by Helen Bryan
“Just coming! Soon have it lit, don’t worry,” she called, picking her way past bunks filled with people lucky enough to get a ticket for them, then over whole families camped on the filthy floor, playing cards, gossiping, or asleep rolled in blankets. She attended to the lamp and the children calmed down. How could so many children still be in London? she wondered as she picked her way back to the canteen. They had tried so hard to get every one to safety. Some of the mothers recognized her and wouldn’t meet her eye: they had had enough of the billeting and brought their children home.
Back at the canteen Penelope nudged her coworker and nodded in the direction of a pimply boy standing at the entrance. “That Communist lad Ted’s got in again tonight.” He was holding a pile of printed sheets and arguing with a man who eventually told him to shut up because people were trying to sleep.
Ted ignored him and began his whiny singsong chant: “Show your solidari’y wiv the working class, support our Russian brothers-in-arms on the second front against Fascist Nazi imperialism. Buy your copy of the Mornin’ Star, the voice of the workin’ class, what’s really fightin’ this war,” chanted Ted. “Fraternal unity in the struggle! Support our Russian comrades…”
There was a chorus of “Shut up! Worse’n bleedin’ ’Itler ’e is!”
“Let the workin’ class ’ere get a bleedin’ bit o’ sleep!”
“Show your solidari’y wiv the workin’ class…”
“I’ll give ’im solidarity!”
There was a scuffle, then a loud “Ow! Bloody ’ell!” the sound of paper ripping, and then silence.
They didn’t sound the all clear until long after the bombing had stopped, to keep people off the streets while the worst of the damage was cleared and the emergency services hunted for survivors. It went just after dawn on Sunday morning. People asked each other if they were all right and then warily climbed back up the stairs, anxious to get home but fearing that home might not be there.
“What the Jerries don’t bomb the bloody looters’ll ’ave while your back’s turned,” muttered a weary woman pulling her three grubby children up the stairs. “They nicked my sister’s sewin’ machine—it were brand new. She saved three years for it to start ’er own business makin’ curtains and cushions an’ that.”
The woman next to her shook her head and tutted in sympathy. “Looters is as bad as the Germans, I say. Worse, stealin’ from their own.”
Squaring their shoulders to prepare for the worst, both women came round the corner and saw their street. Their jaws dropped. Gone. Everything was gone.
Until last night the area had been a rabbit warren of small terraced houses, home to hundreds of people. Now it was a landscape of destruction, a few walls with blown-out windows still standing in a wasteland of smashed bricks, bits of window frame, chunks of roof and chimney, blown-apart stoves, shreds of carpet, split cushions, the odd table leg, a pram with the wheels torn off, a hairbrush, toys, a man’s boot with the laces ripped out, shattered chamber pots and someone’s cat, dead, its teeth bared in a grin. The cloud of smoke and dust still rising from the bombed houses was so thick that it hid the broken glass that crunched underfoot. A smell of gas hung in the air.
“Put out that cigarette!” barked the ARP warden at a dazed man in pajamas. “You’ll send us all sky high!”
The shovels and pickaxes that had chipped at the rubble since daybreak continued as the day wore on. Somewhere a child cried intermittently, though not as loudly as it had cried that morning, or even an hour ago. There were still faint cries of “Get me out! Oh, please, get me out!” and “Over here.” A gray blanket of fog set in while the diggers struggled to pinpoint where the voices were coming from. But they carried on with a superhuman will, hauling up the dead and the nearly dead. But the triumphant shouts of “Ambulance, over here!” grew fewer and fewer as the day wore on.
Now furtive figures darted through the gloom, stooping and digging, well away from the emergency workers. They paused from time to time to lift something from the rubble, anything from household goods to jewelry—not likely in this street—to broken light fittings and pieces of electrical flex, which was in short supply and particularly valuable now. When the warden saw them, he chased them away. “Looters!” he muttered, “at a time like this! They’d steal the knicker elastic from a corpse and sell it.”
“How many do you suppose are still down there?” asked one of the rescue team, who had been digging since daylight. His arms were shaking uncontrollably but many people were missing.
A time bomb detonated in the distance.
“There was more earlier,” said another rescuer shortly, lifting his tin hat to wipe his brow. The afternoon was drawing on and the dull, smoky light would soon go. He was listening for the child he had heard below, focused on getting it out. He had four of his own at home and kept thinking what if…
Their shift was over, but the rescuers carried on doggedly. A girl from the mobile canteen handed them steaming mugs of cocoa. “Just let us know when you can get water and milk down to anyone trapped below,” she said quietly. Not “if” but “when.” “Have it for you in a flash. A drink helps them hold on a little longer.”
“They wanted to come back,” said the warden, angrily, to no one in particular, and swung a pick with all his might at a slab of brick wall that had fallen across two houses that lay in ruins. “Evacuated with the children, they were, to the countryside and all, but when nothing happened at first they got fed up, wanted to come home. Had to look after the old man, missed their homes, missed the neighbors. They and the kiddies were safe, but oh, no, that wasn’t good enough! They had to come home! So they packed up, came home, and brought the kiddies. And then Jerry turned up.”
“Quiet!” snapped the digger.
The child cried again, feebly and briefly, and a woman groaned something that sounded like “Help the kiddies. Get us out. Please get us out,” somewhere below the brick slab the warden had just split.
“It’s all right, dear,” shouted the warden. “We know where you are now. Just another few minutes and we’ll have you out. Nearly there.” He was hoarse from shouting to mounds of bombed building. “You’ll be ’avin’ a nice ’ot cup of tea before you know it. Brewin’ up now, they are. Come on, lads,” he shouted, so she could hear him, “mustn’t keep the lady from ’er tea. Nearly there, my love. How many of you, do you know?” Keep her talking.
“My baby! Where’s my baby? Please find my baby!” another woman cried, shrilly, somewhere down the street.
“My baby! My baby! My baby!” echoed down the street.
The tired diggers were joined by the ambulance driver, a strapping young woman from Yorkshire, who silently took the shovel from the man whose arms could no longer lift it and began to dig. “It’s all right. You rest a bit. Me family’s all miners. Diggin’s in me blood,” she said stoutly when he protested. “Can you tell where the child was crying from?” she whispered to the warden, shifting a smashed wardrobe. Clothes fluttered inside.
“Just hereabouts,” he muttered, gesturing at the side of the mountain.
“Baby! Baby! Baby!” The shrill voice was cracking. An older woman came from somewhere and put her arms round the distraught mother, who collapsed, sobbing and unable to walk. Another woman hurried forward to help, and they half supported, half carried the limp figure toward the canteen at the end of North Street. The canteen girl wrapped her in a blanket and put a strong cup of tea with two extra spoonfuls of precious sugar in her hands. The woman clutched it, spilling tea as she rocked back and forth.
It was the word “tea” that had brought Mrs. Pigeon round again. She had been talking to someone just now about tea. What had she said? The last thing she remembered, she had been getting the tea…it was terribly dark. Was it because of the blackout? There was a buzzing noise that came and went, sometimes it sounded like people talking and she had heard them say “tea.” She tried to turn her head, but it hurt…darkness and pain. Everywhere, inside of her, pre
ssing on top of her…everywhere. She heard the buzzing and wanted to shout again, but she was too cold and sleepy. She whispered, “Sausages.” A treat for tea, sausages.
“Did you hear that? Somebody moaned near my foot. Lend us a hand and we can shift this slab now. Hello, can you hear us? We’re coming for you, nearly there now. Don’t give up—call out if you can.”
Mrs. Pigeon looked into the darkness for the voices. She couldn’t tell whether they were above her or below her. She tried her best to call out again, but something kept filling her mouth. She choked.
“Hello,” came the voice again. “Let us know where you are. How many?”
But she was drifting, thinking of how the butcher on the corner had waved them in, said he’d kept a few back, and seeing as how Mrs. Pigeon and the kiddies had just come home an’ all…he’d wrapped them in a piece of newspaper with a wink, adding an extra one at the last minute “for the little girl”…what little girl?
Violet.
Jem and Violet—where were they? They ought to be sitting at the table where she’d left them, plates ready…waiting for her to cook their tea. Then they had to get to the shelter because the siren thing had gone…but…the room had heaved sideways and the ceiling had come down…she spat to clear her mouth and gathered the last of her strength to shout, “Three!”
“Listen, was that someone saying ‘Three’? Calling ‘Jem,’ asking if he can hear her? Good, found her now, just here…We’re coming, love. We’re coming. Kiddies, yes. Yes, we’ve got your kiddies safe here. Names? Vi’let, yes indeed.”
The warden looked at the other diggers in a way that dared someone to contradict him. No one did. They had to keep her hopes up if there was any chance of getting her out alive.
The ambulance girl saw small fingers reaching through the rubble. Relieved, she reached down to grasp them. “Hold on,” she urged. She gave them a squeeze and a small severed hand came easily out of the rubble. She reminded herself fiercely that the people trapped down there counted on her to help them. She wasn’t going to be sick now. Keep digging. Be sick later. She choked down rising bile with a mighty force of will and concentrated on lifting the debris, piece by piece. Then she uncovered something with a bow in its hair—a little girl. She dug out the rest and found a smaller child. A boy. She laid what was left of the children to one side, covered them quickly, and set to help heave away a broken beam. The little boy was still warm. Debris rattled over their feet and they could see the woman now, by the gleam of her eyes, in the faint light. She seemed to be conscious. They had to keep her awake, they knew, keep her talking.
“Come on, lads,” said the warden, “nearly got her now. Easy, missus, this lass from the ambulance has a stretcher. You’re safe now. Can you talk to us, tell us your name?”
The ambulance girl and the driver dug as hard as they could to free the woman’s legs.
“The kiddies—Vi’let. Jem. Did you find the kiddies? They was with me…on the train all day, comin’ ’ome…nuffink to eat all the way from Yorkshire. ’Ungry after the train…I stopped at the butcher on the off chance—sausages…no sausages in ever so long…siren went, but I only stopped for a minute to get their bit of tea. Thought we ’ad time…never had the sirens in Yorkshire…Vi’let!” she wailed. “Where’s Vi’let? Where’s Jem? ’Ave they finished their tea yet?”
“Easy, dear. They’re fine. You’ll soon see them.” Slowly they eased the woman from beneath a broken beam and onto a stretcher. “Soon, love.”
She was soaked through. Looking back into the hole where she had been the warden saw the gleam of water. “Main’s burst,” he muttered. Sometimes people survived the bombing only to drown in the rubble.
The ambulance girl tucked a blanket round the woman. “The children are dead,” she mouthed over her shoulder.
“They mustn’t ’ave a cold tea again. First sausages we’d seen in months. I only stopped a minute…”
“That’s right, dear.” The warden was waving the ambulance back to where they stood. Where the hell was the man with the morphine?
“Where we was billeted, such a carry-on when I used ’er kitchen, called us dirty. Most nights the kiddies and me, we made do with bread and marge instead of a cooked tea…ooh…can’t feel me legs, nor my arms neither. Why’s that…oh. Oh! That hurt…I’ll be all right long as I know the kiddies is safe…let me tell them…”
Suddenly Mrs. Pigeon felt sleepy again. The fog made it hard to see, and it was getting dark. Long past teatime…Jem and Vi’let were hungry…the girl in the tin hat was leaning over her, saying something to her, shouting, but from a distance. Bossy boots…no older than Elsie, ordering her to do something or other. It sounded like “keep talking to me,” but she was fed up with being shouted at…the woman with her la-di-da house in Yorkshire shouted, “Filthy! Like filthy gypsies!” The kiddies were so happy when she’d said enough was enough and they’d go home today…sausages! Bit of luck. Their favorite. Sausages…
A minute later the ambulance girl extricated her hand from the woman’s and felt for a pulse. “She’s gone.” She covered the gray face with the blanket and helped lift the stretcher into the back of the ambulance with the two dead children. No need to hurry. She sat down in the rubble and rested her head in her hands. The canteen girl brought her a mug of tea. “Drink this, love. Plenty of sugar in it.”
“Like this every bloody night,” muttered the warden, looking off into the distance. His jaw clenched and he looked at the ambulance girl. She’ll soon get used to it, he thought. It was getting dark again. He prayed the Germans wouldn’t be back, but mostly he begged God to help the antiaircraft gunners to blow every last German plane out of the sky and to help the RAF bomb every last city in Germany and every last German in it to smithereens.
“’Allo, what’s this?” muttered his mate. He was in the hole from which they had pulled the woman out. He’d found a newspaper parcel. He opened it gingerly. “Crikey! Sausages. Bit dusty, but…no need to let them go to waste.” He slipped them into his pocket.
The ambulance girl watched him. Then she thanked the canteen worker politely and managed a glassy smile. “I’m all right. Back to work.” She drank her tea, then tried to stand up, doubled over onto her knees, and vomited.
20.
Crowmarsh Priors,
December 1941
It was a sober, frightened congregation that attended morning service in Crowmarsh Priors. The previous Sunday, Japan had bombed the American base at Pearl Harbor, and four days later Germany had declared war on the United States.
The church was packed. Oliver was gray and sharp-featured, as if he had not slept for a week. There had been more German planes in during the night and heavier bombing over London and Birmingham, with many more civilian casualties. Rumors abounded that German airmen had parachuted into the countryside and were hiding, waiting for the invasion. Anything seemed possible. It felt like the end of the world had come.
Ever since the telegram with the news of the death of her mother, Jem, and Violet, Elsie had been fierce, uncommunicative, and red-eyed with grief. She had howled like an animal, cursed the Germans, and refused to be comforted, even by Bernie. Oliver had had the sense not to offer religious platitudes. Now Elsie sat in church, face set, with Frances on one side and Evangeline on the other, each gripping one of her hands. Maude, Tommy, and Kipper sat on Evangeline’s other side. Maude and Tommy had said their parents was chapel so they weren’t going to no church, but Evangeline had insisted and, for the first time ever, threatened to box their ears if they made a fuss. Tanni was still in bed recovering after giving birth and feverish with an infection.
Now Maude and Tommy squirmed and kicked each other, but Kipper, feeling anxiety in the air, laid his head quietly against Evangeline’s arm. A deathly pale Alice frogmarched her mother down the aisle. It was the first time Mrs. Osbourne had been seen in church since her husband’s death, but today Alice made no allowance for her ailments or nerves. Land Girls from the hostel had
crowded into a pew at the back. They had chapped red hands and anxious faces. In frocks and hats they seemed vulnerable and young. Even the team leader came.
Hugo de Balfort read the lesson in a grave voice.
When it was time for Oliver to step into the pulpit, he said that today he would not preach: they would just pray. As well as the usual prayers for the king and queen and the government, the armed forces, the bishop, and the country, Oliver said special ones for local people serving in the forces or volunteer services—Richard Fairfax on his destroyer escorting supply ships across the North Atlantic, those nursing at the North African front, Penelope Fairfax in the WVS in London, all of the men and women serving far away from home, working in factories or driving ambulances.
There were a few smothered sobs.
Lastly he told his congregation to keep faith with each other, with all those for whom they prayed, and above all with their Creator.
One member of the congregation rebelled. As she looked about her at all of the heads bent in silent prayer, Frances felt only rage that the Germans could terrorize the world like this. At war, are we? she thought defiantly. Very well, she intended to fight the bloody Nazis. She bent her head, but not in prayer. She swore a solemn oath to God if God was listening, and if not to the devil himself, to seize her opportunity to train as an agent, for the Special Operations Executive or the Auxis, whichever would do the most damage to the Germans. She had been told to attend a second interview with the little man in London at Christmas, and that if they accepted her she would go immediately for the first stage of her training: her absence from the farm would be less noticeable when all of the Land Girls had Christmas leave. And as for Tanni’s family…now they all realized that, for people like Tanni’s family, the war wasn’t about inconvenient rationing, ugly blackout curtains, and unpleasant Land Girl jobs. In the cold light of day she realized what a far-fetched plan they had devised to help Tanni’s sisters when drunk, but Tanni was depending on them now—and Oliver’s words about keeping faith with one another had hit home. Well, even if the Auxis or the others accepted her she would find a way to keep her promise. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it, she decided. Helping Tanni would be a kind of battle against the Nazis.
