by Sandy Taylor
Peter knelt down in front of Afshid and said gently,‘Is it the Odeon that’s been bombed?’
‘Yes, the Odeon, a bomb has dropped on the Odeon.’
I was shaking; I didn’t think my legs would hold me up. I had to get there but I couldn’t move.
Maggie came in from the yard. She took one look at me and said, ‘What’s happened, Maureen, you’re as white as a sheet?’
‘They’ve bombed the Odeon cinema, Maggie,’ said Peter. ‘And Brenda and Gertie are in there.’
‘Oh my God, Maureen!’
‘I’ve got to get there.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Maggie.
‘You stay here,’ said Peter. ‘I’ll take her in the car, it’ll be quicker.’
As we raced through Brighton, all I could think was: ‘Not them, please not them.’ This was only the second time that I had been in Peter’s car and I’d been praying that time as well. ‘Please, dear God, let it be different this time.’
Forty-Six
As we drove along the Western Road, ambulances and fire engines were racing past us, sirens screaming.
‘Hurry, Peter. Hurry!’
‘Nearly there, we’re nearly there.’
As we turned into West Street we could see people running down the middle of the road, towards the cinema. Smoke was billowing up the street and the sky above us was pitch-black.
‘We’ll have to leave the car,’ said Peter. ‘I can’t get any closer.’
He pulled up and I jumped out and started running. The air blowing up from the sea was full of ash and bits of rubbish and the smoke was burning my eyes. A young couple staggered past me, clinging to each other.
As I got closer to the cinema, I heard the screaming. Then I froze; I wanted to turn around and run back to the shop. But Peter had caught up with me.
‘Come on, dear, let’s find them and bring them home.’
Yes, that’s what I had to do: I had to find them. I started running again. As I reached the Odeon, I was faced with the full horror of what had happened. The cinema was wrecked, most of the roof was blown away and there was a gaping hole in the side of the building. It was a scene of utter chaos. People were stumbling around, dazed and injured, covered in dust and blood. Terrified children were wandering around, crying. The street was blocked with ambulances and fire engines. People were being carried out of the cinema on stretchers and loaded into ambulances and cars. There were people everywhere.
‘I can’t see them,’ I said frantically. ‘Can you see them, Peter?’
‘We’ll find them,’ he said, taking my hand. ‘We’ll find them. Let’s split up.’
As I made my way through the crowds I stepped over people sitting on the ground, dazed and confused. I watched as mothers were reunited with their children and I searched for the two precious faces that I loved but I couldn’t see them anywhere.
I ran towards the front of the cinema but I was stopped by a policeman, who put his hand on my arm.
‘You can’t go in there, miss, the building’s not safe,’ he said.
‘But my sister might be in there. I have to look for her.’
‘We’ve brought everyone out, there’s no one left in there.’
‘Have people been killed?’
‘Look, miss, if you can’t find your sister, you should check the hospital,’ he said gently. ‘That’s where they’ve taken the injured.’
‘Which hospital?’
‘The Royal Sussex County.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome and I hope you find your sister.’
Peter walked across to me.
‘Any sign of them?’ I said.
He shook his head. ‘I think we should check the hospitals, Maureen.’
‘That policeman said they’ve taken the injured to the Royal Sussex County.’
‘Let’s go then.’
So we started running back up the road to where Peter had parked the car. We were just about to drive away when a woman banged on the window. She looked frantic.
‘Are you going to the hospital?’ she said.
‘Yes, do you want a lift?’ said Peter.
‘Oh yes, please,’ said the woman. ‘My children were in the cinema but I can’t find them. I can’t find my babies.’ She was white-faced and tears were running down her cheeks.
‘I’m trying to find my sister,’ I said, ‘and our little evacuee. Come with us.’
We stopped a couple of streets away from the hospital. It was just as chaotic there as it had been at the cinema. Ambulances were queued up outside, trying to get in. Doctors and nurses were running between them, giving aid to the injured. Stretchers were rushed through the hospital doors. Patients were being treated on the ground.
‘Oh dear God!’ said the woman. ‘Where are my children?’
I held her hand as we ran into the building.
‘What are your children’s names?’ asked Peter urgently.
‘Tony and Carol,’ she said tearfully. ‘Patton.’
There was a desk but there were so many people crowding around it, all shouting at once, that it was impossible to get anywhere near it.
‘Come on,’ said Peter, taking control. ‘Let’s find some help.’
We followed him through some swing doors and started to hurry down the corridor. Nobody stopped us, so we kept going. It was awful: people were screaming, there was blood smeared on the floor and everywhere was the smell of burning that people had carried with them from the bombed cinema.
There was a young nurse sitting on the floor outside one of the rooms. Tears were pouring down her face. I knelt down beside her and held her hand. She looked at me and shook her head.
‘I don’t think I can do this,’ she said.
‘You can, you know,’ I said softly. ‘I think that you can.’
‘But I’m not helping. Mothers and fathers have lost their children and they need me to be strong but all I’m doing is crying with them. What help is that?’
‘I think you’re allowed to cry,’ I said. ‘We’re all crying inside, you’re just letting yours show. It means you care about what they are going through and they’ll remember you for that. They’ll remember the kind young nurse who wasn’t afraid to share their grief.’
She dried her eyes and together we stood up.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I needed to hear that. I think I’ll be alright now. Yes, I think I will.’
We started to walk away when she called us back. ‘Do you need my help?’
I turned around and nodded. ‘I’m looking for my sister and a little girl and this lady is trying to find her children.’
She stopped another nurse that was running past.
‘Jenny, can you help this lady?’ she said, indicating the woman who had come with us. ‘She’s looking for her children.’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’ve just got to deliver these bandages to cubicle eight.’
The woman turned back and smiled at us. ‘Thank you for your kindness,’ she said.
‘You are very welcome,’ said Peter.
‘I hope you find them,’ I said. ‘And I hope that they are alright.’
We watched as they hurried down the corridor.
The nurse turned back to us. ‘Now, let’s find your sister and the little girl.’
We started walking down the corridor, looking into rooms as we went.
‘They have to be here,’ I said. ‘They weren’t at the cinema.’
‘If they’re here, we’ll find them,’ said the nurse.
We turned a corner and there, leaning against the wall, was Brenda. We fell into each other’s arms.
‘I knew you’d come,’ she said.
‘Where’s Gertie?’
‘She got hit by some shrapnel. They have to operate on her leg.’
‘But she’s going to be alright?’ I said.
‘Yes, she’s going to be alright. She’s such a brave little girl, Maureen.’
Brenda
was covered in the same white dust that we’d seen at the cinema.
‘Are you OK’ said Peter.
‘We were lucky, we got there late so we had to sit near the back. It was the first few rows that got the worst of it. It was awful, Maureen. I will never forget the screams of the children.’
I put my arms around her.
‘You’re safe now, my love, you’re safe.’
And together we cried, for each other, for the injured, for the people who had died, and for those poor innocent little children who had just gone to watch a film. We waited until Gertie came out of surgery and then we sat by her bed and watched her sleep.
‘Mum will be worried once she hears about the bombing but I don’t want to leave.’
‘I’ll phone Mrs Bentley and get her to call on your mother and put her mind at rest,’ said Peter.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
Peter had really surprised me that day with the way he took control and how he kept me calm when I thought that I was going to go mad with worry. He was usually such a bumbling kind of chap who couldn’t even make a cup of tea but that day he had been wonderful. It just went to show that people have bravery inside them that they don’t know is there until someone needs them. That day I needed him and he hadn’t let me down.
* * *
A little while later our nurse came into the room with a tray of tea. ‘They’ve put me on tea duty,’ she said. ‘I think they realised that I wasn’t coping very well.’
I stood up and took the tray from her. ‘There are times when tea is just what people need,’ I said.
‘I hope so,’ she said, smiling.
Eventually, Gertie woke up. The first thing she said was, ‘I never got to see the end of the soddin’ film.’
‘You’re a tonic, Gertie Lightfoot,’ I said. ‘Now, how are you feeling?’
‘I’ve got a ringing in me ears and I can’t hear very well.’
‘I expect that will soon get better,’ I said. ‘The main thing is that you are still with us.’
Just then a doctor came into the room.
‘Will she be alright?’ said Brenda.
‘They make ’em tough in London and this is one tough little girl,’ he said, smiling down at her.
He walked across to the bed. ‘I thought you might like this, Gertie,’ he said, handing her something wrapped in a bandage. ‘It’s the shrapnel we took out of your leg.’
Gertie took it from him. ‘Fanks, mate,’ she said. ‘I’ll give it to the generals.’
Then she yawned and went back to sleep with the sweetest little smile on her lips.
Forty-Seven
We learned from Afshid that seven bombs had dropped on Brighton that terrible day. A German bomber was being chased by a Spitfire across the town and in his hurry to get away, he released all his bombs. There were three hundred people in the cinema for the matinee performance of The Ghost Comes Home and people said it was a miracle that more hadn’t died. Altogether, fifty-two people lost their lives and many more were injured. The town was in mourning.
Bombs were now dropping almost daily and all schools remained closed. Nowhere was safe but people carried on with their lives: they went to work, they took care of their children and the women made meals out of what little food they could get hold of. People were kinder to each other. Our estate was poor but people shared what little they had, even more than they might have done before the war. Women happily took in children so that their mothers could go out to work. I heard stories of warring neighbours having to share an Anderson shelter and becoming friends as bombs rained down over their heads.
Gertie seemed happy to come to work with me. Everyone loved her. The baker gave her little iced cakes and the butcher saved two sausages for her every day. She sat on the bench with the generals and pretended to pore over the maps and books just like they did.
One day she came in from the yard, plonked herself down in the chair and said, ‘Bloody hard work, this bleedin’ war.’ Gertie made us all laugh – that was why the next lot of bad news left us all devastated.
One Sunday morning someone knocked on the door. I opened it to find an official-looking woman on the doorstep.
‘Is your mother in, dear?’ she said.
‘Mum,’ I called. ‘Someone to see you.’
Mum came through from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. The woman shook her hand and said, ‘Am I right in thinking that Gertrude Lightfoot lives here?’
At first we didn’t know who she was talking about.
‘Oh, you mean Gertie,’ said Mum. ‘Yes, she lives here. Are they opening the schools again then?’
‘Perhaps we could speak inside?’ said the woman.
‘Of course,’ said Mum, ushering her into our front room.
‘Maureen, get Brenda,’ said Mum, looking worried. ‘She’s in the garden with Gertie.’
I opened the back door and called her. ‘Come in, Brenda! You stay out here, Gertie.’
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Brenda, coming into the kitchen.
‘I don’t know but there’s a woman in the front room wanting to know if Gertie lives here.’
‘Why does she want to know that?’
‘I think we’re about to find out,’ I said, going into the front room.
‘Ah, Brenda,’ said Mum. ‘Sit down, love.’
Brenda and I sat on the couch and stared at the woman.
She was perched rather than sat on the chair, as if she was about to run off at any minute. Her head was too small for her body; it looked as if she’d been made out of leftover bits, nothing about her matched. She was wearing a two-piece costume that was too big on the shoulders but too tight round her middle. Her legs were encased in thick Lyle stockings. The three of us stared at her, waiting to see what she had to say. We didn’t have a clue who she was or why she was sitting in our front room. She cleared her throat and pushed her glasses down her nose. Then she peered at us over the top of them and started to speak: ‘Due to the increased bombing in Brighton, the government want all evacuees to be moved to safer areas,’ she said.
‘But Gertie’s happy here with us,’ said Brenda.
‘I’m very glad to hear that, because I’m afraid not all of our children have had a happy time of it. Some have been so unhappy that they’ve made their way back to London.’
‘But we make sure she’s safe,’ said Brenda.
‘I’m sure you do and I can see that you have become very fond of her.’
‘We love her,’ said Brenda passionately.
‘Then she’s been a very lucky little girl,’ said the woman. ‘But you want her to be safe, don’t you?’
‘Of course,’ said Brenda softly.
‘I’m afraid that this is an order from the government, so it’s out of my hands. Please have her ready to leave on Tuesday. All the children will be assembling at the station at eleven o’clock in the morning.’
‘But where is she going?’ asked Brenda.
‘I don’t exactly know but I think the evacuees will be spread across the villages and towns in the countryside.’
‘You make them sound like slabs of butter,’ said Brenda, angrily.
The woman stood up. ‘I can see that you’re upset,’ she said, ‘but we have to do what’s best for the child and right now, the best thing for Gertrude is to move her to a safer place.’
Mum saw her to the door. I looked at Brenda and I could see that she was near to tears.
‘Oh, Brenda,’ I said.
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I suppose I always knew that she would have to leave sometime, but…’ She couldn’t finish the sentence.
‘We’ll all miss her, Bren, but I don’t think there’s anything we can do.’
Mum came into the room. ‘I wasn’t expecting that,’ she said, sitting down. ‘But I suppose she’s right. Maybe Gertie will be better off in a safer place but, oh dear, we’re going to miss that little girl.’
‘We’ll have to tell her,’ I said.
Brenda stood up. ‘Is it OK if I tell her?’
‘Of course,’ said Mum. ‘And I’m so sorry, love, I know how fond you’ve become of her.’
Brenda nodded and left the room.
* * *
The evening before Gertie was due to leave us, we all gathered in the bookshop. Gertie’s eyes were like saucers as we came through the door. Peter had managed to get hold of a Christmas tree and some lights that sparkled away in the corner of the shop. Underneath the tree was a pile of presents. Maggie turned off the light and the baker came in, carrying a beautiful cake, complete with eight candles flickering in the darkness.
‘Blow them out, Gertie,’ said Brenda.
‘And don’t forget to make the wish,’ said Afshid.
‘I don’t fink it’s me birfday,’ said Gertie. ‘And I don’t fink it’s Christmas.’
Brenda knelt down in front of her. ‘This is for every birthday and Christmas that you spend away from us, my darling.’
Then Peter, Hassan, the baker and the butcher walked solemnly towards Gertie.
Peter cleared his throat.
‘We, the generals of the war council, are honoured to present to Gertie Lightfoot the medal for bravery beyond the call of duty on the field of battle.’
Then he took off one of his medals and pinned it on Gertie’s cardigan. They stood to attention. All four men had tears in their eyes as Peter said, ‘We salute you, Lieutenant Lightfoot.’
‘Bloody Nora!’ said Gertie and burst out crying.
The rest of us were trying hard to hold back our tears until, that is, Afshid put ‘We’ll Meet Again’ on the record player. Then we were blubbing like babies. We would all miss this special little girl and I think each of us was wondering if we would ever see her again.
Forty-Eight
Bombs continued to rain down on Brighton and, although we all missed Gertie terribly, we were thankful that she was safely in the country. We were delighted to receive our first letter from her: she was living on a farm and was happy. The letter was mostly little drawings of pigs and chickens and sheep and a dog called Albert:
