by Lesley Eames
‘I really must be going,’ Lizzie said.
She continued onwards, passing behind the Lyceum theatre as she tried to work out the best place to pick up an omnibus or train.
The sudden explosion lifted Lizzie off her feet and slammed her into a wall, driving all the air from her lungs. A painful, high-pitched ringing assaulted her ears. Then chaos rained down on her, along with what felt like the wall itself.
16
Lizzie curled up instinctively, covering her head with her hands and bracing herself for death. Eventually the wall stopped falling and, amid the chaos and awful ringing noise, she became aware of more sounds – screams, wails, cries for help…
Then other voices. ‘Someone fetch a doctor…’
‘Careful where you tread…’
‘Watch out for fire…’
‘Can anyone smell gas?’
‘Has the Zeppelin gone?’
Zeppelin? Of course! Lizzie must have been caught in an attack.
Still more sounds. Running footsteps. New voices…
‘My God!’
‘Holy Mary!’
‘Pass the rubble along…’
‘Where’s that doctor?’
‘This poor lad’s a goner…’
‘Must be lots of goners in that pub…’
Gradually it dawned on Lizzie that she was alive. She stretched her fingers, moving slowly for fear of bringing more debris down. They encountered only empty space. How was that possible when she was surely buried in rubble? She reached out further and her fingers connected with something that felt like a flat sheet of wood sloping above her head. It rose to a peak where it met another sheet of wood angling downwards.
She realised then that it was a sign from a building, a two-sided sign that must have stuck out from the wall so it could be seen by people approaching from several directions. In falling over her like a tent, it had protected her from harm. From serious harm, that was. Lizzie’s head was wet with blood and she could feel the sting of cuts and bruises elsewhere on her body.
She took a deep breath so she could call for help but her lungs filled with choking dust. She tried again and the same thing happened. Panic closed around her. She could barely breathe and her body was cramped…
Lizzie fought through to self-control. Clearly, others were much worse off than her. If she was patient, help would come eventually.
But it was hard to wait. Horribly hard.
‘Hello?’ a voice called eventually. A male voice, close by.
Thank God! Lizzie breathed in dust and coughed again, hoping the cough would be enough to communicate her presence.
‘I’m coming for you,’ the voice promised. It was a warm voice, a giver of confidence.
Hands burrowed beside her, tugging out debris and tossing it elsewhere. Lizzie tried not to think that the movement might bring more of the wall cascading down, then gasped as something hard and heavy hit the sign above her and knocked it lower onto her head. Once again, she braced herself for death but the sign had come to a halt before it could crush her into the rubble. She was horribly claustrophobic, though.
‘Nearly there,’ the voice called.
Someone else must have come to help because the first man began to shout instructions, insisting his fellow rescuer take every care to avoid any more debris falls. Would they manage it, though? Lizzie’s heart beat fast with sickly dread.
But then she felt the load above her easing. She caught the gleam of a lantern or torch. Wasn’t it against the law to be showing light out of doors when it might guide Zeppelins to—
What a ridiculous thought! A Zeppelin had already struck. Was panic getting the better of Lizzie again? She forced herself to stay calm.
The gleam brightened as more rubble was cleared then the sign was lifted away. Lizzie’s relief was profound. She was pushing herself up when a hand reached out to stop her. ‘Don’t rush. You might do yourself harm.’
Lizzie saw the sense in taking her time though her cramped muscles were screaming for relief. She eased her arms and legs a little. Blood flowing through the tortured limbs brought pain but soon gave way to more normal sensations. She could breathe more easily too.
She turned her head to her rescuer. Dust swirled in the lantern light but she could see that he was a young man in army uniform. A filthy uniform after helping her. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but I don’t think I’m seriously hurt.’
At that moment blood trickled down her face from a wound somewhere on her scalp. Her rescuer produced a handkerchief and applied it to her face.
After a moment he drew back and waited to see if the bleeding continued. Lizzie felt another trickle but this one was slower. He wiped it gently away.
‘Hardly a gush,’ Lizzie pointed out.
Her rescuer smiled. ‘Are you always this brave?’
Another small fall of debris rattled to the ground around her. ‘I’m not brave enough to stay here when this entire wall might come down on me,’ she said.
‘Time to move,’ he agreed.
He helped her to her feet, guided her over the rubble, and steadied her when she stumbled. Reaching safety, she turned and looked up at the building whose bricks had rained down on her. Only the corner had been blasted away, but even so Lizzie could have been killed if the sign hadn’t fallen over her like a guardian angel. McCalls for fine cigars, she read. ‘I don’t like the smell of cigars but I’ll never complain about them again. That sign saved my life.’
Turning back, she looked at the scene in front of her and felt weak at the sight of so much destruction. People were sitting or lying on the ground, some injured, some past all human help. Other people wept or comforted as best they could. The Bell public house had been hit badly, and from the looks on the faces of the people who were attempting to reach those inside it, the situation was grave indeed.
Lizzie started forward to offer help but her rescuer touched her arm. ‘There’s nothing you can do that isn’t already being done.’
He was right. Numerous people were already helping and more were arriving, including an ambulance and a doctor who’d been watching a performance in the Lyceum when the bomb struck.
‘But you should let the doctor check you over before you leave,’ Lizzie’s rescuer said. ‘You may not consider yourself a priority, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.’
‘It’ll be hours before I can be seen, and I need to get home.’ Poor Margaret would be frantic. ‘Did I have a second rescuer? I’d like to thank him.’
‘He’s over there but has other things on his mind just now.’
‘Of course.’ Lizzie’s second rescuer was helping to reach people trapped in The Bell. It wouldn’t be right to distract him.
It occurred to her then that she’d lost her bag with her purse and keys inside.
She stepped back towards the cigar sign and spotted a strap under some debris. ‘Let me,’ her rescuer said.
He pulled on the strap. The pile of rubble shifted slightly, but the bag came free. He shook the worst of the dust off and passed it to her.
‘Thank you,’ Lizzie said again. ‘For everything.’
‘I have a car nearby. Let me take you home.’
‘Thank you, but I won’t take up any more of your time.’
‘I came to London to visit an old school friend who was invalided out of the army last year but I’ve already seen him. And, if you’ll forgive the insult, I doubt any conductors are going to want you on their buses or trains.’
She was a filthy mess, of course, and her hair was askew.
‘Unless you live more than a hundred miles away, it’ll be no trouble to drive you,’ he continued. ‘The car is going to get dirty anyway with me driving it. I’m Harry Benedict, by the way.’
Lieutenant Harry Benedict, she realised, noting the insignia on his uniform. ‘Lizzie Kellaway. I live in Highbury. If it isn’t too far out of your way, a lift will be welcome as there’s someone there who’ll be worrying about me.’
; ‘Oh?’
‘My godmother.’
‘Ah.’ He looked pleased to hear it, which puzzled Lizzie until she noticed the admiring glow in his eyes and realised he was relieved she hadn’t mentioned a husband or sweetheart.
She was flattered. Yet it felt uncomfortable for attraction to flourish in a scene of tragedy.
Harry appeared to feel the same way because he suddenly turned brisk. ‘Let’s get you home,’ he said, though he softened the suggestion with a smile.
His car was parked just a few yards away. ‘I saw the blast and came running,’ he explained, holding the passenger door open for her.
Lizzie hesitated to get in with so much dirt covering her, but Harry really was almost as grubby. She climbed inside and he walked around to the driver’s seat. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, as they set off.
‘A little shaky,’ Lizzie admitted. ‘In urgent need of a bath.’
‘Only to be expected.’
Even in the limited light she could see him more clearly, away from the dust that was swirling in the air. She’d already realised that he was a little above average height and trim. Now she registered the fact that his hair and eyes were dark, his forehead wide and smooth, his smile warm. An attractive man indeed.
The journey to Highbury didn’t take long as the evening traffic was light. Lizzie directed him to the house and he eased the car to the kerb. ‘May I call on you tomorrow to be sure you’re recovering?’ he asked.
‘I wouldn’t like to inconvenience you.’
‘I’m home on leave with time on my hands.’
‘Then a visit will be welcome. Perhaps in the morning? I work in the afternoons, teaching piano.’
‘You’re not planning to rest after tonight’s trauma?’
The idea shocked her. ‘I’m sure I’m well enough to sit at a piano.’
Harry laughed. ‘Brave,’ he repeated.
He got out of the car and walked around to help Lizzie get out. He offered his arm on the short walk to Margaret’s door but once there he said, ‘I shan’t impose at this hour,’ and retreated back to the car.
Lizzie knocked on the door because she didn’t trust her trembling fingers to manage her key. Margaret’s tall, thin shape appeared through the stained-glass door panels. Glancing back, Lizzie waved to Harry, then the door opened and she was tugged roughly into Margaret’s bony arms.
‘Thank God!’ Margaret murmured. ‘Thank God!’
Thrusting Lizzie away again, Margaret looked her up and down. ‘Where on earth have you been? What happened? You look…’ Unable to say any more, she trailed off, swallowing.
Lizzie placed a hand on Margaret’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry I made you anxious. Let’s go inside and I’ll explain.’
A glance behind her showed that Harry was already driving off. Lizzie suggested going down to the kitchen so she wouldn’t tread dirt into carpets. ‘It was a Zeppelin bomb,’ she said when they reached it.
Margaret clutched the back of a chair.
‘I was passing the Lyceum theatre and got caught on the edge of the blast. I know I look as though I’ve been dragged through a building site, but I’m fine. A few cuts and bruises only. I’m one of the lucky ones.’
‘Oh?’
‘Not everyone will be going home tonight.’
Margaret nodded gravely, then, as though needing to anchor her emotions in activity, she pulled off her spectacles, wiped them and put them back on. ‘Tea,’ she declared. ‘Sweet tea for shock. Toast too.’
She busied herself with the kettle and a loaf while Lizzie sat at the table, feeling cold and weak. She thought of the poor people who’d been killed or seriously injured, and wanted to weep for them.
‘Here,’ Margaret said, setting a cup and saucer in front of her.
Tea had spilt into the saucer because Margaret’s hands were shaking too, but there was plenty left in the cup. Lizzie sipped it, grimacing at the sweetness and realising Margaret must have used their precious sugar instead of the honey they’d begun to use due to the shortages. The toast was burnt in one corner but not for anything would Lizzie show ingratitude by pointing it out.
‘Were you… trapped?’ Margaret asked, strain showing in her lined face.
‘Not for long. Help came soon.’
‘The Lyceum theatre, you say?’ Clearly, Margaret was puzzled about what had taken her goddaughter there.
Lizzie told her about Ida Braithwaite.
When the clock upstairs struck eleven Margaret’s thoughts moved into another direction. ‘You should be having supper instead of toast but I didn’t cook.’
It wouldn’t have occurred to her.
‘I don’t need more food, but I do need a bath.’ Lizzie was stiffening-up. Feeling sore and fragile.
Luckily, there was enough hot water for a deep bath. Lizzie winced as her cuts and scratches began stinging in the heat but they soon grew used to it. Lying back, she let the warmth envelop her battered body. She tried to relax by closing her eyes and breathing deeply, but images, sounds and remembered sensations kept snapping into her memory.
The bang of the tobacconist’s sign falling onto her head…
Screams and terror…
Wails of despair…
‘This poor lad’s a goner…’
‘Must be lots of goners in that pub…’
Sitting up again, she washed and rinsed her hair then dried herself and dressed in her nightclothes. She was touched to discover that Margaret, who usually had no instinct for nurturing, had placed a stone hot water bottle in Lizzie’s bed. Margaret appeared a moment later. ‘Hot milk,’ she said, setting the cup and saucer on the chest of drawers next to the bed.
The milk was scorched but it was the thought that counted. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’m glad you’re safe, Lizzie.’
With that, the emotion became too much for Margaret and she left the room.
Despite the assault her body had taken, sleep proved elusive to Lizzie. Time and again, she felt herself drifting off only to be jolted back into wakefulness.
‘This poor lad’s a goner…’
‘Must be lots of goners in that pub…’
The grief of the victims’ families must be terrible. Even survivors might face disability for the rest of their lives. Poverty too, if unable to work.
Lizzie slept eventually, waking to daylight around the edges of her curtains. She groaned as her movements set up aches as she got out of bed, then groaned again when her mirror showed a ghost-white face, bruises and the red tracks of cuts and scrapes. It could have been much worse, though.
She washed, dressed and suppressed grimaces as the bristles of her hairbrush met the wounds in her scalp. She could only hope her appearance didn’t frighten her pupils that afternoon. Lizzie didn’t want to let them down, and heaven knew she needed both the distraction of teaching and the money.
‘I look worse than I feel,’ she insisted, joining Margaret in the kitchen.
‘You should eat some breakfast. I could scramble an egg…’
‘No!’ Lizzie couldn’t face a burnt egg this morning. ‘I’ll do it. My muscles are stiff so I need to keep moving.’
She scrambled an egg for each of them. ‘I was brought home last night by the person who helped me,’ Lizzie said. ‘A lieutenant in the army. He asked if he might call this morning to see how I am.’
‘How kind,’ Margaret said, though a moment’s hesitation suggested she was wondering if there were more to the visit than kindness.
She’d never had to think about Lizzie and romance before. Was Margaret remembering the heartache she’d endured over George Gilbert Grafton and feeling wary in case her goddaughter suffered a similar experience?
If so she was premature. Much too premature. Lizzie might meet Harry today and realise that last night’s frisson of attraction owed more to the heightened emotions of the bombing than to any real spark. Besides, he’d soon be returning to the front.
Margaret had nothing to worry about.
Not yet, anyway.
17
Lieutenant Benedict arrived at eleven. Opening the door to him, Lizzie wondered if her battered appearance would disappoint him, but his smile held just as much warmth as last night. ‘Good morning, Miss Kellaway. I’m glad to see you’re well enough to be out of bed.’
There was certainly nothing to disappoint in his appearance. He was a handful of years older than Lizzie and even more attractive in daylight, the face in which those dark eyes were set being fresh and open, while the teeth behind the kind smile were white and even. He was in uniform again, but it had been sponged and pressed since last night, and his shirt was fresh.
‘Please come in. My godmother wishes to thank you for helping me.’ Lizzie raised her voice, hoping Margaret would take the hint as she sometimes forgot the niceties of polite behaviour.
Margaret was keen to thank him, however. ‘Terrible things, those Zeppelins,’ she commented, shaking his hand.
‘Indeed,’ Harry agreed. ‘Have you seen the newspaper reports?’
They hadn’t.
‘Last night’s Zeppelin went on to bomb elsewhere. Lincoln’s Inn and Farringdon, among other places.’
Lizzie suppressed a shudder. ‘Tea?’ she suggested, looking meaningfully at her godmother, who finally realised she was being asked to make it.
‘Oh! Yes. Tea.’
‘I’d welcome a cup,’ Harry said. His manners were as relaxed and charming as Margaret’s were stiff and awkward.
He waited until Margaret left the room then turned to Lizzie with concern cutting a small frown into the smooth forehead. ‘How are you really feeling?’
It was sensitive of him to guess that she didn’t wish to worry her godmother more than necessary. ‘Shaky,’ she admitted. ‘But there’s nothing seriously wrong. I don’t like the thought of the enemy vanquishing me, so I plan to carry on as normal.’
He nodded as though she’d given further proof of her courage. ‘I think I mentioned that I’m home on leave?’
‘From France?’
‘Belgium, actually. Near Ypres. A week’s leave is precious and I’m determined to enjoy it. Would you help by having dinner with me?’
