The Night Raid

by Clare Harvey

  ‘You get off,’ George said. ‘I can take it from here.’

  ‘Wait, I’ll just double-check these figures on the aluminium purchase invoice first, don’t trust the buggers.’ The telephone rang and Bill answered: ‘Manager’s office . . . no, this is Bill Simmons speaking. Oh, good evening, and how are you? Good, good, what can I help with? . . . I’ll just see if he’s arrived, yet. One moment, please.’ He put a hand over the receiver. ‘Are you here?’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Dame whatsit, the one who did the painting, wants to talk. What shall I say?’

  ‘I’m here,’ George said, even though his stomach lurched at the thought of it. He stepped over to the desk, and reached to take the receiver from Bill. ‘Hello?’

  ‘George Handford, is that you?’ Her voice scratchy and faint down the phone line. ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me, Dame Laura. I can hear you. How are you?’

  ‘Well, more to the point, how are you?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ He could feel Bill looking at him. ‘Fine,’ he repeated. There was a pause, then. When he turned to look down, Bill was scribbling a sum in the margin of an invoice and frowning.

  ‘It’s about Zelah.’

  Hearing her name was a jolt. Nobody else so much as breathed it. Since that night it was as if even mentioning her name would cause something terrible to happen. It was like the way actors always referred to Macbeth as the ‘Scottish Play’. People spoke of the ‘personal tragedy’ he’d suffered or his ‘tragic loss’. Nobody said her name, hadn’t done for months. Until now. He grasped the receiver hard, feeling it slide where his palm pricked with fresh sweat. ‘What about her?’

  ‘The painting . . .’ The line went muzzy then and her voice faded into white noise. Was Dame Laura coming back? Were they sending her back to have another attempt? Her voice came again: ‘. . . turn it into a poster and roll it out to factories nationwide, and I just wanted to check you didn’t mind, George.’

  ‘But the painting was destroyed in the raid.’

  ‘I know that. I’m not talking about that one, I’m talking about the other one. I was worried that you might see it as exploiting the grief surrounding Zelah’s death. Do you? Because I can put the kibosh on it, if that’s the case?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Laura, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Ah, I forgot. Of course, you weren’t there, that night.’

  What night? What painting? He was lost. He heard her draw breath. ‘After the raid I came back to Nottingham, and I sketched the night shift – all that was left of it. Afterwards I spent some time in a grubby hotel in Long Eaton and worked it up into a watercolour. I had a few days before they needed me for the Skeffington job. I only did it for myself, at the time, as a way of making sense of the senselessness, do you see?’

  He did. He knew all about the senselessness of it.

  ‘Anyway, I happened to show it to K – Ken Clark, you know – and he said he’d like to posterise it, put it up in the factories. Apparently the ministry have been asking for something suitable to warn of the dangers of factory fires.

  ‘But it wasn’t a fire,’ George said. ‘It was a raid.’ He watched Bill shoving some purchase orders into the in-tray and taking a last swig from his Bovril mug.

  He heard Laura sigh. ‘I know. I think it was the expression of shock and loss on people’s faces, and the backdrop of burnt equipment, which he thought he could put to good use. Listen, George, if you’re not happy with it, then, as I said, I can ask them not to go ahead.’

  ‘It makes no odds to me. Life goes on.’

  ‘Good of you to be so understanding, George.’

  He heard Bill’s chair scrape on the lino as he stood up. ‘Life goes on.’ George repeated the empty platitude, not knowing what else to say.

  ‘And Violet?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Violet Smith?’

  ‘She’s fine. She’s out of hospital. The burns have healed up and she’s been back on the tools.’ He saw Bill shrugging on his coat.

  ‘Good. Would it be too much trouble to ask to have a quick word?’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s not available. She’s – she might be off for some time.’

  ‘The baby?’

  ‘Yes.’ He hadn’t known she knew. Who had told her?

  ‘And what has she decided to do? Will she take it back to her family in Kent?’

  Bill had finished buttoning up his coat and was taking his hat off the peg. ‘No, that’s not a feasible option, so—’

  ‘Adoption, then?’

  ‘I don’t think so, but—’ With Bill still in the room it was impossible to speak freely of such things. (Violet had told him in confidence, awkwardly, with a defiant jut to her chin, as if he’d judge. Christ. As if he had any right to judge her, after everything that had happened.)

  ‘Ah, I think I understand,’ Dame Laura said. ‘Do send her my love, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I will, of course I will.’

  Another pause, then, ‘I was wondering if you’d like the painting,’ she said. ‘The original, I mean. I can get them to send it to you, once the print run has been set up, if you’d like?’

  A painting of the aftermath of the raid, of all the trauma and disbelief – did he want it? Did he really want to hang that up in his house, a constant reminder of his loss?

  ‘It’s very kind of you, but—’

  ‘I quite understand.’ She rescued him.

  ‘So, what are you up to, these days?’ he began, but the pips went then – he hadn’t realised she was in a call box – and he just about managed to say goodbye before the line went dead.

  He placed the receiver back in its cradle and exhaled slowly, taking in the messy desk: ashtray overflowing with Bill’s butts, toppling in-tray. When he looked up Bill was in the doorway, about to leave.

  ‘I’ll be off then,’ Bill said.

  ‘Hang on, old man.’ He walked over to where Bill stood. ‘Those plans I had? I can cancel them. Please tell Marjorie I’d love to join you and the family some time.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  George nodded.

  ‘She’ll be delighted, and so will the boys,’ Bill said, and smiled.

  George leant in and reached out a hand, and Bill took it. His firm clasp gripped hard. ‘I’m lucky to have a colleague like you,’ George said.

  ‘Sadly, I think I’m the lucky one. But I appreciate the sentiment. And – and I’m always here, if things ever – you know.’

  George’s eyes stung. He forced words up his constricted throat: ‘Thank you, Bill.’ He couldn’t trust himself to make eye contact – he’d be lost if he did. He let go of Bill’s hand and turned away.

  ‘Cheerio, then,’ Bill said.

  ‘Cheerio,’ he managed, hearing the sudden thunder-blast as the office door opened and closed behind his colleague.

  It was time to get on with things.

  Chapter 25

  Violet

  ‘And were you thinking of the Lord when you conceived the child?’ His urgent whisper made her flesh crawl.

  ‘I don’t remember, Reverend.’

  His watery eyes bulged and his nostrils flared. ‘Then tell me how the sin came to be committed.’

  ‘I really can’t say, Reverend.’

  ‘But you must recall something of the event? Better that one offers up details of the sin in its fullest nature, to seek complete atonement.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Reverend. Perhaps Lilian will be able to remember her sin better than I can.’

  ‘Lilian?’

  ‘The one with the blonde hair.’

  ‘Ah, yes, yes, send her through, then.’ Violet stood up, and took a pace backwards, towards the door. The vicar stood, too. ‘Know that Jesus loves you, sinner though you are,’ he said, arms outstretched. But Violet had already begun to open the door to the church. She was not going to enter the spiritual embrace of that man. Not on your nelly.

  ‘Tag, you’re it.’ She t
apped bottle-blonde-Lil on her shoulder and nodded in the direction of the vestry. Bottle-blonde-Lil rolled her eyes. Mrs Scattergood scowled at them both and bottle-blonde-Lil got up from her seat next to weepy-Jean and shuffled towards the open door. Mrs Scattergood approved of the ‘individual moral guidance’ that the vicar insisted on.

  Violet sat down in the pew behind, next to Ivy-the-ATS-girl and daft-Sybil, who still didn’t seem to understand why the ‘special cuddles’ she’d had when out on cycle rides with the grocer’s boy had resulted in her being holed up in Cloud House. Weepy-Jean sat in the front pew, because it was her churching. Weepy-Jean’s baby was already ten days old. (Violet remembered the night he was born. Lord, how Jean had yelled, you’d have thought she was birthing a chamber pot. Breech: they said she had to be sliced from arse to fanny to get him out. She’d spent half the time sitting in salt-water baths, since.)

  There would have been more of them there for the service, but Iris (nose like a goose’s beak, swore like a trooper) had gone last night, straight after her boy was taken. And there’d been Bella (the Spanish girl, who was only fourteen and who spoke English with such a heavy accent that nobody could understand her properly). She had been in labour for days, and they’d had to cart her off to hospital just this morning. So there weren’t that many of them there to church weepy-Jean in her faded orange dress, sodden with milk and tears.

  Bottle-blonde-Lil emerged from the vestry, then, red-faced, head dipped, and slipped into the pew at the front beside weepy-Jean. The vicar came out a few moments later, wiping his hands on his cassock. An organist in a mauve cardigan scurried mouselike from the shadows, blowing on her fingers before settling her haunches on the organ stool.

  Violet had been to a couple of these services already since being sent to Cloud House. She guessed there’d be a few more before it was her turn. After all, her own baby wasn’t due for another month or so. It was always the same: a couple of hymns, a prayer, some guff about atonement and deliverance from the snares of death, and then they’d all go back to a God-awful dinner of Oxo-and-swede casserole. Again.

  They started with an autumn hymn: ‘We plough the fields and scatt-er the good seed on the land . . .’ they sang, with Mrs Scattergood’s voice warbling up towards the bell tower – must have been her favourite hymn because of the words, Violet thought. It was probably only chosen because of it being around harvest festival time, and the organist being used to the tune, but Vi suppressed a little smirk – hadn’t anyone seen the irony of a group of unmarried mothers singing about scattering seed? Of course not, she thought. Nobody here had a sense of humour. But then, why would they, in a place like this, at a time like this?

  The vicar then motioned for weepy-Jean to come and kneel in front of him. They all sat down as she bowed her head and sniffed into her hanky whilst he prayed for her sinning soul. Her sniffs got louder and her hanky wiped frantically as he droned on. Violet noticed the vicar looked pleased that she seemed suitably repentant (probably nobody had ever told him that mothers got the ‘baby blues’ when their milk came in). Outside the rain slewed down, and the light-deprived stained-glass windows were as dingy as one of the watercolours on the parlour wall at Cloud House.

  Now the organ started and everyone stood up. She didn’t recognise this one. Some of the High Anglican hymns were different, the type of service, too, she’d found out – nobody had seemed bothered that she was Catholic, hadn’t even asked (perhaps in Mrs Scattergood’s eyes they were all merely sinners, regardless of faith). Vi reached for the hymn book from the little shelf in front, the old leather cover reptilian dry under her fingertips. ‘Two six two,’ ATS-Ivy said, seeing Vi’s confusion, and Vi rifled through the tissue-thin pages, as the organ droned loudly. Two six two . . .

  ‘Oh God, our help in ages past . . .’ Violet tried to lift her voice with the others and join in, but she was starting to get terrible gut-rot. It must have been that stew they had last night. Sybil had been on kitchen duty, and Violet was certain she didn’t bother washing her hands very often.

  She tried again: ‘Under the shadow of Thy throne . . .’ No, it was no good. There was a twisting ache right across her belly. Mrs Scattergood turned to glare at her, for not singing, so Vi made a show of checking the squiggly words in the hymn book and opened her mouth: ‘From everlasting Thou art God, To endless years the same.’ But there it was, again, that squeezing sensation. Trapped wind, maybe. She gulped in a breath and looked down at the hymn book. ‘Thy word commands our flesh to dust,’ she managed to join in, despite the discomfort: ‘Be thou our guard while troubles last, And our eternal home.’

  They stayed standing as the organ music vibrated to a hush, because this was the bit where the vicar asked them to close their eyes and take a minute to reflect on their own sins, and how they could improve their moral welfare in future.

  And it was in that moment, just as the tiny congregation fell silent in the vast church, closing their eyes in contemplation, that Violet felt a sudden wetness in her gusset, and liquid splashed down onto the flagstones at her feet. She opened her eyes and looked down at the small puddle on the church floor. She looked up again, unsure of what to do, and saw Mrs Scattergood’s pasty features scrunched up in horror. Then the pain came: a swift, hard thump, between her chest and her guts, making her double over and grab at the pew in front.

  It was like someone turning up a dial on a wireless. People began to look, and as they did, the pain rose up inside her. Then another one of those gut-punches knocked the breath clean from her; she lost her grip on the pew and landed with a bruising thud, hands and knees on the cold floor. Confusion, then: voices and faces and hands pulling her upright and as she got to her feet the relentless pummelling came again and she cried out, even though they said ‘Shush, shush now, you’re in a church’ and she said she could just walk to Cloud House because it was only just over the way but even with all those hands and voices her knees buckled under her because the invisible fists kept coming, thumping and winding and hurting her. Lord, it hurt. She screamed and they said, ‘Quiet, be quiet, don’t make a fuss, this is your punishment, the pain is punishment for the sin.’ And in between the pain-rush she could hear the sound of running footsteps and Jean’s weeping. They slung her arms round their shoulders and she tried to make her legs move, really she did, but all of a sudden she needed the lav really bad, like her guts were about to spill out of her arse. And there were jagged spikes of pain and faces swam and faded from view, hands at her back and a cloth put under her thighs, which were naked now. Naked, and where were her knickers? And the voices told her not to worry because the vicar was fetching the midwife and she said: ‘Don’t be silly, I’m not having a baby, it’s not due for weeks, must have been that fish stew because Sybil never washes her hands,’ and Sybil said: ‘I bloody do,’ but then the pain was back and Mrs Scattergood said: ‘We can’t wait for the midwife, she’s already crowning, it’s time to push,’ so Violet bore down, grunting, and when Mrs Scattergood said: ‘That’s it, good girl, Violet,’ panting, in a moment of lucidity, she said: ‘Don’t you dare call me a good girl. I’m not a girl, I’m a woman, and here’s the ruddy proof, you old cow.’ And she thought she heard stifled laughter but then the grinding awful pain came again and she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t.

  An endless tunnel of agony.

  An effortful heave and something shifted.

  There, on the scratchy black cloth, a small sideways head, smooth as a boiled egg. What was that doing there? What was it? Push again, Violet. She pushed. She roared. The still church air mangled with the echoes of her pain, and out slithered a tiny body. What’s that? A baby. A baby? Your baby, Violet. Hands plucked it up. Push, push again, you’re not finished yet. A twisting pain, slippery rush of bloodied afterbirth. Hands and faces and footsteps on flagstones and a baby, wrapped in a woolly mauve cardigan and thrust into her arms.

  She drew breath, looked down at the rose-red wrinkled little face.
‘Oh,’ said Violet, with a rush of recognition. ‘Oh, it’s you!’

  Laura

  The queue snaked back all the way to the door, which gaped open in dull surprise. Laura stood in the doorway, where fog mingled with pipe smoke from the man in front of her in the line, making Laura cough. The London fug always choked up her airways. Oh, to be away from all this, in the open air.

  A woman with an elaborate yellow hat shunted past with a muttered ‘Excuse me’, the queue inched forwards, and at last there was space to let the door close. If only the postmistress would get a move on. She’d be lucky to make the 10.15 to Darlington, at this rate.

  Laura looked round. The usual posters plastered the post office walls: Be Like Dad, Keep Mum, advised one; Careless Talk Costs Lives, retorted another. Careless talk, Laura thought – careless talk of what, pray? Careless talk of carrot fudge and darning socks and make-do-and-mend and how many beans make five? She shifted her bag into her other hand. It was all too depressing, this war nonsense. Four years, the last one was, and that was supposed to be the war to end all wars, they said. This one had been going more than four years already, and still no end in sight, a bit like this ruddy queue for the counter. She checked her watch. How long would it take to get to the station from here? Too long, even if she ran (at your age, Laura? Don’t be ridiculous). She sighed. Someone else passed by, and the queue moved forward a notch.

  When she eventually reached the front, the postmistress was busy scribbling something on a form. ‘Parcel post, first class,’ Laura said, pulling the package from her pocket and placing it on the counter. The woman looked up with the vacant, watery-eyed look of someone who hadn’t slept properly.

  The postmistress reached out and squished the parcel as if it were fruit on a market stall. ‘Could’ve fitted that in an envelope,’ she said.

  ‘I wanted to wrap it properly.’

  ‘Fragile, is it?’