More people were arriving, clambering over the rubble, calling and crying. She could hear the bricks slipping away from their feet and the crunch of glass. And then, immediately beneath the rubble she was lifting, she heard the faint sound of someone crying for help.
‘I’m coming!’ she called. ‘I’m coming, Betty! Hold on!’ But the next lump of masonry she seized was too big for her to shift on her own. ‘Help me please!’ she cried to the nearest shape. ‘Thass too heavy for me.’
Worn hands moved into her line of vision, pulling and tugging. She could see a trodden-down shoe pressed against the wreckage, taking the strain, and then a pair of black boots, coated with dust.
‘There’s a bit a’ wood there,’ a man’s voice said. ‘We could use it as a lever.’
Someone collected it and handed it down, and then they were all pushing it under the mass of brick and concrete, struggling to get it into position, heaving together – ‘One, two, three, heave!’ – their hands covered in grime and brick dust. And the lump shifted, moved, was lifted up. They could see a shoulder, covered in filth and streaked with dark blood. And at that they worked like wild things, hauling and pulling, until a woman’s head was uncovered, pushed down against her chest by the weight of the brickwork that had fallen on her. It wasn’t Betty but that no longer had any relevance. She was a neighbour and she was injured, in pain and so shocked she simply stared at them and couldn’t even tell them her name. They dug until they’d uncovered her entire body and lifted her out, limp and floppy, as though she were a doll. And by then the ambulances were arriving and two nurses ran to take over.
Barbara was still full of frantic energy. She’d found one casualty. Now she had to find another. She had to find Betty and the kids. She wiped the sweat out of her eyes and looked across at the nearest person, ready to thank her and ask her to help again. And found herself staring into the anxious blue eyes of her mother-in-law.
She was too fraught to feel any surprise. Their quarrel was a petty irrelevance now. There was only this dreadful driving need, this dreadful aching terror. ‘Oh Mrs Wilkins!’ she said. ‘Betty’s in here. An’ the kids.’
‘I know they are,’ Heather said briefly. ‘I came straight across.’
‘We must find them,’ Barbara said, urgently. ‘I was going to meet them in the cafe. They were in the cafe.’
Someone was yelling on the other side of the crater. ‘Over here! We’ve found something!’ It was a young man in RAF uniform and there were others digging beside him. What are they doing here? she wondered as she ran. Whatever it was she was glad they’d come. There was something reassuring about a man in uniform and they were all working hard, shovelling the bricks aside with spades, and tossing great lumps behind them as they dug deeper into the mass.
And they had found something. Just underneath the concrete there was a torn shred of heavy cloth. She could see it as soon as she reached the pit and it wasn’t long before they pulled it out. It turned out to be the empty arm of a winter coat – but underneath it was the long brown edge of Betty’s new sheepskin.
‘Oh quick!’ Barbara said, reaching for the nearest chunk of masonry. ‘That’s my cousin. Is she breathing? Can you see?’ The relief of finding her was so acute she was weeping. She was there. Inches away. They only had to dig and they’d get her out and she’d be all right. Oh please, please God, let her be all right.
‘Take it easy!’ the RAF man said, holding out a restraining arm. ‘We don’t want to crush her.’
‘Can you see her?’
‘Not yet. If we can just get this shifted I might be able to get down to her.’
But when the rubble was shifted, it was obvious that they hadn’t found her after all. What was lying among the rubble was just her coat, filthy dirty and so torn it would never be worn again, and still with half a hanger stuck into the shoulder. They’d found the remains of the staff cloakroom. Barbara’s disappointment was so crushing she sank to the ground with the anguish of it.
There was a police sergeant climbing over the wreckage towards her and looking round she saw that the fire brigade and the men of the light rescue service had arrived and that the road was full of ambulances.
‘I’d go home if I was you,’ the sergeant advised as he reached her. ‘You can’t do no more here. We’re going to rope off the area.’
Barbara waved towards the fire. ‘My cousins are in there.’
The sergeant winced his sympathy. ‘Give their names an’ addresses to the constable,’ he said. ‘The one on the corner down there. See him? We’ll let you know the minute we have any news. I promise.’ And when she frowned at him. ‘It’s fer the best, miss. We’ll get ’em out quicker when the site’s cleared.’
She recognised the truth of what he was saying but she couldn’t bear to walk away. The RAF men were still digging, so why couldn’t she?
Heather was by her elbow. ‘He’s right,’ she urged. ‘They’ll make a better job of it than we will. They’re bringing cranes in.’
‘How do you know?’
‘They just said. Come on.’
‘Where to?’
‘To tell poor Mabel. She won’t know.’
Yes, Barbara thought, they ought to tell Mabel. So they gave the names to the constable and headed off to her house. But before they’d gone more than twenty yards, they saw her standing on the corner of Batavia Road. Her face was so wild that at first sight Barbara didn’t recognise her, but then she saw that she was holding Joyce by the hand and shaking it as if she were trying to pull it from her arm. She was shouting, ‘You bloody little fool! You bloody stupid little fool!’ and both of them were weeping. It was the first time Barbara had ever heard her swear.
‘Oh thank God for that,’ Heather said. ‘Our Joyce is all right at any rate. Come on!’
They ran, calling, ‘Mabel! Mabel!’ but she didn’t hear them or see them until they were standing beside her. Then she looked up. ‘Have you seen her?’ she begged. ‘D’you know where she is?’
‘Not yet,’ Heather told her, gently. ‘They’re digging them out now. I’ve given her name to the policeman.’
‘What, Hazel’s?’
‘And Betty’s.’
Mabel was too stunned to take in what they were saying. ‘We don’t know where she is’, she said, ‘thanks to this stupid fool. Let go of her, didn’t she? Sid’s out of his mind.’
‘I didn’t know there was going to be a rocket,’ Joyce wept. ‘She wen’ off with Molly. She always goes off with Molly. I didn’t know there was going to be a rocket.’
‘Right here, she left her,’ Mabel wailed. ‘Right here. She could ha’ been blown to pieces. Did you say they were digging them out? Has anyone seen our Betty? Oh my God this is awful! Awful! Sid’s out of his mind.’
‘Where is he?’ Heather asked.
‘Gone round the hospitals. We couldn’t think what else to do.’
‘Go and see that young copper,’ Heather advised. ‘Tell him where you’re going to be, in case they hear anything, then come home with me for a little while. You’re done in. What we need’s a nice cup a’ tea. We can’t do nothin’ here.’
‘I had one from the WVS,’ Mabel said, but she allowed herself to be led away.
Heather turned to her daughter-in-law. ‘You coming, Barbara?’ It was a genuine invitation, given affectionately, and Barbara was touched by it. But at that moment she heard a tram squeaking along the lines in the road above them and the sound brought her back to the moment. She had a job to do.
‘I’d like to,’ she said, her voice as full of affection as Heather’s had been, ‘but I got to get back to work. My shift’s till six. Thanks all the same. I really would have liked to. I’ll call in later, if thass all right. Thing is, people’ll want to get here won’t they? If they’ve got someone … They’ll need the trams.’ She was remembering Steve’s letter. ‘We just have to get up and go on.’ ‘I must go.’
‘Yes,’ Heather said. ‘’Course. You’re a good girl.
Look after yerself.’
The dust was beginning to settle and the light had almost returned to normal. Out in the street the WVS were dispensing tea from their huge teapots and the civil defence were clearing the road. The dead had already been wrapped in shrouds and laid out in a terrible neat line on the pavement and teams were carrying them into Pearce Signs. She couldn’t bear to give them more than a glance in case one of them was Betty or Hazel.
It’ll be better at work, she thought, as she hurried along the road. And it was. Mr Threlfall was so obviously relieved to see her that she felt easier as soon as she got inside the depot. Mr Tinker was in hospital having his head stitched, so she worked with another driver called Scottie and, although the ache of anxiety scrabbled in her belly all afternoon, she was glad to have something to occupy her mind. Every time they got back to New Cross she looked out anxiously in case someone had news and was waiting to tell her. But it wasn’t until past four o’clock that she heard anything and then it was Mr Threlfall who told her.
‘Some feller came with a message for you,’ he said. ‘Sid or some such. I wrote it down. Ah here it is. Hazel is in Lewisham Hospital. Sis is coming to pick you up at six o’clock.’
Thank God, Barbara thought. If she’s in hospital at least she’s alive. There’s hope. ‘Anything else?’
‘No. That’s it. Sis at six o’clock. Have you seen Mrs Phipps? She said she’d come in an’ help us out.’
So they haven’t found Betty, Barbara thought. She knew they were still digging and still getting people out because she’d seen the cranes and the ambulances. They were still hard at it when she finally finished her shift, even though it was dark. They were working by floodlight, which was a thing she’d never seen before. Oh they must have got her out by now, surely.
Sis was waiting for her by the entrance. But she shook her head when Barbara asked her if there was any news.
‘Only about Hazel,’ she said. ‘But you’ve heard that ain’tcher?’
‘How is she?’
‘Cracked her ribs, poor kid. They’re keeping her in overnight. Sid’s seen her. Said she wasn’t too bad all things considering. We’re all going up this evening. You an’ me are going to Bob’s for the night. The flat’s in no fit state.’
Until that moment Barbara hadn’t given their home a thought but now she realised it must have been damaged. It was too close to Woolworths to have escaped in one piece.
‘Is it standing?’ she asked.
‘Just about,’ Sis told her. ‘You’ll see. We’re going there to collect our things. It’s OK to go in if we’re careful. We’ll have to watch out for glass.’
The further end of the terrace was dark and empty and already smelt dank. The doors had been blown out, the windows were smashed, there was no electricity, the curtains had been torn to shreds and their once-warm, cosily-cluttered rooms were full of icy air, darkness and debris, which they saw when Sis switched on her torch – the chaise longue covered with ash, the floor littered with papers and broken ornaments.
‘Don’t look at it,’ Sis advised. ‘Just find what you can of your things an’ we’ll get out of it.’ There was half a loaf in the bread bin, and a scraping of butter in the butter dish but the food cupboard had been blown open and, except for a battered tin of custard, nothing else was still edible. She found a shopping basket, tipped the dust out of it and began to pack her necessities, cigars, brandy bottle, three files. ‘I’ll get me nightgown an’ a change a’ clothes an’ we’ll be off.’
So Barbara followed the dancing beam of the torch and retrieved her own treasures – Steve’s letters in their shoebox, her best blouse and her green skirt, her old scarlet coat. And there was the sheepskin, covered in dust but otherwise intact. The sight of if brought the horror of the bomb-site roaring back into her mind. ‘Oh Betty!’ she said. ‘Betty! Betty! Betty!’
Sis was at her elbow, patting her back. ‘Come on, duck,’ she said. ‘No use staying here. They’ll get her out if they can. Don’t touch the door as you go out. It looks dangerous.’
So this is what it’s like to be bombed out, Barbara thought, as they set off to Childeric Road. You’re down to what you can carry away. She felt proud of them both for making so little fuss about it. But then it was the least of their worries with Betty still under the wreckage.
‘Perhaps they’ll have heard,’ she hoped, as they reached the gate.
But there was no news. Little Mrs Connelly came bustling out into the hall to say how sorry she was. ‘Tell Heather I got a soup on the go,’ she said. ‘You’ll need something to keep you going. It’s all nice an’ hot, so it is.’
Not that any of them were in a fit state to eat anything. Sid had gone to work, because ‘the papers had to be printed’, but the rest of the family were gathered in the kitchen, Joyce prowling and miserable, Mabel sitting by the fire, next to her brother, her face grey with fatigue and anxiety, Heather in her own chair, knitting furiously.
‘We just been up the site,’ she said to Sis. ‘They reckon they’re goin’ on all night. Bob’s gonna stay here while we nip up to the hospital. Just in case. D’you want a cup a’ tea before we go?’
They had tea and struggled through a plate of Mrs Connelly’s soup and then they were off again, wrapped in their scarves and woolly hats, and hoping they wouldn’t find Hazel in too bad a state.
In fact, she was remarkably cheerful, even though her chest hurt her and she had several angry cuts on her hands.
‘That was the glass,’ she told them proudly. ‘My balaclava was cut to shreds. You should’ha seen it. They’re gonna let me have it as a keepsake. Me an’ Molly was blown right down on the pavement, an’ we was miles from Woollies, up by Kennedy’s. We was gonna get some bloater paste. We never got it though. She’s got a broken arm. They’ve put it in plaster. Show ’em yer arm, Mol. We’re all gonna write our names on it. The nurse said.’
‘Young you see,’ Sis explained, when they’d all been in to see her, two by two according to hospital regulations, and were comparing notes on the way home afterwards. ‘They don’t see the danger.’
Mabel was tearful. ‘It breaks my heart to see her,’ she said. ‘The state she’s in. Her poor little hands!’
‘They’ll get better,’ Heather assured her. ‘They look worse than they are. Well you know yourself, cuts always do.’
But the person they were really thinking about was Betty.
‘We’ll stop at the site on our way back, just in case,’ Mabel said. ‘You never know, they might have found her by now.’
But there was still no news.
‘Come back with us,’ Heather said. ‘You won’t sleep till you know. None of us will. Least it’s Sunday tomorrow. That’s one good thing. We shan’t have to get up for work. We can sleep on once we’ve heard.’
So they all went back to Childeric Road and sat up all night and waited, making endless cups of tea, and saying over and over again that no news was good news, although none of them believed it. Occasionally they dozed off in their chairs and woke with a start to the sound of traffic in the New Cross Road or a train passing at the bottom of the garden. But when the morning finally came, they still hadn’t heard anything and the rescue teams were still digging.
‘It’s a nightmare,’ Mabel said. ‘It just goes on and on. We must hear something soon, surely to God.’
But Sunday dragged by and nobody came. By this time they were all in such a state that none of them could settle to anything. They went to visit Hazel in the afternoon, taking care not to tell her what was going on, and were told that she’d be home the following day. Barbara and Sis went back to the flat to sort out their shoes and clothes, and discovered that the bomb damage teams weren’t coming in till Thursday to repair the doors and windows, so they’d have to go on living in Steve’s room for a bit longer. But for the rest of the time there was nothing but endless waiting and diminishing hope. And at the end of the day, another night to sit through.
This time the Horner
s went back home and waited there because Sid had gone to work again and Mabel wanted to be ready for him in the morning. But he’d been home for nearly an hour and Sis and the Wilkins had all gone to work themselves before news finally came.
It was brought by a policeman, who shuffled his feet and looked so desperately embarrassed that they knew it was bad before he said a word. He was ever so sorry, he said, but they’d found part of Betty’s identity card stuck to the steps of the Town Hall. Did she always carry it?
Sid saw the implication at once, with such a sinking of heart that it took all colour from his face. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She did. It was in her uniform pocket.’
‘Ah!’
‘Then she’s dead. That’s what you’re saying.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘You ain’t found – nothing else?’
‘No. I’m ever so sorry. You could go to Pearce Signs an’ see if you recognise anyone there. Well not anyone exactly. The bodies have all been identified but they got – well, bits. Arms an’ legs an’ that sort a’ thing, if you could face it.’
Sid couldn’t bear to do such a thing. The mere thought of it was making him shake.
‘If she’s dead, she’s dead, poor kid,’ he mourned. ‘That’s bad enough without seein’ her in pieces.’ Then he realised another implication. ‘It’ll mean we can’t have a funeral or nothing.’ And at that Mabel began to cry. She wept so bitterly that he stopped talking about it and simply put his arms round her. And the policeman went tactfully away.
‘They might find her,’ Mabel cried, clinging to his jacket. ‘They might. Mightn’t they? I mean there’s always hope. We mustn’t give up.’
Avalanche of Daisies Page 26
