Mike grabbed his friend’s arm. ‘Steady on, old chap. It’s best we let the army do their job.’
Alan pulled away from the friendly policeman’s grip. ‘What job? What the hell is going on here?’ he shouted, at the same time fearful of the reply. Was the love of his life lying dead in the store alongside his mother, Maureen, and Sarah’s friends and family? He hadn’t heard a bomb explode and the fire at the top of Pier Road had no doubt been caused by an incendiary bomb. ‘Come on, Mike, spill the beans – for God’s sake, man.’
‘The army are checking out an unexploded bomb in the tobacconist’s shop. At the moment we have no idea what type of bomb it is . . . or how dangerous,’ he added, with a grim look on his face. Knowing that there were many people in the Woolworths store had added to the problem. Whatever could he do to help them?
Alan stared at Mike Jackson in horror. He’d sooner face a sky full of German planes than know Sarah was in danger. He felt helpless. His hands were tied.
‘I can’t stand here and watch, Mike, I need to do something. If anything should happen to Sarah . . .’ His voice cracked with emotion.
Mike slapped him on the back. ‘Come on, old chap. The army will do their job and the bomb will be defused and taken to the marshes for a controlled explosion. It’ll be fine.’
‘Fine?’ Alan threw back at him. ‘Why, only six months ago fourteen people died during one of these controlled explosions and that included a bloody expert. I’m sorry, Mike, but your words don’t give me any comfort at all.’
The police sergeant silently agreed with Alan. The whole town had been shocked when the Earl of Suffolk had been killed while defusing a bomb down on the marshes. If an expert could die that way, what hope was there for a small squad of soldiers and all the people of Erith hiding in the popular store?
‘We can only do our best, Alan,’ he said sadly. ‘Why don’t you take young Georgina home, then come back here and see if you can help in some way?’
Alan nodded. He knew he needed to keep calm for his young daughter, who was at that moment sleeping soundly in her pram and unaware of the danger her mother was facing.
‘Excuse me, young man. Can you direct me to the officer in charge, please?’ Betty said, as she waved to a soldier from the front step of Woolworths.
‘Stay there, Miss. You don’t want to be coming down here. It’s not safe, you know. I’ll get the boss.’
‘Thank you,’ Betty called back, as the man disappeared from the beam of her torch. She huddled inside her warm coat. The night air was freezing. By rights her guests should be home in their beds by now. ‘This bloody war,’ she muttered out loud, as she stamped her feet on the ground to keep them warm and felt around in her pockets for her gloves.
Chapter 9
Alan marched at a brisk pace back through the quiet streets of Erith towards Alexandra Road where his wife’s grandmother, Ruby, lived. There was something eerie about the shops boarded up for the night and not a chink of light coming from the floors above the premises. His mind was in turmoil. Even with his experience of flying Spitfires and being in some pretty sticky situations, Alan was at a loss to know what to do at this very moment. As he bumped the pram off the pavement to cross the empty high street towards the Prince of Wales public house, his daughter stirred from her slumbers.
The sound of a piano playing could be heard and the door banged open, causing small chinks of light to escape from around the blackout curtain. He strained to listen to the song and smiled to himself. It was one of his mum Maureen’s favourite songs: ‘The Little Boy That Santa Claus Forgot’. He smiled sadly to himself as he recalled one line of the song that stirred his soul every time he heard it. ‘I’m so sorry for that laddie as he doesn’t have a daddy.’ It was knowing so many of his fellow pilots who’d never returned home to their children that always caused his throat to constrict as he tried hard not to cry. Whatever would people think if a grown man broke down and sobbed over a silly song? He could feel that same ache in his throat even now, in the darkness of the Erith street, as the lone singer’s voice reached out and tugged at his heart.
‘Mumma?’ a small voice called, from beneath the warm blankets of her pram.
‘Yes, darling, you will see your mummy soon,’ he soothed, leaning over to pat the quilted cover.
‘Alan? Is that you, old chap?’ a familiar voice called from close by.
Alan stopped and stared into the dark night. He recognized that voice: it was Maisie’s husband, David Carlisle. ‘David? What are you doing here? I thought you were away on, er . . . important business when you didn’t get to the football match?’
David Carlisle reached Alan’s side and shook his hand enthusiastically. ‘My work finished earlier than I expected. Fancy meeting you at this time of night. I see that you’re taking your duties as a father seriously.’ He grinned. ‘Is Georgina having trouble sleeping?’
Even though he couldn’t see his friend’s face clearly in the dark night, Alan knew there was no malice in his voice. ‘Actually, I went to meet Sarah. I thought that now the all-clear had sounded she’d be on her way home from the party at Woolworths. Georgina has been a little grizzly and a brisk walk in her pram usually helps her nod off. You’ll no doubt be doing much the same before too long.’ He knew that Maisie and David were keen to have a family of their own and doted on Georgina. ‘There’s a bit of a problem up Pier Road. I was just taking her back home so I could go and help.’
‘Well actually, old chap, we may just be making an announcement before too long.’ David’s voice was full of pride. ‘But what’s this about a problem? Can’t they get the old boys home? Too much Christmas spirit?’ He laughed at his own joke. ‘I was on my way to meet Maisie myself and thought I’d check she’d not stopped off at the pub with the girls,’ he said, as he fell in step beside his friend. ‘The all-clear’s been over for a while now so we should be seeing something of them soon.’
‘I do hope you have good news soon, David. I can imagine the pair of you with a dozen or so kids around your ankles. It would be splendid to share around the dinner table on Christmas Day.’ Alan smiled into the darkness towards his friend, thinking that what he was about to impart to David Carlisle would worry the man more, knowing that Maisie could be in a delicate condition. ‘Look, old chap, there’s something I’ve got to tell you,’ he started to say, but his voice faltered.
‘No, there won’t be any news that soon. Maisie’s not confided in me yet. You know what women are like. I just have a feeling that before too long she’ll be spilling the beans and I know I’ll be the happiest man alive. So, what’s this you want to tell me?’
Alan pushed the pram across Manor Road and turned the corner into Alexandra Road. ‘I bumped into Mike Jackson at the bottom of Pier Road. He’s on duty there; the army have not long arrived,’ Alan said, as he came to a halt and turned to his friend. ‘David, they reckon there’s an unexploded bomb gone through the roof of the tobacconist’s. I was all for going straight up to Woolworths and getting the girls out but Mike wouldn’t let me. I’m going round to Ruby’s house to leave Georgie with her neighbour, then I’ll be heading back to see what’s going on. I take it you’ll join me?’
‘Too true, old man. I’ll nip up there right now,’ David replied, sounding worried. ‘Let’s hope it’s a dud, eh? But if it’s not and there’s something we can do to help the girls then we’ll be on the spot to do something about it.’
Betty felt as though she’d stood on the steps of Woolworths for an age waiting for someone to come and talk to her. Behind her she could hear the guests singing ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’. The soldier had vanished into the darkness. Goodness knows what he was up to. She switched on her torch and let the beam aim down the road, where the soldiers seemed to have set up. As she did so, she walked towards the sound of grunts and groans. ‘Excuse me, young man,’ Betty called to a soldier lifting sand bags down from the back of a small lorry. ‘I say,’ she called out, ‘can you help me?’
‘I was just trying to gain your attention,’ Betty apologized. ‘I never gave the enemy a thought,’ she added, looking skywards.
‘There’s no damage done from what I can see, duck. Now, what can I do for you and what the ’ell are you doing out here at all hours when you should be tucked up in your cosy bed with yer old man?’
Cheeky blighter, Betty thought to herself, but it was not the time or the place to correct the man. ‘I’m the manager of Woolworths,’ she said, pointing back towards the store. ‘I need to know if the building is in danger.’
‘Manager, eh? Now that’s something, isn’t it? Who’d have thought that women would end up being bosses? This war’s turned the world upside down, so it has. As fer being in danger . . . well, it all depends.’
Betty was becoming more irritated by the minute. ‘Depends on what?’ she exclaimed.
‘Whether the bomb goes off or not, of course! Only time will tell if that will ’appen. P’raps you should get yerself back inside and make a cuppa and let us get on with our jobs; then we’ll soon know more.’
Betty was just about to explode with indignation at the man and tell him she was responsible for the welfare of over forty people in the cellar of the store and it was paramount she knew what to do. It wasn’t as if she could use her telephone to ring head office. No one would be there at this time of night. She turned away to go back to her staff and update them on the news, when she heard someone approaching.
‘What’s going on here, Corporal? Get back to your duties immediately,’ a clipped voice ordered. ‘You, madam,’ he called out to Betty, ‘don’t you know there’s an unexploded bomb here? Where have you come from?’
Betty sighed. She so wished she could turn on her torch and find out who the sharp voice belonged to. He was someone with considerable authority, no doubt. She always felt the same when using the telephone in her office. Life was so much easier when one could look a person in the eye, however obnoxious they appeared to be.
‘Sir, I’m the manager of F. W. Woolworth and I have many people in my store who were enjoying their Christmas party before the air-raid siren sprang into life many hours ago. Now that the all-clear has sounded I wish to take the old folk home to their beds,’ she continued, using her best authoritative voice as the man went to speak. ‘Let me finish, please. Not only has it been a long day but I also need to go home to my bed. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and one of the busiest trading days of the year, war or no war. I only wish to know if I can send everyone home and lock up for the night?’
The man frowned and walked away without giving a response.
‘Arrogant beast,’ Betty blurted, whilst stamping her foot in annoyance and hurrying back to the moderate warmth of her store.
Maisie shivered. She shouldn’t be feeling cold, what with the blanket Betty had tucked round her and the warmth from the one-bar heater by her feet. She could hear voices through the wall urging someone to push and then a blood-curdling scream. Maisie placed her fingers into her ears to blot out the noise before shuddering and humming tunelessly, but still she could hear the sounds that accompanied a new life entering the world. A world that her own much-wanted child had recently left. What had she done that had caused her to lose her baby? It must have been her fault as there was no one else to blame. All she’d ever wanted was a child she could call her own that was a part of David, her dearly loved husband. She envied her best friend, Sarah, who had her adorable little girl. Closing her eyes, she recalled the last time she’d held the wriggling baby in her arms and breathed in the aroma of soap and freshly ironed cotton rompers. What had she done that had been so wrong that she was now denied the chance of having her own child? Deep down inside she knew she’d not lived a blameless life. Perhaps this was God’s way of punishing her? A sob came from deep inside and she stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth in order to stop the sound being heard. Pull yourself together, Maisie Carlisle. What’s meant to be is meant to be. No use crying over spilt milk, she thought, recalling one of Ruby’s favourite sayings, before scrubbing her face clear of her tears and pulling the paperwork on Betty’s desk towards her to concentrate on the work in hand. What will be will be, she muttered, before giving another shudder. At least she had not told David that she was expecting a child.
Betty walked carefully down the steep steps into the cellar of the Woolworths store. Even though she’d requested that her guests did not smoke whilst in the cellar as she feared what would happen if a carelessly discarded cigarette butt should start a fire, she could see a thick fug of smoke. There was also a heavy smell of beer and body odour, with so many people crammed into the low-ceilinged cellar for over six hours.
Close by, a group of elderly soldiers had made a makeshift card table out of an upturned wooden crate that had held the food Maureen had taken into the cellar when the air-raid siren had sounded. Cards were being dealt to the backdrop of light-hearted banter and a mournful rendition of ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’ from a chap with a mouth organ.
‘When are we going to get out of here? The all-clear sounded ages ago,’ one of the card players called, as she worked her way through the group.
‘Soon.’ Betty smiled back. ‘I just need to speak to everyone.’
Moving to the far end of the cellar, where the retired employees of Woolworths were sitting, she waited until the ladies had finished a verse of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ before clapping her hands together for attention.
‘How’s young Trisha?’ a woman called to her, before she could utter one word of her prepared speech.
Betty was flustered. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Mary’s sister, Trisha. Has she had her kiddie yet?’
Had she? Betty stopped to think for a moment. So much was happening outside the cellar. ‘Not yet,’ she answered, ‘but everything is progressing nicely.’ Betty wasn’t sure if the girl was progressing nicely but it seemed like the right thing to say.
‘She should be in her own home,’ the woman advised, as those around her agreed.
‘Or at least up the Hainault maternity home. That’s where our Janie had her last one. It’s lovely up there,’ another woman added wisely.
‘Please, ladies. I need to make an announcement,’ Betty begged, as she clapped her hands together once more.
‘Oh good, we can get off ’ome,’ another woman said, getting to her feet, which caused another half dozen of her close neighbours to do the same.
‘No, no.’ Betty sighed as her clapping of hands went unnoticed.
A shrill whistle made the women stop nattering and collecting together their belongings as they looked around to see who had made the noise.
The rotund lady who’d earlier been sharing her hip flask with a couple of the old soldiers took her fingers from her mouth, where she’d been making the high-pitched noise. ‘Let the poor woman speak, will you!’
Betty nodded her thanks. She would have to find out who the woman was, as she didn’t recall her being a past employee and she didn’t seem to be a friend of any of the women, having seated herself closer to the men’s part of the cellar.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, the all-clear has sounded but we do have a little problem. I’m awaiting information from those in authority as to how and when we can vacate this building . . .’
‘What do you mean by when?’ a woman called out.
Betty stopped to think for a moment. She didn’t wish to alarm the older folk.
‘Come on, love, spit it out,’ one of the men shouted, which caused a chuckle in the ranks.
‘The thing is . . . the thing is there is a fire raging at the top end of the road and I’ve been informed there’s an unexploded bomb at the bottom of the road.’ She held her breath, waiting for a response from the gue
sts. After a few seconds of thought her ears were assaulted by questions.
‘Are we safe?’
‘When can we go home?’
‘Blimey, the pubs will be closed before long!’
‘My old man’s going to kill me if I’m not home soon.’
Beyond the questions, the old soldier with the mouth organ silently raised the musical instrument to his lips and started to play. Gradually the barrage of comments and complaints stopped and voice after voice joined in.
‘There’ll always be an England, while there’s a country lane . . .’
Betty reached for her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes before joining in with the good folk of Erith as they sang the rousing song that could almost be an anthem for this terrible war.
‘. . . Red, white and blue, what does it mean to you . . . ?’
One by one the people who had spent many hours in the cellar of Woolworths got to their feet and sang proudly. Several raised their fists in the air as if in salute.
‘. . . If England means as much to you as England means to me.’
As the room fell silent in proud defiance of what Hitler had inflicted on them with hours to go to Christmas Eve, the door of the cellar crashed open and young Mary ran down the steps. ‘She’s had it! Trisha’s had the baby and she’s going to call him Winston,’ she announced in a breathless voice.
Carols at Woolworths Page 7
