A Chelsea Concerto

by Frances Faviell

  Catherine did not look well. That she was unhappy I knew. She was not afraid of the air raids, she told me, it wasn’t that at all. She didn’t care if she died – and that would be as good a way as any other. I could see that normally she was a gay light-hearted girl when she forgot her unhappiness and was interested in something she was telling me, or joking with Mrs Freeth her eyes would twinkle and she had dimples in her cheeks. There were little crinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth which proclaimed her as the type who normally laughed easily. But now, as the time for her confinement drew nearer, she was becoming more and more depressed and silent. I tried to reassure her about everything, telling her again and again that her baby would be exactly the same as any other baby, but she had got the idea that her child would be a ‘bastarde’ implanted firmly in her mind, and she was convinced that her fiancé would be killed – or was already dead.

  I had told Richard about her and the coming baby and of how I felt responsible for Catherine. Why I felt so, I couldn’t explain, but I did. There was Carla, too, happy for the moment at school near Ascot, where I visited her whenever I could. One of her school-friends had invited her there for the August holidays and Carla was enjoying a stay in a very jolly family. Ruth was still in a hospital having treatment for a severe mental breakdown, and I felt as responsible for Carla as l did for Catherine. The child already looked to me for all that she needed and wrote affectionate letters telling me everything that happened at school.

  The bomb was removed next day without mishap – and we were told that it was a dud one. I exchanged news with all our little colony, as we called that small piece of the Royal Hospital Road where we lived, the Ferebees in the grocer’s shop opposite, Miss Chandler in the chemist’s, Sally at the newspaper and cigarette shop and the girls in the Post Office in Oakshott’s on the corner of Tite Street. They all had something exciting to tell of the last few nights. Chelsea had had its first bomb and everyone was excited, if not apprehensive. In the King’s Road, where I went shopping, the feeling had changed too. In that short time since I had been away the whole feeling of London had changed. Now that Hammersmith and Croydon had been heavily bombed the Londoners were not taking the Alerts so lightly; more and more were going to shelters and in the streets people were beginning to look apprehensively at the sky as those French troops had done at Dover.

  Our billetees returned with the removal of the bomb, indignant that they had been sent away while women had stayed. I felt for them – Army Regulations did seem difficult to understand and Richard said that they appeared to be purposely obtuse. As I had thought, the first thing they asked him was if he had any old mackintoshes or jackets!

  In the late afternoon of September 7th the sirens had sounded and we heard many planes about – they did not seem to be dropping anything in the Chelsea vicinity, but we heard a lot of gunfire far down the river. Presently the All Clear sounded. Soon afterwards, about six o’clock, they sounded again and fires started almost immediately. We could see a red-orange glow in the sky. Wardens out in the streets marshalling their shelterers said that the docks had been attacked very heavily and every Fire Service had been called there. Presently, instead of darkness following the sunset it remained light – a curious yellow-orange light almost like sunrise. We went up on the roof and saw a terrifying sight far off down the river. A monstrous fire was obviously blazing and its gloriously reflected flames in the river cast the glare upwards and right over London. It was absolutely terrifying! As it got later the bombs began whistling down everywhere – and more and more planes came droning over dropping them.

  It was a terrible night, there were continuous loud whistling whooshing sounds followed by dull, ominous, heavy thuds which shook the houses and then came several loud, reverberating explosions which shook the very ground of the streets. More and more German planes zoomed overhead as they had done on the Hog’s Back, and they seemed to be circling over London, Again and again they returned to drop more and more bombs into the inferno which we knew – and could see – was devouring our docks. There was not a single gun to chase them off – and it was so light from the great fires that we could almost see to read on the roof and it was unnecessary to make use of our torches. Again and again we went down below as planes came right overhead, and we heard the whoosh of a bomb, only to return in a lull to watch the progress of the fire. By now the area of glowing red-orange light was vast – it gave us a horrible feeling of complete impotence in the face of its magnitude – so great was this bonfire display reflected in the heavens that we felt like Lilliputians watching monstrous aerial Gullivers at work.

  Kathleen had tears running down her face – she could not bear to see it. As for me I felt fury – a wild anger of which I did not know I was capable. I found I was shivering with some kind of emotion hitherto unknown to me – it was similar to the one I had felt when Catherine was describing the bombing and machine-gunning of the trail of refugees. From the roof we watched fire-engines racing and wardens cycling on their urgent errands. I had telephoned the FAP although I was officially still away, and was told to remain on call. They were fully staffed at the Control also.

  The All Clear did not come until five o’clock next morning and we heard then that there had been terrific battles all round London and that eighty-eight German planes had been destroyed. When I went out people were stunned by the magnitude of the raid and the endless succession of German planes which had circled London. Like me, they were under no illusions, they knew that the long-promised Blitz – threats of which I had listened to again and again on the German radio – was here.

  Early next morning, a Sunday, we heard something of the appalling destruction which the vast and savage attack of the previous afternoon and night had caused to the docks. The firemen had, some of them, fought the fires for more than twenty-four hours and were still fighting them, for as they had put out a blaze fresh waves of the Luftwaffe rekindled it. Woolwich Arsenal seemed to have been the foremost target for the first waves, and they then bombed Tower Bridge, Poplar, Bermondsey, and West Ham, where their targets were the East India Docks and the great Surrey Commercial Docks. All the small residential houses round them were wiped out – and before the fires could be extinguished darkness fell, and more and more waves of German bombers hurled more and more bombs into the fires the blaze of which provided them with a perfect guide and target. The whole East End had been ablaze and was still smouldering – and this was the awesome and terrible glare which we had watched from our roof in Chelsea.

  Later some of the firemen who had been rushed to the area from every borough told us something of the horrors of the burning docks – how the tea and sugar and flour which burned as fiercely as any fuel, the petrol and oil, the wood and paper, all went up in one vast inferno.

  I went round to the refugees to see how they had stood the night. They were quieter than I had expected – and all had been in shelters, marshalled there by Hilda Reid. Some of them were bitter that they had been put in London after their experiences in escaping to England. On the whole I found the women more resigned in their acceptance of the air raids than the men. The men told me that they felt doubly bad because they had taken the responsibility of bringing their families to Britain, and had apparently brought them out of the frying-pan into the fire.

  Chelsea had had several bombs during the night and they had felt the reverberation of them in their shelters, as we had in the house.

  The Giant was rather quiet – he seemed very shaken, not by the bombs and the raid, but by the behaviour of the shelter occupants. Some of them, he complained, had been very rude to the Belgians, saying that they were Germans. At this, The Giant, who understood quite a bit of English now, had doubled up his fists and shouted that if anyone called him a German he would knock him down. There had been an uproar and the shelter warden had quelled it and restored order. Catherine told me that many of the people had complained at having foreigners in the shelter to which she went. It had not been too pleas
ant – quite apart from the crowding and the smell and the lack of sanitation. One family told me that they only felt safe in the Knightsbridge Underground and that they intended to ask for a place regularly there. When I said that it was a very long way to go they said they didn’t mind that – if they could sleep in safety when they had arrived there, and that they intended going as soon as dusk fell – they would not wait for the sirens. The Royal Hospital, which was to prove a constant target, had had a bomb drop in Ranelagh Gardens. It was unexploded and the whole area was roped off and closed to the public until the Bomb Disposal Squad came to remove it. We were soon to become familiar with these wonderful REs who, oblivious to danger, would remove the fuses in these unexploded bombs, or UXBs as we called them in Civil Defence and in the Control Centre. If the bomb could not be put out of action it would be conveyed through the cleared streets escorted by police on a conveyance which was painted bright red and marked BDS.

  In the studio, except for some flakes of plaster on the carpet, everything looked the same. The heavy bomb which had fallen in Ranelagh Gardens and those in the river near Swan Walk had not even shaken the Green Cat from his lacquer pedestal. Serene and aloof he sat in the window in the sunlight, surveying with contempt the activities in the street. Everyone begged me to put him down in the cellar with some of the paintings which I had stored there now. But I would not move him. Was he not the Guardian of the Home? He must be treated with respect. His place was in it – not below it. But I looked at him as he sat there and I wondered if he were going to prove the truth of what Ah Ling had said. ‘As long as he is intact he will guard your home and all that is in it.’

  Chapter Twelve

  AFTER THE FIRST few days of the Blitz on London we realized with indignation and resignation that this was a horror which had come to stay – for there were no guns to drive off the raiders circling round with their monstrous loads like a swarm of death-dealing hornets. The noise enraged us – it seemed an outrage that this should be happening over our capital. My anger amused Richard, who said that I was merely wasting valuable energy in reviling and cursing the Nazis. Finally, after several outbursts, I saw the wisdom of his argument. What was the use of cursing? The Luftwaffe was here – over London now whenever it felt like coming – its pilots knew it only too well from their days on the civil aviation lines. But the question on everyone’s lips was, Where are our anti-aircraft guns?

  Those first days of the Luftwaffe’s Blitz on Chelsea were dramatic and tragic, and in them the much-resented and ridiculed air-raid wardens came into their own and showed us the stuff of which they were made. Our Chelsea ones were magnificent! The first to rouse people after the sirens sounded, they hurried to the shelters, ticking off the names of the residents in their areas as they arrived, then back they went to hustle and chivvy the laggards and see that those who chose to stay in their homes were all right. The first to locate and report the bombs to Control, they were the ones to guide and direct the Services sent by Control to the ‘incident (a word to which we were to become all too accustomed). It was the wardens who soothed and calmed the terrified and comforted the injured and the dying. They carried children, old people, bundles of blankets, and the odd personal possessions which some eccentrics insisted on taking with them to the shelters. They woke the heavy sleepers, laughed at the grumblers, praised the helpful and cheerful, and performed miracles in keeping law and order during those first dramatic weeks when the Battle of London was being fought in our skies. At the height of the bombing in the raids I would meet Nonie and Tishie Iredale-Smith, wardens of our own area, immaculately uniformed and groomed amongst the half-dressed and dishevelled shelterers, running to waken and hurry their ‘flock’, lists in their hands, ticking them off as they were located; George Evans, our post warden, calm and imperturbable; Major Christie; Connie Oades on her bicycle: small, pretty, and efficient, she was capable of dealing with numbers of disgruntled shelterers and even drunks in the shelters.

  One of the first horrors was a direct hit on Cadogan Shelter, a public shelter under a block of flats in Beaufort Street. The blast killed a large number of people as it blew in the sides of the shelter, amongst them Jean Darling, the shelter warden. Our first casualties at FAP5 were quiet and shocked. None of them wanted to say much – I think the dirt and mess with which they were all covered and their anxiety for missing relatives or friends was uppermost. The casualties’ indifference to injuries, cuts, and abrasions astonished us just as the dirt upset all our arrangements. The effects of shock when they first arrived, although we had been trained to recognize them, varied very much in individual cases. What did emerge from this first unfortunate tragedy was a feeling that shelters were not safe – that had the victims stayed at home they would still be alive. To this there was no answer – it was the duty of all Civil Defence personnel to encourage the public to use the shelters.

  Digging on this terrible holocaust was still in process on the afternoon of the next day, September 9th, when the sirens sounded again in broad day-light. I was walking with Vicki to the Town Hall to report to Control and see when I was needed most as a stand-in, when the sirens went. Almost at once there were terrific noises of planes overhead, explosions, and activity in the sky. The first great thud came as I reached the turning of Flood Street, by which time wardens were out and shouting to people to take shelter. Everyone was going about his or her usual jobs and did not seem inclined to obey. I continued on my way but walked a little faster. ‘Take cover,’ called a warden on a bicycle sternly. ‘Going on duty,’ I retorted. ‘Hurry then – and get under cover,’ he insisted. Just then there was a terrific explosion and I threw myself down as instructed with Vicki under me. When I got up there was a great cloud of dust and glass was flying about. I felt distinctly sick, but Vicki took not the slightest notice of the appalling noise – had I not known that she had excellent hearing I would have concluded that she was deaf. Up in the sky, very low indeed, a raider was being chased by a Spitfire and as it was chased it was unloading its bombs at regular intervals above the King’s Road. I ran on to the Town Hall, shouted at by indignant wardens all the time. One caught hold of me as I reached the King’s Road. ‘Why aren’t you taking cover?’ he demanded. I pointed to Vicki. ‘Dogs aren’t allowed in shelters,’ I said. ‘The sirens sounded after I left home with her.’ ‘Well get under cover at once!’ he ordered. ‘I’m going on duty,’ I said. ‘I don’t care where you’re going. Get under cover… Look out!!!’ I threw myself down again as another deafening explosion rocked the King’s Road, and another, then another.

  I was now very frightened and went into the Town Hall and took shelter in the labyrinth of its bowels where Control was. Vicki showed not the slightest sign of perturbation at all the noise and I was thankful as many people had had their dogs destroyed, fearing that they would not be able to stand the noise. Mr Broad, the veterinary surgeon, told me that he had done nothing since the Blitz began but destroy people’s pets – cats, dogs, and birds. It was a lamentable task for, as with doctors, his job was to save life not destroy it, and he said that some of the animals he had been obliged to put down were beautiful healthy creatures.

  I reported to Control, who were excited and busy. They were fully manned and did not need me for the time being but asked me to stay in case I was wanted later on. Here I learned where the bombs had been unloaded. The first one I had heard as I went along the Embankment had been on Cheyne Walk, very close to Whistler’s lovely house in which we held our meetings. The second had been on Bramerton Street, then King’s Court North (a block of flats just west of the Town Hall), then on Swan Court (this was the cloud of dust), Smith Street, and the last one before the Spitfire caught up with the raider had been on St Leonard’s Terrace.

  The All Clear went quite quickly. The raid had been short and sharp, the raider having obviously been chased in from the outskirts where, as we had seen from Newlands Corner, the RAF were intercepting the Germans in their constant attempts to get through to the ca
pital.

  I noticed that the Town Hall clock had stopped precisely at ten to six. Outside it was still sunny and lovely. The mess was awful. All the Services were out – fire, heavy rescue, ambulances, and all the wardens – a most impressive sight. It was difficult to get back to the Royal Hospital Road. Flood Street, Manor Street, and Smith Street were all blocked, as was Bramerton Street. The streets were full of plate glass, whole shop windows were out, the special wire-supports and the much vaunted sticky paper and cellophane advocated by the Government had not been of any use at all. There was scarcely a window left anywhere. Worried about the refugees, I managed to get through Manor Street because I was in uniform. The whole of one side of Swan Court had blown out, leaving the flats exposed like a doll’s house which opens on hinges, and there were all the rooms on display to the public eye like the Ideal Homes’ Exhibition shows them! The glass was so thick that I had to carry Vicki, otherwise she would have been cut. I went quickly back to Cheyne Place and put her safely inside.

  Kathleen was all right but was worried about Anne, who would be on her way home. I was equally anxious about Mrs Freeth, who always went home all the afternoon and usually returned about six. She would have been on her way when the raid started. The dogs, Spider and Susan, said Kathleen, were terrified. She had decided to send them to the country. Mrs Freeth arrived as unperturbed as Vicki, and informed me that Victoria Station had been hit. I reported quickly to the FAP to see if I was needed. They had casualties, mostly from flying glass, but not many, and were also fully staffed, so I was sent to see how the refugees had fared. I knew from Control that a bomb had fallen on St Leonard’s Terrace. The Belgian women would have been in the canteen preparing a meal at the time it had fallen. They were all right, they had been in the shelter – but eloquent indeed – far more so than the casualties. The other refugees had been marshalled to shelter by Hilda Reid and were all loud in their anger and criticism. Raids ought to be at night – why in the day? Why indeed, except that the Luftwaffe chose to come! That there would have been far more had the RAF not intercepted them we already knew.