The rescue-party co-ordinator for the West Side, Bob Black, spent a few minutes telling Kezzie that they were using her grandad’s tunnel as an example of safe rescuing procedures.
‘We knew there was an UXB in that tenement,’ he told Kezzie, ‘but he could hear folk calling for help. He volunteered to go in.’ He shook Kezzie’s hand as they parted. ‘He was a brave man.’
She knew that they were having a memorial stone prepared for him, to mark the fact that Grandad had been killed while attempting to rescue his fellow countrymen. It would read: ‘Greater love hath no man than this …’
Peg had to go back to Clydebank to arrange the funeral of her brother and his wife. Kezzie went with her to help out. The appearance of the town stunned them both. Kezzie had hoped to moved back there with Lucy into some type of temporary accommodation. Bella would never say so, but Kezzie knew that her house was overcrowded. She needed the room for her own children. They couldn’t expect her to put them up for too long. But now Kezzie saw that it would be months before any type of property was available in Clydebank. A sign of the relentless pounding the buildings had taken was that, out of the whole town, only eight houses were undamaged by bomb blasts.
To see it in daylight, in the hard glare of the cold spring sunlight made Kezzie feel quite weak. All along the main roads every window was shattered, the chimneys had fallen down, and the streets and pavements were piled with slates, splintered wood, brick and plaster. Raging fires which now burned out had left the charred and blackened gable ends of tenements poking up into the sky. The housing estates at Radnor and Kilbowie were devastated, the walls of the homes which were still standing, pitted and scarred. Kezzie found it strange that she’d managed to function during the actual raid, when hell was pouring out of the skies, yet now she felt confused and disorientated by it all.
It was the desolation, the sight of everyday things from ordinary households lying crushed in the street, which upset her most. A frying pan, a smashed framed photograph, a favourite chair, now broken and useless. Dozens of starving dogs and cats were running wild for days, until an animal clinic was opened in order to have them painlessly put to sleep. The sad remnants of little families could be seen searching through collections of furniture and personal possessions piled in the streets. What was left of them, brothers and sisters together with any close relative, tragically small groups of people, trudged to the Rest Centres carrying all they could salvage, sometimes with the youngest member trotting behind, clasping the birdcage.
Peg and Kezzie held on to each other as they made their way through the streets. Clean water for drinking had been brought in barrels from Glasgow and there were long queues holding kettles, teapots or jugs. The YMCA tea cars parked their mobile canteens outside the church halls. In Casella’s café a constant stream of refugees came through the door, where Ricardo, his mother and aunt handed out hot soup and slices of bread and margarine. Each night people slept on makeshift beds on their floor. They seemed incapable of turning anyone away.
She knew that they also had no space for her and Lucy. Signor Biagi’s latest tribunal hearing had agreed that, in the special circumstances, he would be allowed to return to Clydebank. When things settled down, they wouldn’t need Kezzie’s assistance in the shop. Peg and the baby were now living there. With Ricardo, the three of them made such a compact and joyful unit among the surrounding chaos. Kezzie was deeply moved by their happiness. Each moment was now valued, each measure of time spent together precious.
Kezzie’s heart ached for Michael. His company at this time would have lifted her spirits so much. Where was he now? she wondered. Under what foreign sky did he rise in the morning or lie down to sleep at night? Stationed in some far-away place in the hot desert, he would receive in time the letter she’d sent giving him her dreadful news. Why wasn’t he here, so that she could tell him properly, and then he could comfort her? She was so tired that she felt like weeping for ever and never ceasing.
It wasn’t openly discussed, but everyone thought that they would be attacked again, some time in the near future, especially as the yards had got off so lightly. Only hours after the all-clear had sounded, an enemy reconnaissance plane had come in at high altitude to assess the damage. Kezzie supposed that it was due partly to her country’s spirit and determination that folk were trying to keep production going. In the week following the blitz thousands of workers walked miles from their billets and Rest Centres to return to work. John Brown’s, the Royal Ordnance Factory, Singer’s, Beardmore’s, all struggled to get their output back up. And they were succeeding, they were producing the parts and supplying the forces.
Things were getting back to normal. So … she shouldn’t feel so bad about thinking of leaving. It was the best thing to do, for both Lucy and herself. She knew that she would have to give up her studies for the present, but she needed time to recuperate anyway, and then to plan for the future. There was some small income due to them from her grandfather’s dependency fund, but she’d soon have to make better provision for Lucy and herself. Kezzie took out the letter which she’d received yesterday and read it again.
Dear Kezzie,
I am sending this via the post office in Shawcross as I know it is the nearest town to your home village. I hope that it reaches you and that you and your family are in good health. It is very difficult to obtain clear news of what Clydebank has suffered in the recent blitz. Due to censorship the newspapers are frustratingly vague, but I have gleaned enough information to realise that you may need some support. Please do come and stay with me, Kezzie, I would welcome an opportunity to repay the debt I owe you.
With warmest wishes,
Mary Elizabeth Fitzwilliam
PS Travel arrangements may be complicated so I enclose the name and address of a friend in Edinburgh. I shall wire him to be ready to secure train tickets for you if need be.
Kezzie came to a decision. Tomorrow she would take a bus to Edinburgh and find Lady Fitzwilliam’s friend. Then she and Lucy would make the journey to England.
PART TWO
England
CHAPTER 21
Travelling south
THE TRAIN JOURNEY from Edinburgh south to England was long and tedious. Kezzie was glad that she’d managed to beg some books and comics for Lucy, so that she had something to read as they sat squashed together in the corner of one of the crowded compartments. They were lucky to have obtained a seat at all. At any moment Kezzie expected her sister to start to complain, and she was trying to think of some bright conversation and word games to divert her as soon as the inevitable boredom and petulance began. There was little room and the air soon became hot and stuffy, but Lucy said nothing. As the hours passed she squirmed around in her seat but still spoke no word of protest.
Kezzie thought about this. Something had altered in her sister since the Blitz, some subtle change which she couldn’t quite describe. She recalled when they’d been making their farewells to Ricardo and his family, Lucy had been very composed, more so, in fact, than Kezzie. Saying goodbye to Peg had been particularly traumatic. The two friends had become so much closer over the past eighteen months. Lucy had surprised them both by suddenly thrusting her rag doll into Peg’s hand.
‘I want you to keep her,’ she said.
‘Oh no!’ said Peg, giving Lucy her doll back at once. ‘I know how much she means to you. You can’t possibly give her away.’
‘Yes, I can,’ said Lucy firmly. ‘I don’t need her any more.’
Peg looked at Kezzie. ‘What do I do?’ Peg mouthed the words silently across the top of Lucy’s head.
Kezzie shook her own head. She bent down and she spoke to her sister. ‘Are you sure about this, Lucy?’ she asked. ‘Kissy has been with us for a long time.’
‘Yes,’ said Lucy. ‘But I’m grown-up now, and Alec will need something to cuddle if the bombers come back.’ She tucked her rag doll under the little boy’s arm.
This was an older and wiser child who now sat beside K
ezzie on another part of their travels. And, although Kezzie knew that Lucy at some stage must leave her babyhood, she couldn’t help a faint feeling of wistfulness for the little girl who had depended on her for so long.
The quiet countryside passed by on the other side of the glass. First the Lammermuir hills in the distance, a purply gold mantle which encircled the coastal towns, and then suddenly the train was running alongside the North Sea. Close by the beaches of Gullane and after Dunbar, the water was gentle, and the waves broke in long rolling lines among the sandy dunes. Further out the haar hung cold and damp, shrouding the lighthouses and marker buoys. Beyond them in the deep seas the U-boat wolf packs hunted the British merchant ships in an attempt to starve the island into submission.
Kezzie gazed out of the window. She was almost happy to be away. She needed to distance herself from the devastation and destruction. She had to have some rest, her mind and body were close to exhaustion. She was weary of this war, of the sacrifices and the constant doing without. The senseless loss of life she’d witnessed confused and bewildered her, and the death of her beloved grandfather had brought her down completely. Even the manner of his death, which should have been a source of pride, did not ease her grief. Her emotions were swamped and she felt unable to cope with any of the ordinary things of life. It was in fact Lucy who’d organised most of their arrangements. It was she who comforted Kezzie, had taken charge of her and made her eat when she was too listless to do so. And of them all, only her Aunt Bella had understood Kezzie’s desire to leave Scotland and her friends.
‘You go to England, hen. Let this lady friend of yours look after you. You’re not running away. If you don’t get a rest soon then ye’ll have a breakdown, and be no use to anyone.’
The train crossed the border into Berwick-on-Tweed and headed further south. It was hard at times to know exactly where they were as the signposts had either been removed or painted out. They were frequently shunted backwards and forwards, or kept waiting in stations.
In a siding where they’d been left for nearly half an hour Kezzie watched a gang of workmen laying some rail track a few yards distant. They had their caps pulled down over their faces as they worked. She put her head on one side. Their manner and appearance was strange, but she didn’t know why. Was it the way their trouser legs were tucked into their boots, or how they held the heavy crowbars and pickaxes? What was it that was unfamiliar? One had shirt sleeves rolled up past the elbows, and it was those slim and pale arms that made Kezzie realise what was different. They were all female. Not such an unusual sight, now, in wartime, she thought, but worthy of comment all the same.
The whole aspect of a woman’s life and dress was changing. Most of the trams and buses had female conductresses, and many of the older girls in the streets were in uniform. Women were now much less formally dressed in daytime. Headscarves were more usual, rather than a smart hat. Many women pinned their hair up and went hatless. A few were even wearing trousers in public. Kezzie smiled as she remembered her Aunt Bella telling her of one of her neighbours who had started to wear dungarees. This of course had caused great comment in the tiny village of Stonevale, as Bella related to Kezzie.
‘Well,’ the poor woman said defensively to Bella. ‘They’re very practical. And I’ll be better off wearing them if I have to go into one of these air-raid shelters. You try crawling into an Anderson shelter with your skirt and suspenders on. At least I won’t be showing off all of next week’s washing for everyone to see.’
‘Aw, hen,’ replied Bella, ‘if we do get attacked, an’ Jerry starts droppin’ bombs, ah’ll tell ye one thing. See when we’re all running’ tae the shelters, they’ll be naebody lookin’ at your knickers.’
The rest of the passengers on the train also began to realise that the work squad outside was a group of women. There were lots of young men on the train: soldiers, sailors and airmen travelling to join their units. Very soon the whistling and catcalls started. The windows went up, carriage by carriage, and further down the train a door opened. Some soldiers jumped out and walked along the track to offer cigarettes. The girls chatted and joked with the young men before the guard eventually blew his whistle and waved them back aboard.
Kezzie studied the uniforms as they passed. She always felt that little bit closer to Michael if she saw the Argyll and Sutherland tartan or cap badge.
They changed at York to a branch line which skirted Sheffield, ran through Chesterfield and on down in the direction of Derby. The main station was very busy and they’d to wait some time for their connection, so it was late evening when the train finally arrived, wheezing and puffing, into the tiny station of West Fenton. Kezzie and Lucy stepped down onto the platform. They looked around them at the picket fencing and the brave display of daffodils and crocuses in one window-box beside the ticket office. Kezzie smiled. The other had carrots growing in it. There was no indication at all of where they were. It was fortunate that both the guard and the conductor had looked after them so well, and made sure that they knew when to get off. Kezzie gazed at the fields stretching far into the distance on all sides. She picked up the small cardboard suitcase which held all their belongings.
‘There must be a post office nearby,’ she told Lucy. ‘We’ll ring Close Manor House from there.’
She took out the letter from Lady Fitzwilliam which had the telephone number written on it, and went to speak to the man in the ticket office. He glared at her when she asked for directions to the village.
‘Arr,’ he said with a thick country burr. ‘I don’t understand a word of what you’ve said.’ He came out from his little office and peered at Kezzie suspiciously. ‘Are you a German spy?’ he demanded.
Lucy giggled. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Are you?’
The man narrowed his eyes and looked at her more closely. ‘That’s a very strange accent you have,’ he declared. ‘Very strange indeed.’
‘Mr Penrose,’ a voice called out loudly from behind them. ‘This young lady is a friend of mine. Who do you think she is? Mata Hari?’
‘A most peculiar way of talking,’ muttered the man, as he reluctantly returned to his desk.
‘My dear, I am so glad to see you once more.’ Lady Fitzwilliam took Kezzie’s hand and shook it formally. ‘And this must be Lucy.’
As Lady Fitzwilliam bent down to say hello, Lucy, with a most natural gesture, kissed her.
Lady Fitzwilliam flushed with pleasure. She straightened up and touched her cheek with a gloved hand. ‘Such a charming child. I don’t wonder that you travelled so far to find her again.’
She led them outside to where a pony and trap stood in the country road. ‘Here we are, my dear. I’ve managed to arrange transport for us. Unfortunately we must conserve petrol, so this will have to do. You don’t mind, do you?’ she asked.
Kezzie laughed. ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I expected to walk.’
There was an elderly uniformed chauffeur standing respectfully beside the pony. He was holding its reins and regarding it nervously.
Lady Fitzwilliam introduced them. ‘This is Samuel,’ she said. ‘He was my husband’s driver. Now he is coping very well with this form of transport, aren’t you, Samuel?’ she asked him.
‘A bit more unpredictable than motor cars, ma’am,’ he said.
‘Nonsense,’ said Lady Fitzwilliam. ‘I remember distinctly when my husband bought the first Daimler. You were very reluctant to try it out.’
‘That was twenty years ago, ma’am,’ murmured Samuel. ‘I’ve got used to mechanical engines.’
‘I don’t think you should be so worried about driving a horse, even after a gap of twenty years, surely?’
Samuel eyed the pony again. ‘It’s not so much me being worried about the horse, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I think it’s more a case of the horse being worried about me.’
Lucy had been hopping about, pulling grass from the banks of grass at the sides of the road and trying to feed the animal.
‘Can I sit up at the fron
t?’ she begged.
Kezzie frowned at her, frightened that Lucy’s natural exuberance would be taken for rudeness.
Lucy saw her sister’s face. ‘Please,’ she added quickly.
Lady Fitzwilliam leaned over and pinched Lucy’s cheek with her gloved fingers. ‘You, my darling, can do exactly as you wish.’
CHAPTER 22
Close Manor
THEY MADE THEIR way through the small village of West Fenton, over the level crossing, past some thatched cottages and out into the country. It was like no other part of the world, thought Kezzie.
‘It’s so …’ She searched for the word. ‘… so picturesque.’
The evening sky was slatted with long low clouds, lit from behind with the rays of the sunset. The pleasant sound of birdsong, the steady trot of the horse and the wheels turning were all that could be heard.
Kezzie leaned back in her seat, and let the serenity of the English countryside surround her. ‘It’s quite beautiful,’ she said.
Tucked away in an undisturbed part of a traditional British landscape, it appeared to her that nothing had altered here for many years. And I hope it never will, she thought, as they rode along past high hedgerows, fields and meadows.
She knew that the idyll before her was part illusion, of course. Not many miles distant lay Derby, where there was a concentration of heavy and light industry. The Rolls-Royce works were working on the new Merlin engine and turned out the parts for Spitfires and Hurricanes. The town, despite its civilian population, had been a target for the Luftwaffe already, and would continue to be.
But for the moment she could pretend. She and Lucy could relax in this lush and fertile landscape. She did need some rest, some time to recuperate.
They entered a long drive through ornate stone pillars, gravel spitting out from under the horse’s hooves as they made their way past the gatehouse.
Kezzie at War Page 24
