Out of the Shelter

by David Lodge

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by David Lodge

  Dedication

  Title Page

  One: The Shelter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Two: Coming Out

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Three: Out of the Shelter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Copyright

  About the Book

  The restrictions of a wartime childhood in London and ensuing post-war shortages have done little to enrich Timothy’s early youth.

  But everything changes when his glamorous older sister, Kath, invites him to spend the summer in Heidelberg. Kath left home long ago to work for the American army, and introduces her sixteen-year-old brother to a deliriously fast, furious and extravagant lifestyle. Dazzled by the indulgence and glamour of their way of life, but at the same time sensitive to the broken spirits of ordinary Germans beneath this sparkling surface, Timothy will find that his summer holiday is in more ways than one an unforgettable rite of passage.

  About the Author

  David Lodge’s novels include Changing Places, Small World, Nice Work, Thinks . . . , Author, Author, Deaf Sentence and, most recently, A Man of Parts. He has also written stage plays and screenplays, and several books of literary criticism, including The Art of Fiction, Consciousness and the Novel and The Year of Henry James.

  ALSO BY DAVID LODGE

  Fiction

  The Picturegoers

  Ginger, You’re Barmy

  The British Museum is Falling Down

  Changing Places

  How Far Can You Go?

  Small World

  Nice Work

  Paradise News

  Therapy

  Home Truths

  Thinks . . .

  Author, Author

  Deaf Sentence

  A Man of Parts

  Criticism

  Language of Fiction

  The Novelist at the Crossroads

  The Modes of Modern Writing

  Working with Structuralism

  After Bakhtin

  Essays

  Write On

  The Art of Fiction

  The Practice of Writing

  Consciousness and the Novel

  The Year of Henry James

  Drama

  The Writing Game

  Home Truths

  For Eileen

  In Affectionate Memory

  ONE

  The Shelter

  1

  ALMOST THE FIRST thing he could remember was his mother standing on a stool in the kitchen, piling tins of food into the top cupboard. On the table there were more tins: pineapple, peaches, little oranges – you could tell by the pictures. He asked her:

  – What are all those tins for?

  The sun was shining through the bobbly kitchen window behind her head, and though he screwed up his eyes against the dazzle he couldn’t see her face properly, but he remembered her looking down at him for what seemed a long time before she said:

  – Because there’s a war, dear.

  – What’s a war? he asked. But he could never remember what she answered.

  Soon he found out that war was a Mickey Mouse gasmask that steamed up when you breathed and his father getting a tin hat and a whistle and Jill crying because her Dad was going away to join the Air Force and the wireless on all the time and black paper stuck over the front-door windows and sirens going and getting up in the middle of the night because of the raids. It was fun getting up in the middle of the night.

  They didn’t have their own shelter. He and his mother went up the road, to Jill’s house, number 64, which had a shelter in the back garden. Jill’s Dad had made it himself. His own Dad was usually on duty during an air raid, he was a Warden, making sure everybody was in a shelter, and not letting any lights show through their curtains. If the German planes saw a light shining through your curtains they would know where you were and they would drop a bomb on you. Sometimes in the middle of a raid his father would call in at number 64 and come down to the shelter to see that they were all right. Or he would come and fetch them after the All Clear had sounded. Sometimes he would carry Timothy home asleep, and he would wake up in the morning in his own bed without having heard the All Clear. The All-Clear siren was all the same noise, but the Air-Raid siren was up and down, uhhhERRR . . . uhhhERRR . . . uhhhERRR . . . It was clever to have two different sirens that sounded like what they meant. The All Clear was a tired, safe sound, like you felt going home, yawning, after a raid, but the Air-Raid siren sounded frightened.

  Not that Timothy was frightened. After a while he got so used to the Air-Raid sirens that his mother had to wake him to go up the road to Jill’s before the German bombers came over. Jill was the same age as he was, five, but he was older because his birthday came first. Jill was pretty. He was going to marry her when they were grown up. His sister Kath was much older than he was, sixteen, almost grown up, but she wasn’t living at home any more. She had gone away to the country, with her school, with the nuns. Kath’s school had gone away because of the raids. The raids were because of the War. They were called the Blitz. His mother said that if the Blitz went on much longer she would take Timothy to live in the country too. They lived in London, which was the biggest city in the whole world. Timothy didn’t want to go and live in the country. He had been there once and stung himself on some nettles and fell into a cow’s business. But he didn’t want the raids to stop either, because it was fun getting up in the middle of the night.

  – Timothy! Timothy! Wake up, dear.

  He whimpered, and snuggled deeper into the warm bed.

  – Timothy, wake up, it’s a raid.

  A siren started up very near, uhhhERRR . . . uhhhERRR . . . uhhhERRR . . . and he opened his eyes. His mother’s face was bent over him, white and creased, a scarf over her hair.

  – Hurry up, dear. It’s a raid.

  – I know, he said, yawning.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the sirens, while his mother pulled socks over his feet.

  – That noise, she said. She wore trousers for the raids, and an old jacket of his father’s with a zip at the front. He liked his mother in trousers.

  – Here’s your siren suit, it’s warm from the tank.

  He wore the siren suit over his pyjamas. It was a blue one. Winston Churchill had one just like it. He felt brave as soon as he put it on. Pyjamas and dressing gowns had slits and gaps and unprotected spaces, but his siren suit had tight elastic round the wrists and ankles, and a zip at the front. When he was zipped into his siren suit he felt nothing could hurt him.

  His mother laced up his shoes, tying the bow tight.

  – There, you’ll do. Have you got your toys?

  He picked up the cardboard box that held his shelter toys and followed his mother down the stairs to the hall. She took their gasmasks from the hook by the front door and hung Timothy’s Mickey Mouse one round his neck by its string.

  – Turn out the light first, he reminded her as she started to open the front door. You’ll get Dad into trouble.

  She turned out the light and it was pitch dark in the hall. Outside the only light came from the searchlights that swept across the sky like great fingers wagging to and fro. Timothy dawdled going up the street, partly to show he wasn’t afraid, and partly in the hope of seeing a German plane caught in the searchlights. Once he had seen one, a tiny silver cross it looked like in the bright beam, but it disappeared into a cloud before the guns co
uld shoot it down. He could hear some guns now, thudding in the distance. His mother stumbled over the kerb.

  – Sst! Can’t see anything in this blessed blackout.

  It was easier to see when you were coming back from the shelter after the All Clear, because of the fires. The fires were down at the Docks and they lit up the sky in a great red glow like a huge bonfire.

  Suddenly there was a big bang from behind the houses in their street that made them both jump. His mother tightened her grip on his hand and began to run, tugging him behind her.

  – Stop, you’re hurting, he complained, it’s only the railway gun.

  – Come on, Timothy!

  The railway gun went up and down the line behind the houses on Jill’s side. You could see the railway from the end of Jill’s garden, but only green electric trains went past in the daytime. His father went to work on the train. He worked in an office.

  His mother had a key to the front door of Jill’s house, but as she was fitting it into the lock the door opened and Uncle Jack was standing there.

  – ’Allo, ’allo! he said. Just in time for the party.

  – Why Jack! You gave me quite a turn, said his mother. What are you doing at home?

  Uncle Jack closed the door behind them and switched on the light.

  – Wangled a thirty-six. Thought I’d nip home and see how everybody was getting on.

  Jill’s Dad was wearing his blue Air Force uniform with the wings. He was big and strong and cheerful and Timothy loved him. He called him Uncle Jack, though he wasn’t his real uncle. He wished his father had a proper uniform instead of just a tin hat and a band round his arm. His father couldn’t join the Air Force because he was too old, which his mother said was very lucky because he wouldn’t have to go away from home like Uncle Jack. Timothy was glad his father wasn’t going away, but he thought it was better to be an airman than a warden.

  – How’s Tiny Tim, then? said Uncle Jack, ruffling Timothy’s hair. Uncle Jack always called him that, or sometimes just Tiny. It was a joke between them. Timothy pretended not to like it. He clenched his fists and squared up to Uncle Jack like a boxer.

  – Not now, Tiny, he said, you’d better go straight down to the shelter.

  He led them through the hall and into the kitchen. Jill’s house was just like his own, and yet it was different. All the rooms were the same size and in the same places, but they had different things in them and they smelled different, especially the kitchen. In the kitchen Uncle Jack picked up a torch that had a piece of paper stuck across half of the part where the light shone. That was to stop the light shining up in the air and showing the German bombers where you were. Uncle Jack turned out the kitchen light and opened the back door into the garden. He shone his torch out on to the path.

  – Mind your step.

  As he spoke a plane flew over the house, quite low. Timothy’s mother shrank back into the house.

  – It’s all right, said Uncle Jack. One of ours. You can tell by the engine.

  Timothy turned his face up in quiet worship of the man who could tell by the engine.

  The shelter was at the bottom of the garden, which wasn’t very far from the house. It was called an Anderson, and it was just a big hole in the ground, really, with cement walls and a curved iron roof. The roof was covered with earth and in the daytime it looked just like a little hill. Uncle Jack had planted some grass and flowers on top of it. Steps led down to a little door and inside there were some wooden steps. Uncle Jack called down and Auntie Nora opened the little door.

  – Come along, my dears, she said, I was beginning to wonder where you’d got to.

  – Can I stay and watch? Timothy asked, as he always did.

  – Of course you can’t, said his mother, come on down this minute, and mind you hold on to the rail.

  Timothy went down slowly, staring up at the sky till the last moment. If only he could see just one German plane shot down, just one. But the bombers hadn’t come over yet.

  – There we are, said Auntie Nora, as they clambered into the shelter. She was knitting as usual.

  It was cosy and warm in the shelter. Uncle Jack had fixed up an electric light and there was an oil-stove that smelled and a little stove called a Primus for making cocoa or tea. There were two bunks and some old chairs and boxes with cushions on them. There was an old carpet on the floor, all muddy and worn.

  Jill was sitting on one of the bunks. Timothy went and sat next to her, carrying his box of shelter toys. Jill was dressing her doll, Susan, the black one. The other dolls were sitting up beside her. Timothy opened his box. In it he had One-Ear Rabbit, some coloured marbles, five toy soldiers, the fire engine with a ladder, and a toy gun on wheels that fired matchsticks. One-Ear Rabbit took up most of the room in the box, but he couldn’t leave him at home with a raid going on.

  – Susan is being naughty, said Jill, I had to smack her.

  – The railway gun went bang just as we came, said Timothy, but I wasn’t frightened.

  – She won’t sit still.

  – I wanted to stay outside and watch with your Dad, but my Mum won’t let me.

  – My Dad’s come home.

  – I know.

  – He’s going to stay at home always.

  Auntie Nora stopped knitting.

  – Jill, you know Daddy’s got to go back tomorrow. But he’ll soon be home again. Her hands flicked at the red wool and the needles clicked again.

  – He does very well for leaves, considering, she said to Timothy’s mother.

  – Said he was going to stay at home always, Jill sulked. She gnawed at one of her dark ringlets. Timothy pulled her ringlets sometimes, but he liked them really.

  – He said no such thing. You mustn’t tell fibs, Jill. Of course he would like to stay at home with us, but he has to go back to the station.

  – Doesn’t have to. Jill’s lip trembled.

  – She doesn’t understand, said Auntie Nora to Timothy’s mother.

  – How can they, at their age? said his mother. I had a letter from Kath this morning.

  – Did you? How is she? What about a cup of cocoa? said Auntie Nora.

  – Would you like a cup of cocoa, Jill? Timothy?

  – No, said Jill.

  – No thank you, Mummy. What about a biscuit?

  Jill hesitated.

  – Can I have a cream one?

  The biscuits were like sandwiches, with sweet yellow cream inside. Timothy nibbled all round the edges of his, first, where there wasn’t much cream; then he had a smaller biscuit, richly packed with cream. Jill took the top off her biscuit, licked off the cream inside, put the two bits together again, and took one bite. Then she dropped the biscuit on the floor. Auntie Nora hadn’t seen. She was bent over the little stove, heating milk for the cocoa, knitting still.

  – How’s Kath, then? How does she like Wales?

  Timothy pretended to be busy with his biscuit, but he was listening to the talk about Kath. He was interested in his big sister. It seemed a long time since she went away. He found it difficult to remember what she looked like, except that she was fat and wore glasses, like his father.

  – She’s all right, said his mother. Well, so she says. Misses home, of course, and she says the food’s terrible.

  – Sst! Still, she’s better off there.

  – Oh, yes. And between you, me and the gatepost, I hope it’ll teach her to appreciate home. She was getting too much for me. Couldn’t do anything with her.

  – It’s the age, isn’t it. How old is she?

  – Sixteen. We thought we’d keep her at the convent till she’s taken her School Certificate. Though the fees . . .

  – It must be a drain.

  – Mind you, she’ll never pass. She’s scatterbrained, and what with the school being evacuated . . . Timothy’s another kettle of fish, we think he’s going to be brainy.

  – I wouldn’t be surprised. Auntie Nora glanced across at him, and saw the biscuit on the floor.

&nbs
p; – Jill! Why did you take the biscuit if you didn’t want it?

  – It’s for Susan. Jill picked up the biscuit and pretended to feed her doll.

  – You’d better not waste it, that’s the last packet and there’s no more at Shepherd’s.

  – Shopping’s getting worse, isn’t it? said Timothy’s mother.

  – Oh, shocking, I queued for three-quarters of an hour at Shepherd’s this morning . . .

  Timothy’s attention wandered as the two mothers talked about food and rationing. Planes were droning overhead now, lots of planes together, German planes. The guns were banging loudly. Timothy aimed his gun up through the roof of the shelter.

  – Bang, he went. Bang! Bang! Bang! Jill covered her ears.

  – Timothy, there’s enough noise without you, said his mother.

  – Don’t they sound near, said Auntie Nora, knitting faster, I think Jack ought to come down. It’s silly risking it up there. She opened the shelter door a little and called up:

  – Come down, Jack, it’s silly to risk it up there. I’m making some cocoa.

  Uncle Jack came heavily down the stairs. He was a big man and couldn’t stand up straight inside the shelter. He sat on one of the boxes with a cushion on top. Jill ran to him and he sat her on his knee.

  – Well, they’ve copped it all right down the Docks, he said. Sky’s all red over there.

  – Have they shot any German planes down? Timothy asked.

  – ’Spect so, Tiny. They’re throwing up enough flak, anyway.

  – Did you see any shot down? he asked. But Auntie Nora was giving Uncle Jack his cocoa and he didn’t hear.

  While they were all drinking the cocoa, Timothy’s father came into the shelter. He wasn’t as tall as Uncle Jack, and he could stand up inside the shelter without bending. He took off his tin hat and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. There was a red mark on his forehead where the tin hat had been. The top of his head hadn’t got much hair on it. He wore an old raincoat with an armband that had letters on it, A.R.P. He said he would get a proper uniform soon, but it wouldn’t have wings on it.

  – They’re copping it down at the Docks tonight, he said.