I don’t remember much after that, just Tommy in Dora’s lap with his arms round her neck saying, ‘Mum, where’s Daddy? Where’s Daddy?’ and Dora like a block of wood staring straight ahead, muttering, ‘I told him, I told him…’ over and over, and Tommy shouting louder and louder, drowning her out, and then it all seemed to fall away from me like a wave and that was the last I knew.
Friday 11th October
Lucy
Talk about a baptism of fire—what an adventure! I went to the centre for my first shift, very nervous in case I didn’t measure up, and was summoned to the office to meet the van driver, who turned out to be a woman! Her name was Mrs Large, and she looked as if she’d made quite an effort to live up to it, which was rather unfortunate. Hennaed hair—not a very becoming shade—but very jolly and nice. The van was duly loaded with tea and meat pies and some rather nasty-looking cake on trays, and then we set off. It was a difficult route, terribly bumpy, but I must say, Mrs L was terrifically calm and rather good at it.
Two stops at bomb sites, and lots of banter with the demolition workers, who seem a merry lot, and then back to the centre to pick up more food, and—thank goodness—the chance to spend a penny. I’d just come out of the lavatory when the woman in charge rushed up, very flustered, and said there was an emergency and we were wanted immediately and why weren’t we on our way already? Felt like retorting, because nobody’s told us where to go, and I could see from Mrs L’s expression that she was thinking the same, but neither of us said anything.
It took us quite a time to get there—diversions everywhere—but Mrs L was marvellous. Even with the light failing, I could see that it was much worse than the previous two-half a block was down, with beams and bricks and odd things strewn all over the place, and it was very obvious that there must be people trapped underneath, because there was so much activity.
We’d only been there about twenty minutes—very busy— when Mrs L was called away by one of the ARP men. Another man came to join them, and they went into a sort of huddle just outside the van. I seized the chance for some much-needed tidying up, but every time I glanced through the hatch, they seemed to be looking in my direction. Eventually, Mrs L poked her head in and said, ‘Could you go outside for a minute, dear, and speak to the gentlemen?’
I said ‘Of course,’ and went out, Mrs L following. ‘This is Dr Royce, dear. He’d like to ask you something.’
Dr Royce took a step back and looked me up and down, then turned to the ARP man beside him and said, ‘What do you think?’
‘I’d say so.’
Dr Royce asked my name, and then, to my utter astonishment, he asked what was my hip measurement! I thought I must be imagining things, but he repeated the question, so I said, ‘Thirty-four inches.’
The ARP man said, ‘We’ve got a problem, you see. There’s a party down there, and we’re digging her out, but it’s going to take time and she’s getting rather hysterical. We don’t think she’s badly hurt, but the doctor says she could do with having morphia. The way the stuff’s fallen, there’s a bit of a tunnel to where she is, but none of us can fit through and we’re afraid she’ll start thrashing around and bring the lot down, so we wondered if you’d be willing…’
‘To take it to her?’ I looked at Mrs L.
‘I’ve said I can spare you, dear. I’d do it myself, only I’m too big.’
‘Well, I suppose… I mean, yes, of course I will.’
The ARP man produced a tin hat—like a magician, I thought—and clapped it on my head, and they walked me round to the entrance of the tunnel, with tarpaulin over the top weighed down at each side by bricks. It seemed to lead right into the middle of a great mound of rubble. ‘She’s underneath that lot, see,’ said one of the workers. ‘This is the only way we can get to her.’ He handed me a torch, and Dr Royce gave me the tablet to put in my pocket. ‘This won’t work immediately,’ he said, ‘but see if you can wait with her and keep her calm. Her name’s Miss Tate.’
‘Good luck, miss,’ said the man who’d given me the torch, ‘and remember, keep low and try not to knock anything.’ It was easy at first—you could stand under the tarpaulin—but then it flattened down to a tunnel through the rubble, with bits of wood and pipe sticking across it. I couldn’t see much in front of me, despite the torch, but I was aware that all the time I was shuffling forward, the tunnel was growing lower and narrower until I was right down on my stomach, scrabbling forward using my hands, with about an inch to spare on either side of my shoulders. I could feel myself starting to sweat, because I was frightened—it was very eerie, like crawling into a tomb, and then this wailing noise burst out from the end of the tunnel, almost inhuman, so that I had visions of meeting Boris Karloff or Bela Lugosi at the other end, as well as this horrible, sick fear inside that there would be another raid and I’d be trapped and crushed.
After a few minutes I was trembling so badly I could hardly move, but I knew I had to do it, because there was no one else who could. Then the wailing stopped, and I thought, I’ve got to prepare myself for the worst, because no one had actually seen the woman and they didn’t know what sort of state she’d be in. So I had visions of finding a dead body, but all the time I was saying to myself, I must not fail, I’ve got to get there…
Then the space widened out into something like a small cave. The ceiling wasn’t any higher, and I couldn’t have turned round, but at least there was a bit more room. There were a few planks standing upright at the end, with gaps like a badly made fence, and when I crawled forward and shone the torch through, there she was. At first I couldn’t tell which end was which, because the small beam didn’t illuminate the whole of her body and she was buff-coloured from dust and seemed, in a strange way, to have merged with the other rubble, but then I realised she was curled up on her side with her face pressed into the ground. She didn’t seem to be breathing, and I thought: I’m too late, she’s dead.
I heard a slight scratching noise and sensed a movement just out of the range of my torch beam—my first thought was, it can’t be a rat, not already, and for one awful moment I thought I was going to be sick. I moved the torch over to see, and saw a slight movement of her head towards me, and one eye begin to open, and I realised I couldn’t remember her name, and, worse, I couldn’t think of anything to say. Something came out—I’m sure it was perfectly idiotic, but the woman muttered something in return, so I thought, well, at least she can hear me. I dug the tablet out of my pocket, found a gap just wide enough for my hand and wrist to fit through without disturbing anything, and asked if she would take it.
When she put out her hand, she turned her head to face me, and for a moment, with her eyes closed, and the plaster-white face and hair matted with dust, she looked like a corpse, and I almost pulled my hand away—but when she opened her eyes, there was something so…I don’t know…human? The human spirit, I suppose. If I was given to flights of fancy, I’d say I was seeing her soul.
She wanted me to hold her hand, so I did, and we stayed like that until they called to me to come out. I just listened, mostly. She told me that she had a son, Tommy—she was rambling, and I don’t think she knew what she was saying half the time. I certainly don’t think she meant to tell me about her son, because afterwards she said he was her sister’s boy, and seemed so worried about my knowing that I had to lie and tell her I’d misunderstood.
Tate, her name was. Rene Tate. About halfway through, I suddenly realised who she was: the prostitute from the shelter. Then she told me there was a body down there: the woman whose flat it was. I thought afterwards: if I’d known both—or even one—of those things, would I have gone? It wasn’t a comfortable moment. I’d like to say the answer was absolutely yes, but I can’t put my hand on my heart and swear it, which is awful. All I can say is, I’m jolly glad I did go because it was the right thing to do, and I’m glad I met Rene, because let’s be honest, in normal circumstances I’d never meet anyone like that, let alone have a conversation. I mean, she didn
’t tell me she was… you know…what she does…but with the child and everything… It only goes to show, the ideas one gets about certain people aren’t always right, because she seemed just like anybody else. Rather common in her speech, of course—that’s the snob in me coming out, I’m afraid—but perfectly nice, and none of that really mattered. Lying there like that, we were just two women, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt so close to anyone in my life. I don’t mean close in the way that I’m close to Minnie or Dad, or even Mums, but that I’ve never had such a strong feeling of shared humanity. There was no difference between us: I could have been her, and she me, because the life force that was inside us both was the same. And if that tunnel had fallen in, it would have been extinguished and we’d just have been two bodies, wouldn’t we? Ashes to ashes, dust to dust—no difference at all.
Rene’d called me an angel, and I thought afterwards, you’d never have said that if you knew what I was really like! But it made me think of Tom being my angel, because that’s how it ought to be, everyone helping everyone else, and it shouldn’t matter who they are or what they do. It’s sad, really, that it should take a war to bring out those qualities in people, like Mums going to Mrs Dorn when she had the baby, even though she’s so frightened of the bombs. It doesn’t say much for the human race as a whole, that it takes something so dreadful. But it’s taught me a lesson about judging people, at any rate. It was like the business afterwards with the air raid warden, when they’d brought Rene out and I’d taken her down to the shelter. That was very strange.
When I came out Mrs L and the men said how sporting I was to do it, and lots of other nice things that left me blushing like fury. But later on, a warden who hadn’t been there before came up to the van and said, ‘Excuse me, miss, are you the one who went down to Miss Tate?’
When I said I was, he said, ‘I’m Harry. Harry Nolan.’
‘Oh. We’ve met before, haven’t we?’
He smiled. ‘I rather think we have, miss. They told me what you did tonight and I wanted to say thank you.’ He stuck his hand through the hatch for me to shake. ‘May I ask your name?’
‘Armitage. Lucy.’
‘Well, Miss Armitage, what you did…bless you for that.’
It struck me as strange, because he didn’t sound like an official at all, more like a relative or… I suddenly found myself wondering, again, if he was…you know…a customer of Rene’s, and I couldn’t look him in the eye at all.
He said, ‘I don’t suppose…well, you wouldn’t happen to know where she’s gone, would you? The nurse here said she wouldn’t go to the first aid post.’
‘No, that’s right. She’s at the shelter. The one at the other end.’ I leaned over and pointed. ‘At least, that’s where I took her. She wanted to see her sister, because her brother-in-law died, you see. He was in there, too.’
‘Oh, I see. That’s dreadful. But Rene…Miss Tate…she wasn’t hurt, was she?’
‘More shocked, I think. She’d been down there for some time, you know, but she was terribly brave about it.’
‘Oh, she would be, miss. And so were you. There’s not many would do it.’
‘Oh, anyone would. I was the only one that could fit, that’s all.’
‘Well, bless you for it. I can’t thank you enough.’ And he shook my hand again, and hurried off down Wild Street.
I kept puzzling over it afterwards. You could tell from his eyes and the way he spoke that he really cared about Rene, but she hadn’t mentioned a brother, only her sister, and anyway, he didn’t look anything like her. But you know who he reminded me of? This is going to sound very odd, given what I’ve said, but he made me think of Dad. Not the way he looked, because Dad’s thin and beaky, and Mr Nolan’s big and broad and looks like he might have been a boxer once, but the way he was. Decent. You could trust him, I thought. Although how one can pick these things up from less than five minutes’ conversation, I don’t know. But that’s what made me think he couldn’t be one of Rene’s men-friends, because I know Dad would never do anything like that.
But what a lot I shall have to tell Minnie and Mums! Have decided I will tell Mums—she seems a changed person after the business over Mrs Dorn and the baby. She was singing along to the wireless last night, and that’s something she hasn’t done for weeks. She must have told the neighbours about Minnie and I wearing the saucepans on our heads, too, because this morning when I was on my way to work, Mrs Milne called out, ‘Where’s your tin hat?’ I told her Mums was making breakfast in it! But that’s good, because it means Mums must be going out and about again. I’m not going to tell them what Rene does, though. They’d be horrified.
The only cloud on the horizon was that I discovered, after a couple of hours’ much-needed sleep on a camp bed at the centre, that Tom’s cigarette card is no longer in my handbag. I’m pretty sure I had it with me this morning, and I’ve tipped the bag up and turned everything out, but it isn’t there. It can’t have been in the van, or we’d have noticed it when we were tidying up. I suppose it could have fallen out when I gave Rene the handkerchief, but I’m sure I would have noticed. If it did fall out in Wild Street I don’t suppose I’ll ever find it again because the place is such a mess, and in any case, it’s probably been roped off by now.
As I walk back to the station, I’m hoping against hope that I did leave the card under my pillow, after all: must check as soon as I get home. I don’t know what I shall do if it is lost: I hate the thought of lying to Tom, but the truth would be too awful. However, I shan’t put it in the letter, and I needn’t bring it up unless he asks, which I don’t think he will. I got the feeling it was rather a shock for him to see the brooch again, like a reminder of something he’d rather forget. He certainly didn’t want it back, and I think it’ll be the same with the card. It’s rather odd, now I come to think of it: it’s as if he’s been entrusting his memories to me because they’re too painful for him to keep himself.
That, combined with a perfectly horrible smell of sewage from somewhere near the river, rather takes the edge off my feeling of satisfaction at a job well done, but one can’t have everything. At least I’ve got the brooch safe.
Monday 14th October
Rene
I was pretty groggy when I came round. First thing that happened was I tried to sit up, but hit something, and for a horrible moment I thought I was still trapped underground. Then I realised I was on a lower bunk and I’d thumped my head on the bottom of the one above it. Then I saw a pair of big yellow eyes staring at me, and it was a black cat, sitting at the end of my bed. There was a lot of shouting in the background—a ring of women, all yelling at once, with this little ratty-looking warden in the middle, trying to reason with them.
‘You can’t turn the poor beast out in this!’
‘The rules state—’
‘Bugger the rules! That’s Mrs Everley’s cat, and you’re not throwing it out!’
‘I’m sorry, but animals aren’t—’
‘You lay one finger on that cat, and you’ll have us to deal with!’
I got off the bed and tottered towards them, then tapped one of the women on the shoulder and pointed at the cat. ‘Is that George?’
‘Yes, that’s right. This bastard wants it out.’
‘Mrs Everley’s dead.’
‘Yes love, I know. Here…’ She looked down at my tattered skirt. ‘Were you the one with her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Blimey, dear, you didn’t ought to be standing up, not after that. Come on.’ She led me back to the bunk, helped me lie down, and covered me with a blanket.
‘Have you seen my sister?’
‘Who’s that, then?’
‘Nicholls. Dora Nicholls.’
‘Oh, yes. Down the other end, poor woman. You heard about Joe?’
‘Yes, I know… I told her.’
‘Dreadful business. Dora’s having a lie-down. Best not to disturb her, I think.’
‘Where’s Tommy?’
&nb
sp; ‘Oh, he’s being looked after, don’t worry.’
‘All her things…’
‘I don’t know, about that, dear, but she’ll be lucky… Looters everywhere. You hear these stories, don’t you? No respect for other people’s property any more, though from what I’ve heard, there wasn’t a whole lot left to pinch.’
‘No, there wasn’t.’
‘She’ll have to go to the Assistance Board, tomorrow. They’ll sort it out.’
‘The cat…it’s expecting—Mrs Everley told me.’
‘I don’t think so, dear, its name’s George.’
‘I know. She said she made a mistake.’
‘It does look a bit big round the middle, come to think of it. All the more reason for it to stay put. I’d lie down again, if I were you. You look done in.’
She went off and got stuck into the argument again, and I closed my eyes. I was exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep. Everything was spinning round inside my head: Joe, and how Dora was going to manage, and the chest with the money, and Mrs Everley and her blasted cat, and how I’d lost my identity card, but I felt too tired and numb to be worried about any of it. Perhaps it was the shock, I don’t know—or that tablet—but I couldn’t seem to get a grip on my thoughts, somehow. It was like being on the outside of my own mind. Then I heard someone say, ‘Rene,’ but it seemed to take a long time between hearing and understanding, sort of like a pebble being dropped into the middle of a pond when you’re standing on the edge and the ripples come out wider and wider until they reach you.
‘Rene.’
When I opened my eyes, there was Harry, sitting on the floor beside the bed. ‘How are you doing?’
‘Oh, Harry, am I glad to see you…’
‘Are you all right? Nothing broken? You should be at the first aid post, you know.’
‘I’m all right, Harry, really. Just a bit…you know. What’s the time?’
He grimaced and glanced at his watch. ‘Half past one. You’d think they’d be asleep by now.’ He gestured at the gaggle of women. ‘Now, come on, have a bit of this.’ He held up a little flask. ‘You look as if you need it.’
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