The bomb had fallen on a Tuesday, November 1st, and it was not until a Saturday, December 7th, that Mrs Lanham’s body was found. When it became certain that it was not in the debris they began digging in the crater, and they found that she had been sucked by the terrific blast right into – almost under – the crater. There was relief as well as satisfaction when her body was found. As with every Chelsea incident, every person had been accounted for – and the incident could be closed. In spite of the size of the bomb and the appalling damage to buildings, only twelve people were killed and six seriously injured and only six treated for light injuries at the FAP, and it was very reassuring to the apprehensive to think that all those tons of TNT had only killed twelve people.
November 3rd was our first bomb-free night since the Blitz had started. Shawfield Street was now open again but it was a terribly depressing spectacle. They were still digging there. There were very few residents now, almost all of them had evacuated. Nevertheless there was a wonderful spirit apparent in those few who remained. More than half its houses had now gone, for the HE bomb which had fallen on it was the heaviest we had experienced so far. We were getting a great many incendiary bombs and Hilda Reid told me how, when a fire-fighting party had to be formed for what remained of Shawfield Street, it consisted of a widow with two young boys of sixteen and seven, an elderly couple with a boy of sixteen, and an elderly invalid chef with an invalid daughter. These were the remaining residents.
When, one night, incendiaries fell, this fire party, helped by an unknown lady from Radnor Walk, found a fire bomb blazing in the annexe of an unoccupied house. They climbed over the garden wall with buckets and equipment and attacked the bomb, which had fallen on a dining-room table with the remains of the family’s breakfast still on it. They put it out most effectively and turned to attack a second bomb which they had located in the ruins and found it had been extinguished. They were so indignant that they sent a deputation of formal complaint to Post K that the Town Hall be asked to do something ‘about people from another street without even badges, and without invitation, coming and extinguishing bomb No 2 which they themselves had been perfectly capable of dealing with.’
A lady living in the same street whose family was connected with the War Office lamented bitterly that she had missed the Fire Blitz. She had heard the people laughing and talking in the street and thought it was those girls with the Canadians; and subsequently discovered that it was the people with their bombs!
On this night Richard and I had a wonderful time. He belonged to a fire-fighting party for our part of the street and incendiaries were falling everywhere. They were small and pretty, like fireflies coming down, and the sky looked fantastically beautiful. They were easy to extinguish with sand or a stirrup pump provided they were tackled immediately. We put out quite a number and were joined by Anne and Cecil, who enjoyed it as thoroughly as we did. In Tite Street a fire had started in an unoccupied house. We could see through the windows that the front room was blazing and the furniture and carpet alight. There was no time to find the warden who might have the keys to the house, so Richard picked up a brick from the gutter and hurled it through a window of the room. I followed suit with another, smashing the glass, so that it was possible to climb in from the area steps. It was such a relief to hurl those bricks, it released some of the anger which we all felt against the murderous raids. We were climbing in when Major Harding Newman came along and proceeded to smash his way into a house farther up the street.
The incendiaries fell in a peculiar way – it was impossible to see whence they had come! Suddenly they were all there. They were quite small – about eighteen inches long – and were made of thermite, Richard told me. They were in magnesium alloy containers, and weighed very little, but the height from which they were dropped gave them sufficient momentum to penetrate roofs and slates and they ignited on impact. They fell with little plops, rather as insects fell in India when coming in contact with the lamps – they reminded me of that. They were quite easy to extinguish with sand or smother with anything as one did an ordinary fire. Mrs Freeth picked them up with a pair of coal tongs and dropped them triumphantly into the coal bucket where they burned themselves out. In the road and on the pavements they burned harmlessly. A plane could carry thousands of them – and apparently did.
A letter from my mother in Plymouth described one of the terrible fire raids there. From her windows she had a very good view of the distant town and docks. ‘It was the most beautiful sight I have seen for a very long time; the sky was alight with dancing lights and they had a blueish green shimmer like a firefly – then a wonderful bright crimson. They came down in thousands – truly like “fire from Heaven” – and everywhere I could hear laughter and shouting as people put them out. While I was watching one came right through the roof of the kitchen and started to blaze on the floor. I picked it up with the tongs and hurled it into the garden where it burned harmlessly on the grass. Another landed on the tiles of the front porch and I reached it with a broom handle and managed to push it over the porch on to the gravel path where it could harm nothing. It was so exciting! and the rain of fireworks was kept up for hours. I stayed up all night in case any more came but they seemed to be dropping them in the direction of the town.’
I thought this was not bad for my lame mother who was past sixty.
The nightly ordeal went on, but the day raids were beginning to be less frequent now. Also, we began noticing that the Luftwaffe did not care for the very dark nights but began making their greatest attacks at the time of the full moon. Thus, each month, the whole ARP, as well as the public, consulted their diaries. When would the full moon fall? The wonderful intricate pattern of searchlights focusing on the raiders for the anti-aircraft guns was beginning to be feared as much as the formidable Spitfires who intercepted the raiders with increasing accuracy. Nevertheless, the strain was beginning to tell on a great many people. The wardens and firemen slept in their posts, either by day or night according to their shifts. They slept in damp, often soaking wet dug-outs, on camp beds or hard cots – ready to jump up at a minute’s notice. They battled with mud, blackness, wind and rain, and every form of discomfort, as did thousands of people in their Anderson shelters, often at the bottom of their gardens. In spite of this their posts were places of fun, warmth, and the intimacy which shared danger was bringing to everyone. There were many painters amongst them, and they used their brushes and skill to adorn the bleak ARP posts – Adrian Daintrey, Theyre Lee Elliott, Hans Tisdall, Norma Bull, Elliot Hodgkin, and Jo Oakman were only a few of them. Post K was already famous for its decorations by Adrian Daintrey. They all boasted artistic adornments and many of them gardens, cultivated by their inmates, which were not only useful but attractive. It seemed a pity that in the FAP wall decorations and the like were forbidden as being unhygienic. We had camp beds provided with rugs. Our quarters were always immaculately scrubbed and polished – no matter how many casualties we had had in – and we had to be impeccably turned out. Our aprons were snow-white and starched stiffly, as were the muslin squares tied behind our heads in the butterfly bow. Sometimes a very important visitor would come to inspect the FAP and Sister-in-charge would inspect us all first! Quite often visitors came to the Control Centre while we were on duty there to watch us take and relay the messages. Now that the Blitz was an accepted fact we were always on our mettle and no relaxation was possible. The heaviest burden fell on those wardens who did a full-time job all day and then turned out for their warden’s duties at night. I don’t think anyone had foreseen that this would involve every night. Mr Graham Kerr was one of those who did long and dangerous beats, as was Nonie Iredale-Smith, whose job it was to keep the Embankment clear so that the ARP Services could travel in and out of Chelsea.
Mrs Freeth and I frequently gave tea or soup to heavy rescue and demolition workers who were still busy digging in Shawfield Street, Manor Street, and Flood Street. They caught the bus almost outside No 33 and had taken to droppin
g in. It was they who had named Vicki Miss Hitler – because of the captions and cartoons frequently appearing now in which Hitler was depicted as a dachshund. Mrs Freeth was indignant about this and would turn on the men, threatening them with no more soup or tea. They all had nicknames – Smasher, Crasher, Tapper, Dibs, and similar ones. They would call out whenever Vicki and I passed them at work on the sites, ‘Hello, Miss Hitler, how’s Adolf?’ and they would chaff me and say that if I got buried they would dig me out and perhaps Miss Hitler too because at least she was not afraid of the bombs.
The custom of addressing everyone by nicknames or Christian ones was prevalent everywhere. Richard said it was so in the Ministries too, and that he considered it a bad practice there, because in times to come when the personnel were changed who would know what official was meant by minutes signed ‘George’ or ‘Dick’? We were all known by our Christian names at the FAP, as were the wardens at their posts. It gave some sort of equality to the heterogeneous mixture of people all working together in the common cause. There was a general apologetic feeling lest any member should think that another considered himself better than his colleague. Christian and nicknames not only dispensed with any kind of formality but evoked a feeling that every man was as good as another.
Chapter Sixteen
Catherine’s troubles were not over. She had only been back from hospital a week when she began running a temperature again. For a few days I nursed her in her room, staying with her all night, but when the fever rose alarmingly there was no alternative but to send her back to the hospital. They were fortunately able to find her a bed but they could not make arrangements for Francesca, as the baby was to be named. There was nothing to do but to take her home with me. When Richard arrived home that night he was somewhat surprised to find a baby in a washing-basket in our downstairs room. He was most amiable about the visitor, merely remarking that she seemed a bit premature and that all the neighbours would think the worst!
Francesca was a very good baby and slept all night until Mrs Freeth or I made her morning feed. It was I who lay awake fearing that every bomb whistling down might be fatal for her. I understood a little of what some mothers must have felt with that small basket close to my bedside. Everyone agreed that Francesca was unusually lovely and unusually well-behaved; Kathleen and Anne adored her and Mrs Freeth was wonderful with her. Miss Hitler was not so sure about the newcomer. She sat by the washing-basket in a protective way but when I picked its occupant up in my arms she showed her jealousy very plainly.
It was difficult to understand Catherine’s attitude to Francesca, but she was still ill – and she had suffered so terribly. She was an excellent mother in some ways – but she did not love her baby, she said. When she came out of hospital again she seemed more like her former self. She kept Francesca immaculately dressed, and attended to her needs punctiliously – but something was lacking in the relationship. And now the trouble of the shelter began again. Catherine was perfectly willing to stay alone in the house with Francesca but all the other occupants went to the shelter and persuaded Catherine to go too. Francesca was carried there in the washing-basket every night, one of the young refugee children willingly helping by taking one handle.
Hilda Reid told me that there were complaints: the habitual shelterers did not want a new-born baby, it might cry and their sleep was already disturbed enough. They were quite unpleasant. Hilda Reid, a splendid warden, was adamant – the baby stayed in the shelter until other arrangements could be made. The Belgian Government were opening a nursery in the country for expectant mothers, babies, and toddlers. Catherine was willing that Francesca should go to this nursery but she did not want to go there herself. Many people made a fuss about the baby being taken to the shelter every night and representations were made to me that it was scandalous that the child should be exposed to such a thing as a damp shelter in winter. Francesca was extremely healthy in spite of all that Catherine had been through, but obviously a public shelter was no place for her, any more than it was for the thousands of children sleeping in them every night as naturally and soundly as they did at home. I had watched mothers give their children a toothbrush and a mug of water in their bunks, wipe their hands on a towel, brush their hair, and tuck them up with some pet toy animal just as if they were in their own beds at home. The sight was infinitely moving. The small Belgian and French children had become absolutely accustomed to shelter life, but all their mothers said it was a scandal that Francesca slept there.
Catherine came to me in tears. She knew the real reason, she said. It was because Francesca was illegitimate and they didn’t think that she should be with their children. Such ideas seemed ridiculous to me but they were very real to Catherine, and I realized that she was desperately unhappy. I wondered if she were missing her fiancé and worrying about his fate. She said she did not care for him any more. All she wanted was to get into one of the British Services. There were several Belgian and French girls who had been born in Britain during the 1914-18 war when their mothers had been here as refugees. Three of the ones we knew had joined the ATS. Catherine wanted to do the same. She had a flame of patriotism for Britain which had sheltered her mother and now had given her and her child refuge. She wanted to learn to parachute, to use a gun, to do all the dangerous things which soldiers do. Part of this came from her intense hatred of the Germans and the atrocities they had committed on her fellow-refugees. There was her friend, Mathilde – whom she could not forget lying in the ditch without her head.
One of the officials from the Belgian Government, now established and working in London, was making the necessary arrangements for Catherine and her baby to go to the nursery home in the country. There the mothers, if they accompanied their babies, were required to help with the work of the nursery, we were told. Catherine was not very taken with the idea. She did not want to leave London – she liked it, she said.
Suzanne thought that it was high time Francesca was baptized. Owing to Catherine’s illness the ceremony had been delayed. Suzanne made all the arrangements and a famous Monsignor, who was a friend of hers, baptized Francesca in the Catholic church which most of the refugees attended. It had already been bombed and the roof was patched up with tarpaulin. We had tried to make a christening robe but it was difficult to obtain any net or muslin. Mrs Freeth washed one of the mosquito nets which I had brought back from India and Kathleen and her cutter made the most exquisite robe from it. The church was cold and the day was bitter, so Francesca went to her christening in my white fur evening cloak. She looked adorable. One of the young refugee boys was to stand as godfather, and I as godmother. We stood there making our promises for Francesca with Suzanne and Madame R and her children round the font. Afterwards we had a small party in the studio. Mrs Freeth had made and iced a cake and put white flowers everywhere. Miss Hitler had a white ribbon and came in for almost as much attention as Francesca, who behaved perfectly and allowed everyone to nurse and pet her. Shortly after this the day came when Francesca had to go to the nursery home, which was in Worcestershire. Catherine was to go with her, as everyone had persuaded her that it was most unnatural to want to be separated from her baby. I saw her off with a Belgian nurse and several expectant mothers. Catherine cried bitterly when I said good-bye and I felt a traitor – having bowed to the weight of public opinion and persuaded her to go.
Three days later she was standing on my doorstep! She hated the nursery although it was well run and everyone was kind to her – she had had to run the gauntlet of all the expectant mothers’ questioning and she did not like it or them. She had left Francesca there and come back – she wanted to go into one of the Services. Her room was still as she had left it, the cot standing stripped and empty. I telephoned the Town Hall – she could have her room back, they said, but she would have to work if she had not her child to look after.
She was not at all strong after her terrible illness and Dr Pennell said firmly that she was not fit for any work and would have done well to stay in
the country where the food and air would have benefited her. I did not add my appeal to those made to her to go back. I saw that it was useless. There are women who are not especially maternal – why it should be considered unnatural I don’t know. Catherine might have been by instinct maternal, but events had changed her. She had this burning desire to do something active for Britain just as Marianne had to do something for Occupied France. Marianne was training somewhere in the country for work which I understood was very secret. She had written to me several times and had once come to London wearing the uniform of the Free French which General de Gaulle’s followers were wearing. Catherine’s envy at the sight of Marianne in uniform was so great that the flame of patriotism in her was fanned afresh. She was not yet strong enough and Dr Pennell said she would only spoil her chances by failing the very strict medical examination, but that in six months’ time she might pass her as fit enough.
The first evening that Catherine was back in her room I went round there. The sirens were late in wailing. We sometimes hoped now that they would not wail at all. There had been several bomb-free nights, of which November 3rd had been the first since the beginning of the Blitz. She was sitting with her hands folded in her lap by the fire. In the corner was the cot, on the floor the bath in which she had washed Francesca. There was something so utterly forlorn and desolate in her whole bearing that I went and put my arms round her. She covered her face with her hands and burst into a storm of weeping. I said, ‘You miss Francesca?’ She nodded, weeping more heart-rendingly, but when I suggested that she go back to Worcestershire and join her, she shook her head violently. ‘No,’ she said, ‘that’s not my job. I have other work to do. I must.’
A Chelsea Concerto Page 19
