Bombers’ Moon

by Iris Gower

  Bombers’ Moon

  Iris Gower

  The new novel from Wales’ best-selling author—Swansea, 1941. Meryl Jones is evacuated to Carmarthen, where she falls for half-German Michael—but Michael seems to like her sister, Hari, better. Then the military police come for Michael. Meryl helps him escape, and their relationship blossoms. But, as the war ends, Meryl knows that the man she loves will have to make a fateful choice between her and her sister…

  Iris Gower

  BOMBERS’ MOON

  One

  I might die tonight. The thought came to me as I was sitting under the table in our house waiting for a bomb to fall on me. The Germans had missed me in last night’s raid though a house down the road had vanished into the night in a big pile of rubble, all the people inside killed, crushed or burned. I saw that bit of news in the local paper; the date on the paper was February 1941, and even though I tore it into shreds and screwed the paper up for the fire, I couldn’t get the picture of the poor family, who had died so horribly, out of my mind. I cried for them even though I didn’t know any of them very well.

  I used to see Mrs Griffiths in Taylor’s greengrocer’s shop, which always smelt of damp earth and potatoes; she always had a shawl wrapped round her, Welsh fashion, with a bald-headed baby hidden in its folds. She had a few other little ones hanging on her skirts, all girls I think. Their dad, like mine, was away fighting the war. He would come home on leave with his kitbag on his shoulder and find his house gone and his family all dead.

  I tried to think of other things and, looking down, I noticed how crumpled my school skirt was; the pleats were spoiled and needed ironing but if I died I’d have no need of a school skirt anyway. And then I noticed how bony my knees looked glowing red in the firelight. I hated my knees.

  I looked up at the underside of the table in an effort to distract myself from thoughts about my shortcomings and about bombs killing people and touched the screws holding the table in place; they were shining like gold as the flames of the fire licked patterns of red and yellow light across the room. I hoped briefly that the blackout curtain was safely tucked into the windows in the holes where the draughts came in and the light sneaked out.

  There was a bit of writing on the underside of the table. I could only just make out the numbers, but for the rest it, it was too dark to see properly. And then my hair seemed to stand on end as I heard the first eerie drone of the bombers coming for me.

  I looked quickly into the fire and concentrated, eyes half closed. Trying hard I could see two faces in the fire, mine and John Adams’. I liked John Adams but I wouldn’t admit that to anyone not even my best friend Sally Bevan. Our faces, mine and John’s, were close together in the picture in the flames, perhaps kissing. I’d never kissed a boy but I heard all about it from Sally. She’d kissed lots of boys, so she said.

  Unmistakably, the noise of the planes was getting louder. I got goose pimples that were nothing to do with the cold of the February night with frost on the ground and a bright silvery moon overhead, a bomber’s moon, as the old people called it.

  I felt the hard wood of the table rough under my fingers. I suppose there was a point in having the protection of the table but if a bomb dropped and the house fell on your head it wouldn’t matter much if you had a table or not, you’d still die from smoke and fire, that’s what I heard Tom Potty saying and he should know, he was an ARP warden. So I faced it; tonight if the German bombers came to our house I might die.

  Worried with thoughts of dying I looked at the world of the parlour outside my hidey hole; all I could see were legs and feet. I could see old Mrs Evans’s slippers—one of them had a hole through which her big toe poked obscenely, like a big nose with chilblains. Alongside the worn slippers rested Kate Houlihan’s red shoes. Kate’s feet were small and neat but I’d heard her say the red shoes were too tight for her. Still, she’d wasted good coupons on those shoes and she’d wear them if it killed her, which was a funny thing to say; bombs killed you, shoes didn’t.

  I could see Kate was proud of those shoes, the uppers shone with polish, but through the sole there was a bit of cardboard pushed inside to cover the holes.

  And then pride filled me. I could see the lovely legs of my big sister, painted down the back with a line of black meant to look like the seam of a stocking.

  Nylons: I’d heard the word and I knew that Hari longed for a pair of the gossamer stockings; but the big girls warned that American soldiers, when they came, would want to go ‘all the way’ in exchange for those wonderful nylons. I briefly wondered what ‘all the way’ meant and I opened my mouth to ask but just then something screamed like a banshee overhead and all the grown-ups huddled to the floor except Mrs Evans, who seemed to be asleep though one eye kept opening like the eye of a wary cat. Faces all around me were white and strained and I knew something awful was going to happen.

  I was frightened and tried to pull old Mrs Evans down with the rest of us on to the floor but she wouldn’t move from her chair; stubborn was Mrs Evans with her hair in curlers under a bright scarf. Mrs Evans shook me off and declared in a loud voice she wouldn’t move from her chair not even for the Luftwaffe.

  Suddenly the walls were flying apart. A great big wind engulfed the house and I couldn’t breathe. A brick hit my leg and I suddenly felt angry, the table was supposed to protect me but it looked as if I was going to die anyway. And then I went to sleep.

  Two

  Hari sat on the bed in Mrs Evans’s house and stared at the unfamiliar pictures on the walls. They had been placed more to hide the damp patches than for any aesthetic desire to enjoy the wonders of scenic Italy. She held a cup of weak tea in her hands, wrapping her fingers around the warmth for comfort. She would have liked some sugar in her tea but Mrs Evans had used up her ration. Well, the poor old soul would have no need of ration books or tea, come to that she would be laying on a slab somewhere.

  Hari shivered; she would have to find somewhere permanent to stay for Meryl and herself, she couldn’t impose on old Mr Evans much longer. It was only twenty-four hours since the bomb had dropped, flattening her home; it was a miracle that everyone, except stubborn old Mrs Evans had survived. In such a short time, everything had changed and yet the air raid seemed distant now.

  Hari wanted to put the horror of it out of her mind and yet she was reminded of the helpless feeling of lying beneath the rubble, dust in her eyes and mouth, every time Mr Evans chewed at the subject, his eyes begging Hari for some titbit of information about his wife, some talisman he could hold on to for comfort. Now, his voice penetrated her thoughts.

  ‘Tell me, girl, what did my Maud say, what were her last words, did she give you a message for me?’

  Hari couldn’t remember Mrs Evans speaking at all, all she could see was the older woman’s slippered foot with one toe poking out of the hole.

  ‘My sister tried to pull her down on to the floor but Mrs Evans wasn’t having any of that.’

  She could see that wasn’t much help. ‘But we were together,’ she said, ‘Mrs Evans wasn’t on her own when… when the bomb fell. It would have been quick, you know, she wouldn’t have suffered.’ She had no notion if she was right or not but some of the strain eased from the old man’s face.

  Mr Evans rubbed his eyes. ‘That’s one bit of comfort I suppose—but if only I’d stayed in that night, let other buggers do the firefighting, she might have been all right. They would have let me off, see, one of the younger men, you know that boy from the mines, Tommy Trinder we called him because of his big chin. He said to me, “Granddad, why don’t you go home, put your feet up,” he said, “you’ve had your war.”’

  His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his thin throat as he tried to control his tears. ‘His mate Dai Thresher o
ffered to take over my duties but I felt sorry for him; “He’ll have enough to do when he goes back to sea,” I said. A sitting target he’ll be out there alone with the water all around him. Still, being a lighthouse man he won’t go to the front, not like my boy, Billy. Dai is in a “reserved whatdycallit”.’

  ‘Reserved occupation, Mr Evans.’ Hari took his hands. ‘Perhaps they’ll let your Billy come home now on compassionate leave.’

  ‘Aye, perhaps so—’ Mr Evans’ voice was dull—‘not much hope of that though is there? What with my boy being in the thick of it like.’ Abruptly the old man began to cry; he held his gnarled hands over his face and the thick veins stood proud, the brown liver spots almost joined so plentiful were they. Hari hesitated for a long moment and then put her arms awkwardly around the old man’s bony shoulders.

  ‘It’s bad, I know it’s bad but it will pass, you’ll see. They say time heals don’t they?’ She was mouthing platitudes and she knew it but the words seemed to help and Mr Evans rested his head against her breast and she patted his back as though he were a child.

  ‘Go to bed, Mr Evans,’ she said softly, ‘try to get some sleep. Meryl went up hours ago, I don’t think she’s recovered from the shock of the… well you know.’ She moved away from him decisively. ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll make us a nice drink of Ovaltine, how about that?’

  ‘Aye girl, you do that, it’ll have to be mostly water mind, there’s not much milk left.’

  While the kettle boiled, Hari stood in the doorway of the house and stared at the road, her road. There was a gaping black hole where her home had once been, ‘The Big House’ as it was known in the neighbourhood. Jagged pieces of stone and timber looked like tombstones in the moonlight. Hari stared up at the moon, willing it to go behind a cloud so that the enemy bombers couldn’t see what was left of Waterfield Road. She felt like calling out to God to ‘put that light out’ but it was too late even for divine help for already she could hear the drone of engines and knew the enemy were on their way again.

  Three

  I was to go and stay with strangers, I was an evacuee on account I had no mother and my father was away fighting the Hun. Paul Houlihan sitting in the bus beside me dug me in the ribs and began to grin. I got to my feet impatiently—why couldn’t it be John Adams sitting with me? But he was further down the bus sitting with Sally. How I hated my friend in that moment. I swayed down the aisle of the bus clinging to the backs of seats for support. I must have caught Sally’s hair because she howled like a wounded wolf.

  I looked at John; he winked at me and, embarrassed, I stared through the grimy windows of the bus as though my life depended on it. The buildings were giving way to countryside and I thought about what I’d left behind. The wide roads, the bustling streets, the neighbours popping in and, most of all, my sister Hari.

  Hari had seen me on to the bus. I had a label round my neck and a gas mask in a box clutched to me like it was gold, frankincense and myrrh. Mind I was never sure what myrrh was, apparently it was very precious, and so was my box with its ugly gas mask in it.

  Someone had given me a tin of cocoa to take with me. I offered some to John. He shook his head; his arm was stretched across the back of Sally’s seat. Disconsolately I dipped my finger in the tin and sucked; it was sugary and sweet—it was lovely. I went back to my seat and let Paul Houlihan have a dip too because he was only ten and now the reality of the situation had sunk in.

  ‘Remember what your Kate said?’ I plumped down beside him forcing him to move into the window seat. He shook his head.

  ‘She said you were nearly a man and big enough to look after yourself.’ He looked doubtful. Big sisters talk a lot of scribble sometimes.

  The bus grumbled into sudden halt as a cart pulled out of a lane beside us. I jerked forward hitting my head against the seat in front of me.

  ‘Bugger it!’ I said, and Paul stared at me in admiration.

  ‘Bet you wouldn’t say that in front of Hari.’

  ‘Bet I would.’

  ‘Say it to the driver then.’

  I hesitated and the bus lurched forward again and I bumped my head a second time. Through the window I saw miles and miles of green grass with tiny cows and sheep dozily standing still like toy farmyard animals. This then was the country and I knew at once I didn’t like it.

  ‘BUGGER IT!’ I screamed as, thirteen years old, I peed my pants.

  Four

  ‘You have lovely golden hair, pet.’ The air force pilot leaned over Hari, in an attempt to dance the waltz with her. His eyes were glazed, his breath smelling of whisky. The pilots liked to live high on the hog, Hari noted with resignation.

  ‘Well, don’t get too close, pet.’ Hari edged him away from her and took a deep breath of the cigarette smoke that was marginally better than close-quarter whisky fumes.

  ‘Don’t push me away, you know I love you.’

  She looked up into his face: he was handsome and broad-shouldered, with thick, severely brilliantined hair that shone like shoe black under the lights; and he had a dimple in just the right place on his chin. She didn’t even know his name.

  ‘I love you, I really do.’ He nuzzled into her neck, his lips sucking at her skin. Irritated, she pulled away from him and left the dance floor.

  ‘I’ve got some fantastic stockings,’ he called after her. He was swaying where he stood and for a moment Hari felt sorry for him, tonight’s mission might be his last. She was sorry, but not sorry enough to surrender her virginity to him.

  ‘I hope they suit you,’ she called back, and made her way outside the hall to take a deep breath of clean air. She looked up at the sky—the clouds were scudding like large black pillows edging and pushing past a watery moon. She shivered. It was a sudden cold snap come early in November reminiscent of the February night when her life had been torn apart by the three nights’ heavy bombardment of Swansea. Below her the town was in darkness, the only lights,’ shining dimly, were from the dock’s emergency lights that would be extinguished only if there was an air raid.

  ‘Sorry about Stephen.’ A voice spoke close to her ear and she turned around, startled. Framed in the doorway was the slim figure of an airman. ‘He’s lonely and afraid.’

  He held out his hand. ‘I’m Richard Squires. I’m based at Fairwood so I get into Swansea quite often.’

  She took his hand. ‘Hari, Angharad Jones, and don’t worry about your friend, as you say, he’s just a bit drunk.’ She rubbed her hands together. ‘How can he possibly fly a plane the way he is?’

  ‘Shoving your arms into your flying jacket and preparing to take off soon clears the head. Up there you’re on your own, no one to rely on but yourself.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’ Hari turned away from him. She didn’t allow herself to make friends with the men from the airfield as inevitably, one night, one more of them would fail to return from a raid.

  Kate came out of the Glyn Hall giggling and clinging to the arm of the airman Hari had been dancing with.

  ‘He loves me, so he does—at least that’s what he tells me.’

  ‘Me too, Hari said dryly. ‘Any minute now he’ll tell you about his stockings.’

  ‘These you mean?’ Kate dangled the fine stockings from her fingers. ‘If he’s good I might even try them on for him.’

  ‘He’s scared, apparently,’ Hari said. ‘The poor chap is frightened of dying without knowing what it is to have a woman—that’s the new way of making a pass these days. It’s anyone, anytime, anywhere—so don’t encourage him.’

  Kate held up her hand. ‘No lectures, Hari, I’m a big girl now, remember?’ She rested her hand on Hari’s shoulder. ‘I’m scared. I work with them damn shells all day; I could be blown up at any time and I don’t want to die without “knowing” too.’ She clutched the pilot’s arm.

  ‘Come on, pet, we’ve got to go.’

  Reluctantly, Hari remained silent. If Kate was old enough to risk her life in the munitions factory she was old enough t
o make her own choices in other ways. She looked up at the man at her side. ‘Well, Richard, I’m off home.’ She held out her hand and he took it.

  ‘Can I see you again?’

  ‘Why not? I’ll be here at the dance again next week.’

  ‘I might not be here next week.’ Richard smiled down at her. ‘What about a walk around the bay tomorrow night?’

  ‘All right,’ Hari said, ‘I’ll see you at the ice cream parlour by the slip about seven. It’s just a walk mind.’

  ‘I know—a walk it is. Where’s the slip?’

  ‘On the sands near the bridge.’

  ‘Could I walk you home?’

  Hari hesitated. ‘Best not, there might be an air raid.’

  ‘All the more reason—’ She didn’t allow him to finish the sentence.

  ‘No.’

  She walked away from him briskly, but as the music from the dance hall faded away she wondered if she would ever see Richard alive again.

  Kate lay down in the grass and Stephen lay down beside her. He was just like a puppy, uncoordinated and foolish. She wanted to kiss him. She leaned over him and touched his cheek. ‘There, there, my little man, everything will be all right, so it will, Kate says so.’

  Stephen curled into her arms. ‘Hold me, Kate,’ he said softly, ‘just hold me.’ He began to cry and Kate rocked him in her arms the way she did with her baby brother, the youngest one, Sean, two years old and ‘into everything’ as her mother often complained.

  She felt a moment’s pang of loss for her other brother, Paul, gone to some funny place to live with strangers, begging to come home in every letter he sent. Soon, she knew her mother would give in and fetch him back to Swansea from his place of exile. Evacuation they called it but she called it a cruel shame.

  She looked down at the airman in her arms, his eyes were closed, incredibly long lashes swept against his thin cheek, he was nothing more than a boy, little older than her Paul; her heart ached for him. Fascinated, she touched his skin; she could feel the stubble on his chin. He was a hero, flying into danger whenever duty called. He was so different from every other boy she knew. They lay together for a long time and then Kate shivered and shook him awake.