by Ellie Dean
Gloria’s shoulders sagged. ‘Oh Ivy,’ she sighed. ‘You’re too sharp fer yer own good, ain’t yer?’ She took a deep breath and put her arm around the girl, gently drawing her to her side. ‘It were Andy on the blower. He’s on his way back and wants to meet you here. He’s got something to tell yer, see?’
Ivy’s face lit up. ‘Has he got the job?’
‘I dunno, he didn’t say,’ Gloria replied with a vagueness that didn’t ring true to Ivy.
Her hopes rose, convinced now that Andy had been successful, and had ordered Gloria not to say anything because he wanted to tell her himself. But then she saw the solemn expressions on the faces of the two women she most trusted, and knew something was very wrong. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’
‘Ivy, love,’ began Peggy, taking her hand. ‘There’s something …’ She got no further, for the pub doors wheezed open and there was Andy looking grim-faced.
All of Ivy’s hopes plummeted. ‘Oh, Andy,’ she breathed, going into his arms. ‘There’ll be other interviews. It don’t matter, love. I didn’t want to live in rotten old Walthamstow anyways.’
Andy held her tightly, his face drawn with anxiety. ‘That’s a shame, ’cos I got the job, and the flat what goes with it,’ he said gruffly. ‘It seems John Hicks gave me such a glowing reference they’d already made up their mind to take me on even before the interview.’
Ivy squeaked in delight and began to jump up and down, clapping her hands. ‘Then why you got a face on like a wet weekend?’ she teased before finally realising he wasn’t joining in with the celebration.
A cold shiver of dread ran through her as Gloria bolted the door and put up the closed sign. ‘What is it, Andy? What’s ’appened?’
‘Come on, gel, let’s go in the private bar and sit you down,’ he replied softly.
Ivy shook her head and stepped back from him. ‘No. If you’ve got something to tell me, I’ll hear it right here.’ She folded her arms tightly about her waist, holding in the rising fear. ‘It’s Mum and Dad, ain’t it?’
He bit his lip and reluctantly nodded. ‘Yeah, love. And it ain’t good news, gel. You’re gunna ’ave to be very, very brave.’ He held her by the shoulders and looked into her frightened eyes. ‘They’re all gone, Ivy. Your mum and dad, and yer sister.’
Ivy felt her legs give way and was saved from falling by Andy’s strong grip on her arms. ‘How? When?’ she managed.
‘It were the last V-2 attack on London at the end of March,’ he replied softly. ‘From yer mum’s last letter, we know they was staying overnight on the twenty-ninth with friends at Hughes Mansions.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, Ivy, but that were the night the mansions took a direct hit.’
Ivy was numb with shock, and she looked from one ashen face to the next, trying to seek answers. ‘Then why wasn’t I told? How come I’ve had to wait all this time to find out?’
‘Over three hundred were killed in the blast, Ivy, and not all of them could be identified.’ He gripped her tightly as if he could imbue her with some of his strength. ‘You know what it were like when that terrace went up two streets down from Beach View. There were virtually nothing left of anything.’
Ivy stared at him dumbly, finding it almost impossible to digest this shocking news, as the images of that terrible night flashed vividly in her mind.
Andy held her close, resting his chin lightly on the top of her head. ‘I’ve been to the site, love. There ain’t much left of the mansions – just one small section of it is still standing, and all the tenants from there have been accounted for.’
Ivy shuddered as she remembered how the V-2 had devastated the terrace where her mates had been billeted, and who’d escaped only because they’d been on night shift. She began to realise why she hadn’t been told. ‘I expect Mum and Dad didn’t think it necessary to inform the authorities about staying there for just one night. So no one would think of looking for ’em,’ she whispered.
‘You’re right, love. That’s exactly what ’appened.’ Andy drew her further into his embrace, holding her close in an attempt to ease her trembling as Peggy and Gloria stood helplessly by.
Ivy tried desperately to think straight. ‘But why didn’t someone get in touch with me when they failed to turn up at their new billet? And how come you know all this, Andy?’
Andy drew a deep, shuddering breath before replying, and Peggy could see how deeply this was affecting him. ‘Last night, I went to the address yer mum gave you and met the Dutch lady what’s living there with her kids. Mrs De Vries is ever so nice, Ivy, clever too, ’cos she was the one who found out what happened.’
‘How?’
‘She works with refugees and displaced persons, so knew the right people to ask about the family who never arrived to take up the comfortable billet they’d been offered. Their no-show worried her, and as the timing coincided with the V-2 attack she started asking questions.’
Gloria slipped behind the bar and poured glasses of brandy for them all. ‘Drink that,’ she ordered. ‘It’ll stiffen yer nerves.’
Andy swallowed his in one and set the glass aside, but Ivy ignored hers.
‘Mrs De Vries started with the rehousing authorities to get their names, and some explanation as to why they weren’t concerned at their disappearance. She was told that no-shows often happened, and they assumed they’d found another place to stay that was nearer to their friends, and hadn’t bothered to tell them. They hadn’t been happy about it, but as so many people were waiting for housing, they didn’t have the time or the resources to track them down.’
‘That’s typical of Dad,’ sniffed Ivy, dabbing at her nose with a grubby handkerchief. ‘He never trusted the council, and didn’t like having to report to them all the time.’
‘A lot of people don’t,’ soothed Andy, stroking her back. ‘And the way they’d been shunted about during these last few years, I can’t say I blame your dad.’
Ivy swallowed the brandy and grimaced, but it seemed to rouse her spirits. ‘So what did this De Vries woman do next?’
‘She talked to some of the refugees she was working with who were survivors of the blast. One of their old Hackney neighbours remembered seeing your family in the street outside the mansions with their belongings the day before the blast and thought they were on their way to their new billet which your mum had told her was only four streets away. They’d been planning to meet up, but there was such carnage and chaos following the attack that the encounter slipped her mind entirely.’
‘But if they couldn’t be identified, and no one knew for sure they’d stayed at the mansions that night, how do we know they’re definitely dead?’ protested Ivy, still clinging to a last shred of hope.
‘When your letter arrived, Mrs De Vries realised she needed to confirm what she already suspected before replying. She discovered where the effects of the unidentified were being kept. Having talked to Mrs Higgins, their old neighbour, who’d described yer dad’s watch and your mum’s ring and brooch very clearly, she’d known what to look for.’
‘Old Ma Higgins always ’ad a sharp eye for Mum’s brooch,’ muttered Ivy.
Andy gripped her hands very tightly. ‘I’m so sorry, love. Mrs De Vries found them, all together in a padded envelope – damaged but identifiable.’
‘I gotta go and get ’em,’ she rasped through her tears. ‘And see where it ’appened and where they’ve been laid to rest.’ She took a shuddering breath. ‘Oh, my Gawd,’ she gasped as realisation hit. ‘I gotta tell the little ’uns and all – and me brothers.’ She collapsed against him. ‘I can’t do it, Andy. I just can’t,’ she sobbed.
‘You won’t have to, love,’ he soothed. ‘Mrs De Vries confirmed that the authorities will inform your brothers, and they’ll let the little ’uns’ foster parents know immediately.’
‘I’ll have to go and see the kids, she sobbed. ‘They’ll be ever so upset. But then what? I can’t just leave ’em down there in Salisbury, can I?’
‘Y
ou can bring them to Beach View until you’ve got things sorted in London,’ said Peggy, relieved at last to be able to do something to help. ‘That big room on the top floor would be ideal.’
‘We’ll sort all that out soon enough,’ murmured Andy, nodding his thanks to Peggy. ‘For now I need to make sure my Ivy is all right.’
Gloria firmly took charge and led the distressed young couple out of the bar and into the private room at the back. ‘You’re tougher than you think, Ivy gel, and you’ve always got Andy and me and Peggy to support you. You stay ’ere until you feel ready to go home, love. There’s a spare bed if you need to stay the night.’
‘Did you know about this, Peggy?’ Ivy asked tearfully, settling into one of the deep couches.
‘Mrs De Vries telephoned me earlier, which is why I came straight over.’
Ivy reached for her hand. ‘Thanks, Aunty Peg, but I’m all right, really I am, and I do appreciate your offer of taking the kids in. But I might stay here tonight, if that’s okay. I don’t think I can face the others yet.’
‘Quite understandable,’ murmured Peggy, giving her a soft kiss on the cheek. ‘You’ll be all right here with Andy and Glo, and I’ll tell the others if that would help.’
Ivy nodded, the tears streaming down her face as Andy gathered her to him. A loud, persistent banging on the front door made them all jump.
‘I’ll have to open up,’ Gloria said crossly, ‘or they’ll have the bleedin’ thing off its hinges. Will you two be all right?’
Andy nodded. ‘I’ll look after her, Auntie Glo.’
‘Good lad.’ She kissed his brow and with a nod to Peggy they left the pair of them cuddled on the couch.
‘I’ll pop back later with some nightclothes and so on,’ said Peggy, giving Gloria a hug. ‘Let me know if there’s anything else I can do, won’t you?’
Gloria nodded and drew back the bolts as Peggy left through the back way. Life went on and opening hours were set in stone regardless of the tragedies being played out behind closed doors, but Gloria felt her life’s experience weighing heavy on her heart. This war had cost the life of her beloved only son and brought untold misery to thousands, and it seemed there was to be no end to it.
11
Jack Smith had fancied himself as quite the toff in the charcoal grey, three-piece demob suit, with its thin chalk stripe, crisp white shirt and smart tie. Highly polished brogues, plain cufflinks and a dark fedora finished off the outfit, and inside the small suitcase provided by a grateful government were a change of underwear, a tin of cigarettes, a bar of chocolate and half a dozen handkerchiefs.
He certainly felt he’d been well set up for civilian life, and he’d swaggered out of the large reception centre in Southampton thinking he was the bee’s knees – until he realised that every man there in the milling crowd had been similarly equipped. The suits might be of differing colours, but it was a uniform, nevertheless, which rather took the shine out of the occasion.
However, Jack Smith was not a man to stay downhearted for long. He was free from the army and the horrors of the battlefield and back on home soil – with a healthy amount of money saved in the Post Office and lots of plans for the future that he was eager to discuss with his daughter Rita. Hoisting his kitbag over his shoulder and gripping the small case, he joined the long line to board the train which would take him home to Cliffehaven.
The carriages and corridors were crammed with men and kitbags, the excited voices managing to blot out the noise of the huffing, puffing and clanking old troop train as it made its slow progress out of the station and into the countryside of Southern England.
Jack managed to wriggle his way to a spot by the corridor window and set down his baggage to watch the rolling hills and sweeping grasslands slowly pass by. He was jammed in, but it didn’t matter. These were the green fields of his homeland, and his spirits lightened with every mile that passed.
It was a long, slow journey with many stops at small country halts and market town stations where families waited eagerly to greet their loved ones with flags and bunting. The crush began to ease as men reached their destinations, and Jack was able to stretch out a bit and enjoy a cigarette during the long wait at Hastings, where another carriage was added. He was beginning to get impatient at the delay when the guard blew his whistle and the train slowly started moving again. Only a few more stops and he would see his little Rita again.
The realisation that they would very soon be together brought a mixture of joy and uncertainty which suddenly made him nervous. Jack had only managed to visit Rita during a couple of brief leaves at the start of the war, and once when he was being transferred from the Midlands to the troop ship, but that had only been fleeting – barely long enough to tell her he loved her and not to worry about him, even though he knew he was heading for the beaches of Normandy.
He’d written when he could, and had loved getting her many letters which told of a busy and fulfilling job at the fire station, the goings-on at Beach View, the tragic loss of her first love, Matt, and the blossoming romance with the young Australian flier.
But letters weren’t the same as actually being together during the good and the bad times, and he was worried that his daughter had grown away from him during his long absence – after all, he’d been called up in 1940, and a great deal had happened to both of them since. He could only trust that the strong relationship they’d forged during her childhood was still there, and that they wouldn’t be like strangers.
Jack threw his half-smoked cigarette out of the window, adjusted the fedora and swung his kitbag over his shoulder. The train was approaching the short spur which would take him into the heart of Cliffehaven.
With the suitcase gripped in his hand, he leaned out of the window, eager to catch sight of his daughter. And there she was, jumping up and down, waving her arms, her dark curls bobbing in the light breeze, her little face alight with excitement.
He fumbled with the door as the train drew to a shuddering halt emitting a great sigh of steam and smoke, and Jack almost fell to the platform in his eagerness to get to her. Barely able to see her in the swirl of fog coming from the engine, he dropped his luggage and was almost knocked off his feet as she threw herself into his arms.
‘I’m home, Rita!’ he yelled above the noise of the other men disembarking as he swung her round. ‘And this time I’m staying!’
‘Oh, Dad, Dad. It’s so lovely to see you,’ she yelled back, the tears streaming down her face as she clung to his neck, ‘and to know you’re safe at last.’
The fog cleared and Jack set her back on her feet so he could drink in the sight of her. ‘You’re looking more like your mother,’ he managed through a tight throat. ‘So beautiful and all grown up too.’ He chuckled and gently removed some soot smuts from her face before kissing her damp cheek and hugging her fiercely to him.
‘It’s been so long, Dad. I can hardly believe you’re really here, and for good this time.’ She wiped her face with a handkerchief. ‘I promised myself I wouldn’t cry,’ she said. ‘You must think I’m daft.’
‘Not at all, darling,’ he murmured, touching her dark curls which reminded him so much of her mother’s. ‘You’re lucky I’m not bawling like a baby too.’
Rita giggled and clutched his arm. ‘Come on, Stan’s dying to welcome you home, and then I thought we’d catch up over a cup of tea before we went back to Beach View.’
Jack grinned at Stan who’d been the stationmaster at Cliffehaven for many years and was one of the town’s beloved characters. ‘Good to see you, my friend,’ he said, heartily shaking his hand. ‘Goodness, you’re looking well,’ he added, noting the man’s considerable loss of weight.
Stan thumped him on the shoulder. ‘That heart attack was a warning, Jack, so I had to do something. Good to see you home safe and sound at last.’
‘It’s good to be back, Stan. I’ve seen enough of the world to know where I belong, so I don’t reckon I’ll be going anywhere for a good long while yet
.’ He felt Rita’s tug on his arm and gathered up his things. ‘See you for a pint later, perhaps?’
Stan nodded. ‘Aye. I’d enjoy that.’
Rita took charge of the small case, and they slowly walked arm in arm towards the High Street, where workmen were clearing rubble and repairing bomb-damaged buildings. ‘I must say, Dad,’ she said, eyeing him up and down, ‘you do look very smart.’
‘Along with the rest of the returning male population,’ he replied dryly. ‘It seems we’ve simply swapped one uniform for another.’
‘But surely anything must be better than that awful stiff, ill-fitting khaki.’
‘You’re right. I shouldn’t moan,’ he said cheerfully. ‘So where are we going for this cuppa then? I thought we’d be heading straight to Beach View?’
‘I want you to myself for a bit,’ she replied, hugging his arm. ‘One of Peggy’s evacuees came back today and she’s organising a special lunch, so it’s a bit chaotic. We’ve all chipped in, and so there’s a huge chicken, sausages, stuffing and onion gravy. A meal fit for a returning hero,’ she added with a gleam of pride in her eyes.
‘I’m no blooming hero,’ muttered Jack, ‘just an ordinary bloke who got caught up in things too big to ignore or understand. I simply did what I had to do.’
Rita didn’t reply, and Jack wondered if she had any inkling of what he’d actually seen and done during those awful months of slaughter that followed the terrifying storming of the Normandy beaches when every day became a battle for survival as they slowly and painfully advanced towards Germany. He firmly set those memories aside, determined to focus on this homecoming and his plans for the future.
They turned into Camden Road to find the majority of the fire crew standing about on the forecourt waiting to welcome him home. He knew John Hicks, but the rest were strangers, yet that didn’t seem to dampen their enthusiastic welcome. He shook hands and chatted to John for a little while, asking after his family and his health, and then walked with Rita to the Lilac Tearooms.
