Wedding Bells on the Home Front

by Annie Clarke

  ‘Anything hurt, pet?’

  Viola turned to look as Beth hauled her onto the seat. The girl’s eye was swollen. ‘Bliddy hell,’ she said. ‘I can’t lose an eye an’ all. It’ll be me nose next, and I’ll be even more of a sight.’

  Beth nodded, blood dripping onto Viola’s mac. The girl’s headscarf lay on Fran, but it slipped to the floor as Fran scrambled to her feet. Sarah forced herself upright too, just as Fran called, ‘No time for napping, Mrs Hall. Tilly needs us.’

  Just then Tilly yelled above the sound of the horn, ‘Will someone give me a bliddy hand? The old bugger’s out of it.’

  Fran threaded her way down the bus, careful to avoid those still trying to sort themselves out, and still the horn went on. Beth wiped the window, and looked for the car. Mrs Seaton winked at her. ‘Aye, you’re a mucky pup, you are, bonny lass.’

  Beth didn’t understand. She didn’t understand anything. Mrs Seaton dug in her mac pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, passing it over. ‘The side of yer face. Bit of a bash you’ve had on the windowpane, I reckon. Split the skin, and your nose got a bash and all – dribbling down, it is.’

  Ah yes, that was right. She hit her head. And her nose. It was then that Beth saw the car. A roadster. Ralph’s? Yes, surely it was Ralph’s. But he was on the fore shift. What the hell was the time? ‘Stay there,’ she ordered Viola. ‘Stay there, divint move. You canna see anyway.’

  Edging along the aisle, Beth followed Sarah and Fran. Behind came those who could walk. Fran and Sarah pressed against the cab waiting, as instructed by Mrs Oborne who was leaning over Bert, with Sandra helping. Mrs Oborne looked up, and shouted to Beth. ‘Lead ’em out, there are enough people here.’

  Beth did, hanging on to the rail and stepping gingerly down the steps and into the cold air, tasting the blood from her nose and feeling the stinging of the wind on her split lips. Behind her Mrs Oborne said, ‘That’s right, bonny lad. Let’s have you off that horn, eh?’

  ‘It might bring Farmer Thompkins down, though,’ Beth yelled back. ‘We need help. Got to get the bus off the bliddy road, and Ralph out of his car.’

  At that, silence fell, silence except for the horn. Tilly Oborne turned to look down at Beth as she stood on the road. ‘Ralph, you say?’

  ‘Aye, ’tis his car, I’m sure of it. Smashed into that tree. He tried not to hit us, I reckon. You can see – no brake marks on the road.’

  Bert was groaning as Tilly and Sandra moved him gently. The horn finally stopped. He said, his voice feeble, ‘Aye, you’re right,. That Ralph did all he could to miss us. He put his foot down and drove hard at the bliddy tree instead. He’d have had us all over the bliddy place if he’d hit, so he drove at the bliddy tree. He drove …’

  ‘Hush now,’ said Tilly.

  Bert fell forward onto the steering wheel again, and the horn resumed its noise. Tilly said, ‘Leave it – we need a bliddy tractor,’ then bellowed down the bus: ‘We need three women back down the road, and another three up round the bliddy bend.’

  ‘That’ll be me,’ Maisie yelled, already on the road, ‘because I’m already on me way round the bliddy bend.’ She hurried off, clutching her handkerchief, already sodden with blood, to her nose.

  Within seconds those able to move were off the bus, some to wave any oncoming traffic to a stop and some heading along to Farmer Thompkins’ house, in case he hadn’t heard the horn. Tilly and Sandra tended to Bert, while Fran, Beth and Sarah and a few more headed round the back of the bus to the roadster, then wished they hadn’t.

  It was his head, smashed through the windscreen, that horrified them all. They hesitated, then Beth went forward, past the others, her nose hurting, but her head just thudding a bit. Sarah ran after her, grabbing her arm. ‘Look, is it steam or smoke from the bonnet? Will it explode?’

  Beth turned to Fran, and saw Viola too. ‘You should be laying down, lass.’

  Viola shook her head. ‘Divint be ridiculous. If I should, so should you and most of the bus, and there’s not time. We need to be careful – pulling him back through the glass could hurt him more.’

  Valerie came forward. ‘Is he alive?’

  Ralph’s face was badly cut, his head too, and blood was dripping down onto the bonnet. Fran moved, and Beth smiled slightly, because it was always Fran who was the leader. Wonderful Fran who was leaning out across the bonnet to Ralph. Beth watched as Fran touched his face, gently. ‘We’re here, bonny lad,’ she said, her voice loud enough to reach him above the sound of the horn. ‘We’re here, and we’ll keep you safe, and get you out.’

  Ralph was deep in a world of pain, somewhere dark and cold, but where there were no thoughts, no fear, no whirling torment, just pain, waves of it, like the surf, rolling in, washing out, dragging, scratching on the sand, on rocks, tumbling him, tearing him. He breathed, but why? It was too hard, and the waves were dragging him against the rocks. Rocks that tore and hurt. But there was something soft now, something holding him steady … Seaweed? He was floating, out of the surf, and he could rest his face against the softness.

  He floated, resting, breathing in the gentle, soft breeze so like a voice, a gentle voice, one that rose over the roar of the surf. He was floating away from the harsh sand, the rocks, leaving it behind. The breeze kept repeating, ‘We’ll keep you safe.’

  Safe. He rested his head against the warmth and gentleness, but the pain was here, again. The waves surged, he moved, and screamed because there were daggers in his cheeks, his ears, his head, his neck. In his leg, his body. The breeze sighed, ‘Howay, bonny lad, you stay still. Remember, we’ll keep you safe. Just wait.’

  He felt the softness, heard voices. He was safe, like he’d been with the co-op. Like he’d been with his daddy. He could smell the cigar smoke.

  So, he waited, because they’d told him that was what he must do.

  Fran was still straining over the bonnet, keeping her hand against his face, and the effort hurt her strapped arm and damaged shoulder, but that was of no importance. After a while, Beth took her place, talking as Fran had, and when it stretched her arm too much, and her own cuts and bruised head hurt too badly, Viola took her turn, with her half a hand. So, on it went, just as the sound of the horn went on and on, until finally those left around the bus came and took their turn, and no one looked away at the sight of this young man dying, for they were Massingham girls, and they would do what had to be done.

  Fran sat on the verge, in the cold grass, her head resting on her knees. So, this was the whelp, but it wasn’t, it was the nicer Ralph, and they didn’t know what to do, other than be here, and she wanted her da, Stan, Davey, someone who could tell them, help them, help him.

  She looked up, and at last heard the tractor. She rose, stumbled and straightened. ‘It’s Farmer Thompkins.’

  ‘Right, Bert, up you come, lad,’ yelled Mrs Oborne. ‘No, just sit up straight, no need to try and get out. We’ll sort that.’

  ‘Oh, aye, I bet you bliddy will. Drop me on me head an’ all, I reckon.’ It wasn’t his usual shout, but it was something.

  Beth stood, her nose no longer bleeding. ‘Thank God Thompkins is here. Thank God Bert’s being himself.’ She pushed Fran. ‘You go, fill in Thompkins, then come on back here. He’s still alive, our Ralph is. He’s fighting, I reckon, but then he’s a sort of pitman.’ Her laugh was strained, but it was a laugh.

  Fran tore across to Thompkins, who was clambering down from the tractor, yelling, ‘Doc’s on his way, ambulance too. Should be here any minute now. The lasses caught me on the road after I took the bairns home from school, so I nipped to the farmhouse to get the missus to telephone ’em all, including the Massinghams. First off, best clear the bus off the road, eh? Don’t want a collision.’

  He was already fixing a chain to the bumper and then to the tractor, shouting at Mrs Oborne, ‘Keep him in the cab. Let me shift the bus, eh.’

  ‘Tilly told Bert if he didn’t come round she’d ram that horn where it would hurt, good and proper,’ V
alerie called out. Mrs Seaton and a few others were laughing, but it was high and hysterical, and exhausted.

  ‘When I’ve pulled the bus round,’ Thompkins shouted, ‘I’ll have a look at who’s hurt the worst, so I can direct the doc, then at least I can say I’ve done me best, as the bishop said to the actress.’

  Thompkins straightened the bus by dragging the rear round to the side of the road, his tractor roaring, the huge wheels spinning, all the while calling down to the women. ‘I left two of the lasses further along the road to direct the medics and with Mr Massingham along an’ all it’ll be a bliddy shambles, like a ruddy wedding tea. I heard yours went well, our Sarah? Sorry I couldn’t be there – a beast with bad feet.’

  Mrs Seaton was now on the verge, watching with her arms folded. ‘Poor beggar, I know how it feels, mine are a right trial, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’

  Thompkins switched off the engine. ‘Who’s worse, do you reckon?’

  Fran gripped his arm and dragged him towards the roadster. The farmer took one look, scratched his head beneath his cap and said quietly, his weathered face serious, ‘Best we do nowt ’cept what you’re doing till we’ve got the doc. Poor little bugger.’

  ‘Is it going to catch fire?’ called Sarah.

  Thompkins was already wrenching open the damaged driver’s door and though the engine had stalled, he switched it off, throwing the keys to Beth. ‘Hang on to those. I canna smell petrol, so I reckon ’tis just steam from the radiator. Let’s face it, it’d have gone up by now if it were summat worse. What I will tell you is that he’s a bliddy mess.’ He pointed through the door to Ralph’s leg. ‘Nasty gash, and God knows what else. I divint want to move him back through that windscreen. That’s when most damage is done.’

  ‘That’s what our Viola said,’ said Beth.

  Thompkins moved back to the road, took out his Players and offered them round. Sarah didn’t take one, but instead took her turn with Ralph, quietly talking to him while the others walked with the farmer towards the bus, standing well clear just in case of fuel spillage, lighting up the cigarettes he’d tossed them, then waited for the doc. He finally stubbed out his own and headed towards the steps, calling up to Mrs Oborne, ‘Stand aside, lass.’ He clambered on board. ‘Aye, you’ll live to be a bliddy nuisance, our lad, but the doc’s on his way. Reckon he’ll give you an enema to liven you up.’

  ‘Bugger that,’ said Bert, his voice sounding stronger.

  Thompkins climbed off the bus to join the girls, and nodded across to the roadster. ‘I divint like to see this, even though ’tis the whelp.’

  Fran spun round, in tears. ‘I’ll not have you saying that. He steered away from us, so’s not to hit us. That’s why he’s got his bliddy head stuck through the bliddy screen.’

  ‘Aye,’ Beth said, ‘so you divint call him the whelp, not again, never again, d’you hear. No one’s to do that.’

  As Thompkins looked from one to another, all of them standing hunched against the cold, their arms crossed, bloodied and bruised, he nodded. ‘Then I won’t. You finish your cigarettes, stub ’em out proper with two vehicles a bit battered, then nip across the road and take over from Sarah looking after Ralph. He’s done good work today, as you say.’

  Fran saw that his hands were trembling. He looked up, winked at her, then made his way back onto the bus. It was then that they heard the ambulance bell, and Fran wept with relief, but still took her turn to cup Ralph’s face. She called out against the noise of the bell, ‘They’re coming, Ralph. They’ll get you out. Hang on, bonny lad.’

  It was four o’clock and the gloom wasn’t far away as the ambulance braked and four ambulance men piled out of the back, whilst the driver stayed at the wheel.

  Thompkins called, ‘Reckon Ralph’s the worst.’ The men nodded, and two made for Bert and the other two for Ralph. The women were waved aside, and once the men saw what had happened with Ralph, the driver was called over. Dr Dunster arrived in his old Morris, then, closely followed by Mr Massingham.

  The Factory girls all returned to the bus once Bert was safely in the back of the ambulance. They picked up their bags, which had been thrown into disarray, and waited for another bus, which was on its way from the depot. They were sore, tired and shocked. Even Tilly Oborne just sat in her seat, lost in her own thoughts. Fran dabbed at Beth’s lips, while Sarah licked her handkerchief and wiped away the drying blood from Fran’s chin.

  Viola laughed. ‘That’s disgusting. I hated it when me mam did that to me.’ She fell silent, before saying, ‘Mark you, I’d give me right arm for her to do it to me now.’

  ‘Aye, well, you’ve given half your left hand, lass,’ called Maisie, ‘so let’s not have you giving anything else to anyone else, for she’s up there, on her cloud, looking after you, else you wouldn’t be here now. You’d be in Scotland in bits.’

  Viola sat quietly. ‘I reckon you’re right, Maisie,’ she said finally, ‘and it warms my heart, so it does.’

  Mr Massingham clambered up the steps. ‘The other bus is here, ladies. But before you go, I want you to know that I believe you have kept my son alive, for he and Bert are both in the ambulance, on their way any minute. Bert is bruised and shaken up, and I believe will be kept in overnight, but it depends what they decide at the hospital, of course. My son has a cut leg, and not unsurprisingly …’ He stopped, his voice breaking. He swallowed, coughed, then continued. ‘Not unsurprisingly, a head injury. I suspect that when he recovers he will not be an oil painting, as there could well be scarring. But again—’ He shook his head, and the tears were rolling down his face. He whispered, ‘Again, I thank you from the bottom of my heart, because Thompkins tells me that there was always someone with him.’

  He turned to go. Fran called from the back of the bus, ‘Mr Massingham, Ralph steered away from us deliberately, into the tree. Bert told us that had he hit us it would have been so much worse for all us women. So we thank him, and you make sure you tell him we know what he did. You hear me?’

  He didn’t look up, but he did say, ‘I hear you, Fran. I always hear you, always listen, my dear. After all, you shout so loudly and so well, and remarkably often.’ It was said with such fondness that it raised a laugh.

  The ambulance left. Dr Dunster, grey-haired, with a limp from a riding accident, waited for Mr Massingham to make his way to his car, and then came onto the bus, checking everyone over. ‘Bumps, bangs, cuts, right. I’ll swab and stitch them, how about that.’ It wasn’t a question. He stitched Maisie’s head, dabbing it with antiseptic, and she bellowed, ‘That bliddy hurts.’

  ‘Man up,’ he muttered. He stitched a few more, including Beth’s head, on the side, just three stitches. Eventually he slapped his bag shut and nodded. ‘Go home, sink into your tin baths if you’ve the energy. Keep the cuts clean. You’ll ache, you’ll heal. You’ll probably have another headache tomorrow, this one not caused by elderberry wine, eh, Mrs Sarah Hall?’

  He headed back down the bus, yelling over his shoulder just before he disappeared down the steps, ‘I want to say have the day off work tomorrow, but it’s like talking to a brick wall, eh. I’ll say it anyway. Stay off work – you in particular, Viola, for I checked that hand and you need a different type of job. I’ll tell the Labour Exchange that, if you’ll let me.’ He was off again, waving. ‘Off to a lass giving birth.’ He drove away.

  They looked at one another, and Mrs Oborne shouted, ‘Can you imagine what a fuss Gaines’ll make if we don’t turn up? I for one am not having that.’

  Fran, Sarah, Viola and Beth grinned, then Beth wished she hadn’t as her split lips hurt. They all left it to Fran to say, ‘We’ll be there.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Davey had travelled south on the night train, feeling as though his heart was being torn out of his body, leaving Fran and everyone. He bussed straight from the station to Bletchley Park, near Milton Keynes, in order to work a full shift, though his eyes were almost out on organ stops. There were, however, codes to break and he
was already half an hour late. He tore up the drive, having been checked at the gate by the guards, and slipped into the hut.

  He shouldn’t have had all those special beers of Stevie’s, though, because as he took his place at his machine, the nearby clacking of those already hard at work increased his hangover more than a notch. He sighed, stretched and looked around. Next to him, his fellow lodger, Daniel, raised his eyebrows and pointed at the clock.

  Davey grinned, whispering, ‘Aye, well, it’s a long way, lad, so be glad I’m here at all.’

  Daniel laughed and went back to work. As his headache thudded, Davey was grateful there was no sunlight streaming in through the windows since, as usual, they were shrouded by blackout blinds day and night. Overhead, the dim lights shifted in the infernal draughts, just as the blinds were doing.

  Why the hell no one taped over the edges of the windows to exclude the draughts, he had no idea. Davey shook his head, then wished he hadn’t. All he wanted to do was lie down and die. He muttered, ‘Bliddy Stevie.’

  ‘You’re an infernal grouch,’ said Daniel, ‘and who is bliddy Stevie?’

  ‘The publican of the Rising Sun. He provided the beer and will be at my wedding, so you have been warned. You have booked time off, haven’t you?’

  Daniel nodded. ‘Beer, my lad, which you tipped down your own throat. Or did Stan and the others drag you screaming to the bottles, eh? Just get to work, shirker.’

  Davey adjusted the settings on his decoding machine, which was a replica of the German Enigma, the machine that put the messages into code in the first place. The settings they had been given for the day had been worked out by others, using the huge Bombe machine that their brilliant minds had created. He punched in the first of the intercepted messages, forwarded to Bletchley by couriers from listening stations all over the country. He stared at the pile to the left of his machine, brought in by a Wren. Thousands more to come, he thought, but all in a day’s work.