by Ann Turnbull
“Come and unpack your suitcase, Josie,” said her aunt. “Edith, I hope you made some space in your wardrobe.”
Josie had not brought much: her school uniform skirt and blazer, two blouses, a fair-isle jumper and cardigan, a blue woollen dress that was beginning to feel tight. And underwear: three of everything. In the bottom of the suitcase she had packed a film annual, Black Beauty, Jane Eyre and The Three Musketeers.
“Are you going to read all those?”
Edith never seemed to read much. In fact Josie had noticed before that there were very few books in the Felgates’ house, except binders full of back numbers of Good Housekeeping and big books with titles like A Wonder Book for Boys and Girls which were a mixture of stories and things to do. Josie could not explain that she had brought the books for comfort; she liked to dip into them and read parts of them over and over again. She put them on the floor by her bed.
Her aunt was sorting and putting away the clothes in Edith’s wardrobe.
“Come and see the garden,” said Edith.
They went out of the back door and down the steps, past the sandbagged sides of the cellar.
As with the front garden, the lawn and flower beds had been taken over to grow vegetables. But there was space for only a few rows because the huge old walnut tree half filled the garden. Josie remembered the great circle of shade it cast in summer, and the harvest of nuts in autumn. Her cousins had told her that the tree was nearly a hundred years old. It was too big now, out of scale, and yet the garden would be ordinary without it.
“Let’s climb the tree,” said Edith.
The ridged trunk rose to a height above their heads without forking, but Peter had tied a rope to the lowest branch, and this helped them as they began to climb. Josie looked up at the spreading network of bare branches. Edith, above her, had reached the first-floor window level; Josie stopped just below. The tree still towered above them – as high as the attics.
Josie glanced at the windows of the middle flat.
“Do that old man and woman still live there?” she asked. She remembered them giving her sweets before the war – striped humbugs and cough drops.
“Mr. and Mrs. Prescott? Yes. And Miss Rutherford’s in the top flat. She’s the ARP warden for our street.”
“What’s she like?”
“Fairly old – about like Mummy. She’s a spinster.”
Clearly Miss Rutherford was of no interest. Josie climbed to a higher branch and let her legs dangle. “I love this tree.”
“Remember when the boys used to try and scare us?” Edith reached out and grabbed Josie’s foot.
“Don’t!” shrieked Josie.
Edith laughed and began shaking the branch; Josie retaliated, and they both squealed in mock terror.
Before long, Aunty Grace appeared at the back door and signalled to them to come down. They obeyed promptly.
“Not so much noise, please – right outside Mrs. Prescott’s window! Remember it’s Sunday. In fact, we should be getting ready for church.” She turned to Edith. “Come and help me put up the blackout. It’ll be dark when we get back.”
Josie followed Edith into her bedroom and watched as she drew the heavy black curtains across the pink flowered ones and made sure that no chink of light would show. The flat was already in darkness when all the rooms were done. They put on their coats and hats, and Aunty Grace slipped a torch into her pocket as they went out.
A small movement of people was converging on the Old Church, which was five minutes’ walk away, along the Embankment. Two huge barrage balloons, floating high above the river, caught the last gleams of the setting sun. The river slapped softly against the quayside. Josie could smell its salty tang, mixed with the smoke from innumerable coal fires. She thought of it winding eastwards, to Greenwich, and to Dagenham, where her mother would be now, in Granny’s tiny flat.
“This is the oldest church in Chelsea,” Aunty Grace said to Josie. “It goes back to the fourteenth century. Sir Thomas More worshipped here, in the time of Henry the Eighth.”
The church showed no light from outside, but inside gas lamps and candles gave a warm glow. Aunty Grace nodded to various people, then shunted the girls into a pew.
Josie sat on the hard wooden seat and looked around at the congregation: old people, mostly, huddled in coats – many of them fur – against the chill striking up from the stone-flagged floor. She had not often been in a church. Her parents did not go, although Ted now had pacifist friends who did. She gazed at the ancient stonework, the monuments around the walls, the stone figures and draperies. So old! Strange to think of people gathering here hundreds of years ago, looking at those same carvings; people perhaps in danger, as now.
Edith nudged her, and she heard the movement as everyone stood up, and the rustle of hymn books.
She rose, found her place, and began to sing.
When they left, it was dark outside. Some people switched on torches, but held them pointing downwards. Josie knew everyone would be hoping for a quiet night, with no bombing. When the Blitz had begun, last September, there was bombing every night for weeks, but these last few months it had been quieter and they had usually been able to sleep in their beds. Even so, being out of doors at night was always frightening. You imagined enemy planes out there in the darkness of the Channel, coming ever closer.
But now Josie had another fear. Tomorrow was Monday. She would be going to the Mary Burnet School near Sloane Square. At the thought of entering a room full of strangers she felt butterflies in her stomach.
Chapter Three
An Unfriendly Girl
“This is Josephine Bishop.”
Josie, standing beside Miss Hallam, was conscious that the entire class was assessing her. She pushed nervously at her glasses and tried not to catch anyone’s eye.
“Josephine is Edith’s cousin. She will be sharing our lessons for a few weeks while her mother is away. I know you will all do your best to make her feel welcome.”
Welcome. That was what Josie wanted to feel, more than anything. She was determined to fit in, to be accepted.
“Josephine, there is a seat there, look, next to Alice.”
It was a relief to sit down, away from the gaze of so many eyes. Josie sank gratefully into her place while Miss Hallam asked if the others had done their homework and then began talking about the war news.
“I hope you all listen to the wireless at home? You know our shipping losses are high, and that means we must all make an effort not to waste anything. But we have had some successes, haven’t we? Who can tell me where Harar and Keren are?”
Josie waited until a lot of other hands were up before raising hers.
“Iris?”
“East Africa, Miss Hallam.”
“Correct. And some of your fathers may be serving in Africa. Now, this might be a little more difficult. Who can point out Yugoslavia on the map?”
Josie only knew that Yugoslavia was somewhere in Europe. But Alice, the girl next to her, put her hand up at once. Everyone swivelled in their seats and watched as she went to the large map which filled the back wall of the room, and pointed it out.
“Thank you, Alice. Well done.” (Josie saw Edith wrinkle her nose as she turned round to face front again.) “Yugoslavia is in the Balkans, isn’t it? Who can tell me what happened in Yugoslavia recently…?”
Josie had no intention of answering questions on her first day. She slid a glance at Alice. Wasn’t Alice the girl Edith had said was peculiar? It was certainly not normal to be able to find Yugoslavia on the world map. But she would have known this was the girl even if she hadn’t done that. Alice was tall, with a droopy posture. Despite wearing a school uniform the same as everyone else’s, she managed to look old-fashioned. Josie decided it must be her hair: instead of the usual bob she wore her light brown hair in a long single plait hanging down her back, untidily fastened with navy ribbon.
Edith sat across the way from Josie. She caught her eye and smiled when Miss Hall
am’s back was turned.
Miss Hallam, having finished the impromptu Geography lesson, gave Josie an exercise book and a pen.
Their first lesson was Comprehension. They were to read a short passage and answer questions on it. The textbooks were in their desks – or rather in some of them. Because books were in short supply they had to share. Alice moved her copy – unwillingly, Josie thought – towards the centre of their pair of desks. She did not look at Josie, not even a quick glance.
She’s unfriendly, Josie thought. Not welcoming at all.
After the brief flurry of desk opening and shutting, a deep hush descended, broken only by the scratching of Miss Hallam’s pen and the tick of the clock on the wall behind her. The passage was from Hawthorne’s book of Greek legends, and Josie had read it before. She found the questions easy. As she wrote down the answers she saw Alice writing equally fast.
Alice finished, put down her pen, and sat waiting. Josie had finished too, but she kept hold of her pen as if about to write some more, and glanced around the room.
The school might have been bombed, but this classroom was undamaged. It had tall church-like windows, too high to see out of, and a dais at one end where Miss Hallam sat at her desk in front of the blackboard. At the sides a number of empty desks had been pushed together. Josie counted those in use: eight pairs – sixteen girls, including herself. Some were quite young – ten or so; a few, including Alice, were about twelve.
As she looked around, Josie encountered other eyes – quick glances, most of them friendly, some merely curious. She saw that her cousin was a fidgety, mischievous girl, constantly whispering, turning round, signalling furtively across the room to a blonde girl who must be one of her friends. Once Miss Hallam looked up sharply and Edith subsided, head down over her work, but Josie caught her dimpled smile across the aisle. Aunty Grace would be shocked, she thought; but there had always been a lot that Aunty Grace didn’t know about.
“Josephine,” said Miss Hallam, startling her, “if you have finished you may collect the exercise books.”
“Yes, Miss Hallam.”
Josie stood up. Alice closed her exercise book and handed it to her. Josie felt embarrassed going around the room collecting books from strangers, but she took the opportunity to glance at the names on the covers. The blonde girl was Pamela Denham; the girl next to Edith, Clare Barrington. A skinny girl with buck teeth who grinned cheerfully at Josie was Sylvia Wells.
Before break they had a round of mental arithmetic. Josie, who was not quick at Maths, kept her head low, but again Alice did well.
As they moved out of the classroom, Miss Hallam said, “Edith, show your cousin where the water fountain is; and the cloakroom.”
“And the way to the air-raid shelter!” Sylvia was eager to show her everything.
Josie noticed that Alice had hung back, and was cleaning the blackboard for Miss Hallam.
The girls interrogated Josie as they all queued at the water fountain in the playground.
“Where do you live?”
“Is there much bombing there?”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
Josie told them everything except the truth about Ted. Without actually telling a lie she let them think he was in the RAF, like his cousin Peter. Edith caught her eye, and Josie gave her a look that said, “Don’t tell. Please.” She didn’t think Edith would. They were cousins, after all; and Edith liked secrets.
Alice emerged just as they were all filing back in, and made for the drinking fountain.
“No time now, Alice! The bell’s gone!” Pamela Denham called mockingly.
After the break Miss Hallam set them all some spellings to learn. She wrote a list on the blackboard:
Incendiary
Artillery
Barrage
Conscription…
Then they all got out their knitting while Miss Hallam read to them from Anne of Green Gables. The knitting was socks, balaclavas or scarves for the Forces, depending on the knitter’s degree of skill. Josie was given needles and khaki wool from a box in Miss Hallam’s cupboard. With the teacher’s promise of help, she embarked on a balaclava.
Several girls, among them Alice, Pamela and Sylvia, were expertly knitting socks on four needles. Edith was making rather a bad job of a scarf in Air Force blue. “Pity Peter if he gets this!” she whispered to Josie during one of Anne’s duller moments.
At twelve o’clock the entire school assembled in the hall for dinner. Here, there were signs of the bomb damage: a place where the roof had been hastily repaired, and dark water stains on one wall.
The oldest girls, from fourteen upwards, had come for dinner and would stay for afternoon lessons, while the younger ones went home.
“But not to idle away your time,” Miss Hallam reminded them. “Remember that you have spellings to learn and an essay to write on how we can best help the war effort. Josephine, if you come and see me after dinner I’ll give you the exact title for the essay.”
By the time Josie had done this, and had also been asked by Miss Hallam how she was settling in, and about her grandmother’s health, the others had gone: all except Edith, who was waiting outside the classroom door.
They set off, and Josie said, “She’s nice – Miss Hallam. And the girls.”
“Shame you had to sit next to Alice.”
“Not very friendly, is she?”
Edith rolled her eyes. “She never says a word.”
Back home, they took off their school uniforms and changed into old clothes.
Edith’s mother was not there.
“She’s at work,” said Edith. “Well, voluntary work. She’s in the WVS. Most days she’s out. They run a rescue centre over at World’s End. There’s a canteen and they collect second-hand clothes and things, and do first aid. She’ll be home by four.” She smiled. “Which gives us about an hour and a half.”
“For what? Our homework?”
Edith looked at her pityingly. She picked up her coat and headed for the back door. “Come on,” she said.
Chapter Four
Bomb Site
They went up Flood Street and turned right into the King’s Road. A little way along Edith stopped and said, “We cross here.”
Opposite, Josie saw a big furniture store with a long Tudor frontage.
“That’s where Alice Hampton lives,” said Edith.
“That shop?”
Josie looked up, and saw the name, in gold lettering, Hampton’s, Established 1898; and underneath, Fine Furniture, Clocks, Pianos.
Above the shop were two more storeys, and then gabled attics, the windows all screened with the regulation brown tape and blackout curtains.
They crossed over. Close to, the furniture on display did not look as fine as the gold lettering promised. True, there were still some polished dark wooden tables and chairs, wardrobes and gilt-edged mirrors towards the back; but at the front was simpler stuff, some of it cut price, marked down as “Damaged by enemy action”.
“Everyone who’s bombed-out comes here,” said Edith. “If they’ve still got any money, that is.”
They walked on, then turned off into a side street. Another right turn, and they came upon a huge bomb site: a whole row of houses had been half demolished; only their lower storeys were left. Heaps of brick rubble lay all around, and in the centre was a vast crater full of debris.
“That used to be a block of flats,” said Edith. “A landmine hit it. Loads of people were killed or injured.”
The devastation was not recent; already weeds were growing there. The place had become a playground, and children were swarming over it. It must be out of bounds, Josie realized, but there was no warden to be seen. A gang of small boys was staging a battle, clambering across the piles of broken bricks, aiming stick guns. One wheeled past the girls with arms spread wide, being a plane. Their voices rang shrill. Farther off, some older boys seemed to be demolishing a shed.
Edith began scrambling over the rubble, and
Josie followed. She saw that a group of girls had gathered in a makeshift shelter in the ruins. One of them waved: it was Edith’s friend, Clare Barrington.
Edith and Josie made their way towards the group. Pam Denham was there too, and Sylvia Wells. They all looked quite different out of school uniform: less conspicuous, less likely to be well behaved.
However, all they were doing at that moment was squatting in a den built around the remains of someone’s garden wall. Sylvia had discovered an old kettle and was encouraging the others to help her build a fireplace. “See: if we make a ring of bricks, here, and get some bits of wood, we can have a real fire!”
Sylvia and Clare began building the fireplace, while Josie went with Edith to look for wood. Their search took them near the group of older boys. One of them called out, “Hey, Edith! Who’s your friend?”
Edith turned to him with her dimpled smile. “Josie,” she said. “She’s my cousin.”
“Hallo, Josie!”
He grinned at her: tall, fair-haired, scruffy-looking, but self-assured. A show-off, Josie thought. All the same, it was flattering to have been noticed.
“That’s Vic,” said Edith, as they moved on.
“Does he live around here?” She could see that Vic was not the sort of boy Aunty Grace would approve of. Or her own mother, for that matter.
“I think so,” said Edith. “His dad’s a greengrocer.”
Josie noticed that Edith had subtly altered her accent and way of speaking to chime with Vic’s.
There were bits of window frame everywhere, some with shards of glass still attached. They avoided those, and carefully broke a few of the others into manageable pieces and brought them back to lay in the fireplace.
They were all absorbed in this task when a voice spoke behind them. “Playing housey, girls?”
“Clear off, Vic,” said Pam, surprising Josie with a turn of phrase that Miss Hallam would certainly not expect to hear her use.
