by Juliet West
‘Go on, just the one slice. Maybe I’ll see you tonight, then. We’ll be in a bit later – me and Dor are seeing a picture.’
‘Yes, she mentioned.’
‘Did she?’
Now he seems embarrassed. Men don’t like to be discussed; they think it’s disloyal. That’s what Mum said, anyway, after she caught me moaning to Dor about a quarrel I’d had with George. I bend down to pick a spent matchstick from under the table, wondering how I can make it right.
‘Oh, just in passing,’ I say, tossing the matchstick onto the fire. ‘Dor does love the pictures. It’s a Florence Turner, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ He picks up his spoon and tastes the soup. ‘That’s the one.’
I can sense Mrs Stephens watching us from the counter.
‘I’ll just get your bread.’
Mrs Stephens decides she’ll serve Mr Blake his bread. She stands over him a second longer than she needs to, sizing him up, as if to check for medical complaints. She’ll be thinking about the poster, about Pat McCarney. Does she wish Daniel had taken Pat’s place? Would she prefer Daniel to have been killed instead of Patrick McCarney, or as well as him? It confuses me to think about it, this talk of peace cranks and shirkers. And all along there’s still no word from George. Ada hasn’t heard from Cole either, not for a fortnight or so. I keep writing my letters to George every Sunday evening, so there’s a week’s worth of news, such as it is. I’ve told him about Dor’s friends from the factory, how we get together now and again. Does he know Cole Buckley? I asked him in one letter. Because I’ve got friendly with his wife, Ada. I thought he’d be pleased to hear of the connection, to think of the two of us making new friends – meeting a husband and wife separately like that. No reply. Now I’m wondering if he’s got the hump. Maybe Mum’s right. If I was a good wife, I would stay inside, waiting for the war to end. Would George prefer that?
In my heart I believe he would.
George would like everything to stay normal; he would prefer me to wait quietly, until such time as he is ready to march back home.
Mrs Stephens nudges me as Daniel leaves the cafe.
‘There goes Mr Blake. Perfect figure of a man. Fighting fit, if you ask me.’
I didn’t ask you, I think, but I raise my eyebrows and nod.
I’m all set to leave when Mrs Stephens calls me back into the kitchen.
‘There’s a friend here for you, love.’
Dor is breathless, cheeks pinch-pink with the cold.
‘Thank God I’ve caught you, Hannah. It’s about tonight.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘No, I’m not. All week I’ve been waiting for this evening and now I’ve been called in on the late shift.’ She flops down at a table and takes off her hat.
‘So you can’t see the picture?’
‘No chance. I was hoping I might catch Daniel here to let him know.’
‘He was in earlier. For lunch.’
‘Bugger. If only I knew where he lived, I’d drop a note round. The thing is, I’d hate him to think I’ve stood him up. I don’t want to ruin my chances, Hannah. You know how much I like him.’
I take a seat next to her, unbuttoning my coat. ‘I’m sure he knows too.’
‘Does he? I haven’t told him. I was waiting for the right moment. Tonight, I thought. Tonight might be the night when, you know . . . I’d go back to his room . . .’ She drums her fingers on the table, thoughtful, and then gives me one of her wheedling looks. ‘You might just pop along to the Empire yourself, tell him I have to work? Half past six I said I’d meet him. If you’ve got nothing better on, that is. I just can’t bear to think of him waiting there, cursing me.’
‘I can’t get out that early in the evening, Dor. I have to put the children to bed.’
‘Oh,’ she sighs, slumping back in the seat. ‘Well, I suppose you might see him in the White Horse later. Tell him I’m sorry, won’t you? I’ll make sure I’m free next Friday. Brunner’s can bleedin’ well manage without me.’
‘Actual fact, I don’t think I’ll be going out tonight. ’Specially if you’re not there. I’ve been thinking anyway I ought to be staying in. They reckon this year could be worse for air raids.’
‘Oh, leave off, Hannah – you’ve got to have some sort of life. Cooped up night after night with Jen and Alec? Bombs’ll get you wherever you are. Wouldn’t you rather die with a gin in your hand and a smile on your face?’
‘And how would that look? Blown up in a pub?’
‘Why do we always have to worry how it looks? Men don’t think twice, do they? All them soldiers, queuing up at the French knocking shops, like Ada says. They don’t give a monkey’s how it looks, so long as they get . . .’ She trails off. ‘Sorry, Hannah. Not your George, of course. In the knocking shops, I mean.’
Mrs Stephens arrives with a tray.
‘Here you are, girls.’ She’s brought us a pot of tea and two currant buns.
‘Look at that. That’s prime, ain’t it?’ says Dor. ‘Sugar on top ’n’ all!’
Mrs Stephens smiles. ‘Got to keep the workers happy. You’re in munitions, am I right in thinking?’
It’s not the luckiest guess. You can tell where she works a mile off, with the yellow hair and the matching fingernails.
‘Don’t I know it,’ says Dor.
It’s crowded outside the Empire. People huddle in the queue on the steps outside, ignoring the old fiddler swaying around his hat as he plays a ballad. Daniel isn’t in the queue. He’s leaning against the wall by the side exit, smoking a cigarette. His heavy tweed coat is a little too short in the sleeves. One leg is bent with his foot resting up against the brickwork.
A tram passes, blocking my view for a moment. It’s a moonless night, dark and dreary. Perfect night for a Zeppelin. I ought to be at home with the children. Half an hour ago this seemed like the right thing to do, but now . . . I’m tempted not to cross over to the Empire after all. Daniel will work it out for himself. Does he really need a messenger?
Daniel looks up as the tram passes and I’m sure he’s seen me. No getting out of it now. He calls out as I hurry across.
‘Hannah!’
‘I’ve come with a message from Dor,’ I say.
‘Righto.’ He straightens up from the wall, the cigarette cupped in his hand.
‘She ain’t coming tonight. Someone was ill at the factory and she has to cover. Only she didn’t want you to think . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, she didn’t want you thinking she’d stood you up.’
‘I was starting to wonder.’ He slips his hand inside his coat and produces a watch from a silver chain. The Empire doors bang open and the crowd starts to shuffle inside. ‘Standing only in the ha’pennies!’ the attendant shouts. ‘Standing only in the ha’pennies!’
‘Good of you to let me know. Shame . . . although, tell you the truth, I ain’t too keen on Florence Turner. Unless you . . .’ He raises his eyebrows and gestures towards the crowd filtering through the doors.
‘Oh no, I need to get home to the children.’
‘Course. It’s a rotten night. Did you come out special?’
‘No, I had . . . an errand.’ It’s a lie, but I don’t want him thinking I turned out for him, Dor’s obedient messenger.
‘I’ll see you home. Where you heading?’
‘Canning Town, but there’s no need.’
‘As far as the creek. Come on.’
His raises his right arm and for a moment I think he’ll link it in mine, but he is only taking a last drag from his cigarette. He drops the fag end onto the pavement and grinds it with his boot. As we pass the busker, Daniel flicks a copper into his hat. The fiddler lifts his bow in thanks, then drops it back onto the strings, never missing a beat.
We walk in silence for a few yards, past Robin Hood Lane and the looming turrets of the tunnel entrance. Daniel begins to hum the busker’s tune, ‘Star of the County Down’. There’s a peculiar rushing in my head and I
know I have to breathe steady, keep looking straight ahead, or the falling will start.
We’re passing the Aberfeldy Tavern when I hear a heavy, distant boom and feel a tremor beneath my feet. At first I’m not sure if the sound is real or in my mind. Our pace slows.
Another thud and then a red light glows in the sky, just east of Canning Town.
‘Fire?’ says Daniel. ‘It looks like Victoria Dock way – Silvertown.’
‘What was the bang? Was it the warning?’ People obviously think so: they are hurrying towards the tunnel for shelter.
‘Can’t have been.’ He looks quickly around the street. ‘There’s no coppers for a start.’
He’s right. When it’s an air raid, the maroon flares crack and policemen are everywhere, criss-crossing the road on their bicycles, blowing whistles and shouting, ‘Lights out!’
‘Do you want to go in the tunnel, just in case?’ he says.
‘No. I want to get home.’
We hurry along unspeaking, until we’re almost at the iron bridge, and I stop dead on the pavement.
I grab his arm and we stare towards Silvertown.
The dim glow blisters into a blinding glare and then there is the sound of two more explosions, one quickly after the other, louder this time. The sky is scarlet now, then brighter still, brighter and paler all at once. We’re yards from the creek and the weird colours reflect on the water, lighting up the iron bridge so that it looks almost like a fairground ride, an amusement on Brighton Pier. Even the mud is shining on the banks, the reeds waving strange shadows.
‘What the . . . . Christ!’ Daniel stops and raises his hands, shielding his eyes.
Yellow now, then a white light, as if a new sun has blazed into the sky. Buildings seem to lift up and detach from each other. Arms fling out and pull me close. I’m aware of a scream in my throat. Other people’s screams.
The white light flashes away and I know something worse must follow. In less than a second it comes, a thud so powerful I can feel my lungs rattle against my ribs. Next, the sound of glass tinkling, delicate at first, then an ugly shriek as windows from houses and offices and factories smash to the ground.
A soft wind, low and warm, sighs across our skin.
My head presses against Daniel’s chest.
I pull away, my mouth so dry it’s a struggle to speak. ‘I must . . . The bridge, is it safe?’
‘There are people on it, see?’
He’s right. Mainly they are racing over to this side. Some have stopped midway, to look back towards Silvertown, where the factory towers and the grain silos are ragged outlines in the orange sky.
‘I have to get across . . . the children. You go back. Find somewhere safe.’
He doesn’t reply, just takes my hand in his and strides towards the bridge. His hand seems to anchor me, stops me from sinking. We move fast, shouldering our way past the stream of people. ‘Brunner’s,’ they are saying. ‘The chemical works. Sky high.’
The munitions factory. Dor.
At the end of the bridge, there’s a crush of people and we have to squeeze sideways to get down the steps. Lumps are falling from the sky. Glass, metal. I put my free hand up to protect my head and a sharp stab pierces the top of my wrist.
‘It’s not far from here,’ I shout, as we run past the music hall and the labour exchange. Ambulance bells clang in my ears. Crashes and thuds like the end of the world.
Sabbarton Street is standing, but every window is blown out, and there’s a hole in the roof of number eight, twisted metal jutting from the smashed tiles. Mrs Hillier is wandering bewildered along the cobbles, the birdcage tucked into her coat.
‘What is it, dear?’ she says to me. ‘What happened?’
‘The munitions factory at Silvertown. An explosion. Have you seen the children?’
‘I ain’t seen no one much,’ she says. ‘I was just minding me own business . . .’
‘I must get home . . .’
I run past her, clutching my wrist, down the side alley and in through the back door. The house is silent.
‘Mum!’ I shout.
‘In here.’
They are squeezed under the table in the parlour: Alice and Teddy, Mum, Jen and Alec. The orange light from the factory fire flashes around the room, reflecting in their eyes, the shattered photograph frames, the daggers of broken glass wedged into the wallpaper. The light dims suddenly and I look up to see a dark shape against the window. Daniel. He touches his cap towards me, then disappears.
I bend to kiss the children. ‘Thank God. Stay safe here – I’m going to check on Mrs Hillier. Found her in the street with the birdcage.’
‘Your hand?’ says Mum.
‘Only a cut. I’m fine.’
Outside, Mrs Hillier’s gentleman friend has appeared. He takes the birdcage and steers her back through her front door.
Daniel is walking along the pavement, almost at the main road. He turns and stops when I call his name, waits while I catch up. We shelter just inside an alleyway, under a brick arch. The debris has stopped falling, but the air is choked with ash and the stench of burning.
‘Dor’s at the factory tonight . . .’
‘I’m going there now,’ he says.
‘To Brunner’s? There can’t be anything left of it. She must be blown . . .’ A sob clenches my throat.
‘No, it might not be so bad. The big explosion came later, remember? They would have evacuated the place, first sign of trouble.’
‘Then you’ll try to find her? Because, well, you mean the world to Dor and if she could see you tonight . . .’
‘Of course I’ll try . . .’ He hesitates, puts his hand over his mouth and then lets the hand drop. ‘But, Hannah . . . Dor is not . . . not somebody I could be close to.’
‘What?’ I blink up at him, wondering if I heard right. Dor is surely lying somewhere, shocked or injured or worse, and he dares to tell me that he doesn’t care for her? ‘Why ever are you going out with her, then?’
His eyes shift and then soften, as if he has found the answer to a question he has been asking himself.
‘Sometimes she speaks of you.’
A great heat rises in my body, and a surging strength so that when I shove him, he stumbles backwards into the passageway. He steadies himself and then straightens, holding his arm where it knocked against the wall. We face each other. His eyes are black in the shadow of the brick arch. The pulse jumps at the corner of his eye.
‘Find her for me,’ I tell him. ‘Find her or I’ll never forgive you.’
The ambulances are less frequent now, but my head still clangs as if there’s a bell inside. It’s a wonder the children can sleep. Yet somehow they are peaceful beside me, blanketed in all the clothes we could find and their boots still on in case we’d missed some glass. There’s no point lying down, so I sit on the edge of the bed, looking out through the shattered window. Dirty air curls in, and although the glow from the fires has dimmed, the midnight city looks odd and bright. Skinned.
I haven’t undressed. Haven’t even taken off my coat.
Sometimes she speaks of you.
The chain round my neck feels colder than ever, a frozen thread, and my wedding ring is a blister of ice against my throat. I unclasp the chain and drape it on the narrow windowsill.
A commotion starts in a nearby street, two men shouting and a horse rearing. ‘Thieving toerag. You want whipping, you fucking . . .’ So much noise that I don’t hear him arrive.
The tap on my bedroom door makes me jump. ‘Hannah,’ Mum calls.
I slip out onto the little square of landing and Mum is standing on the top stair, nightgown and shawl pulled tight around her. From Jen and Alec’s room comes the sound of coughing. The bed springs creak.
‘Gentleman to see you, Hannah. It’s about Dor.’ She lowers her voice still further. ‘Frightened the life out of me, knocking at this time.’
The lamps are out, so there is only the light from Mum’s candle. I can see a corner of him in
the doorway, one shoulder rising and falling. He seems out of breath.
Each tread of the stairs leaves me queasy with fear. Fear for Dor. Fear of his eyes on mine.
‘You’d better come in,’ Mum says to Daniel. He steps into the hall. Even in the candlelight I can see the mess of his face – sweat, soot, traces of blood.
‘Dora’s at Poplar Hospital,’ he says. ‘She’s got some burns.’
Alive, I think, gripping the bottom banister. Alive?
‘How bad?’
‘I don’t know. They found her a bed. It’s mayhem there, people lying on the floors. You can’t find a doctor to ask.’
‘Did you speak to her?’
‘No, she wasn’t up to talking. They were bandaging her. Some kind of ointment . . .’ He trails off. ‘But it was definitely her. I spoke to someone from Brunner’s.’
‘Dear God,’ says Mum. Then she looks between the two of us, curiosity furrowing her brow. She’s asking herself how I know this stranger on the doorstep.
Daniel must sense the same. ‘Anyway, sorry to trouble you like this,’ he says. ‘Dor’s . . . Her family sent me. They knew you’d be wondering.’
‘It’s kind of you,’ says Mum. ‘Have a cup of tea?’
His eyes flash to mine, but I look away, through the open door into the night.
‘Thank you, I’d better go. They still need volunteers.’
‘At Silvertown?’
‘What’s left of it. Still people under the rubble, they reckon.’
Mum’s free hand flies to her mouth. The candle flame shivers in the draught. ‘It’s terrible. As if things ain’t bad enough.’ She collects herself, inhales sharply. ‘Well, you take care of yourself, Mr . . . ?’
‘Blake. Daniel Blake.’
‘And thank you for coming, Mr Blake.’ Mum turns to me, quizzical, wondering why I’m dumbstruck.
‘Yes, thank you for taking the time,’ I say. ‘I’ll visit Dor tomorrow.’
He touches his cap as he leaves and Mum shuts the door behind him.
‘Nice enough feller,’ says Mum. ‘Dor’s fancy man, is it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘He deserves a medal if he goes up Silvertown. Volunteers, they’re asking for. Strong men, I suppose.’ She rolls her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Do you think we should wake Alec?’
