‘Go on, you two. Wait by the gate back there where yer mum can find yer.’
Archie held Blanche’s hand tightly in his as they watched Mary and Terry disappear into the sea of khaki bodies. ‘They’re good kids,’ he said, then he lifted Blanche’s chin with his finger and looked into her eyes. ‘Yer should be proud how they’ve turned out. It’s all down to you, yer know.’
Blanche couldn’t say anything, the lump in her throat felt as if it was choking her.
‘I often wonder what would have happened to me if I hadn’t met you over Vicky Park that Sunday afternoon. D’you remember, Blanche? There I was, Jack the lad, breaking that fence down with that mob o’ boys from down St Stephen’s Road and you come storming over, hollering and hooting about how we should leave it alone.’ Archie laughed. ‘Always been a fighter, ain’t yer?’ He pulled her to him and wrapped his arms tightly round her. ‘And yer’ve gotta keep fighting. It ain’t gonna be easy for neither of us.’ He reached inside his overcoat and took a little box from his jacket pocket. ‘Here, I want yer to wear this.’
Blanche opened it. Inside was a little marcasite brooch.
‘It’s an A,’ he said, pinning it onto her lapel. ‘For Archie, so yer won’t forget yer Archie Simpkins’s girl, and that yer always will be.’
Blanche couldn’t hold back her tears any longer, but she had to say something. She struggled to speak. ‘I just dunno what to say now the time’s come, Arch.’
‘Be brave, darling, and with a bit o’ luck it’ll all be over soon. And I want yer to remember, Blanche, this is not something I wanted to do, it’s something I had to do.’
When they got back from the station, it was nearly dark, but Mary and Terry couldn’t settle, so they took Len and Janey out for a walk with Flash while Babs sat Blanche down with a cup of tea and let her cry.
Blanche didn’t say much but she made it clear that if there was still a job going at Styleways, she would take it. Anything to fill in the long hours when she would be driving herself mad, missing Archie.
While Babs sat in Blanche’s kitchen, comforting her and making yet another pot of tea, Georgie was chatting away to Vic Johnson at the fire station as they checked and rechecked the equipment ready for the evening shift. Georgie had been in the service only a month but he was enjoying having a sense of purpose again and the feeling of tiredness that came from working hard rather than from self-pity and too much ale.
Satisfied that the hoses had all been dried and re-coiled and the pumps had been inspected, Vic straightened up and stretched. He studied the night sky, watching the searchlights playing backwards and forwards across the solid blackness. ‘With a bit of luck we’ll have time for a brew before we get called out tonight, Ringer.’
But he and Georgie didn’t even reach the classroom that the firemen used as a canteen before the bells went down, as they had both learnt to call the signal for action. Sub-officer Smith appeared out of the operations room with their orders.
‘You’re driving the heavy unit tonight, Bell,’ he said gruffly. ‘Don’t let me down. And you’re on it with him, Johnson.’
Georgie and Vic puffed up with pride as they scrambled into the cab of the big grey-painted fire engine with the rest of the crew.
‘This old bus must have been a sight before the war, eh, Vic?’ said Georgie as the engine shuddered into life. ‘All shiny red against the gleaming brass.’
‘Blimey,’ Vic laughed. ‘You ain’t turning into a poet, are yer, Ringer?’
Georgie drove them as fast as he dared through the blacked-out streets where the only illumination came from the brief eerie light of explosions and the scattered fires that were breaking out after yet another series of incendiary showers. As they got closer to their destination, he was forced to swing the engine from side to side to try and avoid the craters made by the latest enemy surprise – land mines. The crew were more than grateful that Georgie was determined not to disappoint the sub-officer’s trust in him. In fact, Smith would have had every reason to be impressed by Georgie’s composure and skill as he negotiated the roads where, in places, even the tarry blocks of the road surface itself were now on fire.
Georgie leant forward, grasping the steering wheel as though it were the reins of a bucking pony, refusing to be distracted by the sounds of aircraft overhead, the bombs falling around them, the staccato anti-aircraft fire that abruptly punctured the rare moments of silence, or even the weird sight of barrage balloons shining in the night sky like enormous scarlet fishes as their silver skins reflected the fires below.
‘That must be it,’ Vic shouted, pointing to a great cloud of thick black smoke that belched from the now glowing skyline ahead of them.
Georgie pulled the engine as close to the fire as he dared. The crew leapt out and started unrolling the hoses, connecting them up to hydrants.
‘We’re gonna need all the water we can get tonight,’ one of the crew called to Georgie. ‘Let’s just hope Jerry ain’t split the water main.’
They breathed a sigh of relief when they found that the water main was intact, and more than one of the crew silently thanked God that the nearby emergency surface tank was also still in one piece, because they really did need a lot of water. The ARP report that the sub-officer had given them had been all too accurate: nearly the whole terrace of little two-up, two-down houses had received direct hits, and the tiny corner shop no longer had much of a roof or any windows.
The firemen wrestled with the huge hoses that buckled and all but melted in the intense heat as they struggled to keep the powerful jets of water directed into the flames licking arrogantly round the shattered husks that had, only hours before, been people’s homes. They ignored the burning brands that flew into their faces and the red-hot shrapnel that ricocheted off the roofs, glanced off the cobbles and seared into their clothes. For the crew, the night was one of smoke, sweat, excruciating heat and muscle-straining work; being almost knocked off your feet by the effect of high-explosive bombs going off nearby was just another part of the job.
But for the now homeless families who looked on, watching the paint blistering and peel, listening to the glass shatter and the huge roof timbers creak and rip apart, sending great bursts of sparks into the air, it was far from routine.
They looked on dumbly as one of the firemen clambered up the turntable ladder and fought his way through the smoke and fumes to get water into the roof spaces to stop the flames spreading further. Even the sight of the rats streaming out of the devastated buildings, desperate to escape the heat, wasn’t enough to move the dazed and bewildered onlookers to speech; it took the bravery of two young female stretcher-bearers going into ope of the blazing houses to rescue an elderly man to do that.
The neighbours who had once lived in the now ruined street gathered round as the young women laid the stretcher down and checked the old man for injuries.
‘Well done, girls,’ someone said, then he turned to the old man. ‘Sam? How yer doing, mate?’
The old man’s eyes flicked open. ‘Me teeth,’ he lisped. ‘These bloody ambulance girls have left ’em on me bedside table.’ He flopped his hand back towards the now caved-in shell that had been his home. ‘Call one of the firemen, they might have a bit more go in ’em.’
‘But Sam—’
‘It’s their job, ain’t it? Go on, tell ’em to fetch me teeth. They’re me best set and all.’ With that, the old man passed out and the young women, arms straining, lifted the stretcher and set about carrying him to the shelter of their ambulance.
As they passed by, Georgie shook his head and gave them a wry smile. ‘Ne’mind, girls,’ he shouted over the combined din of water, fire and destruction. But the smile was soon wiped off his face.
‘Looter! Get him!’ hollered the duty constable who was helping the ambulance crew administer first aid, and pointed urgently towards the corner shop.
No one liked looters, including Ringer Bell. Being the nearest, he stuck his thumb up at the constable to show
he had heard and then nodded to his colleague to continue handling the hose alone.
Georgie crept swiftly towards the shop, sticking as closely to the damaged wall as he dared. Sweat poured down his face; he tried to wipe it away with the back of his hand but all he succeeded in doing was rubbing grit into his already sore and scorched cheeks. He got to the splintered remains of the shop door. It hung drunkenly on its shattered hinges, the now pathetic sign boasting, ‘Hitler won’t stop us opening!’ still nailed to its warped and twisted panels
Georgie peered cautiously inside, not fancying confronting a frightened looter armed with who knew what sort of weapon. It took a moment for his eyes to become accustomed to the dark, but then he saw him, crouched in the corner on a pile of rubble by what had once been the counter, his face lit up by the flickering of the flames – not a burly, desperate criminal, but a terrified, wide-eyed, skinny looking kid with a half-eaten apple in his hand. He was filthy.
‘Got the bastard?’ shouted the constable from over by the ambulance.
Georgie, still looking directly at the boy, called out, ‘Must have been a trick of the light. Probably a cat yer saw. After all these rats that’ve been disturbed.’ Then he leant forward and whispered to the boy, ‘Go on, son, clear off before the copper sees yer.’
The boy crawled forward over the debris. He looked like a little frightened animal. He didn’t take his eyes off Georgie once.
‘Wait. Here y’are.’ Georgie reached in his pocket and slipped the boy a shilling piece. ‘If yer hungry, you buy yerself a bit of grub. Nicking’s no way o’ life for a kid.’
As the boy made to flee from the shop and into the shadows, he wavered for just a moment, long enough to hiss at Georgie, ‘I think someone’s in there, mister.’ Then he was gone.
Georgie didn’t hesitate. Wrenching the limp door from its frame, he threw it onto the pavement behind him, got down on his belly and listened. Was that a sound? A whimpering or moaning? Listen, he instructed himself. Concentrate. Then, going against all that he had learnt during training with the more experienced fire crews, he crawled further into the devastated shop, fumbling around inside his uniform to find his matches. He had no thought for possible gas leaks as he struck the third match. He saw the sparkle of a tiny stone; it looked as if it might belong to an engagement ring. And yes, the finger it was on looked like a young woman’s finger, and it was twitching as it poked out from a pile of rubble beside what had once been the proudly dusted wooden shelves. She was alive.
Georgie crawled carefully back out onto the pavement, determined not to disturb the rubble, and then raced over to the constable to get help. To his dismay he was told the heavy rescue squads had already been called down to the docks.
‘But we can’t just leave her till they get here!’ Georgie shouted. ‘That could be tomorrow.’
‘No one’s saying we should,’ said the constable and ran back to the shop with Georgie, the pair of them ready to dig through the wreckage with their bare hands if necessary. But it soon became obvious that there wasn’t enough room for the two of them to work together safely and Georgie insisted that it should be him who should carry on alone.
As Georgie dug, oblivious of anything but his task of rescuing the trapped young woman, he became the focus of attention for the homeless families who had little else to give them hope. They stood, alternately holding their breath and urging him on with silent prayers, as he dug through the debris. It took almost half an hour of back-breaking, painstaking effort before Georgie lifted the beam that had protected the young woman from instant, crushing death. As he heaved the heavy timber to one side to release her, a little terrier flung itself out from under the wreckage, snarling and growling at Georgie, determined to protect its mistress from further harm.
‘No, Lady,’ the girl whimpered. ‘Down. He’s here to help us.’
The little dog returned to her mistress’s side and sat there vigilantly baring its teeth.
‘What’s yer name, love?’ Georgie asked gently, his every muscle straining as he pulled a splintered plank from her legs and threw it to one side.
‘Sal,’ the young woman whispered. ‘Sal Turner. Am I gonna be all right?’
‘Yeah, course yer gonna be all right, Sal,’ Georgie reassured her. ‘And soon as I’ve got these last few bricks moved, yer gonna be out of here.’ As he cautiously lifted a chunk of plaster, careful not to shift anything too quickly, Georgie tried to keep Sal calm. ‘My daughter’s got a dog,’ he panted, wiping the grime from his eyes with his forearm. ‘Out walking her, were yer?’
‘Yeah,’ Sal gasped. ‘Lady is all right, ain’t she?’
‘From the look of her teeth, Sal, she’s just fine.’ Georgie felt his stomach turn as the unmistakable sound of timbers groaning came from overhead.
‘When the raid started …’ Sal was speaking in gasps as pain racked her chest. ‘I come in here. The roof had already been hit, see. And they say lightning don’t strike twice in the same place. So I thought it’d be safe. Well, they’re wrong, ain’t they?’ Sal groaned again. She was in agony. ‘It got another hit, and this lot fell in on us.’ She started to cry, the pain more than she could cope with.
‘Come on, Sal,’ Georgie urged her as he looked over his shoulder, signalling for the constable to do something, anything to help him, before the roof caved in completely. ‘Give us a smile. Come on, just to please me. Yer a right beauty as it is, but I bet you’re even prettier when you smile.’
The constable shrugged hopelessly, his face full of fear. ‘What can I do?’
Georgie closed his eyes, hooked his torn and bleeding hands under Sal’s arms and said, ‘Take a deep breath, darling. I’m gonna get you out. Now. One, two, three.’
Georgie took a deep breath himself, braced his leg against what remained of the wall and, with a superhuman effort, dragged Sal clear and out onto the pavement. As the debris shifted, the shop folded in on itself as if it were made of paper. Bricks, glass and timbers shattered around them, and Georgie threw himself over Sal to protect her.
The last thing he felt before he passed out was Lady sinking her teeth into his arm.
‘Yer did what yer could, Ringer.’ Vic was holding out a thick china cup full of tea that he’d fetched Georgie from the mobile canteen that had turned up.
‘She’s dead, ain’t she.’ It was a statement rather than a question. Georgie struggled to sit up.
Vic nodded. ‘Sorry, mate.’
‘What a sodding, bloody waste.’ As Georgie took the lighted cigarette from the constable, he winced with pain. He looked down at the ripped sleeve of his uniform where Lady had attacked him in her loyal efforts to protect her mistress. ‘Where’s the little dog?’
‘The girl driving the ambulance couldn’t separate ’em. The little thing wouldn’t leave the girl’s side. So when they …’ Vic looked into his cup, as though he would find the right words sitting there in the tea. ‘When they took Sal away, they took the dog and all. The driver said she’d keep it till they found it a home.’
Georgie nodded, his jaw rigid to stop himself crying. ‘I bet she winds up keeping it herself. ’Cos they’re all the same, ain’t they, young girls with dogs?’
Then, with his muscles stretched beyond what he thought they were capable of, Georgie held out his hand for Vic to help him stand up. Although he was almost dead on his feet, Georgie insisted on getting stuck in with the others as they finished their job, damping down and then rolling up the unwieldy lengths of hose. After the long hours withstanding such extreme water pressure, the seventy-five feet long hoses had become semi-rigid, the opposite but no less awkward problem to when they had almost melted in the intense heat when the fire had been at its peak.
It was the early hours before Georgie and the rest of the crew, faces black as coal, uniforms soaked through and weighing what felt like a ton apiece, were cheered for their bravery as they finally made their way home. But Georgie didn’t hear the people’s thanks as he concentrated on the r
oad in the dawn light. All he could hear was the sound of Sal’s voice echoing round his aching head.
16
Two days later, Georgie stepped out of his street door and began walking along Darnfield Street, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets and his collar turned up round his ears. It was seven o’clock in the morning, still not fully light, and it was freezing. He had been home for only half an hour after three long days on shift and had thought that all he wanted to do was to get into bed, but with the image of Sal Turner’s pretty young face still going round in his head, he hadn’t been able to rest. Instead, he had sat in the kitchen drinking tea and smoking, waiting for the girls to come back from the shelter to get themselves ready for work. He intended to see them first then go back to the sub-station to check if there was anything he could do to help out for a few hours. But the girls were taking longer to come home than he had expected, so he decided to go over to the pub to find them.
‘Yer frightened the life out of me, Ringer,’ Minnie said as she and Clara practically fell into his arms as they stepped out of the front door of the Drum. Minnie squinted at him more closely. ‘Blimey, yer look like yer could do with a good night’s sleep.’
Georgie smiled, pleased to see their familiar faces. ‘Hello, ladies. And what’s this?’ He peered into the cage that Minnie was carrying. ‘Yer know, I never knew you had a parrot.’
‘We’ve only just got it, ain’t we, Clara?’
Clara nodded her head. ‘Polly, it’s called.’
‘This old girl in the ward, where we clean at the hospital,’ Minnie explained, ‘she died, poor old thing. Wasn’t no one else who’d take it. So me and Clara wound up with it.’
‘That’s good of yer,’ said Georgie. He touched the bite marks on his arm, thinking about Sal and Lady, the little dog who’d been left without a mistress. ‘Kind.’
‘Not really,’ said Minnie, obviously pleased. ‘You know how it is, Ringer. Wouldn’t like to think of even a dumb animal suffering ’cos of the war. They didn’t bloody start it, did they?’
The Bells of Bow Page 22
