by Rosie Hendry
Without the coming incident to ponder over, Winnie sought refuge in her favourite thoughts, those about her husband, Mac. He had been a conscientious objector who’d come to work at Station 75 as an ambulance driver back in 1940, and during the last Blitz he’d often been out to incidents with her. She’d loved being out with him, even if bombs were raining down, but after the air raids had stopped he’d wanted to do more and had left to join bomb disposal. Winnie had hated him working there, fearing every day that he’d get blown up by one of the UXBs that it was his job to dig up, but thankfully he’d stayed safe and last year she’d been so relieved when he’d left bomb disposal – moving on as there was less bombing and so fewer UXBs to deal with – and volunteered to join the Parachute Field Ambulance. The only problem with his new unit was that it would mean he’d be parachuting into enemy territory when the invasion of Hitler’s Fortress of Europe began. When that happened, she’d be exchanging one worry about him for another.
Winnie sighed, she’d be worrying about Mac until this damn war was over and when that would be nobody could tell. It couldn’t come quick enough for her.
When they reached the incident, there was an unusual sense of panic and worry in the air: an underground shelter had caved in from the force of an explosion and when some rescue workers had gone in to bring out the casualties the structure had collapsed, trapping them inside as well. The rescuers left on the outside were now frantically digging to get out their own people as well as those originally trapped in the shelter.
‘Let’s hope they’re still alive in there,’ an ARP warden said as Winnie and Rose pulled a stretcher out of the back of the ambulance ready to receive the first casualty.
Winnie nodded; it was bad enough innocent people getting hurt by the bombs, especially when they were in a shelter that was supposed to protect them, but when those who had gone in to rescue them had, in turn, been hurt or worse, it seemed doubly tragic. There was nothing they could do but wait and hope.
It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes and yet felt much longer before the shout went up from one of the rescue workers. News quickly spread that the trapped rescue workers were alive and had been digging their way out from the inside. A short while later the first of the casualties were brought out and Winnie and Rose jumped into action.
The young woman whom Winnie was treating was unconscious, so she had to write an X for her name on the label she filled in for the hospital, hoping they would find out who she was when she came round, if she came round. At least she had made it this far; some of the others who’d been in the shelter hadn’t been so lucky and were being brought out and covered with blankets, ready to be picked up by the mortuary van later.
In the end there were only two survivors from those originally in the shelter when it was damaged, and when they were loaded into the back of the ambulance, Rose stayed with them, keeping a close eye on them for the journey to hospital. Winnie closed the back doors and climbed back into the cab where Trixie had been waiting for her. The little dog came over, wagging her tail ecstatically, and Winnie allowed herself a quick hug, resting her head on Trixie’s to regain a bit of happiness before she had to drive to the London Hospital, where she hoped the doctors and nurses could save the young woman and the little girl that Rose had treated.
Lifting Trixie over on to the passenger seat, Winnie took a deep breath and started the engine – this was her job and she would do it the best she could because these people were relying on her and she wasn’t going to let them down.
Chapter 3
Bicycling home, a little after nine o’clock the next morning, having just finished her twenty-four-hour shift at Station 75, Frankie’s thoughts were focused on what she always worried about when she headed back there after a raid – would her house in Matlock Street, Stepney, still be standing? As she and Rose pedalled along side by side, they could see evidence of the night’s bombing: windows with the glass blown in; collapsed and crumpled buildings spilling rubble across pavements; bits of shrapnel pitted into the road; and the acrid tang of smoke in the air from fires that were still burning.
Turning into Matlock Street she sighed with relief at the sight of all the houses in the terrace still standing and in one piece. So far, the street had been extremely lucky, with minimal damage, just some broken slates and fire damage to one house from an incendiary bomb during the Blitz. No one had died, been injured or lost their home.
‘Mornin’, ducks!’ Josie called to them, as she stopped sweeping the pavement outside her front door at number 5, her breath pluming in the cold air. ‘We made it through another raid.’
‘Frankie! Rose!’ Flora, Josie’s two-year-old daughter, dropped her own little floor brush at the sight of them and rushed over, her arms outstretched, ready for a hug.
Frankie braked and jumped off her bicycle, leaning it against a wall before bending down to scoop Flora up into her arms and hugging her warmly. She had a special bond with the little girl, having been there when she was born, and had enjoyed watching her grow up into a delightful character.
‘Rose turn, now!’ Flora wriggled to be put down and as soon as her feet touched the ground she flung herself at Rose who squeezed her back with equal enthusiasm. She, like Frankie, had been at Flora’s birth and the two of them shared a warm and loving relationship.
‘Now that’s what I call a fine greetin’,’ Josie said, watching the proceedings with a smile on her face.
‘It’s a lovely way to be welcomed home,’ Rose said, hitching Flora onto her hip while she balanced her bicycle against the other.
‘Just what we needed this mornin’.’ Frankie tucked a stray wisp of her auburn hair behind her ear. ‘It was rough out there again last night.’
Josie shook her head. ‘There was plenty of lumps and thumps of bombs goin’ off, made our Anderson shiver and shake at times. Mind you, Flora slept right the way through it. Do you think it’s goin’ to go on as long as the last Blitz? I ’ope not.’
‘I wish I knew. We’ll just ’ave to wait and see.’
‘Any news from your young man?’ Josie asked.
‘Not for several weeks now. He did warn me in his letters not to be disappointed if I don’t ’ear from him for a bit as he might be moving around a lot and it’s difficult for letters to get through . . . but I can’t ’elp worrying when I don’t hear anything.’
Frankie’s fiancé, Alastair, was now working as a doctor in Egypt as part of the Royal Army Medical Corps and she hadn’t seen him since he’d been shipped out in September 1942 which seemed like a lifetime ago now. His letters had become a lifeline for her, a fragile connection between them which she desperately missed when they failed to arrive regularly.
‘Perhaps there’ll be a letter in the post for you today,’ Josie said. She reached out her arms to take Flora from Rose. ‘Come on, you, we need to go shoppin’ or the butcher will have run out of meat by the time we get there.’
Frankie looked at Rose. ‘We need to go shoppin’ as well, the cupboard’s getting bare. We might see you there later on.’
Josie laughed. ‘I’ll keep an eye out for you in the queue then.’
As soon as she opened the door of number 25 Matlock Street, Frankie knew that Ivy, her step-grandmother, was at home – the wireless was playing in the kitchen and she could smell fresh toast.
Frankie felt herself tensing, preparing for a battle with the vile woman. Glancing at Rose, she could see that she, too, wasn’t as relaxed as she had been just moments ago when they’d been chatting to Josie. The presence of Ivy in the house always put them both on edge but thankfully their twenty-four-hour pattern of shift work meant that they didn’t see very much of the older woman.
Fortunately, Ivy had been milder over the past months. Frankie’s threat to throw her out after she’d been so vile to Rose did seem to have had some effect on her, but she hadn’t miraculously become kind, or even pleasant. Now she tried to avoid them as much as they avoided her. When they did happen to be
in the same room, Ivy said very little and in fact Frankie wasn’t sure of the last time she’d heard her speak to Rose. It made for an odd, cold atmosphere when they were all together, but that was preferable to Ivy’s vindictive, spiteful comments that she used to throw out at Frankie or anyone else whom she felt deserved it. Ivy clearly wanted to stay at their house in Matlock Street as it was comfortable and easy for her, allowing her to live her life the way she pleased outside her work at Cohen’s clothing factory. She made no effort to hide the fact that she spent most of her wages on luxuries like make-up which were hard to come by these days.
Walking into the kitchen, Frankie saw that Ivy was in her usual place - sitting in the armchair, her feet propped up on a stool, and a plate of toast balanced on her lap while she flicked through the latest Picture Post magazine that she so loved. She didn’t even glance up at them, keeping her head bowed so only her peroxide-blonde hair, done up in its fancy style like that of her favourite film stars, was visible. She carried on munching on her toast which, Frankie noticed, was thickly spread with butter and jam, far more generously than the rationing would normally allow. Ivy had obviously been spending her wages on black-market food again. Frankie wasn’t going to bother arguing with her about it; if she carried on doing it there was a good chance that she’d be caught and in trouble with the police, possibly put in prison. Now that would be good, Frankie thought, before quickly remonstrating with herself for thinking such a thing, because she knew her grandfather would have been mortified to know how low his wife had stooped.
‘Cup of tea?’ Rose asked, picking up the kettle and filling it up at the sink.
‘Please,’ Frankie said. ‘Actually, why don’t I make it while you go and feed the hens?’
‘All right.’ Rose handed her the kettle and went out through the scullery to the back door to see to their small flock of chickens that they kept at the bottom of the garden.
Frankie put the kettle on to boil, aware of what she’d just instinctively done, sending Rose out rather than leaving her on her own in the kitchen with Ivy. Although Ivy had avoided any arguments with Rose, Frankie still didn’t trust her to not make some unpleasant jibe at her if they were alone together. She felt very protective of Rose, who’d become more like a younger sister to her than just a work colleague and lodger in her home. Rose had had enough to deal with in her life already, having had to leave her family behind in Austria when she was sent to safety by her parents on the Kindertransport before the start of the war.
While the kettle boiled, Frankie cut some slices of her and Rose’s loaf of bread and put it under the grill to toast. They’d had some breakfast at work before the end of their shift, but she was feeling hungry after their busy night and knew that she would need to catch up on some sleep before they went out shopping later.
Looking in the larder for their butter ration, she saw that only a small bit was left – the amount they were allowed didn’t go very far – but looking at the dish in which Ivy kept hers, she didn’t have the same problem, there was still had plenty left and it was far more than one person’s weekly ration. It had to be black-market butter and for that reason alone, Frankie would never ask Ivy if she could spare some for them – Ivy would say no anyway. The thought of eating something that was illegally bought would make the food stick in Frankie’s throat. So many people were doing all they could to help with the war effort, going without and making do and mending, but not Ivy. She wasn’t depriving herself of anything and that was utterly typical of the self-centred woman who Frankie had as a step-grandmother.
Chapter 4
Turning into Bedford Place with Trixie trotting along at her heels, Winnie was desperate for a hot cup of tea to warm herself up after their long walk in Regent’s Park. Hurrying up the steps of Connie’s grand Georgian townhouse she let herself in the front door and saw that her godmother was in the hall talking on the telephone.
‘Ah! Here she is.’ Connie spoke into the receiver, beckoning Winnie to hurry over to her. ‘Goodbye then, Mac, lovely to talk to you.’ She handed Winnie the receiver, smiling broadly before going downstairs to the basement kitchen.
‘Mac? Is everything all right?’ Winnie pulled off her gloves and woollen beret.
‘That’s what I’ve rung to ask you.’ Mac’s familiar voice, with its distinctive warm Gloucestershire accent that she loved so much, came down the line, filling her with longing to see him again. ‘I heard that there’d been more bombing on London and was worried about you, needed to check that you’re all right.’
‘I’m absolutely fine, a bit tired. Nothing a decent night’s sleep won’t fix if the bombers will keep away long enough so that we can stay in our beds all night, or not have to go out to incidents if I’m working.’
‘Connie said you had a busy shift last night.’
‘Rather. Lots of callouts are taking some adjusting to, but we managed last time and I’m sure we’ll get used to it again if it goes on for long enough. What about you, are you all right?’
‘I’m a bit bruised. I landed awkwardly on today’s jump, the wind caught my parachute just as I was coming into land and swung me around, so I landed on my backside instead of my feet,’ Mac said.
‘Are you sure you’re not hurt, no bones broken?’
Mac laughed. ‘Only my pride. I thought I’d got over those type of landings.’
The thought of her husband throwing himself out of an aeroplane wasn’t something that Winnie liked to think about too much, but it was all part of the job when you were in the Field Ambulance Parachute unit, and Mac had explained how it all worked to try and stop her worrying about him. At least he didn’t ever have to fall through the air like some flightless bird after jumping out of the plane, desperately hoping his parachute would open when he pulled the ripcord, Winnie thought. Thankfully, they used static-line parachutes which opened automatically as soon as they left the aircraft. When the time came for Mac to be parachuted into France, he’d also have to take a large bag of medical supplies and a stretcher with him. His job was much more physically demanding of him than his role at Station 75 used to be – as well as jumping out of planes, he often had to complete route marches with heavy kit to practice for what he might have to do once the Allied invasion began.
‘Any news about some leave?’ Winnie asked, ever hopeful that Mac would be given some time off and be allowed to come home. She missed him desperately and since they’d been married they had only managed snatched days here and there together.
‘Not at the moment, they’re keeping us busy, but I hope they’ll give us some leave before . . . ’ Mac didn’t need to finish what he was saying as they both knew what was coming and the role that he’d have to play in it. Winnie just hoped the army would send him back to her before they sent him to face the enemy in occupied France.
‘I hope . . . ’ Mac began but stopped. Winnie could hear another man’s voice in the background but not what he was saying. ‘Look, I’m going to have to go now, we’re due on the parade ground again. I hope there’s no raid tonight and you can catch up on your sleep.’
‘So do I,’ Winnie said. ‘We’re going to the pictures and doing a collection for the Red Cross prisoner of war parcels appeal after the film. It’s Jane Eyre and I’d rather like to see it right the way through to the end.’
‘Enjoy yourself, goodbye, Winnie.’
‘Goodbye, I—’ Winnie stopped, Mac had gone. Replacing the telephone receiver in its cradle she felt a warm glow of happiness at the unexpected chance of talking to her husband, but the awful feeling that it wasn’t enough crept in at the edges and left her wanting more. They never had enough time to talk or be together and wouldn’t until this war was over. Their time together was dependent on the whims of the army. She bent down and scooped up Trixie, who had been patiently sitting beside her, hugging her tightly against her greatcoat. She knew she should be grateful to have any personal contact with Mac, because for so many wives the only communication they had with their husban
ds was by flimsy letters, often weeks after they were written. They may not have seen their husbands for months or even years. Compared with them, she was lucky, and she needed to remember that.
Chapter 5
‘This is it,’ Bella whispered to Frankie who was sitting next to her in the packed picture house.
Frankie squeezed Bella’s arm in response, both of them looking to where the beam of light sliced through the fog of cigarette smoke like a lighthouse through mist, projecting the opening images of Until the Day on to the large screen at the front.
They’d already watched the most recent film from the Ministry of Information – Naples is a Battlefield – which showed the devastated city, recently liberated by the Allies, who were helping to get it up and running again. Now it was the turn of the Red Cross’s Until the Day charity appeal film which was showing to help raise funds to send parcels out to prisoners of war. Bella, Frankie, Winnie and Rose, each dressed in their Ambulance Service uniforms, would be rattling the tins at the end of the show to collect donations.
Bella had been helping pack prisoner of war parcels for the Red Cross since her brother had been taken prisoner in 1941. She’d wanted to do something to help and knew from Walter’s letters how important the parcels were to the men, in some cases making the difference between life and death as they helped to supplement the meagre food rations POWs were fed in the camps. She’d jumped at the chance to collect money at the pictures and had easily persuaded her friends to help too.
