As I walked home later the hopelessness overwhelmed me and the road ahead was just a blur. Why can’t they stop this? When will it ever end? How come we’re three weeks into the Second Front and still they keep coming? The Germans haven’t even got the decency to send men for us to fight but only these unspeakable automated weapons of destruction.
Only when my mother, shrieking in horror at my dishevelled, plaster-smeared appearance, pointed to dried blood on my neck did I realise that I too had been cut by flying glass on the side of my head.
Returning to Doncaster two days later with a repaired tooth was a blessed relief. No buzz bombs, no terror from the skies. I felt guilty that my parents were in the thick of it. That evening I wrote a long letter to Jon, telling him the events of the past week, leaving nothing out.
This has to be stopped, I concluded. What is the government doing about these things? Nothing! It’s taken too long for the Allied forces to get round to the invasion. And now it’s underway, when will they reach Germany and end the war? They’ve only just taken Caen! We are assuming victory but even if it is eventually achieved it’s not going to meanwhile stop the dreadful slaughter that is right now happening before my eyes. Everyone scoffed at Hitler’s secret weapon. What was the government doing to prevent it? Nothing! Where is the AA defence against these things? Nowhere! Surely we should be able to shoot these things down as they come. But all our AA guns seem to do is point vaguely in the right direction and hope for the best. Compared with conventional aeroplanes these pilotless planes are small. I know, I saw one. It may have been at a distance but I saw the planes flying in the Battle of Britain and even the smallest, the Spitfires, were very much bigger than these new strange creatures. Even so, they are big enough to see clearly in the sky and surely by now our guns should be sophisticated enough to bring them down before they reach us. I am angry, so angry that people are dying and nothing is being done about it. And I am so scared for my parents. Just when we thought the war would soon be over we are now facing a new threat.
I am sorry, Jon, that you are bearing the brunt of my anger and my grief. Please forgive me for burdening you. I do appreciate your contribution to the war effort as searchlights are needed to spot the ones coming over at night for our fighters to aim at even if the AA guns are useless. I thank God every night that your unit keeps you in Lancashire away from these new menaces.
Is there any chance I will see you again soon? I am returning to London next week for good. In Bury you have been comparatively so near and yet so far. I love you and I miss you.
Your
Pat
I was delighted with my exam results posted on the following Monday morning and some of the girls and I treated ourselves to lunch at Parkinson’s café in the High Street, crowding into one of the round Georgian bay windows, and buying tins of precious Parkinson’s butterscotch as mementos and presents. I was even more thrilled to find a letter awaiting me on my return to my billet late that afternoon from the Headmistress of Hammersmith Central School for Girls inviting me for interview for a second art teacher position which would also involve a mix of other subjects, a perfect start to a teaching career. Although the school was officially evacuated, so many girls remained in London the school needed staff to cover their London venue. I did a double take on the interview date. This coming Thursday. I dashed off a note to my parents straight away in the hope it would reach them on Wednesday morning. Tuesday was spent getting permission to finish at college a few days early, packing my trunk for collection and delivery by freight rail and sharing a farewell dinner with the Morleys. I was sad to be leaving a town and a family which had welcomed and nurtured me for two years and at the same time I was excited by the potential the future held.
On Wednesday morning I settled down for the journey, catching up on sleep and reaching London early afternoon. I picked up a train from Victoria to Brixton, walking from the station to stretch my legs from the long journey. Averting my line of sight as I passed the bombsite of the previous week, I stopped for a few quiet moments in St Matthew’s Church in remembrance of the people who died in the two V1 attacks I had witnessed. I looked forward to greeting my parents and Booty, perhaps visiting my grandmother later and getting ready for tomorrow’s interview. It was a warm day and I chose the longer shaded route along the Rush Common strip of land, thinking of Bill in France as I passed the beech tree beneath which he had kissed me four and a half years ago and parted from me in anger two years ago.
Turning the corner into Water Lane I thought, that’s strange, there seems to be something odd about the road ahead. People were standing in the road near the junction with St Matthew’s Road and, as I broke into a run, a cold sweat enveloping me, I saw that the entire corner and several houses beyond it along Water Lane had been completely obliterated.
‘Hey, stop there, young lady,’ called a warden, stepping in my way as I ducked under the rope wound round stunted trees and poles surrounding the missing houses. I couldn’t even make out the line of the front boundary. Before me lay a mountainous jumble of bricks, twisted and burnt metal, singed papers fluttering and a lingering smell of burnt wood and greasy, roasted meat. Several men were carefully testing the rubble beneath their feet as they prodded the ruins with sticks.
I stood trembling, disbelieving, my mouth working but no sound coming out, my small case falling from my grasp.
‘Did you know these people?’ the warden asked. ‘I’m afraid there’ve been a few casualties. We don’t know if we’ve got all the bodies out.’
‘My parents. The second house along. I can’t believe it.’
‘How old were they? We got an old couple out from that one,’ he said, pointing to the place where our home had stood. ‘I’m sorry, they were goners.’
‘Mr and Mrs Haywood,’ I said. ‘The middle flat was empty when I was here last week. Did you find a black and white cat?’
The man seemed taken aback that I should be concerned about a cat.
‘We haven’t got anyone else out yet from this end.’
‘Who can I ask?’ I persisted. ‘Where can I go?’
‘Town Hall.’
Ignoring his suggestion, I turned and ran back along Water Lane, clutching my handbag, my head shrieking, No, no, no! Left onto Brixton Hill, crossing the road, diving along Lambert Street and at the end holding my sides, gasping for air, right into Strathleven Road, only a few more yards to go, launching myself at the front door of my grandmother’s house and banging, desperately banging, crying, clinging to the door knocker, the door opening and my grandmother standing there dressed neatly in grey, her long greying hair scraped up into a bun and her mouth a perfect ‘O’ as she beheld me half bent and snivelling on the doorstep.
‘Mummy and Daddy, they’re dead.’
There, I’d said it, and I broke down completely, curling over, holding myself tight and crying out in huge, empty gasps.
My grandmother, putting her arms round me, propelled me into the sitting room, saying, ‘No they’re not,’ me crying hysterically, ‘Yes they are,’ and my mother saying, ‘Pat,’ and embracing me and holding me tight.
I looked up through a blur of tears. She was real, her warm breath on my face, her firm hands gripping me. The relief was so immense I could not stand and my mother guided me into an armchair.
‘What are you doing here, Pat? I’ve already sent you a letter this morning telling you about the house and that we’re all right.’
‘We?’
‘Daddy and Booty too.’
My grandmother disappeared and a moment later returned, depositing Booty on to my lap, who meowed and purred and kneaded his paws into my leg.
‘Daddy’s upstairs trying to sleep,’ replied my mother to my unspoken question. ‘He was at work last night when the bomb landed. More to the point, what are you doing here today? How could you have known?’
‘I didn’t,’ I gulped. ‘I’ve got an interview tomorrow so the college released me early. I wrote to you. You shoul
d have got the letter today…’
My voice tailed off.
I became aware of old Mr Torston examining me quizzically from the armchair opposite.
‘Give the child a stiff tot of something,’ he said, and my grandmother found a glass and thrust a generous helping of brandy in my hand. I disliked brandy but today it was nectar. As the slow warming calm spread I remembered the sweet feeling of my first cigarette reaching to the tips of my fingers and longed for one now.
To another unspoken question my mother explained that she’d been on a late shift at the Beaver Club last night and arranged to stay on in the shelter there. ‘I brought Booty round to Nanny to look after before I went in to work. With these dreadful rocket planes falling I didn’t like to leave him on his own in case he was scared.’
I cuddled Booty and let the grownups fuss around me, and my father came down to see what the commotion was about and I was so reassured to see him safe that I cried again.
‘Poor Mr and Mrs Haywood,’ I said, and my mother nodded.
‘They’d just got them out when I got back from the Club this morning. Both dead, but not too badly burnt. At least they were fairly intact.’
‘Adela!’ said my father warningly to my mother, and I said, ‘It’s all right, Daddy, you know I was at Beechdale Road and then the Town Hall one last week. How about the neighbours in the other houses?’
‘I heard the young boy in the one at the far end was pulled out alive,’ said my mother, ‘but I don’t know about the rest.’
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ said my grandmother.
‘Where will we live?’
‘You’ll stay here tonight,’ said Mr Torston.
‘Much appreciated, of course,’ said my father, ‘on behalf of Adela and Pat. I’ll have to go in to work as usual.’
‘There’ll be no trouble getting somewhere else tomorrow,’ said my mother. ‘Plenty rooms around to rent with more and more people getting away to the country to avoid these dreadful new sort of bombs.’
‘All your lovely things,’ I said to Mummy, putting my hand on her arm, tears welling again. ‘All your photographs and mementos.’
My mother sat on the arm of the chair, comforting me. ‘My dear, we’re all alive. Be thankful for small mercies. Did you bring any clothes back in your little case?’
‘My case,’ I cried, my hand flying to my mouth. ‘I dropped it on the ground in front of the…’ I couldn’t bring myself to say ‘house’. Rubble.
‘I’ll go round and find it for you,’ said my father, and sped off upstairs to finish getting ready to go out.
‘Don’t worry,’ said my mother, ‘we’ll get extra clothes coupons and we’ll manage. There’s plenty of furniture going in the second-hand shops nowadays, we don’t need a great deal anyway. And some of our things and most of our books Nanny agreed to look after when we moved from West Norwood as we didn’t have room for everything, so they’re here.’
My grandmother echoed my mother’s earlier sentiment. ‘Count your blessings, my dear. Plenty of people’ve lost loved ones. We’re the lucky ones.’
‘You’re right,’ I said, feeling guilty. Right now my trunk was on its way with everything from Doncaster, my clothes, my books, my artwork. And my father would retrieve my little case with my photo of Jon and my most precious books. Including Great Expectations. And my multi-photo page with the two gaps. Grieving the loss of Bill’s friendship I’d nearly destroyed my links with him as I had James’ letters, but subsequent regret of having retained nothing of James stayed my hand. And I still had Booty, who shifted in my lap, made himself more comfortable and in turn comforted my soul.
14
Official Secrets
Staff Sergeant Cooper told the group there was an errand he needed Jon to run for him. He took Jon to the door and, checking they were out of earshot, said, ‘CO wants to see you at the double, Dorringham.’
Strange, thought Jon, on a Monday?
Presenting himself at the major’s hut, he was shown to the inner office door by the lieutenant who, before opening the door, rolled his pale brown eyes and executed a slicing motion with his hand across his own neck.
What have I done?
The major sat with a sheaf of small handwritten pages in his hand.
Jon was not invited to sit and, with mounting horror, recognised Pat’s flowing handwriting on the sheets.
‘One of your young ladies it seems has a mind of her own. Unfortunately for her she doesn’t keep it tucked away inside her pretty little head but sees fit to put her views down on paper for all the world to read. Further, it would seem that she has previously written to you in similar vein.’ The major consulted the pages and Jon could see some red underlining through the thin paper.
‘I quote,’ continued the major, ‘ “I wrote to you last week about this and I don’t mind telling you again”.’
He looked up, his dark eyes piercing below bushy eyebrows, narrowed with exasperation.
‘Bring me all the letters you have received from, ah,’ looking at the signature page, ‘Pat. My lieutenant will accompany you to ensure you bring all of them to me.’
Jon, reeling, took Lieutenant Sandys to his hut. Peter lounged on a bed, scrambling up and standing to attention as the lieutenant preceded Jon into the hut.
‘Why aren’t you in the instruction hut?’ barked the lieutenant.
‘Dicky tummy,’ Peter responded, indicating the bucket strategically placed near the head of the bed and holding his stomach. ‘Both ends, I’m afraid. Sir.’
‘Take that tummy to the toilet hut and stay there until I tell you to leave. And say nothing of this to anyone. Got that?’
With Peter gone, Jon opened his bedside locker and extracted a bundle of letters neatly tied with string. Suppressing a tidal wave of anger he handed the bundle to the lieutenant who thrust it inside his jacket. Flicking his dark head, the lieutenant led the way.
Jon stood to attention while the major skimmed each letter. Tossing the last on top of the pile, he said,
‘Where’s the last one? The one to which she refers?’
Jon maintained his body language and facial expression of deferential puzzlement. That peculiar training in Scotland had its uses. How to kill a man with your bare hands, how to survive in the open living off the land for days on end, evasion techniques and, most relevant now, resisting interrogation. Ironic he was now benefitting from the last against his own people. I wouldn’t mind practising the first on the major now.
‘Well?’
‘The last letter, sir, is, I recall, one in which she wrote about a play that she and some of her fellow students performed in the schools where they’d done their teaching practice, sir. A little light relief, she said, from the slog of revision for the final exams.’
The major picked up the last he had read. ‘Quite. Written on the eleventh of June. It is now the tenth of July. A long interval. This latest letter suggests she has written in the meantime. Are you not surprised and a little concerned to have heard nothing from her in that interval?’
‘It may be disappointing, sir, but hardly surprising. She’s due to finish at her college about now and has been very busy over the past few weeks preparing for and taking her final examinations. I also understand her to be busying herself with applications for suitable jobs. Sir.’
‘There’s nothing untoward in this letter. Are you sure you haven’t received one since? What’s this reference to similar sentiments in her most recent letter, then?’
Jon chose his words carefully. ‘I’m sorry I have nothing to help you solve the puzzle, sir. Possibly she wrote and the letter went astray.’
The major sniffed deeply and exhaled through his long nose. ‘Well, let’s hope to God the letter didn’t fall into the wrong hands. This sort of sentiment could land her in a lot of trouble. More to the point, her landing in trouble could prejudice our mission. Forewarned is forearmed.’
The major stacked the letters from the bundle tog
ether and stood and thrust them at Jon, passing him the string.
‘If the missing letter ever comes to light bring it to me immediately. That’s an order. Dismissed.’
The major sat down and drew another pile of papers in front of him.
Jon hesitated.
‘Sir.’
The major looked up from the papers.
‘Her latest letter. Sir.’
‘The gist of it is that her house was flattened by a flying bomb and she and her family are safe and sound, including, I gather, the cat, and can be contacted at her grandmother’s. Oh, and she’s rescued a Jack Russell that belonged to a dead neighbour called Monty. The dog, not the neighbour. You have her grandmother’s address? Your next letter to her will, of course, be read by our censors in the usual way as will all subsequent letters to and from her. Dismissed.’
Heart thudding with the effort of retraining his anger at the major’s cavalier attitude to Pat’s distressing news, Jon made his way back to the instruction hut, retrieving Peter from the latrines and returning him to the bunk hut on his way. ‘Sorry to be a bit cloak-and-daggerish, old chap,’ he answered casually to Peter’s ‘What the fuck was that all about?’ ‘You know they carry out searches in our absence? No? Oh, well, they do, to check no one’s concealing any of the stuff we do ready to hand over to enemy agents. I know, it’s laughable, isn’t it? They decided to check me out because they heard I’ve taken up smoking recently and wanted to check out my cigarette packet in case I’m using that to conceal secret formulae. Are you all right?’
The Keeping of Secrets Page 27
