by Milly Adams
The RAF were doing their glorious best against this appalling tide, but bombers continued to sweep across in waves, hour after hour, targeting the docks, and whatever and whomever else they chose. Today she must go and try to persuade her mother to leave the dock mission and return with her to Little Mitherton, as Frankie wished. Miss F and Jake had agreed. Miss F had said they could resurrect the attic room. She rolled over, staring out of the window at the lightening sky, visible because she always lifted the blackout once she’d doused the oil lamp before sleep.
She liked to see the stars, to breathe fresh air, and hear the sounds of the village as people came home from the pub, or walked their yelping dogs. It was grounding, and summed up this village and its people, who stoically bore the losses in their lives and the never-ending work. Even in September the mornings were fresh, as summer cooled into early autumn. She stretched. Before she walked to the station she would have time to go with Jake to the apple trees that grew around the edge of the allotments. While he exercised Francois along the lane, she and Mrs Carruthers from the WI would pick the apples.
She smiled now, pleased with her first attempt at providing a speaker for the WI, for such was her role since Miss Deacon had become treasurer, and left a vacancy two weeks ago. She had booked Sandy Morris when the original speaker, a train enthusiast, broke his ankle. Sandy had taken over the running of the commercial orchard at Great Mitherton and had told them the whys and wherefores for good picking and good storage.
She rolled over. All this paled into insignificance beside the letter that had arrived yesterday. She slid her hand under the pillow. There it was: Sammy’s letter. She really should get up, but not yet. She eased herself up on the pillows, checked the clock. Six thirty. She read it again.
Dear Phyllie
I haven’t written before. Well, I have, but I had nowhere to send it until now. You see, at last Isaac has received notification of Jake’s whereabouts, so I am sending this to Miss Featherstone’s address as I know you won’t be far from him. Jake should have a letter soon too, if not at the same time.
It’s been fun and games here. Isaac and I were transferred to different submarines after there was a bit of a hitch with the last boat. I can’t say which one, or the others I’ve been on, but you know that. We’re back together again now, which is better. The authorities sent notification of Jake’s whereabouts to my mum in Ealing, because they lost the letter telling them to send information through the Royal Navy. I gather you wrote again to remind them. Miracle worker, you. Finally they sent it through the Navy. It’s been interesting, for Isaac and me, I think you could say. I get a bit tired from time to time, but otherwise, all is well.
I’ve tried to reach you. I don’t want you to think I haven’t. I wrote to my mum, who wrote to yours, but I expect the letter didn’t arrive because she never heard back. I rang the mission several times, but not even the sainted Mrs Saunders knew where you were. It’s a crazy postal service and I expect you don’t have phones in small villages to telephone her? Anyway, I will give you my service number and you know my rank, and there’s the Services Post Office and if you ever feel like replying, it will find me. I wanted to talk to you about what happened at the station. I hope you didn’t mind, but I love Jake, and didn’t want him upset. You keep an eye on that Ron. His dad’s a bad ’un.
Well, Phyllie. I would like to hear from you. Sometimes we come to Portland. I was there last month, embarking mines. Been a few times over the last few months. Not sure if that little snippet will get through the censor. I reckon if you have a phone, I could ring you and you could bring Jake to see his dad. We could have a talk too. I’d like that. I really really would, you see, well, I’d just like to talk, and perhaps you would too. Well, that’s it for now.
Your friend, Sammy
She pushed the letter back under the pillow. He wanted to talk to her. She’d read the last few lines many times, and knew them by heart. He’d been to Portland. They could have met if he’d known she was here. He’d phoned her mother. The fury was rising as it had done the first time she read the letter. To damp it down, she leapt from bed, walked across creaking floorboards to the bathroom, hearing Miss F downstairs in the kitchen. The kettle would be on, and perhaps there’d be an egg for Jake if Mr Milford’s chickens were still laying well. She washed in cold water as they always did in the morning. Jake met her on the landing.
‘It’s not safe, you know, not in London. You be quick. They arrive at night, so come home before then.’
‘Into the bathroom with you.’ Through his open bedroom door she could see Francois scratching himself on the old tartan blanket. On Jake’s bedside table was the letter from his father, propped up so he could see it all the time.
The train stopped so many times that it was four thirty in the afternoon before they limped into Waterloo. People were restless by then, staring through the windows and up at the sky. Few talked. Even before the train had stopped, the doors were opening and people were jumping onto the platform and pouring along the concourse, heading for the buses and the tube, fighting their way through those hurrying against them, eager to be on their homebound trains, and out of this death trap of a city.
‘Really, Mum. Why on earth don’t you do as your son wants and go to Wales?’ Phyllie seethed, anxious for her mother to be safe, but wanting her in Wales, not Little Mitherton. How dare she not relay her contact details to Sammy? She held her basket to her, knocking the gas mask hanging over her shoulder. In her basket was ‘sugarless’ jam made with honey and just a quarter of the usual sugar, which the WI made for their own use. They wished to use the extra sugar only for the war effort. It was, after all, the government’s intention. She had also brought some eggs and honey from the hives at Great Mitherton. She had covered it all with an old piece of tarpaulin because she feared the basket would be grabbed from her if anyone knew its contents.
She reached the bus stop and realised she must have been talking aloud, because the old man in front turned round, and then shuffled forward, leaving a space between them.
The queue was long. The noise of the city was loud and strange after all this time. What on earth must it be like with sirens screaming and bombers droning overhead? Well, at this rate, she’d damn well find out. She checked her watch and shuffled along towards the bus that had drawn up, making sure to keep the space between her and the old man. Hurry, hurry, she urged silently, because Jake would worry, and Miss F would pretend that she wasn’t giving it a thought. The bus squeezed in the old boy, but was then declared full. The clippie – bus conductress – tinged the bell, and the driver pulled away, but not before Phyllie had seen the relief on the old man’s face. Was it because he had left her behind or because he’d reach home, or a shelter, before the bombers?
She laughed, but to herself this time, and waited, glancing back at the queue. No one complained, or showed concern, some read newspapers or books, but the rigid high set of their shoulders told the lie. Another bus drew up heading Woolwich way. It would do, and this one she was able to board, paying the clippie, taking the ticket, smiling as the older woman nodded at her basket and quipped, ‘Up from the country for the fresh air and fun of London, are we?’
As they drove she felt cramped by the buildings, with their windows criss-crossed with tape as protection against blasts, and sandbags everywhere. Over to the left, as they trundled along, was an air raid shelter, piled high with more sandbags around the entrance, and grim crowds queuing to enter, some with children. Why on earth hadn’t they been evacuated?
The bus powered on, eastwards towards the docks, and now people were shifting in their seats and staring out of the windows. She heard them then, the droning and drumming of the planes, the thwak thwack of the ack-ack. She twisted her head in the direction of the sound. Searchlights probed the dusky skies. There were sirens in the distance, but so far, no bombs. The bus pulled up at a stop. Several alighted, hurrying along the streets. Two passengers waited to board. The clippie stopped
them, holding up her hand as she talked to the driver, an elderly man who wore his cap on one side. She nodded, waving the passengers on. ‘We’ll keep going for a bit. They’re tracking the Thames, probably heading for the Bite. Or the Royal Docks again, p’haps?’
Around her people exchanged glances, and talked about nothing. The two new passengers made their way down the bus and the clippie followed, taking their money, issuing tickets. Phyllie’s knuckles whitened as she gripped the handle of her basket. The mission was near the Bite. The searchlights stabbed the dusk and found the bombers. The bus swung round a corner and everyone fell silent as they heard the thump, thump of bombs. The sky seemed to burst with light, again and again, as though giant fireworks were exploding.
A woman just behind her said, ‘Gawd, I ’ope my mum turned the oven off before she went to the shelter, or the bleedin’ house’ll burn down.’
A man at the back yelled, ‘Might not be the ruddy oven that burns it down.’ Everyone was laughing as the bus roared past a bus stop at which no passengers stood. The drone of planes had become a roar, and Phyllie craned, searching through the window. High above, flying in from the south, were squadrons of bombers, with fighters, like gnats buzzing above, through and at them.
Ours? she wondered.
Some were diving down at more fighters. Theirs?
The thump, thump was closer, the continuous burst and crack of flames louder. Phyllie wanted to crouch down, but no one else did. Much louder, much clearer, a house seemed to burst a short way off to their right. Debris flew up into the air, and dust – so much dust – rose dark against the flare of flames. It seemed as though the earth lurched, the bus shuddered and swerved. Even over the noise of the revving of the bus, and the squeal of the tyres, they heard the splintering of glass, the crash of buildings collapsing like dominoes. Bricks cascaded, drowning the roar of planes, but only for a moment.
She heard a sort of whistle, then a bomb fell to the right, again. In the light of the flames she could actually see other bombs falling. They seemed to be chasing them, dropping through the air, just dropping, like so many sticks. Bang, bang, bang. Closer. The bus slewed to the kerb, with another squeal of brakes. The clippie rang the bell repeatedly, yelling, ‘Come on, everyone out. Get to that shelter, over to the left.’
The passengers began pouring off the bus. Phyllie struggled down the aisle, her basket and gas mask holding her up. She stopped on the platform by the clippie, yelling to be heard above the noise: ‘Come on, then.’
The clippie nodded at the driver. ‘He won’t leave the bus, so I should stay.’
The driver was gesticulating, waving her off. ‘Take her with you, miss,’ he yelled. ‘I’ll be there in a minute. Need to lock it up.’ A man shoved past Phyllie, roaring, ‘Get out the bloody way, I want to get under cover.’
Phyllie dragged the clippie off the bus onto the pavement as the man rushed off. They ducked as another blast tore into the buildings somewhere to the left. The pavement rocked as an explosion blew apart a house. Not on the street, but close, and the air was even more full of dust; no, it was cinders. Phyllie coughed, again, then again. She started to run, the clippie was faster, but knocked Phyllie’s basket, almost tumbling her to the ground. The clippie didn’t notice and ran on to the shelter, in the wake of the man.
The bombs were all around; the ground was lurching, moving. Phyllie tried to restore her balance but staggered, the basket slipping to the pavement. Waves of heat and sound smothered her, she stooped, groping for the basket handle. She could barely see through the dust, so rubbed her eyes. They stung. She saw the clippie ahead of her, turning, shouting to her, ‘This way, come on. Leave your bloody basket.’
She wouldn’t. It had part of the countryside in it; it was sanity. She gripped the handle, lifted it. There was a whoof, a great wind, a huge noise. The shops on the other side of the street burst open, bricks flew up into the air, glass splinters tinkled near her. How could they tinkle when they were weapons that killed? She felt the hand that shoved her, but it wasn’t a hand, it was a wave, and it hurled her to the ground, bricks rained, and debris, and burning wood. The pavement tipped, broke, the kerb reared up and crashed back down. There were screams.
She curled up on the ground, her arms over her head, waiting, breathing, listening, and her ears hurt from the pressure. She sobbed with the fear. Something hot hit her hand. She pulled away, sucked it. The ground was like a bucking horse. Did Destiny buck? There was a pain, and another noise, a sort of pattering of rain, but it wasn’t rain. Of course it bloody wasn’t. She opened her eyes. The lamppost was hanging at an angle. It was the glass that had showered in tiny shards. There must be so much broken glass in London. There was another whoof. She felt the draught. The sky was alight. Everywhere was alight.
She moved her arms, looking ahead. More shops were bursting, flames were roaring, reflected in the street. How? Then she saw the water. Had the mains gone? Was that it? What about gas? Her gas mask dug into her side. Had that woman’s mother left on the oven? Had their house burned? The bombs were moving away. It was like the strafing. They were bombing in a line, like a ruler, that’s what it was. Bloody Germans, so neat. Get up. She tried. Pieces of brick fell from her. She couldn’t, and lay there, her face grinding on the pavement, the grit digging in. All the time she sobbed.
It became quieter, in time. She groped for her basket. It was there. She felt for the tarpaulin. It was still on top, beneath debris. She eased herself onto all fours. There were more sirens now, fire engines. Hoses snaked across the road. A warden yelled, ‘Get out the bloody way, and into a shelter, you stupid bloody woman.’
She tried, but failed. Her leg hurt, the burn on her hand too. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ She tried again and this time made it, snatching up her basket as he blew his whistle at her. ‘Get out of the bloody way, you fool.’ It was as though she was hearing him through water.
Phyllie croaked, her throat sore, wiping her face free of the tears, only for them to fall again, but then a great anger took over. ‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that, you jumped-up little Hitler. Swallow your bloody whistle, why don’t you? It’ll bloody kill you with a bit of luck. What’s the matter with everyone, with the world?’
He heard, she knew he did, from the way he strutted away. Behind him she saw the remains of the bus, the driver half in and half out, motionless. A fireman was walking away, shaking his head. She felt her knees tremble, and reached for the wall. Don’t you dare, she told herself, don’t you dare. Stand straight. She did and breathed in deeply, then coughed. Not a good idea. Shallow breaths, eyes half closed, let the cinders settle, and no more crying.
Screams were still coming from the burning ruins. Had Miss Harvey screamed too? No, not that. She gripped the handle of the basket so tightly that the burn ached, and stumbled along, finding her way easily between and over the bricks, because it was like daylight. She should have worn her gloves, as her mother insisted. Then she wouldn’t have this huge burn. She heard the warden call, ‘Put that bloody cigarette out, mate. D’you want the planes to spot it?’
The absurdity of it made her laugh as she staggered and stumbled to the shelter, and then she couldn’t stop. She stood just inside the entrance laughing until the clippie saw her, and slapped her hard across the face. Phyllie jerked away. ‘That hurt.’
The clippie nodded. ‘It was meant to. Hysterics don’t help anyone, country girl. Neither does yelling at the warden. He doesn’t come in to safety. He just tries to make sure we do. You should find him and apologise.’
Phyllie stared at her. She was right. She turned and headed for the pavement, but was dragged down the stairs into what was clearly a cellar. ‘Not now, girl, but I’ll give you his address and you can do it tomorrow, before you go home. That’s where you should make for, if you’ve got any sense.’
Phyllie nodded. ‘I’ll make time, but it’s too late for the bus driver. The bomb got him.’ She was shaking all over now. The moment she said it she wanted t
o cut out her tongue as the clippie stared, then paled, tears streaming down her face.
‘That’s me dad. He came back from retirement. That’s me dad.’ It was Phyllie who held her back now, dropping her basket to the ground as people sitting on benches looked on.
By 8.30 p.m. the raid was over, but another wave would come, or so a woman said, the one wearing a felt hat and flowery overall who was now looking after the clippie. Phyllie stuffed the address of the warden into her pocket, saying, ‘Thank you, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I must go, my mum, you see, she’s waiting.’
‘You’re one lucky cow, you know,’ the clippie said, her voice dead and numb, ‘seeing your mum, and then going back to the country.’
Phyllie set off for the mission. It was light enough from the fires for her to see her way, though she walked through smoke that was more like a fog, coughing into her handkerchief, just like others she passed. She didn’t need to call on the air raid warden because he was directing someone to the shelter. She caught his arm, interrupting. His eyes were red from the smoke, his face drawn with exhaustion.
‘I was rude to you. I’m sorry. You were trying to help me.’
He didn’t know what she was talking about and said, ‘Got to get on. They’ll be back. Get yourself to where you’re going, miss, quickly.’
She didn’t arrive at her mother’s that evening, because the bombers were indeed back, and this time, when the air raid siren whined, she dived down into the nearest tube station with all the others. She sat on the cold platform all night, as the trains continued to run, disgorging passengers, and taking on others. People talked, babies cried, and children ran over those who were sleeping.
