by Anne Bennett
But people struggled through and though they were often worried how to feed their families, most were fairly good-humoured about it. ‘At least rationing is fairer than first come, first serve, or those who have the money stocking up and causing shortages, which was what happened in the Great War,’ Ellen said as meat and tea were added to the ration list in March.
What wasn’t fair for Bridie was the demands Peggy McKenna was still making on her. Tom wasn’t earning the same money as he did on munitions, Bridie had told Peggy that, but it didn’t move the woman a jot. Tom sent Bridie as much as he could and always told her to put so much in the post office each week to set aside for a rainy day.
It seldom reached the post office, though, for with Peggy’s ten shillings to take out, there was very little left. If ever Tom had examined the book he’d have been alarmed at how little was in it and she trembled at the thought of him ever finding out.
She viewed the future with little optimism and it was hard to write cheerful letters to Tom feeling this way, though she tried. At least, she told herself, she was able to tell him with the utmost sincerity that she loved him and missed him.
And then, in late May, just six months after the men had left, Bridie read of the breaching of the supposedly impregnable Maginot Line stretching across France and of the British soldiers in retreat. She and Mary took themselves off to Ellen’s, feeling the need to be together, for both their men were ‘Somewhere in France’.
‘You don’t know they’re involved,’ Ellen said briskly to Mary and Bridie. ‘No good looking on the black side. No news is good news, they say.’
That was the point; there was no news. Both women longed for a letter to say that their husbands were safe, but they received none and as the days passed, they devoured newspapers from cover to cover and listened to every news broadcast. The Allies seemed to be making for a place called Dunkirk, just across the border from Belgium. Jay found it on the map his father had hung on his bedroom wall before he’d left. He’d plotted the advance with coloured pins and found Dunkirk, but couldn’t see how anyone was going to escape from there. ‘It’s just sand,’ he said. ‘Or it looks like that on the map.’
‘Oh God, Mary, what chance have they?’ Bridie cried, scrutinising the map with her nephew.
‘That’s defeatist talk,’ Mary said defiantly, but really she understood Bridie’s concern. Virtually the whole of Europe was under Nazi control, ruled by brutality and evilness. Britain stood as the one bright flame of freedom in an increasingly hostile world and now it appeared British soldiers were retreating to the beaches. Before them was the massed German army and behind them the sea. Some choice, some chance of survival!
There was a call to join up in the newly formed Home Guard – their brief to protect vital work places, railways, canals and other strategic sites and to deal with parachute invaders and emergencies. ‘God, if I was a few years younger,’ Sam said when he heard, ‘I’d give them a run for their money.’
‘Well, you’re not and you won’t,’ Ellen said emphatically. ‘God, man, you’d be one of their first casualties.’
Sam was too old and infirm to be of much use, but many weren’t and not averse to pitching in to the fight, though the only thing they had in abundance was enthusiasm. The Evening Mail reported that within a few days, 30,000 men had joined up from Birmingham alone. They paraded in civilian clothes, with just an armband to show people who they were, and trained with broomsticks because rifles were so scarce.
Some were scathing about the Home Guard, including Ellen. ‘I can see the highly disciplined German army, who’ve ridden roughshod over every other country in Europe, being scared of this motley crew of the old, very young and infirm when they attack them with their broom handles,’ she complained. ‘What we want is our boys back home here, protecting our shores and skies.’
Unknown to anyone at that time, the evacuation of troops from Dunkirk had begun. It was a race against time, because by 25th May, the German Panzer division was only twenty miles away. However, because there was no harbour at Dunkirk, the big ships couldn’t get close enough to reach the men and although the Royal Navy had gathered six coasters, sixteen barges and forty Dutch schooners to help, it wasn’t nearly enough.
Since mid-May, people living on the south coast and owners of self-propelled craft measuring thirty to a hundred foot long and capable of crossing the Channel, had been required to register them with the Admiralty. By 26th May, getting the men off the beaches as soon as possible was paramount and no one objected to their boats being commandeered, and in one day forty motor boats and launches had assembled at Sheerness. Once the veil of secrecy had been lifted on 31st May, many other civilian boat owners set off for Dunkirk on their own.
The papers had photographs of the little boats, of all shapes and sizes, sailing off across the Channel, as if going to some jolly regatta. No one watching them doubted the courage of those skippers who, unarmed and unprotected, were sailing defiantly to the hellhole of Dunkirk to rescue servicemen. They knew a bomb could blow them and their boat to kingdom come any moment, or a hail of machine-gun fire end their life, but they never once hesitated.
Most, the papers reported, ferried the men back and forth to the large naval ships anchored in deeper water. When the ships were full, many would then load their own boat to capacity and take the men back to Ramsgate, Eastbourne, or Sheerness, before returning to Dunkirk to begin all over again.
Now Mary and Bridie knew why there were no letters. They knew there’d be no telegrams either, for until the rescue was complete, no one would know for certain who was alive or who was dead.
At home, for the first time, the British people faced the possibility of defeat. People were urged to disable cars not in use, and lock up or immobilise bicycles and hide maps. Road signposts were removed and railway station signs painted over to confuse any potential invader, but all it did was bewilder the honest Brummies trying to get about their daily business.
There were more ‘aliens’ interned. Since 1939, any Germans or Austrians classified as ‘Category A’, or high risk, had been sent to internment camps while those in Category B had been granted restricted movement and those in Category C freed. This was now extended to Italians as Mussolini had entered the war. Many Italians in Birmingham had lived peacefully alongside their neighbours for years and most people were dismayed when Martiella’s Bakery in Bristol Street had a closed sign plastered across it.
‘Interned, I ask you,’ Ellen said to any who’d listen. ‘For making bread.’
‘No, woman, for being possibly enemy aliens,’ Sam put in.
‘Enemy aliens, my foot,’ Ellen said angrily. ‘They’ve been here years, their two daughters work in the shop and their two sons are in the Forces fighting for our freedom, for Christ’s sake!’
‘It’s war. We can’t take chances.’
But someone must have taken a chance because the Martiellas were released, like many other Italian people, although they weren’t allowed to own a wireless, had to abide by a curfew and could have their homes searched at any time.
Posters began appearing on hoardings. ‘Be Vigilant – the Enemy is Near.’ ‘Careless Talk Costs Lives.’ ‘Is Your Journey Really Necessary?’ People were also advised to clear their loft of anything inflammable in case of an incendiary attack. ‘I haven’t got a loft,’ Bridie complained to Mary. ‘Just an attic the kids sleep in, like most people around here.’
‘Well, we can’t lug everything down the coal cellar,’ Mary said. ‘We’ll have to take our chance like every other body. If an incendiary raid does come, we’ll have notice and we’ll get ourselves out of here and keep ourselves safe, that’s the main thing after all. The house can burn to the ground, for my money, as long as people are safe and sound.’
But uppermost in Bridie and Mary’s minds was what might have happened to their husbands. The evacuation was reputed to be over by 4th June, but still they had no news. Churchill gave a speech on the wireless to inspi
re the disheartened people of Britain.
We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall never surrender.
It was stirring stuff and whether Tom and Eddie had survived or not, the evacuation had been a terrific achievement for two hundred thousand British men, along with one-hundred and forty thousand French and Belgium soldiers, had been rescued. But much equipment was lost and firms were asked to produce more and more guns, tanks, aeroplanes, anything at all for the war effort. Bridie felt she hadn’t been pulling her weight in this war and wanted to be doing something, but she wasn’t sure what.
The next day, Ellen came to see her. ‘Have you heard the latest?’ she said and, without waiting for a reply, went straight on, ‘It’s that McKenna family.’
Immediately, Bridie froze. Just the name had the power to petrify her. Without noticing, Ellen ploughed on, bursting to tell her the gossip. ‘Peggy’s old man has done a runner.’
‘A runner?’
‘Aye, raided an off-licence and went off with all the takings. Police were at the door asking for him, but Peggy said he wasn’t in. ’Course they didn’t believe her and went in to search the house. She was screeching at them; you could hear her the length of the street. Said she’d seen no sign of him or any takings and would she be living the way she does if she had money about the place. The police left but I doubt she’ll ever clap eyes on him again and not much loss either.’
‘Oh, Aunt Ellen!’
‘It’s true, dear,’ Ellen said. ‘The two deserve each other, but even I felt sorry for her afterwards, for the two policemen would hardly have been back in Steelhouse Lane when she had a telegram about her eldest, Denis, being killed at Dunkirk. Shame, he was the best of the bunch in my opinion.’
After Ellen left, Bridie expected a visit from Peggy, but she didn’t come. She supposed she should go and commiserate with her for her loss, but she couldn’t face it. As a parting shot, Ellen had said, ‘See bad news travels faster than good. You’ll hear from your man soon, see if you don’t,’ and Bridie hoped and prayed she was right.
The next day a letter popped through Bridie’s letterbox as she was giving the children their breakfast. She snatched it up eagerly for she had few letters. She barely noticed the Ramsgate postmark on the envelope before tearing it open.
The children watched her, wide-eyed. Both had picked up on the agitation and anxiety in both their mother and aunt and knew it was to do with their daddy and Uncle Eddie being away, though nothing had ever been said. For a long time, there’d been little laughter or joy in their home and so they looked in amazement at their mother.
Her whole face shone as if someone had lit a light behind it, her dancing eyes were bright, and her mouth was split in a great smile as she turned to them and cried. ‘Your daddy is alive. He’s been injured and is in a hospital in a place called Ramsgate, but he’s all right.’
Katie looked at Liam. Never had either of them considered that their daddy might be dead. But now they learned he was injured and in hospital. ‘What’s up with him?’ Katie asked worriedly.
‘He has been shot,’ Bridie said. ‘And he has wounds from something called shrapnel.’
‘Who shot him?’ Liam demanded indignantly but before Bridie could reply, Katie cast her little brother a withering glance and said, ‘That’s what soldiers do, silly, shoot each other.’
‘Oh.’ Liam said. ‘Why do they?’
Katie had no idea, it seemed a crazy thing for anyone to want to do, but she wasn’t admitting that to her brother and their mammy was paying them no mind. ‘Daddy had to go away, didn’t he,’ she reminded Liam. ‘That was to learn how to shoot bad people.’
Liam was very interested in this. ‘And did he kill any bad people?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know, I suppose so.’
Liam was trying to get it all straight in his mind. ‘But someone shot our daddy and he isn’t bad.’
‘No, silly. It was the bad people did that to him.’
Liam considered this but still wasn’t satisfied. ‘Why didn’t he duck?’ he asked.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Katie said crushingly. ‘You don’t know nothing about soldiers. They can’t just duck.’ Then she turned to her mother who, having scanned the letter a few more times, desperate for more information, was now holding it to her chest while blessed, wonderful relief poured through her. ‘When’s Daddy coming home?’ Katie asked, and her voice seemed to bring Bridie back to earth.
‘A few weeks yet, he thinks,’ Bridie told her. ‘He says he’s looking forward to seeing us all again.’
Katie and Liam were both pleased, for they loved their father dearly, and while Katie couldn’t wait to get to school and tell her teacher and friends the good news, Bridie was just as eager to run and tell Mary and Ellen and the rest of the neighbours.
Everyone had been delighted at Bridie’s news, even Mary, though Bridie saw her reading Tom’s letter wistfully and immediately felt guilty. ‘One from Eddie will come any day,’ she told her gently, and Mary cast her a watery smile which Bridie saw was taking a great effort and said, ‘Sure, don’t I know that?’
Bridie had been back in the house just half an hour when, going over to the window to check on Liam who was playing in the street with other little boys, she spotted Peggy McKenna heading her way.
She groaned and when a black-shrouded Peggy opened the entry door and stepped into the room, she forced herself to say calmly, ‘I was sorry to hear about Denis.’
‘Aye,’ Peggy said heavily. ‘It was a blow. My eldest, my first-born. Always a special bond with your first-born. ’Course you’d hardly know that, seeing as how you killed yours.’
Bridie gasped. ‘It … it wasn’t like that, Peggy. You know that.’
‘No, I don’t. You killed that babby, just as if you smashed its head in with a brick.’
‘I didn’t. It wasn’t …’
‘Where d’you think its soul is now?’ Peggy taunted. ‘Not in Heaven, tainted with original sin. Poor little thing will be in Limbo. That’s your fault. Does the baby’s daddy know what you did? Who was the baby’s daddy anyway?’
Bridie wondered why Peggy hadn’t asked before, but she wasn’t going to tell her. In her hands that knowledge would be explosive. ‘Just a boy.’
‘What boy? My family know everyone about that way.’
‘He wasn’t a local boy,’ Bridie said. ‘I used to meet him on a Fair Day. He came from Killybegs way.’
‘So you lay and opened your legs for a boy you hardly knew?’ Peggy sneered with a curl of her lip.
Better she believe that, Bridie thought, than guess at the truth so she gave a brief nod.
‘So a trollop as well as a killer,’ Peggy said. ‘God, if your parents had any idea of the sort of girl they’d raised.’ She had the satisfaction of seeing a shudder pass right through Bridie. ‘You think God won’t punish you for this?’ she said. ‘One day, when you’re least expecting it, he’ll strike.’
Bridie wished she could tell the woman to shut up, order her from her door, forbid her to come near her or hers ever again. Instead, she sighed and went across to fetch the ten-shilling note behind the clock.
‘Ah, ten bob,’ said Peggy, pocketing it. ‘Have to be a bit more now. Say a pound a week. That should cover it.’
‘I can’t give you any more,’ Bridie said. ‘It takes me all my time …’
Peggy continued as if she hadn’t spoke. ‘Good boy, my Denis. Always tipped his pay up. Even when he joined the army, he sent his ma something. But he’s gone now and his da too – I suppose you heard what that silly sod did. Not that he ever gave me much, stingy bugger he was, and too fond of the beer. Still, he gave me something and now that’s gone – and we can’t live on thin air, Bridie.’
‘Neither can I!’ Bridie cried. ‘You should have plenty coming in: you have Polly and Luke working at Dunlop’s, and Theresa at Cadbury’s, and Patricia is leaving school next year.’ She could have gone on to say Peg
gy could get a job herself, for the government were crying out for people in all kinds of jobs, but thought better of it. She appealed to Peggy. ‘Where the Hell am I to get a pound a week?’
‘That’s not my problem.’
‘God, Peggy, I haven’t got it. There’s no way I could spare a pound a week.’
‘Well, you’d better find a way,’ Peggy said, ‘for I’ll be back next week and if I don’t leave with a pound note in my hand, I’ll write a nice wee letter to your parents.’
Peggy had no intention of writing to Bridie’s parents – the money she extracted from her was too useful – but she enjoyed watching her squirm and she knew Bridie couldn’t take the chance that she wouldn’t write. She left Bridie’s with a smile on her face. One of the neighbours, catching sight of it, remarked to another with a slight shiver, ‘God, some poor sod must have got it in the neck – the only reason that woman smiles is when she’s made someone else bloody miserable.’
All night Bridie wrestled with the problem of finding a spare pound a week to still Peggy’s tongue. She could only imagine the letter she’d write. She went hot and cold just thinking about it. She pictured the shock and disbelief on her parents’ faces, the hurt and disappointment that they would carry to the grave.
Eventually, she realised what she must do. Hadn’t she begun to feel that she should do more to help the war effort anyway? Well, this was her chance and the only way to get enough cash to supplement the McKenna household. She decided to seek Mary’s opinion in the morning.
But Mary had other things on her mind. That morning a letter had arrived from Eddie. He was in the same hospital as Tom, but in a different section. Neither had any idea the other was even alive as they’d got split up during the rescue.
‘We must write to tell them,’ Mary said, her face aglow, though her eyes streamed tears. ‘Oh Bridie, I really thought he was dead after all this time.’
‘Well, he isn’t,’ Bridie said, hugging her sister in delight. ‘We’ll go and tell Ellen in a minute, but now, if you can think straight for just a minute, I’d like to know what you think of my idea.’
