast after blast shook the floor beneath her until she was sure it would collapse with them along with it, buried despite that earlier attempt at reassurance that there was only a roof above her.

  More and more came the now familiar, horrible sound as of a sheet being ripped as a bomb fell close by to land with an explosion that showered glass and ceiling plaster over the room, blowing tattered blackout curtains inward on a Shockwave capable of lifting a full-grown man off his feet and tossing him twenty feet or more, of stripping off clothing and ripping flesh.

  How anyone could endure it for hours on end, powerless to do a thing about it? Out there in the desert Harry at least had a gun to defend himself with. She had nothing, could do nothing but cower here under a flimsy bed, her hope of its protection all gone as what sounded like tons of shrapnel tinkled and crashed down on the tiles above her, taking them off not one at a time but in their dozens. Soon there’d be nothing left, her room open to the sky, the ring of fire set by incendiaries now sending its lurid, wavering, orange glow into the room through the broken windows, searing her with its heat, she and her child at the mercy of shrapnel that with no roof left would tear through the bedsprings and into their flesh, cutting and piercing and killing.

  In one moment of panic, she almost leapt up to run out with Addie in her arms and down the staircase to the basement, but common sense stayed her. To set one foot outside now would be asking to be killed.

  There was no sleep that night. No John to come and soothe her; his time was completely taken up with ministering to those who needed it most. It seemed dawn would never come, that this would go on forever and ever.

  But dawn did come. The raiders did depart, leaving behind them the stink of still-burning buildings, warehouses, and their variety of contents. The air had become acrid enough to sting the nose; quantities of charred paper and cloth floated weightlessly on a fire-induced breeze, and billowing clouds of thick, black and sulphur-coloured smoke covered the whole of London.

  With a sinking heart she looked out at it through the broken window of her bedroom after having crept out from beneath her bed, window glass crackling underfoot, careful to find her shoes before making her way across a debris-strewn room, Addie in her arms. Her mind flew to her parents, as it had done countless times that fearful night. She must go and find out if they were all right. But first, it was essential to clear up all this glass. Addie might hurt herself. Dragging the bedding back on to the bed, she put her in the centre of it all.

  ‘Now, you stay there,’ she commanded tersely, the child’s blue eyes returning her stern gaze and seeing trouble if she didn’t. ‘I’ve got ter sweep up. If you get down you’ll cut yerself and I’ll give you such a smacking.’

  Running to the kitchen, the glass everywhere, she seized the broom, then nearly leapt out of her skin as John’s face peered through the broken window at her. ‘Oh, my God!’

  ‘Didn’t mean to make you jump, Brenda.’ He came on in as if the havoc of last night gave him every right to do so. ‘What damage has been done?’ But a glance was enough and he let out an exasperated growl.

  ‘You’re lucky not to have been killed up here.’

  ‘It is a bit of a mess,’ she conceded, starting to sweep without much purpose. ‘But I can soon clear it up.’ What she really wanted was for him to leave her in peace. ‘Look, I can’t talk now. I’ve left Adele on the bed. I’m worried she’ll get down and cut herself.’

  He went straight past her and, following him, she saw him lift Addie in his arms. He handed the child to her. ‘You take her down to the shop. Go into the back kitchen. The electric’s off and so is the gas, but there’s a primus stove. I’ve lit it and put a kettle on it. Make yourself a cup of tea. You’ll find everything on a shelf out there. There’s milk for Adele. I nailed wood up over the back door window so it will be dark, and now of course there’s no electricity, but there are matches and candles.’

  She didn’t want to go downstairs, didn’t want to be dependent upon him, in danger of starting it all up again. She needed to clear up here. This morning she had two hair appointments, though whether either would turn up was unlikely after a night like they’d had. Everyday life had more or less come to a standstill, apart from rescue work, fire-fighting and trying to get the services back on. It was chaos.

  ‘I have to clear up,’ she said lamely, holding Addie.

  ‘No, you go downstairs. I’ll clear this lot up. You could cut yourself badly. I can start boarding up your windows with cardboard and make the place habitable again, or at least some way towards it.’

  He was surveying the damaged ceiling. ‘I expect you’ve lost quite a few tiles. It could have been worse after seeing what’s out there. Thank God it’s May and not likely to rain. You won’t have that coming through. By the way, the water mains are broken down the road. They’re turning it off in order to repair it. I filled a couple of buckets downstairs with what there was. We can make tea with it and have a wash.’

  He’d thought of everything, was being very efficient, and in a way she felt grateful. What would she have done here alone, with no water, no means of heating a kettle or cooking or washing?

  ‘I’ve got to go and see if me family’s all right,’ she said as lamely as before. ‘See nothing’s ’appened to ’em.’ After a night such as she’d had, she had no energy to concentrate on talking nicely.

  He was regarding her with a slight frown as if realising that she was indeed trying to avoid him. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘you go. I’ll carry on here. You can’t do all this by yourself. It’ll only take me an hour or so. By the time you get back, it’ll be done.’

  If I get back, came the awful thought. What if Mum and Dad and Vera had got a direct hit and what if . . .? She wouldn’t let herself think of that. But if they’d been injured, taken to hospital, she would have to go on there. There were Harry’s people too – were they all right? If they weren’t, Harry must be told. Would he be sent home on compassionate leave? And there were her two hair appointments today, how to let them know she wouldn’t be here? Her head began to reel from all the questions. There was a bu
zzing in her ears and her face was feeling flaccid, her brow coldly sweaty.

  She had just enough time and presence of mind to thrust Addie back into John’s arms before the ground which had gone a funny dark colour began to come up to meet her.

  She came to, finding herself slumped forward on a chair.

  Someone was holding her shoulder to stop her falling. Addie was whimpering. She knew she must console her, reassure her that her mummy was all right. Drawing in a deep breath she opened her eyes and saw the face, filled with concern, gazing into hers – John crouched on his haunches in front of her.

  ‘I must of ’ad a bit of a fainting fit,’ she managed feebly.

  He pressed down on her again as she tried to get up. ‘Stay quiet now. Rest. You’ve been through a lot. I wish you had gone down to the basement. I wouldn’t have disturbed you. Not after . . .’ He let the words die away then asked gently, ‘Can you manage to lie back on your bed? I’ll go down and make you a cup of tea. With plenty of sugar in it. You probably need it.’

  She did as he asked, lay down gratefully, had him cover her with the eiderdown which he first shook free of plaster and glass.

  ‘Where’s Addie?’ she asked and hearing her name spoken there came an answering call right next to her. ‘Mummy-Mummy!’

  ‘Oh, darling!’ Brenda’s voice broke. Pulling her daughter to her, she held her so tightly that the child squirmed and cried out in protest.

  ‘Mummy! I can’t breave – can’t breave!’

  ‘Oh, sorry, love,’ Brenda burst out. ‘I couldn’t ’elp it.’

  ‘I’ll go and make you that cup of tea.’ John moved away, leaving mother and daughter to weep away the anguish of those long hours of bombing and mayhem.

  He was back in a few minutes, placing the steaming cup into her hands to drink, Addie, now over her trauma, rolled around the bed.

  He watched while she sipped the hot sweet brew, the heat through the thin china almost burning the palms of her hands, until it was all gone.

  Revived, she smiled up at him in an impromptu gesture of gratitude, and in response he sat himself on the edge of the bed beside her. For a second Brenda felt herself stiffen, but he was being so attentive, seemed so concerned for her, that her body relaxed and she let herself remember all she had gone through last night here all on her own. She’d been thoroughly stupid. She told him so.

  ‘No,’ he disagreed, his arm falling comfortingly across her shoulders. ‘I understand. We should never have let it go so far.’

  The sadness in his voice wrenched at her. ‘John, I do love you, I can’t help myself, but it is wrong and it has to stop.’

  ‘I know. I wish you weren’t married. You’re very precious to me.’

  She sat silent. On the other side of the bed next to the wall where she couldn’t fall, Addie played on, rolling her small body in and out of the pillow case and prattling away to herself in some game of her own. Brenda allowed herself the comfort of leaning against the man beside her, his body warmth penetrating the dress and cardigan she had spent all night in.

  Automatically she felt his face lower to hers, lifted her own to receive his kiss. His lips warm on hers, the clean fragrance of freshly shaved cheeks and lightly brilliantined hair, stirred her loins for a moment. She should be pushing him away. Could she? She felt her body melt against his, his hand come up to her chin to hold her mouth to his . . . A frantic bashing at the kitchen door, the sound of it opening, practically bounced them apart.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Bren! Yer there?’ The voice held a note of rasping urgency.

  Brenda leapt up. ‘Oh, God, me dad!’

  John too was on his feet. A man she had always thought of as in total command of himself looked like a small boy caught stealing sweets. But she had no care how he appeared, the only thought flooding her mind was the fear of being discovered here together.

  One look passed between them and each knew their next move with no need to discuss it. By the time what struck her as a horde of people had piled into the kitchen, though they were only three, she was there to meet them. John had already stationed himself by the bedroom window, broom in hand as though in the process of sweeping up glass and plaster, the good Samaritan. Adele thank God, played happily on the bed, making his presence in the flat innocuous enough.

  Brenda was still trembling as she halted her family at the door to the rest of the flat. ‘Mum, Dad!’ But the sight of them told her everything.

  Mum was hatless – she never went out without one on. Vera was crying. Dad looked grim-faced, that face streaked with soot. Each carried a bundle of clothing. Each carried their gas mask in its box over their shoulder. Mum clutched the bag she religiously took down into the shelter with her each night. It held their ration books, identity cards, savings, spare back door key and it never went shopping or visiting with her. That bag was special. ‘Me night bag,’ she was fond of calling it.

  But it was the appearance of each of them that shook Brenda, banishing all else from her mind: Mum, coat dusty, hair dishevelled, face pale and drawn into lines around a set mouth and between her eyebrows. And Vera, Vera without make-up, fair pageboy hair still in curlers beneath a triangular headscarf, her half-open coat revealing the top of a nightie over which she’d dragged a pair of slacks. Dad, he looked the worst, his once blue-striped shirt filthy and collarless, his face and neck, hands and wrists covered in soot, his jacket scorched, his hair singed, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot.

  ‘Dear God! What’s happened?’ Brenda burst out, staring at each in turn. It was her mother who spoke.

  ‘We’ve bin bombed out.’

  Vera began to cry again.

  ‘Burnt out,’ corrected Dad. ‘Bleedin’ incendiary. It went through the bloody ceiling into our bedroom before I could get at it. Gutted the ’ole of our bloody ’ouse. Three doors down got a direct hit. Luckily they was down their shelter, like us, but they got buried. Civil Defence workers was gettin’ ’em out when we left. I expect bloody Jerry was aimin’ fer the railway. Half the street’s ’ad it.’

  Brenda ushered them through to the living room, that too littered with broken glass and ceiling plaster, one small corner of ceiling hanging down like a sheet on a washing line. She ignored it. ‘But what about you? Are you all right?’

  ‘We’re orright,’ sighed her mother, brushing away shards of glass from the settee with a handkerchief so as to sit on the few cleared inches. ‘Yer dad could of got killed trying ter douse the fire, but he couldn’t save it. So we just lorst all our ’ome, that’s all.’

  As Vera’s crying rose, she turned on her angrily. ‘Oh, shut up, Vera, yer silly cow! You ain’t even scratched.’

  ‘But all me dresses gone. All me make-up gone. I ain’t got one thing left. What’m I gonna wear? I’m gonna look a right sight. ’Ow can I . . .’

  ‘Yer’d look a bleedin’ worse sight if yer’d bin in the ’ouse. Yer’d of bin dead!’

  ‘Oh, M-u-m!’

  ‘Well, it’s true. Thank yer lucky stars we never got a direct one. Thank yer lucky stars we was in the shelter.’

  ‘But Dad wasn’t. He went and tackled that rotten incendiary bomb. He could of bin burnt to a crisp.’

  ‘Well, he wasn’t – so shut up!’

  Brenda’s mind was in a whirl. John was in the bedroom. Two clients were coming this morning to have their hair cut – that’s if they came at all after last night, though people went on with their lives, blitz or no blitz. How was she going to cope with them, with all this, house her family, feed them, sleep them and carry on with hairdressing?

  ‘I don’t know where I’m going ter put you all,’ she began.

  ‘They said they’d put us up in one of them community places until they find us somewhere,’ Mum said, looking round at the mess. ‘You took a bit of a walloping too by the looks of it. I was just ’oping you could put us up fer a while ’til they find us somethink. I don’t fancy sleeping in one of them community places, all of us crammed in wi
th a lot of other people, listening to ’em doing what should be done in private.’

  ‘Like farting,’ her husband put in. ‘Yer mum never could abide anyone fartin’ outright.’

  ‘Dave! I don’t ’old with that kind of talk in front of everyone. Anyway, it don’t seem ter worry you. You go ahead and do it whenever yer feel like it. Don’t matter what I like.’

  ‘I’m yer ’usband,’ he shot back at her, a grin forming a white line in his sooty features. ‘I’m allowed.’

  ‘P’haps. But I don’t want ter ’ear strangers doin’ it in me face. And nor d’yer know ’ow clean they are in their everyday ’abits. Strangers – I don’t want ter ’ave ter sleep on a floor next to ’em.’ She turned back to Brenda. ‘Would yer mind us stayin’ ’ere, Bren? Only be fer a little while, I’m sure.’

  How could she say no? ‘I’ll be only too glad to ’ave yer, Mum.’

  She looked up as John appeared in the front room doorway. His eyebrows were raised in an almost comical fashion and it occurred to her how expressive they could be.

  ‘I’ve swept your bedroom, Brenda, Adele is quite happy playing on your bed, but the floor is clear of glass and she can get down now.’

  ‘Oh, thank you.’ She adopted a gushing tone, perhaps too much so. ‘It was so good of you. I can carry on from there. And thank you again.’

  ‘I’ll pop up later with some cardboard for your windows until I can get a glazier. My shop window was blown out too, so I’ll get him to have a look at yours when he can get round to doing something about mine. He’ll most likely board the thing up and leave just a small aperture for a bit of glass. That’s all you can do these days. I’ll put your broom away for you.’

  As he disappeared from the doorway, her mother turned to her. ‘Do he always call yer Brenda?’

  ‘Well, I do use his basement and we do have a few talks – to keep me company when there’s a raid on. Of course he calls me Brenda.’

  ‘And what d’yer call ’im?’

  She felt her insides squirm as though Mum had detected something more than mere neighbourly familiarity. ‘I s’pose I call him Mr Stebbings.’