Bless ’Em All

by Allen Saddler

  This alert went on longer than usual and all his old mates seemed to enjoy watching him. He stood back, dried his hands and lit a fag. He would have to get out of this place. If he did this stinking job for a few weeks they would have to give him a reference. Wouldn’t be so bad if the missus would do something. She seemed to think she was above going to work. But why not? Women were doing all sorts of things: clippies on the buses, some in the ATS, all sorts of things that women had never done before. It was about time Edie got her finger out.

  It was his time for a break. He only got ten minutes, during which he usually went out into the daylight to breathe some real air, but while this blasted alert was on he was stuck down this hole.

  Then there was a slight movement, and the employees of Claridge’s, reluctantly, began to leave.

  ‘Good night, Bert,’ one of them called. ‘Happy dreams.’ Fat chance, Bert thought. He’d only just got through the lunch, there was tea and dinner to cope with yet. If he got away before ten o’clock he’d be lucky.

  Mrs Bennet heard the siren and immediately switched off all the electricity and started filling kettles, bowls and saucepans with water. She could manage without electricity. In fact, she felt safer with it off, but she couldn’t manage without water. She got a tin bath from the scullery and started to fill it from a hand basin. Some of it splashed on to the carpet, which, after a few trips, became sodden. She wondered if there was anybody in upstairs. If so, they would have been down by now. No. She was in the place on her own. If anything happened she would either be blown up or buried alive. She warmed to her task, filling every receptacle she could lay her hands on. Then she stood back and reviewed her handiwork. Everything was full to the brim. She sat down. It was deathly quiet. She peered out of the window. The street was deserted.

  They had been promised an Anderson shelter, but there was some difficulty about getting one big enough for everybody who lived in the house. They all seemed to be about the same size. Six people stuffed in like sardines. Mrs Bennet thought she would much sooner die in her bed. She remembered the fairgrounds, where there was a sideshow called ‘Tipping a Woman Out of Bed’, where some young tart would be in bed in her nightshirt and men would pay to throw balls to see if they could upset the bed enough to tip her out. That was what it would be like: tipped out of bed while the roof fell in on top of her.

  She knew she had a drop of whisky somewhere. Was it in the kitchen cabinet? It could be in the bathroom, if you thought of it as being medicinal. She rummaged around in the kitchen and found it. It was only a small bottle, but it had never been opened. It was there for an emergency. As she moved the bottle from its hiding place a little brown mouse skidded out. They were all over the house. The floors and walls were riddled with them. When the last cat died the mice must have had a party and started to breed twice as fast.

  She drank the whisky straight from the bottle. If her Tom were still around he would have been shocked. A life-long teetotaller, Mrs Bennet’s deceased husband had been very strict about drink. He despised people who got drunk, thought that pubs were evil places, swore that he’d never touched a drop all his life. Well, a fat lot of good it did him. He was dead before he was fifty.

  She wondered if she should pray. She used to go to church. That was where she met Norman. In the Band of Hope. He had a big, round, shining face. They used to go on rambles, to Box Hill and around that way and Oxshott. He kissed her one day in a wood, and then apologized as if he had committed a mortal sin.

  Oh God. She’d wet herself again.

  8

  YOUNG Jimmy had a secret weakness for pork dripping. You could get it from the ham and beef shop. You could get beef dripping as well and fish paste, all glistening in huge mounds. You bought it loose. You just said ‘a quarter’, and they scooped it off with a butter pat on to greaseproof paper, and you took it home and spread it thick on nice fresh bread. He could get some and get home before his mum came in, and get through five or six slices before she got back to cook his tea. The smell of it made him drool. They sold everything in ham and beef shops: faggots, saveloys, pease pudding, silverside in gravy. For that sort of stuff you took two plates and ran home with it while it was hot. But not pork dripping; it was meant to be cold and flecked with little bits of brown jelly stuff.

  But the last time he went for pork dripping it wasn’t there. The succulent mountains of his favourite savoury treat had been rationed. It was a swizz! It wasn’t butter, was it, or even margarine? It was the fat they got when they cooked a pig to make cold pork. But you couldn’t get it any more. The same thing had happened to bacon, which was also on the meat ration. Jimmy’s mum had his ration book, so he couldn’t even choose what he wanted. It took three ration books to produce a small piece of meat. You could get offal – liver, hearts, lights and brains but not kidneys (it seemed as though sheep and pigs didn’t have kidneys any more) – but he didn’t like that stuff anyway. One of the main pleasures of his existence had been taken away from him. Did the Army get it all?

  Jimmy liked the time when his dad had just gone to work and his mother was still out at the laundry. It was quiet and he could read his Gem and Magnet comics and see what the Famous Five had been up to, old Mr Quelch and the bounder from the Remove. These long stories, which filled an entire magazine, were like escaping to another world. The boys at St Jim’s and Grey – friars were cheeky enough, but they had a code of behaviour. One or two had been unprincipled at times, but these were quickly cast as ‘outsiders’ to whom nobody spoke. They were, as a whole, good chaps. Would they all go into the Army or the Air Force or get blown up at sea by a submarine, or some underhand trick? Had old Maurice been to St Jim’s?

  Jimmy, who had tried to attend to what he was taught at his elementary school, knew that there were large gaps in his education. At Greyfriars they had Latin and equations, whatever they were. They played a lot of cricket, which was hardly feasible on a concrete playground. They had tripos and a tuck-shop and they wore stiff collars over their jackets. They didn’t have mothers and fathers, they had maters and paters. Young Maulverer was already a lord while he was still at school and Gussie was an aristocrat. Of course there were plain ordinary boys – Johnny Bull and Tom Merry, for example – that were very steady and honourable.

  It was clear that there was this other life, somewhere out in the country, where boys had probably never heard of pork dripping. They seemed to eat a lot of porridge. Jimmy had persuaded his mother to get some, but he didn’t like it. Maybe she didn’t do it right.

  He went out into the backyard, a small area of concrete where his father kept the birds. He called it an ‘aviary’, but it was just a wooden shed, full of birdcages. There were canaries and budgies mostly, with a few more unusual birds, sometimes a parrot. His father spent most of his free time out there. He had tried to breed them, thinking that when he retired he might be able to set up a business supplying shops, but the breeding hadn’t worked out. Sometimes the birds caught something that raised ugly bumps on their throats, like boils, and then they died. As he opened the door there was a rustle all around the shed. The birds all seemed agitated. Did they know there was a war on? They didn’t do much. They sat on their perches and fell asleep. What did his dad do in there for hours on end? He cleaned out the cages. Did he enjoy that? Cleaning up bird mess? Mum said it was his hobby, as though she was glad it wasn’t something worse.

  Jimmy knew that his dad didn’t like anybody going into the aviary while he was out, but he didn’t lock it up. The birds seemed to be watching him; dozens of little eyes wondering what was coming next. Would they like to be free, flying around in trees, finding their own food? His dad said they were ‘cage birds’, which meant that they didn’t know any life outside a cage. If they were let out, street birds, such as sparrows and rooks, would attack and kill them. No, they were better in the shed, although it didn’t seem much of a life, just sitting and scratching.

  It had been all right in Miss Tcherny’s lap. She was all
soft and woolly and she smelt nice. He could feel her bumps a bit. She was a bit of all right was Miss Tcherny. She knew what he was thinking, and he enjoyed the fact that she knew. There would be a rush on in the morning. Old Maurice seemed to think that they should work all night if the air raid held them up.

  He would go to the pictures on Saturday. There was a Popeye on and a Laurel and Hardy and Jack Payne’s Band on stage. He would get in at twelve o’clock and stay in all afternoon. That way you could see the shorts twice.

  When Jimmy’s mum came in she looked tired. She had two shopping bags, one in each hand. She gasped a bit as she lifted them on to the table.

  ‘Has that fire gone out? Couldn’t you put a shovel of coal on?’

  ‘I’ve been reading.’

  ‘Reading what?’

  ‘The Gem and Magnet.’

  ‘Show me. Give it here.’ He showed her the magazines. ‘They’ll do,’ she said, shoving them into the grate.

  ‘No,’ he shouted. ‘They’re mine.’ But it was too late. His mother had put a match to them and piled some kindling wood on top.

  ‘That’s rotten,’ he said.

  His mother was unimpressed by his show of fury. ‘Get some coal,’ she said flatly.

  He sulked a bit. ‘What’s for tea? I’m starving.’

  ‘Kippers, but I can’t do them on a cold stove.’

  He fetched a shovelful of coal, and his mother tipped the coal on to the smoking wood.

  ‘Open the window,’ she said. ‘It needs a draught.’

  ‘Thought you said it was cold.’ His mother ignored little jibes like this. She just patiently attended to the fire and the stove.

  ‘Did you hear the air raid?’ Jimmy asked.

  ‘Yes, I heard it.’

  ‘Did you go downstairs?’

  ‘No, we didn’t. Too much to do. They don’t pay us for sitting in a cellar.’

  Nothing seemed to excite his mother. If King Kong had poked his face through the window she would have told him to go and wash his hands. She didn’t register surprise or joy. Her face was a blank mask. She just plodded on with the task in hand – washing, cooking, ironing, cleaning, shopping. She did all these chores adequately but with no sense of achievement or pride. She seemed to have given up any sense of satisfaction. Life was just a dreary experience. She never laughed or even smiled. Jimmy’s father was the same when he was in the house, although he could break out a bit if he’d had a drink. Why were his parents so miserable? Were all parents the same? Some of his uncles and aunties seemed more jolly, but that was only when he was visiting. When he’d gone they probably settled back into their own morose selves.

  There was usually a gathering at Christmas, when all the aunties would get together and plan and budget for the Christmas dinner and tea like it was a military operation. The uncles were all sent out to the pub, which they did with humorous sighs of regret. Then they would all meet up in one house and one of the aunts would hesitantly play the piano from sheet music and the rest of them would stand at the back of her and sing the words. Jimmy would be left to play with his cousins, who were all younger than him and still at school, and Greyfriars seemed a million miles away.

  Jimmy’s dad wouldn’t have an Anderson shelter because it would have meant taking the aviary out. Most of the relations had Anderson or Morrison shelters, but they filled up with water. People had special clothes to wear in them called siren-suits. There was a current joke about a young woman wanting a siren-suit to go down into the Anderson: ‘It’s not a siren-suit you want, it’s a bloody diving-suit.’ The bloody war seemed to have spoilt everything. Bloody sirens, bloody bombs, bloody sandbags, stirrup pumps and hoses, buckets with long shovels for putting out incendiary bombs, bloody old Churchill, who seemed to be enjoying the chance of everybody being blown to buggery.

  That night when he went to bed, Jimmy heard the drone of planes flying overhead. He got up when his dad came in.

  ‘All right?’

  ‘Got a lift in one of the vans,’ his dad said.

  ‘There’s a lot of aeroplanes,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Over the docks. They’re catching it.’

  His mother got up, looking grim. ‘Why aren’t you in bed?’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ said his dad. ‘The poor little bugger is frightened.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Well you ought to be,’ said his dad heavily.

  ‘How long is this going on, keeping people up all night?’ demanded his mother indignantly, as though they ought to report it to someone.

  ‘Gawd knows. Let’s get to bed.’

  ‘I should think so,’ said his mother crossly. ‘I’ve got work in the morning.’

  ‘And so have I,’ said Jimmy, feeling left out. As he went up the stairs he caught a glimpse of a red glow in the sky.

  ‘Dad! Dad, what’s that?’

  ‘Fires,’ said his dad. ‘It’s in the papers already. I saw them before I left.’

  Jimmy went to bed wondering what was it all about, this war? Why had these foreigners turned so nasty? Something had happened. There had been a war before, but that was years ago. They had a Poppy Day at school when everyone wore a poppy for wounded soldiers. That was what the war was for. It was for soldiers, not for people in their beds.

  He had nearly got off to sleep when there was a fluttering, hissing noise, like a small box of fireworks had caught fire by accident. Then there was a light outside the window. He heard his father shout ‘Christ!’ and rush downstairs, followed by his mother’s angry cry of ‘Now what?’ Jimmy went downstairs in his pyjamas. There was a bright flame in the backyard. Little bundles of fire were spitting away in fiery clumps all over the yard. The roof of the aviary was burning, and his dad, in his vest and long underpants, was running from the kitchen with bowls of water, which he flung on to the aviary, but the fire spat and then roared back with increasing fury.

  ‘Get the stirrup pump,’ his mother yelled from the first-floor window. But his dad was in a panic, running around like a circus clown, spilling water over himself. There was an awful fluttery sound coming from the aviary.

  ‘My birds,’ his father shouted. ‘My bloody birds!’

  The roof was blazing, bright orange with a blue centre, and there was a smell of frying and cracks as the wood split.

  A face appeared over the wall. ‘Ain’t you got a hosepipe? Have you called the fire brigade?’

  Jimmy’s dad was too panicked to take notice of any practical instructions. He forced open the door of the aviary and the birds swept out, some black, some with their feathers singed, some fluttering a bit then falling to the ground; some perched on the washing-line, swaying, until they fell off. Somebody chucked a sandbag over the wall, which split on impact. Jimmy’s mum, hair streaming, with an overcoat over her nightdress and no shoes, bent down and picked up handfuls of sand, which she flung, wildly, in the direction of the fire.

  ‘By God, Lucy,’ Jimmy’s dad shouted. ‘I’ll kill the bastards. What had they done, eh? Bloody helpless birds.’

  Jimmy’s mum continued to paddle, barefooted, in the sand, scooping up handfuls that dripped through her fingers. Then there was a roar, and the structure of the aviary collapsed; a cloud of smoke and dust blew up and engulfed them. Jimmy’s dad was crying. His black-faced mum stood, helpless, her hands still full of sand.

  The neighbour scrambled over the wall. ‘All right?’ he said. ‘Fit to fight another day, eh? Bloody incendiaries. Cause more trouble than they’re worth.’

  Jimmy looked at the dead birds, lying in various strictures of shock, some with their beaks open as though they were struck down as they were crying for help, some twisted in agony, their charred bodies trailed all over the yard. Should he pick them up and bury them? It didn’t seem right just to sweep them up and put them in the dustbin.

  Jimmy’s mother was temporarily stirred out of her placid stupor. She put her hand around her husband’s shoulder.

  ‘Come inside, George.
Don’t want the neighbours to see you like that.’ Jimmy’s dad stared at the dead birds. He didn’t care who saw him without his trousers and shirt, soaking wet, crying. ‘You can get some more birds.’

  His body shook with a huge sigh. ‘No. It’s all over,’ he said. He allowed himself to be led inside, where he sat staring at the stove while Jimmy’s mum busied herself making tea. But as soon as she’d made it her husband got up and went up to the bathroom.

  ‘Go to bed,’ said the distraught woman. ‘He’ll get over it.’

  ‘Can’t I have anything to eat?’

  ‘Eat?’ Jimmy’s mother let out a fearsome scream. ‘Eat? Ain’t you got no feelings?’ And she slapped Jimmy’s face with the back of her hand, sending him reeling against the coal scuttle.

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ Jimmy whimpered. ‘Don’t take it out on me.’

  His mother regained her composure. It was only a momentary lapse, but Jimmy understood. It was all too much. Things were happening outside the normal experience, things that interfered with their lives and over which they had no control.

  His dad was silent for days afterwards. He came and went, ate and slept like he was under sentence of death. He cleared up the remains of the shed and burnt it. Then he swept the concrete, getting up every speck of dust and charred wood, and slopped it over with buckets of water. Then he rang the town hall and ordered an Anderson shelter. There was a waiting list. It would take six weeks before they could send one.