by AJ Pearce
The recovery man didn’t take long.
‘It’s going to go,’ he yelled. ‘Get them out. Now.’
The captain gave a brief nod.
‘Fred,’ he shouted up to him. ‘He’s had long enough. Bring him up. Fast as you can.’
Fred did a thumbs up and then cautiously bent down into the hole. I didn’t want to watch, but more than that, I didn’t want to listen.
I knew what I would hear.
‘Bill,’ yelled Fred. ‘Bill mate, are you there?’
No one moved an inch as Fred paused, listening. Then he turned and called back down to everyone else.
‘There’s two kids down there. Alive. He’s going to send them up. Chuck us more rope.’
For a moment this sounded good news. But my optimism was short-lived.
‘Bleedin’ hell,’ said the recovery man in charge. ‘It’s never going to hold. Not for three of them.’ He looked up at the listing wall. ‘If anything holding that moves, the whole bloody lot’s coming down.’
I stood on my own, wanting to help but all too aware I was a spare part.
‘Everyone not Service or Recovery move back,’ ordered the captain and they made me and the wardens and the police and the volunteers get out of the way. All the brigade boys stayed, even ones who weren’t from our station refused to budge. Together with the recovery lads, they tried to make a structure out of wood that might shore up the rubble.
Roy fed the first rope into the hole. ‘All right, kids,’ he yelled. ‘Nice and still, for the fireman. Steady, Fred.’
I crossed my fingers as they began to pull up the rope.
‘All right, littl’n, easy there.’ Roy was calling, almost singing to the child. ‘No, love, don’t go kicking. That’s a cherub. There we are.’
And then we saw her. A terrified little girl in a nightie, clutching on to the rope and covered from head to foot in grey dust which made her look like a tiny ghost.
‘Stay still, princess,’ said Roy.
The child clung on as she was told, blinking in the dull morning light and then opening her eyes wide as she saw the group of men at the top of the rubble. Her face began to crumple.
Fred lifted her from Roy. ‘It’s all right, Uncle Fred’s got you.’
The child grabbed at his uniform jacket with her small fists.
‘Mabel,’ she began to wail. ‘Mabel.’
‘It’s all right, we’ll get her,’ promised Fred as he managed to pass the child down to the others on the ladders.
I leapt forward, but an ambulance lady put her hand on my arm.
‘I’ve got her,’ she said, moving in front of me as one of the men handed her the little girl who was still calling out for Mabel.
Roy and Fred had already sent the rope down again to Bill. Interminable seconds passed. Then we saw them pull out a boy, bigger than the girl, but with the same preternatural appearance from all the dust. His right arm was hanging by his side and he couldn’t hold on to the men as they lifted him out. His right leg looked awful too.
The men carefully got the boy down and a craggy-looking fireman carried him away as I watched, sick with fear, my heart pounding, for the boy and for William who was still nowhere to be seen.
Bricks were beginning to topple from the adjoining house and the big wall began to sway.
‘Bill,’ shouted Roy down the hole. ‘We’re bringing you up. It’s bad out here. Get hold of the bloody rope.’
I held my breath. It was one thing to pull children out who only weighed a few stone, but a grown man would be another matter.
‘What’s the problem?’ shouted the captain. ‘Is he all right?’
‘He won’t be when I get hold of him,’ said Fred to his superior.
The big wall listed. Everyone watching gasped.
Roy was leaning down into the hole.
‘Here he comes,’ he called. ‘Easy does it, Fred, easy now.’
They both pulled on the rope, scattering bricks as they did so. The mound of rubble began to move from underneath them.
‘CLEAR OUT, LADS,’ shouted the chief recovery man. ‘EVERYONE CLEAR OUT.’
The men who had been trying to prop up the wall with wood and girders began to back away. You couldn’t credit them with anything other than huge bravery for what they’d been doing so far, but their boss was calling them off and as bricks fell they had no choice but to scramble to safety.
At the top of the rubble, we could at last see Roy and Fred dragging Bill out. He was barely recognisable.
‘I’m out, boys. GO.’
He was shouting as loudly as I had ever heard anyone in my life.
All three of them half scrambled, half fell, down the heap, scattering bricks, glass, and bits of broken wood-work as they went. Like a volcano gone wrong, rubble seemed to get sucked inwards as they went and the whole thing began to collapse, the big wall coming down after it, making the most almighty noise.
Roy and Fred were on their feet first and running as fast as they could. I must have moved towards them, as an ARP warden grabbed me by the coat and dragged me back with him.
William was a second behind. As the last part of the building came crashing to the ground and a huge cloud of dust and smoke went up he emerged, coughing badly, blood all down his uniform and clutching a small bundle.
I shook off the warden and ran through the others to him.
‘He’s all right, love,’ said Roy as I pushed through. ‘He’ll be all right.’
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ I screamed. ‘You could have been bloody killed.’
William held up the bundle. It was a doll wrapped in a blanket.
That’s when I really saw red.
‘I’m supposed to tell Bunty you nearly died rescuing A DOLL?’ I shouted.
‘Where’s the littl’n, Roy?’ said William, ignoring me and catching his breath. ‘She’ll be wanting her Mabel.’
I glared at him. Saving children was one thing, and a wonderful thing at that. But nearly getting half of his team flattened in order to pull a toy out of the rubble was quite another. Fred was kneeling down on what remained of the pavement. He was holding on to his arm and swearing under his breath.
I tried to remember I was wearing my uniform and mustn’t make a show.
‘You’d saved their lives, you didn’t need to go back for the toy box.’ I wiped my eyes. Dust from the collapsed building was everywhere. ‘You could have died.’
‘Calm down, Emmy,’ said William. ‘They’ve lost everything. You wouldn’t understand.’
‘No,’ I said, trying to sound calm. ‘I probably wouldn’t. But don’t go pretending it was a one-off because I know that it wasn’t. Do you want to tell me about Saturday night? The ever so near escape at the warehouse?’
As I repeated Vera’s words, I knew I was in the wrong. William was a hero and I was spoiling it. But I had been frightened, unable to help, and hopelessly out of my depth.
‘Emmy,’ he said. ‘You won’t mention this to Bunty, will you?’
I wanted to hit him. Not only had he taken an entirely unnecessary risk, but now he wanted me to act as if it hadn’t actually happened.
‘Do you ever think of anyone other than yourself?’ I said, looking at him daggers. ‘Because it doesn’t seem like it to me.’
William shot me a furious look.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I won’t say anything. But only because I don’t want my best friend to know that you just risked your life for a doll. You should have a long, hard look at yourself though, Bill. You’re not thinking of her and it isn’t fair.’
And then I turned my back on him and wiping the dust from my eyes, headed towards home.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
An Absolute Comfort to Know
By the time I got home, Bunty had left for work, which made it easier to stay true to my word and not tell her about the rescue or what had happened with William. I didn’t have to explain why I was covered from head to foot in
dust and dirt either. I peeled my clothes off and allowed myself the luxury of a morning bath. The inch of water was nearly cold but it was better than nothing and it would help keep me awake and focus my mind.
I knew I had acted badly. I shouldn’t have shouted at Bill in the street. I still thought he had been wildly reckless, but I planned to apologise as soon as there was a quiet moment at the station when I could try to patch things up. I also knew that part of me being so cross with him was because I had felt so useless. The lady handing out tea had done more than me.
As I washed the dirt out of my hair, I gave myself a stern talking-to. I’d hated being a spectator in an emergency and was embarrassed about my over-emotional response. I had avidly read the autobiographies of fearless female journalists in Spain during the Civil War. Now I marvelled at how they managed to stay detached, do their jobs, and file their reports without wanting to wade in and get involved.
Could I do that? I wasn’t sure. I kept seeing the children’s faces as Roy and Fred pulled them out of the rubble. How did one stay uninvolved about that? William had taken it too far last night, but even ignoring the stupid doll, he and Roy and Fred, and all the men, had put themselves in enormous danger in order to rescue the children. And they would be out doing the same thing tonight. I was proud of working at the station, answering the calls with the other girls, but I wanted to do even more.
It was time to pull myself together. As I arrived at the office, I made an extra big effort to appear chipper.
I didn’t want to tell Kathleen about the previous night so I watered down the raid to a few crash bang wallops at the fire station, and to change the subject, mentioned the briefest of How Do You Do’s with Mr Collins and Charles. This, as it turned out, may have been a mistake.
‘I say,’ gasped Kathleen, goggle-eyed at the idea of Mr Collins having a relation, or even just existing outside of work. ‘I’d have died a death. Was he shouty like You Know Who can be?’ she added in a whisper.
‘Mr Collins’ brother was very polite,’ I said, hoping this was enough information. It wasn’t.
‘And what did he look like? Older or younger?’ Kathleen perched on the side of her desk, a reckless move should Mrs Bird suddenly come in.
‘Oh, gosh, I don’t know,’ I said, being vague to a point of amnesia. ‘Quite tall. Quite young. Like anyone really.’
‘Imagine!’ said Kathleen. ‘And what did he say?’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘You know. “Hello”.’
Kath shook her head at the revelation. ‘Fancy! Mr Collins with a brother.’
‘Half-brother,’ I said, rather primly. ‘It’s perfectly normal.’
Kathleen narrowed her eyes and smiled. I’d got myself in a fluster.
‘You look like Clarence,’ she said.
I made a scoffing noise to show how ridiculous this was and started on my pile of work.
As ever, acceptable letters had been thin on the ground. There had only been a few to give to Mrs Bird and even then she had rejected several as Entirely Unacceptable. The only problems she had agreed to answer were a query from an awkward fourteen-year-old (‘You’re being rather silly, I suggest you join the Girl Guides.’) and a helpful hint for a woman whose bicycle seat had made her warden’s overalls go shiny. (‘We are at war. It hardly matters if they are shiny or not. However, if you must insist, use an old beret to cover it up.’)
One other letter had been worth taking a chance on and to my surprise it had been given the go ahead. It was from a girl whose boyfriend had a roving eye.
Dear Mrs. Bird
Please tell me what I should do. My young man always looks at other girls we pass in the street. He says he doesn’t but he does because I’ve seen him. Should I make a fuss or ignore it? What if he sees someone he likes more than me?
Yours,
Feeling Left Out
I had risked Mrs Bird blowing her top over lewd behaviour, but it turned out that Men Looking At Other Girls was one of her pet subjects. Her reply of, ‘The young man in question is a thoroughly unpalatable sort. If he continues to do this I suggest you either forget him or call the police,’ was on the threatening side of robust.
I had just finished typing it up when at half past nine we heard the corridor door bang open and Mr Collins arrive. He was humming something by Mozart which I couldn’t quite place, but it was a sign he was in a good mood. When he didn’t whistle, it meant he would go straight to his office, bash about for a bit, and then do one of his Shouts. Today, though, he put his head around the door to our cubbyhole and appeared very nearly smiley.
‘Good morning, ladies. How are you? Glad to see you survived last night’s festivities.’
He always referred to raids in this way.
‘Yes, thank you, Mr Collins,’ said Kathleen politely, as I suffered an attack of fearful self-consciousness. After all, on Saturday we had shared cake.
‘I hope you were all right, Mr Collins?’ she enquired.
Kathleen was usually quiet as a mouse around Mr Collins as she thought him quite mad. I knew she was dying to ask about Charles.
‘Snug as a bug, Kathleen. Thank you.’
She beamed at him. ‘And did you have a lovely weekend, sir?’
Honestly, she was beginning to sound like a waitress angling for a big tip.
‘Capital, thank you, Kathleen,’ said Mr Collins, who in the few weeks I had known him had never admitted to having a capital anything. ‘How about you?’
Kathleen picked up some speed. ‘Oh, very good, thank you. We didn’t mind the bombs at all, me and Mum. My little brother was there you see, and we always feel very safe around him, even though he is quite a bit younger than me.’
I considered throwing myself out of the nearest window.
‘Is he indeed?’ said Mr Collins. ‘Fancy that.’ He glanced over at me, but I was looking at the pot plant with my mouth open.
‘Good weekend, Emmeline?’ he asked.
‘Um, yes thank you,’ I managed. What if he mentioned
Charles? Or even worse, the trip to the cinema? Kathleen would probably pass out.
‘HOW IS YOUR BROTHER?’ I shrieked, making everyone jump. ‘WHO WE MET IN THE STREET.’
It sounded as if I had been in the East End, dog fighting or betting on horses and eating chips wrapped in the Daily Express.
Mr Collins looked bewildered, which was a fair response when you looked at it, but then gathered his wits. Reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes, he turned to Kathleen.
‘Ah yes. Did Emmeline mention that she bumped into me and my younger brother on Saturday afternoon?’ he asked.
‘IN THE STREET,’ I shouted, just in case it wasn’t clear.
‘Yes. As Emmy has so geographically pointed out, in the street,’ Mr Collins smiled.
‘THAT’S RIGHT,’ I bellowed, wondering if people could actually die of self-consciousness.
‘In the street,’ echoed Kathleen in a whisper, clearly in the hope this would bring an end to the whole torturous conversation before someone’s ears started to bleed.
Mr Collins grinned, lit his cigarette and having decided we had all been put through enough, created a welcome diversion by asking what I was working on.
‘It’s next week’s problem page, Mr, um, Collins,’ I said, trying to sound In Control. The last thing I needed was for Mr Collins to start taking an interest in the letters. I told myself to remain calm.
‘Ah,’ he said, picking up the notes. ‘Good grief,’ he added as he saw Mrs Bird’s answer to Feeling Left Out. ‘We can’t print that. Half the young men in Britain will end up under arrest. Emmy, take it out. Henrietta won’t notice and if she does get up any steam, tell her I told you to do it.’
I must have looked uncertain. Mr Collins exhaled a stream of smoke and made an impatient face.
‘The typesetters will know how to make everything fit. I’ll be in my office.’
Then he snorted and strode out of the room.
‘Right ho,’
I said. ‘I do hope he’s right,’ I added to Kathleen, who was trying to get some pencil shavings out of her sharpener.
‘I think he is,’ she mused. ‘Mrs Bird hasn’t mentioned the Odo-Ro-No advert that got left out. And once I forgot whether I’d given her an issue and when I asked, she said she didn’t have time to flim-flam about reading, and anyway, the only parts she hadn’t already seen were the romances and Mr Collins’ Trifles That Could Look After Themselves.’
Kathleen stopped and looked traumatised by the memory.
‘Dark days,’ I said sympathetically. ‘Still, isn’t it nice to know that if something accidentally goes wrong, it is almost entirely unlikely that Mrs Bird will find out?’
‘Yes.’ Kathleen turned to me and beamed. ‘That’s a real comfort to know.’
‘Isn’t it?’ I said, beaming right back.
Feeling Left Out had left the perfect space in the ‘Henrietta Helps’ page. As my friend returned to typing up ‘How To Make A Charming Tray Cloth’ I took the folder from my drawer of Unpleasant letters, and found the one from eighteen-year-old Fed Up that Thelma had helped me with last night. Trying carefully to remember what she had said, I began to type a reply.
Dear Fed Up
Isn’t it a disappointment when one’s parents feel rather strict? I am sure they want what is best, so perhaps there’s some middle ground you could find . . .
*
Anyone might think that having got away with putting one letter into Woman’s Friend, doing it again would be easier, but it wasn’t like that at all. Even if I felt confident that Mrs Bird would not see, it was rotten of me to ignore Bunty’s advice. I hadn’t exactly promised not to write to more readers, but I had nodded my head a lot and said, You’re Right Bunty Of Course, which was essentially the same thing. And that was just about sending letters to them. She didn’t know about putting replies into the actual magazine.
What was worse, I wondered, keeping something from your best friend or ignoring people who were desperate for help? I felt sure that if Bunty could only see the letters every day as I did, she would agree that I was trying to do the right thing.
In need of a break, I muttered something to Kathleen and hurried out to the stairwell where I could have a few minutes to think. My head in the clouds, I slammed straight into Mr Collins at the top of the stairs.
