The Keeping of Secrets

by Alice Graysharp

  Receiving a promise of silence from his parents, he finished his breakfast, now leaden in his stomach, and gathered his belongings ready for his departure.

  ‘I’ll walk with you to the corner,’ said his father, and, as they reached the main road, out of sight of the house, his father turned searching blue eyes on him and said, ‘Your mother thinks you’re playing Jack-the-Lad and is very disappointed in you. She thinks you should make up your mind. And she favours Stella. Is she right? That you’re playing the field? Or is there something more to your surprise visits?’

  Jon looked helplessly at his father. If I say no, Mum’s right, he’ll think badly of me, but I can’t tell him the truth.

  His father smiled. ‘I thought so. Keep up the good work, my boy, whatever it is.’ Jon tried to school his expression but must have been unable to prevent a certain amount of alarm showing, for his father said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do my best to keep your mother off the scent and quiet on the Pat front. I’ll even erase my thoughts when you’ve gone. Just take care now, my boy,’ and, reaching up and patting Jon on the back, turned and limped away.

  The pale pink envelopes continued to arrive to Jon’s relief and Bob continued to admire Jon’s virility.

  One more trip to London two weeks before Christmas, again a reply to bring back. Then all Christmas leave cancelled.

  ‘It’s like we’re bloody prisoners,’ said Bertie gloomily. ‘We modify the specifications for the bloody computer then they have to be manufactured and tested and we twiddle our thumbs for days doing our smokescreen teaching bloody searchlight maintenance and routine AA stuff with the rest of the crew. I know what I’d rather twiddle while I’m waiting.’

  Jon, alarmed at Bertie’s indiscretion over the computer, slipped out of the door and made a quick circuit around the hut. No one appeared to be nearby. He slipped back.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Jon, no one’s going to be listening to us. We’re not even regular army. Who’s going to be interested in us?’

  ‘You’d be surprised, Bertie. Even within the hut. After all, any one of us could be a government plant to check out whether anyone’s giving away secrets.’

  ‘Don’t be so paranoid,’ said Peter. ‘You’ve been reading too many of your cloak-and-dagger books.’

  Christmas Dinner in the canteen hut turned out to be quite a big party with soldiers from other units who hadn’t gone away on leave joining in. The ATS girls organised a dance for the evening and, being fewer in number, were in much demand. Jon didn’t feel like dancing, and sat it out, playing whist and three card brag in the corner in a foursome with Graham and two sappers from a temporarily posted Royal Engineers regiment. Bob came by with a busty brunette on his arm, saying, ‘What, no girl, Jon, findin’ two on the goo too knackerin’ for a third, eh, mate?’ and saying to his audience, ‘’E’s a reet woon ’e is,’ to Jon’s embarrassment.

  Jon managed another surprise trip to Doncaster the following February but all the other runs involved collecting a reply around Sunday lunchtime and he didn’t dare risk missing the rendezvous. The months passed and gradually the camp’s occupants were moved out southwards as part of the build up to the coming invasion of northern Europe, leaving behind Jon’s unit in near solitary occupation except for brief hosting of regiments journeying south from training grounds in Scotland.

  13

  Buzz Bombs

  I got up extravagantly later than usual the morning of the first Tuesday of June, the students in my year having a reduced timetable in advance of final exams.

  ‘I’ll be popping off to the shops soon,’ said Elaine. ‘Is there anything you need?’

  ‘No, but thanks,’ I said, buttering toast at the dining table and eating only on my left side because of a niggly tooth. ‘I’m going into the college offices later for a revision lecture so I’ll get anything I need when I’m in town.’

  The hall clock started whirring, a preliminary to chiming and striking eleven.

  ‘I’ll just listen to the start of the news before I go,’ said Elaine, turning the dial up on the sideboard wireless. We were electrified by the announcer’s words, ‘This is the BBC Home Service. This is a special bulletin read by John Stagge,’ followed by Mr Stagge’s measured tones.

  ‘D-Day has come.’

  Elaine and I looked at each other with startled eyes.

  ‘Early this morning the Allies began the assault on the north face of Hitler’s European fortress. The first official news came just after half past nine when Supreme Headquarters of the Allied Expeditionary Force issued Communique number one. This said, “Under the command of General Eisenhower, Allied Naval Forces supported by strong air forces began landing Allied armies this morning on the northern coast of France”.’

  It’s actually happening! Four years almost to the day I’d wept for the wounded, killed and captured of Dunkirk, I laid my head in my arms and wept unashamedly for the brave men at this very moment laying down their lives, for the wounded crying out in agony and for all whose lives were about to be abruptly cut short in the days ahead.

  Elaine stood stunned for a few moments as the announcer moved on to a recording from a front line reporter.

  ‘The paratroops are landing.’ Gunfire sounded in the background. ‘They’re landing all round me as I speak. They’ve come in from the sea and they’re fluttering down and they’re just about the best thing we’ve seen in a good many hours. They’re showering in, there’s no other word for it.’

  ‘Harold,’ moaned Elaine and, dashing and wrenching open the back door, ran to her parents’ house.

  Injured in the Allied landing at Anzio, morose and bad tempered on three months’ recovery leave, it was a relief to me when Harold Morley was pronounced fit in April and posted to another regiment in the south of England. No more nights disturbed by a distant drumming growing faster and faster, no more grunts and groans emanating from the next room and no more I know exactly what you’re doing and I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t thoughts swimming round my head leaving me breathless and yearning. Elaine told me his parting words were, ‘I’m joining t’build up for t’northern invasion. You’d’ve thought I’ve already done enough bloody invasions to last a lifetime.’

  And now it was really happening and I wondered why Jon wasn’t taking part. At least, as far as I knew he wasn’t. His last letter from Bury ten days ago had been short and terse, but had given no hint that he was involved in the massive troop movements taking place over the past few weeks. I thought briefly of the Canadian major on his way to Scotland with his troops last autumn and I wondered if they had since been training for these beach landings. The North Sea off Scotland must have been a terribly cold practice arena in winter compared with the English Channel in summer, though the south must have been pretty chilly overnight after massive storms there yesterday and the overall forecast was not good.

  Torn between the spellbinding reports on the wireless and my revision lecture, I scrambled out of the house at the last minute and was lucky to find a trolley bus at its turnaround. Arriving only a couple of minutes late, I realised I wasn’t the last as there was a smaller number than usual and Nicola dashed in shortly after me. Miss Russell said, ‘In view of the tremendous news this morning and the distraction it has caused, we’ll wait a few more minutes. So take a break, girls, for ten minutes and we’ll reconvene at twelve-fifteen.’

  An excited chattering broke out, some girls weeping, others smiling, and Betty said, ‘My Dad’s there, he’s a senior glider pilot officer. I hope he’s all right,’ and burst into tears and we crowded round to comfort her.

  As the month unfolded and the slow, slow progress in France was reported hourly, I was relieved to receive a letter from Jon in Bury, proof that he was safe and not involved in the fighting. My niggly tooth continued to niggle and I dosed up with painkillers preparing for my final exams. The intense two year college course was nearly at an end, and I became increasingly worried that I had not secured a position for the coming Septe
mber. I was looking for posts in and around London so I could be nearer home. Invited to interview in North London in mid-June I was bitterly disappointed not to be offered the post. My father was philosophical.

  ‘You can’t win ’em all. There’s always something better round the corner.’

  During my flying visit home, I took the opportunity to consult my dentist in Acre Lane, almost opposite the Town Hall. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘It’s cracked and needs a fair amount of repair. See if we can fit you in for a forty-minute session next week.’ But my last exam was on the Wednesday and there were no available appointments for the Friday following, so after some humming and hawing I made the appointment for two weeks later, 28th June at 12.30pm.

  My mother was delighted I would be returning soon. ‘Oh, my dear,’ she said, ‘I read the most dreadful story in the paper today about a new kind of rocket plane that came down in Hackney yesterday and exploded and killed several people. Everyone I spoke to at the market this morning reckons it’s the start of something new. It’ll be lovely to have your company again after your last exam if we’re going to be under the cosh again.’

  ‘D’you think that’s Hitler’s secret weapon?’ I speculated. ‘Everyone laughed about it because they didn’t think it was real, but I bet no one’s laughing now. Mummy, I’m sorry, I’ll have to go back to Doncaster for a final week or so after the dentist for the exam results which are being posted the first Monday in July, and I’ll need to organise my trunk with my things and my artwork, but I’ll do my best to get away for good as soon after that as I can.’

  Booty stretched and padded over to me, rubbing around my legs and leaping up into my lap. ‘And,’ I continued to him, stroking and petting under his chin, ‘it’ll be lovely to be back sharing my room with you for good.’

  Leaving London behind I discovered over the next few days that I was leaving behind the biggest threat to London since the Blitz. Even the Little Blitz retaliations in January following the British bombing of Berlin had petered out, helped by new anti-aircraft batteries in London. But this new threat was too much and hearing of the destruction of the Guards Chapel at Wellington Barracks in the middle of a service killing over one hundred people I began to feel I had no weeping left to do.

  Taking the exams, my tooth still sore, desperately worried about my parents in a part of London taking the brunt of the new bombing, I was relieved to return home the day after my final exam and find everything as I had left it. I spent the next afternoon, a Friday, meandering through Brixton Market and calling in on my grandmother and Mr Torston in Strathleven Road on my way back. Thinking to pick up last minute groceries from a shop on Brixton Hill, I wove my way through backstreets and was about to enter the grocer’s when I heard the distant approach from the south of a low vibrating sound, like an approaching train, growing ever louder and increasingly filling the air. Looking south east, through a gap in the opposite trees, a small aeroplane appeared briefly over distant rooftops. The low moan suddenly stopped and there was an eerie silence as the plane plunged in a steep arc and disappeared towards the far end of the opposite side road. Perhaps twelve or fifteen seconds after the droning cut out came the sound of a tremendous explosion and a column of smoke rose in the air.

  ‘Oh my God, the people!’ I ran as fast as I could, skidding across the main road and around the corner, haring down Beechdale Road, heart thudding, lungs screaming for air, and at the far end saw gaps where several buildings had stood, only side walls remaining like the spokes of a huge waterwheel, neighbouring buildings either side sliced through, opened up like a giant’s dollshouse, furniture hanging precariously over the precipice. Neighbours desperately clawed at the ruins despite the smoke and flames spewing upwards, a man with an air raid warden’s armband trying to take charge, crying hoarsely, ‘Look out, the next one’s going,’ and part of a high dividing wall collapsing, blowing more dust and sparks into the air. I stopped at a little girl lying in the road. She seemed unharmed, stunned, perhaps, no blood or obvious wound. Her eyes were open, looking at me, I thought, and my college’s first aid training kicked in, feeling for the pulse in her neck, then in her wrist, and frantically kneeling to check her breathing.

  ‘It’s the back blast wot’s done fer ’er,’ said a man crouching beside me, and he picked her body up, moving it out of the road and laying it gently down in a nearby front garden.

  Joining people from nearby houses I carried on to the edge of the rubble, but the sound of the fire brigade and ambulances approaching told me there was nothing I could do that the professionals couldn’t. Turning my back to the scene of devastation I saw a leg hanging over the branch of a nearby blasted, leafless, tree, and, higher up, the torso, the blood still draining, painting the side of the tree trunk dark red, the ragged remains of a frock hanging down in strips, a bizarre parody of bunting at a church fete.

  I staggered and vomited onto the side of the road until my stomach was sore, scoured out, had nothing more to give. Weeping and trembling, retrieving my bag from where I had dropped it to minister to the little girl, I slunk away, ashamed at my weakness, my helplessness, my shoes crunching on the broken glass of the nearby blasted windows, as more and more people and vehicles crowded down the road.

  Every time I closed my eyes that night I saw the little girl and what I surmised were the remains of her mother before me and I slept only through exhaustion.

  The world gradually righting itself, by the following Wednesday I allowed the bright midday sun to warm me through as I made my way to the junction of Acre Lane by the Town Hall. My dentist’s was in a Victorian building above a shop next but one down from a rest centre on the opposite corner for bombed out people. I wondered whether any of the survivors of the Beechdale Road bomb were staying there. As I climbed the stairs, the dentist popped his head round the door of his surgery at the front, saying, ‘Oh, good, you’re early and the person before you’s not here so I can get on with it straight away.’

  Taking up the dentist’s offer to numb the tooth and gum, I waited about twenty minutes for the injection to take effect, passing the time chatting to the receptionist in the small rear waiting room.

  ‘Ready now?’ I followed Mr Marshall back into his surgery and settled back, watching a desultory bird swooping outside the window facing the chair.

  After a bit of prodding Mr Marshall picked up the drill and started. A moment or two later I thought the drill was developing a fault for it seemed to get gradually louder and even more growly. Mr Marshall stopped drilling but the buzzing didn’t and we looked at each other in consternation. The sound arrived overhead and suddenly cut out. No words were needed. Mr Marshall threw down the drill, grabbing my arm as I hauled myself out of the seat, and we dived for the door, squeezing through together and throwing ourselves to the floor of the corridor as the V1 exploded.

  The blast sounded every bit as loud as I remembered of the bomb in the Leatherhead field, the building shaking, taking the force of the blast wave as, with a high pitched instant shriek, the windows in the building shattered inwards and plaster from the ceiling rained down. The receptionist had also made for the landing serving the two rooms and was lying on the floor ahead of us crying. Trembling, I half sat up and realised Mr Marshall was mouthing something but I could hear him only faintly beyond the familiar high pitched ringing. At least I remembered the trick with the mouth again, I thought, as the receptionist and Mr Marshall both wiped blood trickling from their ears.

  Sitting half propped against the wall, listening to the emergency services’ response, I realised to my surprise that the building itself had survived. I recalled the curved trajectory of the falling pilotless plane above Beechdale Road and thought, if it stopped overhead, its trajectory probably propelled it to a couple of buildings or so beyond us. Oh, God, not the rest centre beyond the next door church. Let it be the church, I prayed, and let there have been no one in the church at the time.

  Returning to the surgery to retrieve my bag I stood shocked in fro
nt of the chair. The green leather upholstery was shredded by the shards of glass from the shattered window, transparent daggers still embedded.

  Mr Marshall followed me in. ‘Oh my dear,’ he said, as if from a distance. ‘What a narrow escape. For us both.’

  I turned to go, attempting to brush plaster powder off my clothes but only smearing it into the cloth.

  ‘Come back tomorrow and I’ll fix your tooth. If we’re not up and running, I’ll find you someone locally who can.’

  Emerging from the building my worst fear was realised. The rest centre was a blasted crater, body parts strewn across the road. People were walking about dazed and shocked, blood pouring from cuts from the shattered windows. A man hurrying past said to me, ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ and I raised my hand to my hair and it came away white with the powdered plaster, and I bent and beat out as much out as I could. My stomach churning at my narrow escape and the carnage around me, I crossed the road towards the Town Hall entrance. The Town Hall had survived but the windows were wrecked. People were flocking from the plaza in front of the cinema to help. An official of sorts stood on the Town Hall steps beckoning people in the direction of the entrance. A passer-by, blood trickling from a head wound, said to me, ‘Where can I go?’ ‘This way,’ I said, pleased to have something to do, ushering him towards the Town Hall front step, the official nodding to me to bring him in. For about fifteen or twenty minutes I helped shepherd the walking wounded to the entrance foyer where first aiders were setting up a temporary post. I said to the man in charge, ‘I’ve done a first aid course at college, can I help?’ and so stayed for a while longer helping to clean superficial wounds and bandage them, the Town Hall’s own first aid supplies being raided.