Looking forward to meeting again,
Please keep writing,
With all good wishes from
Your friend in the skies
James.
I was a little nonplussed by his signing off. Good wishes. Your friend in the skies. I wondered what these words signified. They hardly smacked of passion. Perhaps he was regretting his parting kiss. Or perhaps he kissed all the girls. Or perhaps he signed off ironically, meaning in reality he regarded himself as more than just a friend.
Still, any letter, I decided, was better than none and I would write back tonight and bring my letter in for onward posting the next day.
A table had been placed next to the one below the pigeonholes and above it a small noticeboard erected. A small vase of flowers sat on the table and the noticeboard carried the words ‘In Memoriam’ across the top, below which were pinned small pieces of paper. I read of two Pilot Officers downed in July. Some servicemen drew up behind me and stopped, silent, for a moment as I stepped aside, then they turned back up to the next floor, their bantering resuming as they mounted the stairs.
Please God, I prayed, may I never see James’ name here.
Still daily the air raid sirens went off and still daily I ignored them and spent my mornings volunteering at the Beaver Club as increasing numbers of the names on the In Memoriam notice board were pinned up. One day I saw that a Pilot Officer was lost in a Hurricane over the Thames and his resting place was not known. I thought, Hurricanes might be resilient, manoeuvrable creatures and provide a better chance of survival in combat but they’re not infallible.
Some afternoons I curled up at home with my holiday reading, but I was restless and felt constantly on the edge of nausea. On a couple of occasions I met up with Becky at Brockwell Park, much of its land now requisitioned for anti-aircraft gun batteries and allotment use. On other afternoons I watched the skies from vantage points across the hills of South London: Norwood Hill, Tulse Hill, Beulah Hill, Gypsy Hill, and even as far as the site of the former Crystal Palace that had burned down in 1936 and not been replaced before the war started. Many people would be gathered too, perhaps stopping for only a few minutes, some for an hour or more, to watch the dogfights in the skies over the North Surrey and North Kent suburbs and countryside, vapour trails weaving ethereal baskets.
To the north above London the air was a sea of barrage balloons and sometimes aeroplanes overshot and got caught up amongst them and came down. People cheered when they saw a plane downed that they thought was German; there was anxious murmuring or even crying out when they saw it was one of ours. Spent rounds and cartridges clattered down from the skies and children darted about collecting them as souvenirs.
Following notification of my matriculation success in the summer exams, my mother decreed that my parents would take me to the theatre in celebration. On Saturday 24th August, sitting in the Criterion Theatre watching Noel Coward’s Private Lives, towards the end of the performance we heard the air raid sirens. As the theatre was in the basement of the building, notices in the foyer indicated that the play would continue in the event of an air raid. We remained in our seats despite the distant muffled explosions and unending sirens. The tense, dramatic scenes of the play were ruined by the intermittent rumblings and wailings and towards the end, in response to one of the character’s lines, ‘Where are you going?’ the other exasperated actor ad-libbed, ‘I’m going to tell Mr Hitler to stop making those blasted bangs!’ This brought the house down, fortunately only figuratively, with much clapping and cheering.
The few air raid sirens up until this night had tended to sound for only an hour or two’s duration with perhaps a wait of up to another hour before the All Clear. However, that night, no soon as there seemed to be a lull, the distant bangs resumed, the sirens wailing all the while. The performance having finished, cigarettes were lit and packs of playing cards appeared from pockets with some of the men setting up small groups of card games to while the time away. There was community singing and eventually the manager called for quiet and announced that the bar would re-open for refreshments.
While the bar had plenty of drink it unfortunately had no food. Mummy, sipping a port and lemon, another of which had been commandeered for me, said, ‘I’m hungry. I keep thinking of the cold supper I prepared for our return and now we’ll be lucky to have it for breakfast. Ted, dear, do you think you could find us something to eat?’
My father demurred, pointing out that once the All Clear sounded we could go home and that could happen any minute.
‘But what if it doesn’t?’ countered my mother. ‘We could end up here all night. And we’ve not had a proper meal since lunchtime. Go and see if there’s anything upstairs to eat.’
If there had been any food upstairs my father would have returned sooner but we waited quite a while and Mummy was getting twitchy when he eventually reappeared carrying a bulging paper bag, a bemused smile below dancing eyes.
‘Whatever took you so long?’ grumbled Mummy. ‘I suppose there were long queues.’
‘Oh, there was no food upstairs so I took myself off up Shaftsbury Avenue to see what I could find.’
‘What?’ cried my mother, her hand flying to her mouth. ‘You went outside? How dangerous! Ted, you shouldn’t have.’
‘A lot less dangerous than nights at a bakery next to a railway line,’ he retorted. ‘Besides, the bombs that are being dropped are some way off, east and west, but none nearby. And,’ he added, ‘I got these,’ handing the bag to my mother with a flourish.
My mother gasped at the sandwiches and their exotic fillings.
‘Where ever did you get these?’
My father’s bemused smile grew wider. ‘Oh,’ he said, casually, ‘at a nearby theatre.’
‘Which one’s going to be open this late, let alone with sandwiches and let alone with sandwiches like these?’
By now I was getting impatient and my afternoon cup of tea with a slice of bread seemed a long time ago. I took the bag from my mother and dived into the bag myself and brought out a smoked salmon sandwich.
‘It’s even got a creamy cheese,’ I said, amazed, and bit into it.
‘Ted, you didn’t steal them from somewhere?’ whispered my mother hoarsely.
‘No, of course not,’ protested my father. ‘I saw some other people being offered some at the back door which was very slightly ajar and I asked if I could take a couple for you and Pat and they insisted on taking me inside so they could close the door and observe the blackout, and they took a little while finding me a bag, then, well, hey presto!’ He flourished his hand at the bag as he said this. ‘I let them think my daughter was a little girl and they took pity on us,’ he added apologetically to me.
‘Te-ed,’ said my mother warningly, suspicion narrowing her eyes. ‘Did you happen to turn off Shaftsbury Avenue into Great Windmill Street?’
‘Ah,’ said my father. Caught out. As a Londoner and a theatregoer, despite my young age and sheltered upbringing even I had heard of the Windmill Theatre and the ‘Tableaus’ of naked or near naked women, as I knew it was against the law for a nude to move on stage.
‘And did ‘they’ happen to be young ladies?’
Oh Mummy, I thought, just let him be. He’s risked London bombs to get you what you wanted and all you can do is castigate him for the source of it.
‘I’m sure they were quite decently clad at a partly open back door,’ I interjected, ‘weren’t they, Daddy?’
‘Oh yes, oh yes, ah, quite so,’ responded my father, a little flustered, and I made a fuss of my mother, finding a clean hanky for a makeshift plate, while my father regained his composure. We had more than enough food and I offered the remainder to our near neighbours who I was sure had heard my parents’ exchange but who tactfully said nothing.
Sometime after midnight the manager, who had been clutching a tin box which I suspected contained the night’s takings, disappeared upstairs and returned a few minutes later with an air raid warden in t
ow, who announced that owing to the presence of a few planes still dropping the odd bomb around London as well as the suburbs, the authorities were taking no chances and it would be a little while yet before the All Clear.
Grumblings and mutterings met this pronouncement but gradually people settled themselves down for what was left of the night. My mother commandeered a section of side wall near the back of the theatre beside which I was required to lie. She set herself down next to me and on the outside, on guard, was placed my father. ‘We’re protecting your virtue against strange men,’ sniffed my mother. I thought I could not possibly sleep but I must have drifted off as next I knew the All Clear was sounding and it was getting on for four o’clock. Carefully making our way home through the blackout, we arrived safely in the early pre-dawn gloom.
That morning at a late breakfast my grandmother announced, ‘I have something very important to tell you all. I would have told you yesterday on your return from the theatre but Mr Hitler had other ideas.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Albert and I are getting married next Saturday at the Register Office,’ adding diffidently, ‘You’re all welcome to come if you like.’
I leapt up and hugged her. ‘Nanny, I’m delighted for you, though,’ I added mischievously, ‘I’m not surprised. I thought you’d moved in already. I’m glad he’s making an honest woman of you at last.’
‘Go on with you,’ she said half-laughing, but sobered quickly as she hastened to complete her announcement. Looking a little challengingly at my parents, she added, ‘And my father will be named on my marriage certificate as William Warner and I’ll be using my surname of Caddock.’ Neither ‘father’ to be left blank, as was on her birth certificate, nor her true surname to be recorded, that of her illegitimate birth, Garey.
‘And why wouldn’t you?’ responded my father after only a momentary pause. ‘Your step-father was the only father you knew and I’ve only ever known you as Mrs Caddock.’ So that settled it and family skeletons retreated and locked themselves firmly back in their dusty cupboard.
I could hear my mother’s mind whirring with, she drags us all out to West Norwood and three months later she’s off back to Brixton leaving us stuck here. And now we’re short of her pension.
But my mother forced a smile, for once making the best of it, and said, ‘Congratulations, dear, or rather I should be saying, best wishes, but, either way, we’ll be there.’
The night of the theatre trip the course of the war changed. The previous bombing of London had been peripheral, but that night one of the German bombers unleashed his cargo on its heart. Other bombs were dropped in West Ham, Stepney and Bethnal Green, and also as far west as Esher and Staines. However, it was the attack on the City of London itself which proved to be the ultimate affront that could not go unchallenged. Two days later the newspapers were full of reprisal raids on Berlin. We all feared that German retaliation would be inevitable.
The following Saturday, a lump in my throat, bursting with affection, I watched my sixty-six-year-old grandmother marry seventy-three-year-old Mr Torston in a short, simple ceremony and become for the first time in her life a respectable married woman. I was saddened that her son, my uncle Dennis, dead of a heart attack five years before, was not with us to share in the family occasion. My grandmother wore a grey suit and Mr Torston’s sons helped him in and out of the Register Office and stood forward to sign the register as the witnesses. My parents and I were just bystanders. My grandmother had not even asked my mother to be matron of honour. I knew my mother was upset but for once she gritted her teeth all through the ceremony and the wedding breakfast, a cold compilation back at the marital home, and bore it. We did not stay late, fear of what might fall from the skies before we could reach our shelter hastening our steps.
Daily overhead the fighting in the skies continued and men died, all because of one nasty little man called Hitler.
Becky, despite her terrible bereavement, achieved matriculation and we returned to Mrs Grice at the beginning of September. Having managed to meet up on only a couple of occasions through the summer holidays, I was pleased to be with Becky again.
‘Don’t apologise for not seeing much of me in the summer,’ Becky said the first evening of the new term. ‘We had a nice couple of afternoons together in the park and I know you were doing your bit for the war effort at the Beaver Club. I was so tied up visiting or being visited by yet more relatives. I’m glad to be back, if only for a rest! My oldest brother’s taking over the business now. I can’t believe it’s only three months since my father died. I miss him terribly when I’m home, so maybe it’s good that we’re back and can get on with the new courses.’
The new courses. I sat back on the bed, momentarily miserable again.
‘Oh, Pat,’ said Becky, seeing my shoulders slump, ‘chin up, Shorthand and Typewriting aren’t that bad, I’m sure.’
‘Sorry to be a wet blanket,’ I said. ‘I found out today that my mother has me signed up for the full two years’ Shorthand and Typewriting courses, not just one year.’
‘But you are doing Art as well, aren’t you?’
I sighed apologetically. ‘Yes, I’m sorry, it seems petty, I know, when there’s a war on. At least we’ll be starting German tomorrow.’
‘So what exactly are you doing?’
I enumerated with my fingers as I recounted each subject. ‘English, French, German, Biology, Shorthand, Typewriting and Art. Oh and, of course, I still have PE, they won’t let us off lightly on that one. What about you?’
‘I’m doing the whole gamut of commercial subjects: Commercial Arithmetic, Shorthand, Typewriting, Book-keeping and Commercial Practice plus English, Economics, and of course, PE.’
‘Well, we’ll be together for,’ I calculated rapidly, ‘three subjects. Oh, and, of course, PE.’ This last parroting together, and falling back laughing.
As we recovered, Becky asked, ‘Did you hear about Janet?’ Blonde, busty Janet of our billet with Mrs Briggs this time last year.
‘What about her? I didn’t see her today, but maybe she’s coming back late?’
‘She’s not coming back at all. Gwen told me. She got married last weekend.’
‘What, married? Why would she go and do something so stupid?’
‘She’s got herself in the family way.’
‘What?’
‘You remember she couldn’t make it to your birthday picnic either, because of a family wedding? Well, she played fast and loose with a cousin there. Gwen’s sister, who got it from Janet’s sister, says they sneaked off in the middle of the dancing.’
‘But Janet was here in the summer and took her matric.’
‘Did you notice she wasn’t well at the dance in July? Oh, no, you went outside with that Alex boy. Janet came over sick and faint towards the end and had to go home early. Everyone thought it was a touch of summer flu. Janet only owned up a couple of weeks ago and I gather it was a bit of a shotgun wedding.’
I was stunned. ‘How can anyone be so idiotic as to throw away a good education and the chance to have a career, a proper job? For what? Well, obviously I don’t know what exactly, but all that’s needed is a bit of self-control. I always thought she was a bit forward, like she was with the St Birstan’s boys on our first evening, but to give in to a young man just like that, well, words quite fail me!’
Becky’s generous mouth curled in amusement. ‘I hardly think words failed you there.’
Humour overcoming outrage, we chuckled together.
It might have been a relief to be back at a school truly evacuated to the depths of the countryside, but the north Surrey downs and towns seemed to me to be just as dangerous as London with the shift in the Germans’ tactics, no longer primarily attacking airfields and aircraft factories, but targeting roads and railway lines as well. Over the next few days I heard stories of trains, cars, lorries and even cyclists being machine gunned down in towns and cities all over the southeast, including someone’s dog in a bicycle basket, and at first if I w
as out and heard an aeroplane approaching I would leap off my bicycle, running for the nearest form of shelter, if only a doorway or low wall. After a couple of days, though, despite planes swooping overhead, I kept my nerve, continuing on to my lesson or to the library or wherever I was going and made it in one piece.
We travelled back to London for the weekend. Having worked to the last bell on the Friday, I couldn’t get back early enough to include a detour via central London. Any letter from James would have to wait until the morning.
Saturday 7th September 1940 dawned dry and warm. As usual, the latter part of August had been cold and miserable and as soon as the schools went back we enjoyed an Indian summer. I made my way into central London after lunch alone. To my immense disappointment no letter awaited me. I checked the In Memoriam board, breathing a sigh of relief, and I wandered round to Trafalgar Square. Fantasising a scenario of James suddenly appearing through the crowd and sweeping me off my feet, reason reasserted itself and I felt as down as ever. I stopped a while at St Martin’s church, saying prayers for James and all the airmen defending our shores, sipped a nostalgic cup of tea at the Corner House and boarded a tram homewards.
As the tram trundled through Brixton air raid sirens started wailing in earnest and as usual no one took any notice. By now it was around five o’clock. Round Brockwell Park and towards West Norwood the sounds of the anti-aircraft guns, the aircrafts’ own guns and the bombing hit us. It went on and on, my fellow passengers looking at each other increasingly alarmed. The tram stopped abruptly just short of my own stop, the electricity supply affected, and I leapt off and ran fast along Chatsworth Way and Idmiston Road. Diving through the house’s ground floor and out to the shelter I found only the downstairs family. Rushing upstairs I cried, ‘Mummy, Daddy,’ only to be hushed by my mother.
‘Leave your father to finish his sleep,’ she scolded.
‘Mummy, there’s something really wrong, the guns and the bombing seem much worse than before. We really should take shelter. Now.’
The Keeping of Secrets Page 13
