Birmingham Blitz

by Annie Murray

  ‘Victor’s dead.’

  I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to hear those words.

  ‘He’s dead. I know he is.’ She whipped round. ‘Genie – whatever am I going to do?’

  We stood there, both in agony, but not touching each other. I wanted my dad so badly, wanted the solid, sensible bit of our family. Mom blew about like a feather and I couldn’t trust or rely on her. Everything was breaking up. No Dad, no Eric, and now she was going to bring a babby into the house whose father I could murder with a smile.

  ‘At least he’ll never know,’ she said, all wrapped up in herself as usual. ‘He’ll’ve died thinking I was a good wife to him. I can keep Bob’s babby.’ Then, voice going high, she went on, ‘But how on earth am I going to manage? We’ll have no money, and another babby and no man to look after us . . .’ That old bogeyman poverty, the cold, aching, eking-out struggle she remembered from her childhood, leered up over her shoulder.

  ‘You’ve got me, Mom. I can earn money now, don’t forget. And Lenny.’

  She squatted down on the grass suddenly, hands over her eyes, head bent. ‘I’ve messed up everything, Genie. Every single thing I’ve ever done I’ve made a mess of it.’

  ‘Mom . . .’

  She didn’t look up.

  ‘He might not be dead . . .’ I still hoped that, prayed it. Until we had some sign or letter we’d never properly believe it.

  She got up suddenly without another word and went into the house as if someone had called. They had. The gin bottle.

  On the Wednesday that week, in the evening, the police moved into Park Street, Bartholomew Street and the others which made up Birmingham’s Little Italy, arresting a man from every house and carting them off to the police station. Among them was Vera’s elder brother, Teresa’s uncle Matt Scattoli.

  ‘They thought it was a bit of a joke at first,’ Teresa told me. ‘Some of the lads anyway. A group of ’em went down there all full of themselves and the police said if they didn’t get off home they’d arrest them as well.’

  ‘Have they let them go now?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh no. No one knows what’s happening. They haven’t got themselves sorted out.’

  ‘Well what about your dad?’

  ‘God knows. They haven’t come down our way. He’s in the Fire Service, Mom keeps saying. What would they want to arrest him for?’

  The Germans moved into Paris and the French surrendered. The newsreader’s voice was very sombre, seeming to come out of a big echoing silence behind him. After the news they played trumpets.

  The heat and breathless calm made the atmosphere electric. Waiting. Rumours all the time. They’ve landed on the coast at Margate! No – they hadn’t. Planes overhead! They were ours. Leaflets came fluttering through our doors again, ‘Don’t give the invader anything’. Strangers were remarked on, even invented. Previously normal behaviour seemed suspect and all sorts of tales spread based on hearsay. They might parachute in dressed as nuns. Look out for hairy-knuckled nuns!

  Even the newsreaders started telling you who they were. ‘This is the — o’clock news, and this is Frank Phillips [or Stuart Hibbard or Alvar Liddell] reading it.’

  The rumour-mongering reached such a pitch that the government released a whole collection of posters to try and keep us quiet: ‘Careless Talk Costs Lives’. This was our turn now. Us. We were next in line now the French had gone. Would we have Germans marching down our street, kicking down our door with their jackboots?

  Lil said, once France had fallen, ‘Well at least we know what we’re up against now.’

  But we didn’t. Not really. That was the trouble, and our imaginations were on fire.

  ‘Have some dinner with us, Genie – there’s enough,’ Vera said.

  It was Sunday and the Spinis were all squeezed round the table as usual, except for Stevie who was out with the ice-cream cart. Mom was at work, trying to redeem herself by turning up regularly, and so was Len, so I’d come looking for company.

  The door to the yard was open and it was quiet, everyone in having dinner. I could see the tap across the way, shining drops falling fast into the blocked drain. The Spinis’ yard always stank of drains.

  Micky Spini seemed relaxed enough, his health improving by inches. He sat at the table in his shirtsleeves, in one of his quiet moods, just staring ahead at the table as if he had things on his mind. He smiled at me though, when I came in. Vera had cooked beef, pink in the middle, liver-coloured at the edges, and there were potatoes and peas. It was nice to be in a proper family again with a dad, and a mom who could see further than the bottom of a glass.

  ‘Sorry to hear about your windows,’ I said to Micky. ‘You had any more trouble?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not so far.’ They kept talking about Uncle Matt and the others still held by the police. Everyone was edgy.

  ‘No news, Genie?’ Vera said to me as usual.

  ‘Mom doesn’t think he’s coming back. He’d’ve come by now if he was coming, wouldn’t he?’

  Vera stared at me wide-eyed and tried to make comforting noises but I could see she’d been thinking the same. What else was there to think?

  ‘What about Eric?’

  ‘He still writes. Sometimes. Seems to like it down there. His handwriting’s come on a treat.’ I sniffed and Teresa reached across and squeezed my hand. ‘Can’t see him wanting to come home after all she’s done for him down there.’

  ‘Course he will!’ Vera said indignantly. ‘Home’s home. You’re his family. Not Mrs Whateverhernameis down there.’

  I didn’t contradict her but I wasn’t sure any more. About anything.

  ‘And how’s your mother bearing up?’ This was always Vera’s conversation. Family concerns. She knew Mom hadn’t got any time for her but close family ties were what she’d been brought up on.

  Teresa’s eyes met mine. I couldn’t tell Vera about Mom’s other predicament. She was kind all right, but sins were sins and she wouldn’t have had any cotter with what Mom had been up to.

  She brought in ice cream flavoured with vanilla pods.

  ‘It’s made with unsalted margarine. There’s nowhere near enough butter about.’

  ‘It’s not the same,’ Teresa said. ‘Doesn’t have the creaminess.’

  ‘No, it’s OK. You’re imagining it,’ Micky said, sliding it over his tongue.

  ‘I’m not. D’you think I can’t tell!’

  Already the argument was growing heated. Micky splayed his stubby hands, palms up. ‘You put two plates side by side. You’d never be able to tell the difference.’

  ‘I can’t tell the difference,’ Francesca said.

  ‘You see?’

  ‘She doesn’t know!’ Teresa was shouting by now. ‘She can’t tell if she’s eating lemon drops or bulls’ eyes. She’s got no sense of taste at all!’

  All the kids were tasting now, making their own comments at full volume. Personally I thought Teresa was right but decided to keep my trap shut about it.

  ‘My tongue must be more sensitive,’ Teresa said. ‘It tastes of margarine. It tastes cheap.’

  ‘Cheap!’ This caused uproar. One of the Spinis’ full-blast ding-dongs was just getting warmed up, Luke banging his bowl on the table since he couldn’t manage anything loud enough with his mouth to enter the competition.

  ‘What d’you think, Genie?’

  ‘I can’t remember what it used to taste like,’ I was saying, when we all realized there was a shadow across the doorway. Two shadows. Men in dark suits with bowler hats. One red-faced and fat, everything about him round, even his nose, the other tall and gangly. Laurel and Hardy to a tee. But their faces weren’t anything to laugh at at all. Their coming slashed into the afternoon. The shouting switched off.

  Micky stood up, nervously rubbing his hands on his trousers. ‘Can I help you?’

  Without being invited they stepped in, and looked round the tiny room at the ice-cream-smeared faces of the children and at the Spinis’ tidy few bel
ongings: the shelf with their remaining bits of chipped crockery that weren’t on the table, the worn pieces of brocade draped over the mantel, Vera’s ‘photograph’ of Jesus. They wore sneers on their faces. Considering how hot it was they had ever such a lot on, and the fat one’s face was perspiring. It seemed a long time before anyone spoke again and it all felt bad before they’d even opened their mouths.

  Eventually the fat one said, ‘Are you Michele Spini?’

  Micky nodded.

  ‘I am instructed to arrest you under Regulation 18B as an enemy alien to this country.’

  Vera let out a gasp and put her hand over her mouth.

  ‘But for God’s sake, I’ve been here eighteen years!’ Micky protested. ‘My wife was born here, and my children. I’m in the Fire Service.’ The agitation started him coughing again.

  ‘That’s as may be. But you haven’t been here twenty years or more, have you?’ The thin man stood up very straight and recited pompously, ‘We are given leave to take into custody anyone believed likely to endanger the safety of the realm.’

  The two of them went to Micky and took him by the arms. ‘So let’s not waste any time about it, eh?’

  ‘No!’ Vera cried, standing in front of them, barring the way. ‘You can’t do this. It’s all wrong! You’ve already arrested all the wrong people. My husband loves this country. He’d fight if he was the right age. You’re making a mistake.’

  ‘Vera,’ Micky said quietly. ‘It’ll be all right. We’ll get it sorted out.’

  ‘You’ve been consorting with known members of the Italian Fascio,’ the thin one said. He pronounced it ‘Fasho’. ‘We have Mr Fausto Pirelli in custody already.’

  I heard Teresa make an explosive noise of outrage.

  ‘But it’s Sunday today,’ Vera carried on. ‘You can’t arrest him on a Sunday!’

  ‘I’m afraid we can, Mrs Spini,’ the fat one said. He nodded at his colleague as if they were about to set off and then said, ‘Norman, we haven’t searched the house.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said the one called Norman. ‘The house.’

  Vera sank to a chair as they released Micky and started going through their few possessions. The fat one went and peered up the stairs.

  ‘You ain’t going up there!’ Vera said. ‘There’s nothing there.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Next thing was his fat arse climbing up to Micky and Vera’s room, feet clomping on the floor above. Vera covered her face with her hands.

  The thin one was pulling drawers open and shut, and yanked one so hard that it came out and fell on the floor. The side fell off the drawer and Micky and Vera’s small collection of papers slid out in a heap. Giovanna started to cry and set Luke off. Teresa picked him up and cuddled him on her lap and Giovanna ran to her mother. Tony sat staring.

  ‘Hoi,’ Micky called out. ‘Watch what you’re doing. What you looking for anyhow?’

  ‘We’ll know when we’ve found it,’ the thin one called Norman said. He had squatted down and was rifling through the papers, a look of disgust on his face.

  Teresa suddenly erupted from behind the table, still holding Luke in her arms.

  ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’ she bawled at him. Luke was so startled he stopped crying for a moment. ‘Coming here, scaring our family, breaking things and insulting us. Who the bleeding ’ell d’you think you are?’

  Micky hurriedly laid a hand on her arm. ‘Teresa, be quiet. Now!’ he ordered, the exertion making him cough again.

  ‘D’you know why he’s coughing like that?’ The man just stared at her with a flat expression. ‘He was in a fire, trying to save a factory, and his chest’ll never be the same again. How many times’ve you done summat like that, eh? You smug bastards. He’d die for this country my dad would. And yes, we do know Fausto Pirelli – he’s an ignorant jumped up little shite with a bleeding great chip on his shoulder and anything he thinks or does is nothing to do with us. So why don’t you just get out of our house and leave us alone? We haven’t done anything.’

  The fat man appeared from the stairs. What with Teresa yelling and the kids bawling the racket was getting pretty overwhelming.

  ‘What on earth’s going on?’

  Teresa turned on him. ‘Satisfied now you’ve had a good nose round, are you?’

  ‘Can’t someone shut this wop tart up?’ the fat one said and I saw the blood of fury pump into Teresa’s cheeks. He jerked his head at the other policeman. ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here. Mr Spini—’ They went and caught him by the arms again. ‘You’ll be coming with us.’

  ‘No!’ Teresa roared. ‘No – you can’t do this!’ Vera watched helplessly. Teresa shoved Luke at her and went to her father, gripping his arm.

  Micky’s face was grey. He spoke calmly. ‘Teresa, cara, it’s a mistake. I’ll go with them and get it cleared up.’

  ‘What – like all their other mistakes?’ Teresa retorted. I heard the strain of tears in her voice but she wasn’t going to let herself go in front of them.

  They ignored her and started to take Micky from the house. He turned his head at the door. ‘Don’t worry, Vera. It’ll be OK.’

  We saw them as they took him past the window, his ashen face turned down towards the ground.

  Churchill said this was going to be our finest hour, but it didn’t feel like my finest hour at all. It felt like the worst time of my entire life.

  My mom was only just holding together and I was strung between her and the Spinis. Stevie had returned home to find his father gone and went straight down to the cop-shop only to be banged up as well. They’d be able to see them in a day or two, Vera was told.

  A week passed. Vera and Teresa were down at the police station in Steelhouse Lane every day. Eventually they were allowed one visit and they saw Micky, Stevie and Uncle Matteo for a few minutes. None of them had a clue what was happening. Vera said they were all trying to be cheerful, but no one would tell them anything. She was getting more distraught by the day.

  Then she found out they’d been moved and they wouldn’t say where. The house swarmed with Italians, many in the same position, others offering sympathy or just coming for a nose. Vera was up and down to her mom’s. Her eyes were sunken with lack of sleep and she looked as if she’d lost pounds in days.

  Teresa gave up her job and came home. ‘Mom needs me – and the little ’uns.’ So she was back among the fruit and veg, keeping up an amazingly cheery front with the regulars who didn’t desert them because they were Italians and suddenly on the wrong side of the war. And I saw a new Teresa, one who was even stronger than I’d thought. Her face looked as sleepless as Vera’s, but she pinned her hair back, dressed as nicely as she could and accepted everyone’s sympathy.

  ‘They’ve got to find out sooner or later that Dad shouldn’t be there,’ she said. ‘We’ve got to keep going for ’is sake.’

  She gave me strength. I had to do the same for my own dad. And I noticed a new gentleness about the place. Not just the Spinis. It’s not just nostalgia talking to say this. It was nearly everyone. People cared more about each other now we were all in trouble. They’d go out of their way, do anything for you. Even Mom managed to think about Vera and what she must be feeling.

  ‘What the hell are they playing at? That Micky Spini may be an Eyetie but what harm’s he ever done to anyone?’

  On 22 June the French signed the German Armistice. Mr Churchill expressed grief and amazement. The impossible was happening. The hot spring days passed agonizingly slowly.

  Sometimes of an evening when I’d done all the chores I couldn’t stand to be near Mom, her sitting there lifeless, half in a stupor, as if the world had already ended. I’d go up and lie on my bed, on the rough blanket, and look out at the light evening, the barrage balloon’s silver tail. I often thought back to a year ago when everyone was home, squabbling, it’s true, and looking daggers. But remembering it from where we were now, even with Lola there it had been normal. Blessedly normal.

  I had t
o hold onto my dreams like Mom used to cling to the stories of the picture shows she saw. Mr Churchill said that if we could stand up to Hitler and beat him our lives would move forwards into ‘broad sunlit uplands’. I liked the sound of them, those broad, sunlit uplands. They stretched out in my mind covered in golden corn and poppies and yellow and white flowers, with a warm breeze blowing and bare legs and the sweet, sweet smell of the fields.

  July 1940

  I heard the news over the factory wireless.

  ‘Oh my God!’ I was stuck to the floor like a statue.

  ‘What’s eating you?’ Nancy snapped. Her voice was always tart as vinegar when she spoke to me and I could never make out why. What’d I done? ‘Bunch of Nazis and wops,’ she went on. ‘Good riddance to them, I say.’

  I was too upset to pay too much attention to Nancy. The appalling news was sinking in. The Germans had torpedoed a ship called the Arandora Star and sunk it off the coast of Ireland. The vessel had been carrying 1,500 German and Italian internees bound for Canada, and it looked as if an awful lot of them had drowned. Vera and her family still had no news, not of Micky, nor Stevie, nor Uncle Matt. For all we knew they could have been on that ship.

  ‘What’s up, Genie?’ Doris leaned round me. ‘There’s surely no one of yours on there?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I was numb just then. ‘That’s the trouble. Could be.’ I struggled to keep my eyes on the screw pitches of the brass caps in front of me.

  Doris and the others were making sympathetic noises.

  ‘Poor kid,’ I heard someone say. ‘Another thing to cope with.’

  ‘While you don’t know there’s still hope,’ Doris’s deep voice came to me.

  ‘Didn’t know you was one for mixing with Nazis and wops,’ Nancy said. Now she’d picked on that phrase she was obviously keen to work it to death. ‘Did you, girls?’

  ‘Shut your trap, Nance,’ someone said.

  Nancy gave them her coyest smile, which was designed to melt hearts, and I felt like slapping her one. I turned on her. ‘What do you know about it, you ignorant little bitch? Just you watch what you’re saying.’ I marched round to her side of the table. ‘You’re talking about my best pal. One more word out of you and my nails’ll be making a pretty pattern on your face. Got it?’