Sarah Morris Remembers

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Fork,” I told him, pointing to it.

  “Fawk?”

  “Yes.”

  Seeing that a lesson in English was taking place the hidalgo and two of the Polish officers joined in and, pointing to their noses and their arms and various other parts of their anatomy, wished to know the English names . . . and roared with laughter at each other’s efforts to pronounce the words.

  The talk and the laughter became louder and louder. There was no doubt about it: the Zumbach party was exactly like the Tower of Babel.

  Mr. Duncan had given me the afternoon off but by three o’clock I was so exhausted that I came away. It was a splendid party and was still going strong . . . it looked as if it might go on for hours.

  *

  Father was interested in my doings and encouraged me to tell him about my work. I think he realised that it was good for me to spend my time sorting out the muddles.

  “You’re the girl with the smoothing iron,” he said.

  I remembered the old song. “Yes, that’s rather a good description of me and my job.”

  “Have you stolen anyone’s heart away?” he asked teasingly.

  “No. At least . . .”

  Father was serious in a moment. “Whose heart, Sarah?”

  “Well, I don’t know – really. I have a horrid sort of feeling that Mr. Duncan is – is getting interested in me.”

  “Why horrid?”

  “Because it would spoil everything; I should have to give up my job.”

  “It would be interesting to see the young man.”

  “He wants to meet you,” I admitted with reluctance.

  “But you don’t want us to meet?”

  “I want to keep things on a business footing.”

  “Yes, I see. Well, if you change your mind about it . . .”

  We left it like that. In any case there was no time to say more for the sirens had begun to wail hideously and it was my night on duty at the shelter. I ran to put on my warmest and oldest clothes.

  Father was waiting for me in the little hall; he was dressed in his “siren suit.”

  “It’s your night off duty,” I said.

  “Yes, but I’m coming with you.”

  “You needn’t,” I told him. “You’re tired. Why not go to bed?”

  “I don’t like your going out alone.”

  “I’ve often done it! I really think you should go to bed and have a good night’s sleep.”

  “I’m not happy about it. I’ll come to the shelter with you and if there’s nothing much doing I’ll come home and go to bed.”

  I said no more. I wasn’t sorry to have him with me for there were prowlers in the darkened streets and I had been accosted several times in a very unpleasant fashion. I hadn’t mentioned my experiences to anyone but perhaps father had guessed.

  He took his torch with the shaded light and we set off together.

  By this time the guns had begun to fire and away to the east we could see bombs exploding. When we got to the shelter we saw people hurrying in the same direction as ourselves.

  “It will be full to-night; I’d better stay and help,” said father.

  It was useless to protest so I followed him down the flight of stone steps to the crypt.

  How difficult it is to describe London during that time of war! It is even more difficult to describe our feelings. If I were to say we weren’t frightened I don’t suppose anyone would believe me, but all the same it was true. We had become used to the raids and took them calmly. It was exhausting to be kept awake night after night by the noise; it was heart-rending to see women and little children whose homes had been destroyed, crowding into the shelter; but we were so busy trying to comfort them and giving them food and putting them to bed in the wooden bunks that we had no time to think of our personal safety . . . and on our nights off duty we were so tired that we went to bed in our own homes and plugged our ears and slept. I spoke to scores of people who helped in our shelter – and in other shelters – and they all agreed that after the first few raids they had ceased to be frightened.

  That night was one of the busiest we had had: people kept coming in all the time; we spread rugs on the floor for them to sit on; we listened to their tales of horror; we gave them tea and sandwiches. Some of them stayed and tried to sleep, others snatched a hasty meal and went out again to look for a lost husband – or wife – or to see whether there was anything to be salvaged from their ruined homes. Two children were brought in by a fireman who had rescued them from a burning house. “Can you cope with them?” he asked. “Their parents have disappeared. The kids were alone in the house, screaming their heads off.”

  “Do you know who they are?” I asked. This was the most important thing to know about stray children; hundreds became lost in the confusion.

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea,” said the fireman and went away.

  The children were toddlers; they stood looking round the shelter and blinking in the light. I took them to a corner which had been set apart for small children and gave them milk and biscuits. Then I sat down and put my arms round them and tried to find out their names. Sometimes children had names sewn on their clothes, but these children had not.

  “What’s your name?” I asked the little boy.

  “Teddy.”

  “Teddy . . . what?”

  “Jus’ Teddy.”

  “What’s daddy’s name?”

  It was useless, of course. I talked to them for a little while and then tucked them up in a small bunk and told them a story until they went to sleep.

  Pam Hetherington came and looked at them. “They’re awfully sweet, aren’t they?” she said. “Their wretched parents will be frantic . . . however, we can’t do anything about it to-night.”

  Sometimes the police were able to restore lost children to their frantic parents but there had been several occasions when the parents had disappeared completely, and were never found.

  It was five o’clock in the morning before the “All Clear” signal was given and people began to drift away. Soon only the sleeping children were left – and the “helpers.”

  As usual we made coffee for ourselves and sat down and finished the remains of the food.

  “It’s been bad to-night,” said Mr. Hetherington wearily. “A man told me the docks got the worst of it.”

  “There’s a good deal of damage in the city,” said someone else.

  “I’m off home,” said Mr. Martin. “I want a few hours’ sleep before I have to be in the office.” Mr. Martin was an elderly man who had lost a foot in the First War but, in spite of his disability, he was one of our most valuable helpers and not only came when there was a raid but also in the early evening to prepare the food.

  “We had better be off, too,” said father. “Come on, Sarah, you look tired.”

  I was exhausted – but so was everyone else.

  When we came out of the crypt dawn was breaking in the east with a sad grey light. We saw flames shooting up in various directions; a chill wind blew scraps of charred paper along the street and there was a smell of burning in the air. Two fire engines dashed past at top speed.

  As we turned the corner of Picton Street I stopped and clutched father’s arm.

  “It’s gone!” I cried.

  It had gone completely; the whole big block of Picton Mansions was a heap of ruins.

  For a few moments we stood in silence, looking at it.

  “I told you to go to bed,” I said at last.

  “It isn’t on fire,” said father calmly. “We had better see if there’s anything left.”

  “I told you to go to bed, Father.” That was all I could think of: I had told father to go to bed.

  A policeman came up and said, “It’s a mess, isn’t it? A direct hit – that’s what it was.”

  “Our flat was there,” said father.

  “Nobody in it, I hope?”

  “No, it was empty but I had some valuables. I’d like to have a look——”
/>   “I’m sorry, but my orders are to keep people away. It isn’t safe . . . and you can see for yourself there’s nothing left. If you take my advice you’ll get rooms at a hotel; there’s a small place in the next street. The young lady looks all in.”

  We took the policeman’s advice and were fortunate enough to get two rooms and they gave us a reasonably good breakfast. By this time it was nine o’clock so I rang up Barrington’s and told Mr. Marriott what had happened. He was very sympathetic and took down the address of the hotel and promised to explain to Mr. Duncan why I couldn’t come.

  Then I went to bed and slept like a log.

  *

  It was seven o’clock in the evening when I awoke to find father standing beside my bed.

  “Oh, you’re awake!” he said cheerfully. “I’ve been in to look at you several times. You had better get up and have some food. This isn’t a bad little place; they gave me quite a good lunch. We were extremely lucky to get these rooms . . . and the proprietor says we can stay until we find another flat. That’s splendid, isn’t it?”

  I looked at him standing there, so good and kind and cheerful . . . and I remembered that I had told him to go to bed. I put my arms round him and hugged him.

  “You’re all right, aren’t you, Sarah?” he asked anxiously.

  “Yes, but what about you? Have you slept?”

  “Yes, I had a good sleep and then I went along to the shelter and helped the Hetheringtons to clear up the place. They very kindly offered to have us to stay but it would be a nuisance for them; we’re better where we are in the meantime. Mrs. Hetherington said I was to tell you that Teddy’s mother has been found, alive and well, and they’re being evacuated to Wales. She said you would know who Teddy was.”

  “Yes,” I said. “But what about Teddy’s daddy?”

  “Mrs. Hetherington didn’t mention him. You had better get up,” repeated father. “Willy is coming to supper with us. I thought I’d better ring him up and tell him what had happened; he seemed a little worried about us.”

  “How strange!” I said, giggling feebly.

  “It isn’t any good worrying,” father pointed out. “It’s over and we’re both alive. We aren’t the only people whose homes have been destroyed. I said that to Willy but he still seemed rather upset. That’s why he’s coming to supper.”

  I got up and washed and put on the clothes I had taken off; it was an odd sort of feeling to have nothing belonging to me except the clothes I was wearing. I combed my hair with the little comb I had in my handbag.

  When I went downstairs Willy had arrived and was talking to father in the lounge; he got up and greeted me with unusual fervour.

  “Well, we had better have our meal,” said father, and led the way to the dining-room.

  Willy was still holding my arm. He said in a whisper, “I believe he’s quite pleased about it.”

  “Pleased?”

  “Yes, I think he felt a bit guilty because other people were getting it in the neck and he was safe and comfortable. Now that he’s got it in the neck and lost his possessions he feels happier. It sounds mad, of course, but you know what Father is.”

  It sounded quite mad but probably Willy was right.

  The supper was plain but adequate and I began to feel much better. Father had ordered a bottle of claret which helped to liven up the occasion. Soon we were all talking quite cheerfully and discussing plans.

  “Why not have a holiday?” asked Willy. “You could both go to Craignethan, couldn’t you?”

  “I can’t,” said father. “There’s a great deal to do at the shelter.”

  “I can’t either; I’ve got a job,” I said.

  “Oh, of course!” agreed Willy. “I’d forgotten for the moment that you were one of the world’s workers. How are you getting on?”

  “It’s very interesting.”

  “She’s the girl with the smoothing iron,” said father, chuckling.

  “You mean that song we used to sing?”

  “Yes, she irons out all the muddles. Go on, Sarah, tell Willy about the lady who bought the shoes for her sister.”

  I smiled and said, “You’ve spoilt that one, Father. I’ll tell you about the Polish lady.”

  “But you can’t speak Polish!”

  “No, and I could never learn; it’s terribly difficult.”

  The Polish lady wasn’t really my business but the managers of the various departments at Barringtons had acquired the habit of sending for me in almost any emergency; they would have sent for me if a Chinese gentleman had arrived on the scene and would have expected me to find out what he wanted. This was gratifying, of course, but it made a great deal of extra work. The Polish lady could speak a little English and had asked for a sleeping-suit for her boy but shook her head violently when she was shown children’s pyjamas.

  “No, no! Sleeping suit for my boy – six years big,” she exclaimed in accents of desperation.

  “She keeps on saying that,” declared the assistant, turning to me helplessly. “She says her boy is six years – and big. These pyjamas are suitable for a boy of eight; he can’t be bigger than that.”

  “Six years big,” repeated the Polish lady.

  “Very big?” I asked.

  She nodded violently.

  “How big?”

  She stood on tiptoe and held her hand above her head.

  Light dawned upon me. “He’s a man?” I suggested.

  “Yes, my boy is man. Six years . . . no, six yards big,” said the Polish lady triumphantly.

  I took her by the arm and led her to the department for gentlemen’s underwear.

  Willy was chuckling. He said, “Do they sell slumber suits for giants at Barrington’s?”

  “He was six feet tall,” I explained. “That was easy! I have much more difficult problems to solve every day of my life.”

  Father and Willy were both laughing when the dining-room door opened and Duncan Barrington walked in.

  It was kind of him to come but I wasn’t particularly pleased to see him. However, I shook hands with him and made the introductions.

  “Well, well,” he said. “I just dropped in for a few minutes to see how you were – but you all seem very cheerful.”

  Willy smiled. “It takes a bigger man than Hitler to get my family down.”

  “Will you have something to eat?” asked Father.

  Mr. Duncan replied that he had had his meal but would like some coffee. He sat down and began to talk to Willy.

  As a rule Willy was difficult to draw so I was surprised to see him emerge from his shell and answer Mr. Duncan’s inquiries.

  “I’m in a tank factory,” explained Willy. “I wanted to enlist, of course, but it’s supposed to be a ‘reserved occupation.’”

  “Is it an interesting job?”

  “My work isn’t interesting; it’s dirty and monotonous. However someone has got to do it so I mustn’t complain.”

  They talked for a few minutes and then Mr. Duncan turned to father. “Marriott said you had lost everything, sir. I wondered if we could help. We can let you have clothes coupons, for instance.”

  “That would be marvellous!” I exclaimed.

  “It’s good of you,” said father. But we don’t want anything ‘under the counter.’”

  “Oh, it’s fair and square,” Mr. Duncan replied. “We have a special arrangement with the rationing office for people who have lost their belongings . . . and we might be able to find you another flat.”

  Father wasn’t interested in clothes coupons (though how he thought he was going to exist, when he had nothing but the clothes he stood up in, was more than I could see) but the offer to find us a flat was a different matter. He accepted it with alacrity.

  “How about getting a bigger flat?” suggested Willy. “I could come and share it.”

  Father and I were both delighted at this idea.

  “Just tell me what you want and we’ll see what we can do,” said Mr. Duncan, taking out his note-boo
k.

  After Mr. Duncan had gone we went on chatting.

  “That fellow is a live wire,” said Willy.

  “It’s his job,” I explained. “He wants people to bring their problems to Barrington’s.”

  “I like the man,” declared father.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Barrington’s solved all our problems satisfactorily. They found us a partially furnished flat in Bolingbroke Square; it was much larger than the other flat but as Willy was coming to live with us, and was able to share the expense, the rent was well within our means. We got some of our furniture out of store and moved in without delay. I was much happier in the new flat; there was more room to move about and it was delightful to have some of our own nice furniture around us; best of all we had Willy. It was good for us and it was good for him. He was better fed and housed so he put on a little weight and became more like his old self.

  Soon after Willy came to live with us he bought an enormous wooden table and put it in one of the empty rooms; he also bought sheets of drawing-paper and tracing-paper and coloured inks. One evening when I went to tell him supper was ready I found him hard at work.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Oh, it’s just an idea of mine – a sort of gadget.”

  “What sort of gadget?”

  “Listen, Sarah! Nobody is to come into this room.”

  “But I’ve got to clean it.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind you or Father; neither of you knows a hawk from a handsaw,” said Willy, smiling. “But nobody else is to come in here . . . and when I say nobody I mean nobody.”

  “If it’s as secret as that you’d better lock the door and keep the key in your pocket,” I said sarcastically.

  “Yes, that’s what I’ll do.”

  “It’ll get awfully dirty if I don’t——”

  “It won’t, because I shall clean it myself.”

  After that Willy worked at his gadget nearly every evening.

  *

  If I were writing a history of the war I should have plenty to say about the next eighteen months but this has been done by a great many other people and I have no intention of attempting the task. I am merely trying to put together an account of what happened to the various members of the Morris family . . . but the war was with us all the time and it wasn’t in the background. As everyone knows, the first three years of the war were a gruelling time for the British, we lost ground in every theatre, and it wasn’t until the Battle of Alamein that the tide began to turn.