Escape by Moonlight

by Mary Nichols

  ‘They’ve got the docks,’ a woman said.

  ‘Poor devils,’ someone else murmured, referring to the people who lived and worked in the dock areas. It was the most closely inhabited area of London, much of it overcrowded slums. The old terraces of back-to-back dwellings would burn like tinder. Drawn, he did not know why, Max walked down towards the river. As he approached he was aware of smoke and a smell of burning and other smells: beer, glue, melting tar, syrup. Grey dust filled the air and covered everything and he could feel the heat. Breathing was difficult. He stopped a warden cycling towards him. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘No, Captain, unless you’re a doctor.’

  ‘No, ’fraid not.’

  ‘Then I’d say get the hell out of here, the fires are spreading and we’ve enough on our plates without spectators.’

  Duly chastened Max went back to Liverpool Street station. There was pandemonium there as people trying to get onto trains merged with people coming up from sheltering in the underground which was strictly against regulations. There were one or two disused stations and tunnels which had been designated air-raid shelters but there were not enough of them, and in any case, people seeking shelter dived into the first place they came to.

  He had a long wait for a train, and before one came the siren went again and the bombers returned in even greater numbers. If the curving ribbon of the Thames had not been landmark enough, the fires acted as a beacon. Max refused to join the exodus going below ground and continued to sit on a bench on the platform and from his seat was only too aware of what was happening. He could hear the drone of aeroplanes even if he could not see them, wave after wave of them. He could hear the rumble and thud of explosions, could feel the ground move beneath his feet, and by walking down to the end of the platform to the open air, he could see the whole horizon towards the east was a glaring orange, licked with blue and red. Searchlight beams tried to pick out the bombers for the ack-ack guns, whose firing was reassuring if not particularly accurate. He went back to his bench to wait for the train.

  It did not arrive until after the all-clear had sounded and then it travelled to Norwich at the pace of a snail, stopping frequently in sidings. He arrived at barracks late the following morning, red-eyed from lack of sleep but, like the rest of his countrymen, he was not cowed. If anything he was more angry and more determined than ever to exact revenge. ‘Just you wait, Adolf Hitler, just you wait,’ he murmured as he fell into bed. ‘You are going to be sorry for this night’s work.’

  The bombing of London after that was relentless. Night after night until Christmas the raiders came, with only one free night owing to fog. The docks suffered terribly, but so did the rest of London. Railways and mainline stations were hit, so that travellers coming in from the country found their journey ending in the suburbs and they had to find their own way into the city. The population was getting used to going into the shelters for the night and emerging in the morning, not knowing what faced them: destroyed or damaged houses and businesses, roads torn up, vehicles mangled, broken glass, dust and rubble everywhere, burst water and gas mains. If, when they returned to their homes, they found only a few broken windows and some plaster down from the ceiling, they offered up a little prayer of thanks. But it wasn’t only Londoners who suffered. The centre of Coventry and its fine cathedral were reduced to rubble, Liverpool, Bristol, Southampton and many large towns, including Norwich, were hit.

  Lucy, getting very close to her time, had only one more week to work and then she would be reliant on the allowance Jack paid into her bank account every month. He had been surprised when she told him she had never had a bank account, had never had the need of one since her pa never gave her more than a few shillings a week pocket money. ‘No good putting that in the bank was it?’ she had said cheerfully.

  ‘No, but I think I can do better than that. We’ll open an account for you and get you a chequebook, then you can draw out what you need.’

  The chequebook had remained unused because, while Jack paid her rent, she managed quite well on her wages, but she supposed she would have to get used to using it. Her whole life was geared to her coming baby and Jack’s infrequent visits. He didn’t get much leave and what he did have she had to share with his family at Nayton Manor. She understood that and supposed she ought to be grateful that he came at all. Her dream that he would marry her and they would be a proper family, was just that – a dream. He was far and away above her. But even so, her life was a hundred times better than it would have been with Frank Lambert and she was content.

  She was waiting for a bus to take her home after her shift one evening about a week before Christmas when she found herself standing in the queue next to Amy de Lacey. She turned her coat collar up, tied her headscarf tighter over her hair and pretended to be studying her feet on the slushy pavement. All in vain.

  ‘Lucy? It is Lucy Storey, isn’t it?’

  Lucy lifted her head. Amy was in nurse’s uniform, grey dress and navy-blue cloak with a red lining. She was regarding Lucy with her head cocked on one side. Lucy’s pride came to her rescue. ‘Why, Miss de Lacey, I didn’t realise it was you. How are you? How is everyone at the Manor?’

  ‘Everyone is fine as far as I know. I’m going home for Christmas. With a bit of luck Jack will get leave too, though we won’t see Lizzie.’

  ‘Is she still in France?’

  ‘Yes, and likely to be for the duration. But what about you? Are you going home for Christmas?’

  ‘My home is here in Norwich.’

  ‘Yes, quite.’ She looked down at Lucy’s swollen belly. ‘I understand.’

  Lucy gave her a quirky smile. ‘I doubt it. Please don’t tell my father you have seen me.’

  ‘No, of course not, if you don’t want me to. Wouldn’t dream of it. How are you managing?’

  ‘I’m managing very well, thank you. I have …’ she paused searching for the word ‘… a protector.’

  ‘Good. If you need any help at all, you can reach me at the Norfolk and Norwich hospital. Don’t be afraid to ask.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  A bus drew up and the queue began to shuffle forward. ‘This is my bus,’ Amy said. ‘You catching this one too?’

  ‘No, the next one.’

  ‘Cheerio, then. Have a happy Christmas.’

  ‘Same to you.’

  Amy climbed aboard the bus, leaving Lucy to stand about in the cold for the next half-hour. If it hadn’t been for Miss de Lacey she would be sitting comfortably in that bus on her way home instead of having to wait half an hour for the next one. But she really did not want to be questioned.

  ‘You’ll never guess who I saw in Norwich last week,’ Amy said during dinner on Christmas Eve. All the family except Elizabeth was there: her father and mother, Edmund, and even Jack, looking older all of a sudden, but splendidly fit.

  The conversation had been lively while everyone caught up with what the others had been doing and discussed the progress of the war, the latest casualties and the war in North Africa where the Allies were having some success. It was when the subject of the war dwindled to a halt Amy remembered seeing Lucy.

  ‘No, but no doubt you are about to tell us,’ her father said.

  ‘Lucy Storey. You remember, the girl who used to open the crossing gates.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s where she’s got to,’ Annelise said. ‘We wondered. She disappeared so suddenly.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Amy said. ‘She’s as big as a bus.’

  ‘You mean she’s pregnant?’

  ‘Yes. I asked her how she was managing and she said she had a protector.’ She looked sharply at Jack who seemed to be choking on his pudding.

  ‘Protector?’ her mother queried. ‘You don’t mean she’s fallen into the hands of a pimp? I would never have believed that of her.’

  ‘I expect she meant her baby’s father was looking after her,’ Jack said, regaining his composure.

  ‘I hope that is the case
,’ Annelise said, then to Amy, ‘Did she say who that was?’

  ‘No, my bus came and I left her. In any case I don’t think she would have told me, she seemed reluctant to talk.’

  ‘Who can blame her?’ Jack said. ‘Everyone condemning her and looking at her in disgust. It might not have been her fault.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Amy agreed. ‘After all, it takes two.’

  ‘Do you think her father threw her out?’ Charles put in, glancing at Edmund who was busy eating his pudding and pretending not to listen.

  ‘No, she begged me not to tell him, so I assume he doesn’t know about it. Don’t any of you say anything.’

  ‘We wouldn’t dream of it,’ Annelise said. ‘It’s none of our business.’

  ‘Quite,’ Jack said. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’

  Edmund had been listening to the exchange with curiosity, though endeavouring not to show it. He had discovered about making babies the year before from a school friend and imparted his knowledge to Bernard, who had known about it for ages and laughed at him for his ignorance. ‘If you lived in London like I do, where the walls are thin and women have babies all the time, you’d have found out too. You’d have to go about with eyes and ears shut not to.’ And he had proceeded to fill in the details to Edmund’s shock and disgust. Now, dinner over, he couldn’t wait to find Bernard and tell him this latest titbit.

  Bernard’s mother had come to Nayton for Christmas, bringing baby Joe with her. Mr Hodgkins was in the army in North Africa – Mrs Hodgkins hadn’t heard from him for some time. Annelise had suggested they might like to take their meals together in the nursery dining room so they could be private together. She had had a fire lit in what had once been the nursemaid’s quarters so they would be snug and warm. Edmund had to wait until their meal was over and Mrs Hodgkins was busy seeing to the baby to draw his friend away.

  They went to the billiard room, but Jack and his father were in there playing snooker, so they hurriedly retreated to Edmund’s bedroom where Edmund repeated the dinner conversation almost word for word. ‘What d’you think of that?’ he finished.

  ‘It’s either your brother or the signalman.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The baby’s father, of course. After what I saw at the gamekeeper’s cottage, I don’t think it’s the signalman, unless he tried to rape her again.’

  ‘Rape – what’s that?’

  ‘You don’t know nothin’, do you? It’s when a man forces himself on a woman when she don’ want ’im to. I told you about it. It’s against the law.’

  ‘That so? Jack wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘I didn’t say he would. He’s sweet on her and she disappeared right after that signalman tried to rape her and he rescued her. I saw them talking together on my way to school the day after it happened. I don’ reckon she’d say no to ’im.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. He wouldn’t.’

  Bernard shrugged. ‘Up to you. You could ask him.’

  ‘No fear. And you’re not to say anything either.’

  ‘Course I won’t.’

  But Edmund was intrigued. His conviction that Jack would have nothing to do with anyone like Lucy was wavering. His brother had certainly reacted strangely to Amy’s story. But he kept that feeling to himself; somehow it felt like a betrayal, but he would keep his eyes and ears open for more clues.

  Everyone went to church the following morning, including Mrs Hodgkins and her children, and afterwards they came back to have Christmas dinner together. There was a goose Charles had been given by one of the tenant farmers, plenty of vegetables and a huge Christmas pudding, the ingredients for which had been hoarded by Mrs Baxter for months. In the afternoon there were presents for everyone and parlour games and much noisy hilarity, which Eileen Hodgkins found bewildering.

  It had been an awkward sort of reunion. The children had learnt all sorts of things that worried their mother: daily baths, different tastes in food, fussiness about their clothes, especially Cissie who insisted on being called Cecily. They spoke differently, were polite and seemed far more knowledgeable than she was. The next day she went back home to a war-torn London feeling sad and inadequate and wondering how it was all going to end.

  ‘I’ve scrounged some petrol for my car,’ Jack said to Amy when it was her turn to leave. ‘I’ll take you back to Norwich, if you like.’

  ‘But isn’t it out of your way?’

  ‘Not much and I don’t mind. There’s been so much going on over Christmas we’ve hardly had a chance to talk.’

  ‘OK.’

  They had been journeying in silence for half an hour, before she said. ‘You’ve got something on your mind.’

  ‘I was wondering about Lucy. Lucy Storey, you know.’

  Amy laughed. ‘Now, I wonder why that should be?’

  ‘It can’t be easy for her.’

  ‘No, but I hope that protector of hers is really looking after her.’

  ‘I’m sure he is.’

  She turned to look at him. ‘Stop beating about the bush, Jack.’

  ‘It’s not what you think.’

  ‘What do I think?’

  ‘You probably think it’s sordid and disgusting.’

  ‘And it isn’t?’

  ‘No. If I tell you, you won’t breathe a word to Ma and Pa, will you?’

  ‘Course not. What do you take me for?’

  He kept his eyes on the road as he told her about rescuing her from Lambert and her pa throwing her out because he wanted to marry again and telling her he wasn’t her real father.

  ‘Do you think that’s true?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t know, do I? Bert Storey must think it is. She was so distressed …’

  ‘But why turn to you? Had you …?’

  ‘No, I hadn’t.’ His answer was swift. ‘But I’d been painting her portrait. It was good too. I was hoping to exhibit it, but the war came and everything else …’

  ‘So Frank Lambert is the father?’

  ‘No, he is not. I am. It happened later, after I’d helped her find a job and a home in Norwich. Sometimes I needed a little consolation.’

  ‘Oh, I see, and she provided it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She chuckled. ‘So my big brother is going to be a daddy. But how do you think you are going to keep that from Mama and Papa? Are you going to marry her?’

  ‘That’s not on the cards. Life’s too short and we’d both be sorry in the end.’

  ‘Then why bother telling me about it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wanted to tell someone. I thought you’d understand.’

  ‘Oh, I understand all right.’

  He decided to ignore the tartness in her tone. ‘Because she lives alone and it’s her first, she’s booked into the Norfolk and Norwich for the birth and I was wondering …’

  ‘If I’d look out for her?’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘Of course I will. I feel nothing but sympathy for her.’

  He smiled. ‘Lucy, being Lucy, wouldn’t want your sympathy. She’d positively hate it.’

  ‘No, I already gathered that. Are you going to see her now?’

  ‘Yes, just to make sure she’s all right.’

  ‘Jack, you are the most mixed-up individual I have ever encountered. You pretend to be hard, but underneath you are as soft as butter. But if you’ll take a spot of advice from your little sister, who really knows nothing at all, you won’t string her along …’

  ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘You really know nothing at all.’

  ‘Point taken.’

  Since she had finished her job, Lucy had nothing to do but wait and knit and sew baby clothes. She had always been used to hard work, to having her days filled, and this sudden inactivity was both boring and unsettling. Boring because she was idle and clumsy, unsettling because she was more than a little frightened at the prospect of becoming a mother. Would she be a good mother? Would she love the little one as she ought? She was remind
ed of her own mother. Girls naturally turned to their mums when they became mothers themselves, but where was hers? She had been thinking of her a lot lately, wondering where she was and if she would like the idea of being a granny.

  Mum hadn’t had a family of her own, or so she had said. Nor had she said why she had come to marry Bert Storey. They were poles apart. Her mother was gentle, well educated, well spoken, always smartly dressed. She had tried to bring Lucy up in the same vein. Her father – no, not her father, if what he had told her was true – was rough and ready, coarsely spoken and a great drinker. He had a kind of inverted snobbery and decried those of higher rank. So why had he chosen her mother for a wife? If he knew Jack de Lacey was the father of her child, he would explode with hatred, so he must never know. She prayed Amy de Lacey would keep her secret.

  She was just going to scramble some dried egg for her tea when Jack arrived. He had a way of turning up just when the loneliness was getting the better of her. She ran into his arms. He kissed her and then she burst into tears.

  ‘What’s this?’ he said, leaning back and taking her chin in his hands. ‘Not pleased to see me?’

  ‘Oh, I am, I am. I’ve been so lonely.’

  ‘Don’t you talk to the neighbours?’

  ‘Not much. Only to pass the time of day. I’m so glad you’ve come.’ She sniffed and blew her nose on the handkerchief he offered. ‘There! I’m better now. Do you want some scrambled egg?’

  ‘Yes, if you’re having some too.’

  ‘How long can you stay?’

  ‘Until tomorrow. I’ll have to be away soon after breakfast. Are you all right? Apart from being lonely, I mean.’

  ‘Yes. I’m told at the clinic everything is as it should be and it won’t be long.’ She tried to laugh. ‘After that I’ll be too busy to be lonely.’ She put the powdered egg in a saucepan, and mixed in some milk and a tiny knob of butter from her ration and set it on the stove, stirring it all the time otherwise it would go lumpy. ‘Make some toast, Jack.’

  He did so willingly. Cooking was something he never had to do at home, nor any menial task about the house, and would have laughed if anyone had suggested it, but here with Lucy it seemed a natural thing to do. He poked the fire into a blaze and stuck a round of bread on a toasting fork. ‘I could ask my sister to look in on you, keep you company now and again, if you’d like that.’