by Alice Jolly
No one had expected a raid such as this. When Rose left the city with Mollie on the bus, with the other trekkers, Arthur had said – Not too bad tonight, moon as thin as a nail clipping. And later Rose, unable to sleep, had got out of the bus, and walked through the thin stretch of woodland to the road. From there she’d seen the usual pillars of white light cut upwards through the darkness, crossing and meeting, forming overlapping circles. And occasionally, far away, the slant of a roof, or the edge of a chimney pot, caught in an instant of light.
But still she hadn’t known – until she was back in the bus and the sound of the bombing went on and on and on without stopping, the rhythm of it beating through hearts and heads, on and on and on until finally dawn had come. Then the bus hadn’t been able to get back into the city and all they could see was red on every side. And men everywhere stripped to the waist, and drenched in sweat, for the whole city had become a furnace and everything was alight. And it wasn’t until evening that Rose had got back to Mrs Watson’s house and found it gone.
Best not to think of it now. She’s alive – and so are Mollie and Arthur, Mr and Mrs Bostock. That is miracle enough. She turns the pram into Redmond Street, longing now to get home and stoke up the range. The only good thing to be said for the bombing is there’s plenty of wood to be burnt. But without Mrs Watson there won’t be so much food. Mrs Watson always had extra because when her elderly neighbour died of a stroke, Mrs Watson got her identity card and ration book and used them. Initially Rose had been shocked but soon enough she didn’t care. Everyone else did the same. Win at the factory is claiming rations for her great-aunt and she died before the war even started.
As she comes to the house, Rose sees a man standing aimlessly near the gate, a man whose coat drops as though from a coat hanger, square at the shoulders and yet loose. Then she realises – the man is Frank. She stops for a moment, staring, feels her hands tighten on the pram handle, then moves on towards him. She hasn’t seen Frank for more than six months although he’s written often. She knows that she should run towards him, throw her arms around him, kiss him and keep on kissing him. But he doesn’t look the same. His skin is bone white and the circles around his eyes are so dark that for a moment she wonders if he’s been in a fight. And he’s grown a wispy moustache which doesn’t suit him. But worse than that, he looks ordinary.
She stops the pram and he looks up at her. His eyes are lit by a blank brightness. The pram seems to have swelled to the proportions of a house and neither of them know how to get around it. Frank moves towards her and he’s seen the disappointment in her eyes. So she hurries towards him, throws herself against him, kisses him. He’s all angles and bones and he smells damp. His lips are cold and that new moustache spikes against her face but she kisses him firmly. Then she goes back to the pram, picks up Mollie, forcing her on to Frank, trying to cover up the awkwardness – or fear – which lies between them. Frank holds Mollie against him although the child is squirming to get away.
How did you get here? Rose asks.
I walked.
What – from London?
No. Don’t be daft. Not all the way. But – I’m sorry. It’s only one night. I’ve got a new job in the Ambulance Service. You know, I wrote about it. But everything here – the cathedral and all that – it’s all been in the paper and I saw a newsreel. And they said I could come to see you, start one day later.
That’s good – about the job.
Frank grips Mollie in his arms, and looks up and down the street.
It’s the same in London, isn’t it? Rose says.
Frank continues to stare. Rose pulls him up the path of the Bostocks’ house and elbows the door open. Frank follows her inside, sees the piles of furniture in the hall and the patch of green mould on the wall by the staircase but heads on past, asking nothing. Rose tells him that they must have supper as soon as they can because the bus goes at seven o’clock. She’s written to Frank about the bus but he doesn’t seem to understand.
Where are Mr and Mrs Bostock?
Doing ARP. We’ll see them at the bus. Arthur’s usually over at Division B First Aid but he’s got a night off so he’ll come as well.
In the kitchen, she adds coal to the range and puts the kettle on. She’s glad that at least she has some food to give him.
So how are you, Rosie?
Rose can’t answer that question. She pours milk into a pan for Mollie.
I went to Mrs Watson’s house – so I thought…
Rose looks over at Frank and the image of that house seems to shine out of him. The blackened walls at the back, the shreds of torn wallpaper, the wires dangling down, the pots still on the dresser but streaked black. Mollie is patting her father’s cheeks with her tiny hands and chattering to him wordlessly but Frank doesn’t appear to feel her touch or hear her voice.
I’m sorry. I did write but it wouldn’t have reached you yet. We’d gone out on the bus. And we did say, but she wouldn’t go to the shelter.
Rose clutches the top of the kettle, shuts her eyes.
The front door crashes open. Fra-a-nk. Arthur’s voice sounds in the hall and he lurches into the kitchen, throws his arms around Frank. It’s strange how news loops its way through the city even though most of the phone lines are down. Arthur shakes Frank by the hand, slaps him on the back.
Isn’t she grand? Isn’t she just grand? Frank says, kissing Mollie and turning her around, displaying her to Arthur. Frank and Arthur have gone through to the front parlour, pushing past the dressing table and chairs stacked in the hall. Where’s the gramophone? Frank says. Let’s have some music.
Sorry, Rose says. I packed it away.
Oh well, Frank says. Oh well. What does it matter? What do we need a gramophone for? We can sing, can’t we? You can sing, can’t you, Mollie? We have Arthur here and your mother and they have the best voices in all of Coventry. Anyway, where is it?
In the sideboard, Rose says.
Frank spins Mollie round, sings to her, pulls the green crackled case from the sideboard, assembles the tiny Thorens Excelda gramophone. In the kitchen, Rose unpacks pork chops from sheets of newspapers. The meat has a silver-green sheen to it, like the skin of fish. Mrs Bartholomew, the butcher’s wife, always gives Rose the worst meat. Ah there we are, Mrs Von Mayeford. Still trying to tell us there’s no harm in them, are you? Rose wonders if they might get poisoned but she smears the chops with lard and puts them in the range anyway.
Arthur shuffles into the kitchen. You all right, Rosa?
Yes, fine. And you?
Fi-i-ne. Nothing doing at Division B last night except a man who trapped his finger in a ladder. But the paint shop went at Alvis Shadow Factory at Canley. Anyway, come on.
We must leave by six thirty, Rose says.
Yes, I know. I know. But first.
Rose follows Arthur through to the sitting room. Frank has wound the gramophone up. Paradise here, paradise close, just around this corner. The place where happiness is for me. He picks up Mollie and swings her around, dancing with his cheek close to hers, as though they are moving through a white-pillared ballroom. Rose knows that she should feel happy – Frank is home, Arthur is with him, Mollie is smiling. They’re all together again, all of them alive. Rose opens her mouth and tries to join the singing but no sound comes out. Arthur is holding Mollie up, showing her the record which turns on the miniature turntable. Rose goes back to the kitchen to find the range smoking. The pork chops won’t cook and time is going on.
Wonderful to be home, Frank says, appearing at the kitchen door. His voice is tight and thin and he coughs. Come and dance with us, Rosie.
No. No. Look, I’m trying to…
But then she looks at Frank and knows she needs to follow him to the sitting room. Mollie is sitting on Arthur’s knee, clapping her hands and singing tunelessly to the music. Frank takes Rose in his arms and their bodies remember how to move together. The place where happiness is for me. Rose feels the movement of Frank’s back under her hand
– the rough wool of his shirt, the muscle tightening beneath as he turns. She pulls him closer, feels his leg press against hers. Paradise here, paradise close, just around this corner. The carpet – patterned red and blue – flows under their feet as they dip in and out of the shadows. The sideboard, the bookcase, the mirror over the fireplace, all kaleidoscope into each other. The wall lights, shaped like swans’ necks, blink, the line of silver tankards on the mantelpiece swirls past. The pink rosebuds on the tired wallpaper are bursting into bloom. Mollie’s eyes flicker like candles, her hands no longer clapping but stretched out, motionless, as though ready to gather the dancers into her tiny arms. Rose lays her head on Frank’s shoulder, feels the whole house, the whole city, standing still to watch them.
But then Frank catches his foot on a stool, stumbles, and she has to hold onto him tight to stop him from falling. He laughs loudly, claps his hands, tries to pretend that the moment hasn’t shattered. Rose stands beside Arthur, desperate. He reaches up and lays a hand on her arm.
Good to have him back, isn’t it?
Yes, good.
Rose goes back to the kitchen, clings to the handle of the pan.
Look, we’ve got to go and these are only half cooked. I don’t think we should.
Oh don’t be daft, Frank says. We can eat them like that.
You’ll get poisoned.
Course we can.
He butters bread, picks up a half-cooked chop.
Delicious, he says. Delicious.
Rose tries to laugh while Arthur slices more bread. Frank has eaten the green chop and the bread in half a minute. Here, he says. Here, Arthur. Rose.
Oh no, Arthur says. Oh no, Frank, I’ve had my supper.
I’m not hungry, Rose says. You eat it, Frank. Mollie and I prefer bread.
Best get on this bus, Arthur says. Neither of them look at Frank while he eats. Frank asks if he should go with them because he needs to find a lift to a station early tomorrow. Rose reassures him that they’ll get back in plenty of time for that. It’s better than the shelters, safer and more friendly. Most of the shelters won’t withstand a direct hit and often you have to stand up all night. So they pack up their things – a flask, cushions and blankets. Rose has all of this ready in the hall.
We won’t need all that, Frank says. It’s a mild night.
Yes we will.
No. No.
We will, Rose says. We will.
For a moment it seems as though the atmosphere might snap. Frank might cry, the roof of the house might fall in, she might start screaming.
Don’t worry, Arthur says. I’ll take it. I’ll carry everything.
Frank sweeps up Mollie and they start to walk. Frank is talking all of the time, stuttering over words. It’s nearly dark now and soon the sirens will start. Seven thirty every night the bombing starts. The Germans are so regular you can set your watch by them. Wardens are going around checking the blackout. Rose, Frank, Arthur and Mollie stumble in the waning light. As they cross Greyfriars Green, Rose looks across towards 34 Warwick Road. The house is in darkness, its white façade, its crowd of chimney pots merging into the grey of the evening. Rose remembers Violet in her black coat with its grey fur collar and cuffs. Perhaps she should have gone home with her?
She’ll have gone, Frank says. Moved out months ago. Gone to live with her father and her aunt in Worcester. Rose can feel Frank bristling with contempt.
No, Arthur says. Still here. Pretty brave really. Don’t know why she doesn’t go.
They come to Newsome Street. The stationer's at the corner was bombed out in the big raid three nights ago but he continues to operate from a stand in the street. Frost is gathering and his breath is white. A light hangs crookedly from the top of his stand and he bangs his hands together trying to keep warm. A sign above the stall reads, Don’t let the Bosch beat us.
Evening, love, the stationer calls. How are you?
Fine thank you – and you?
Fighting back, he says. Fighting back.
Many of the shops are out on the streets now. Some of them have nothing to sell as lorries haven’t been able to get to the city. But perhaps it doesn’t matter because most of the customers have left as well. Rose saw them all trailing out of the city three mornings ago. The people who could go had gone before. Now even the people who have nowhere to go are getting out. People are living under bridges and in ruined buildings but you can’t survive like that for long, not with this cold.
In the London Road, the bus is waiting. Mr and Mrs Bostock clap Frank on the back and pour him tea from a flask. Then everyone crowds onto the bus and it rumbles out through the outskirts of the city. Arthur takes Mollie and sits her on his knee. Rose and Frank crowd into a seat together. The sorting of bags and the jostling of seats stops and a weary silence falls. In the dimming light Rose sees rows of crouching red-brick houses, feels the marching beat of lines of unlit lamp posts, hears the grind of the arms factories like distant thunder. The sirens wail and the bus judders and struggles, engine roaring, over the broken surfaces of the roads.
Watch out. Jerry’s getting started.
Send Adolf a line, ask him to give us a night off, we haven’t had one all week.
Send him to Birmingham – must be their turn now.
People try to laugh but the sound is vacant. Rose watches Frank staring out at the city. His face is suddenly frozen, his breath quick and shallow. He swallows again and again, his Adam’s apple sliding up his stalk-thin throat.
It is like this in London? Rose asks.
Yes, Frank says. Like this.
Then he tells her about fire watching on the roof of the Hackney Hospital. You see them coming over, far up high. And then, when you spot where the fires are, you radio instructions. Sometimes they come low – so low you can see the swastikas painted on the undersides of them.
One went into the building next door, he says, and then we had to run for cover, down twelve flights of stairs in the dark with glass blowing in all over us. There are eight of us in the team and we work in shifts. Most of the others are good guys. I’ve got to know them pretty well because most shifts nothing happens. For days and days nothing happens. Then for several hours it’s all hell let loose and radioing again and again. And seeing five or six fires sometimes all at one time. And just watching them burn because, although we’ve given the information, the fire engines can’t get there because of bomb craters or flooding.
Frank is talking too fast and too loudly. Rose nods her head, looks as though she’s listening. She would like to lay a hand on Frank’s arm, calm him, soothe him, but she knows if she does that, he might break. Two boys at the front of the bus play mouth organs. Their mournful tune fills the crowded air. It starts to rain, heavy drops beating down on the roof of the bus. Crowds of people are walking out of the city, tramping along the London Road, in an endless stream. Like refugees, Rose thinks, and that’s what they are. These trekkers – the thousands who walk out of the city every night with their bedding, and food and flasks, loaded into prams and wheelbarrows, or balanced on bikes. Some rich people go in cars to cottages they’ve rented in Binley Woods or Canley. Poor people take their tarpaulin sheets and sleep wherever they can – in barns, or churches, under bridges or hedges.
The bus passes arms factories and Rose sees piles of bikes, black and spiky, parked at the gates, armed guards, smoke puffing from the chimneys. Then the bus is in open country, passing through sloping fields, their dark roll appearing black against the lesser black of the sky. Through the smeary window Rose sees the wood, a tangle of black lace, and the outline of a gate. This is where the bus is always parked. Someone jumps out to open the gate, the bus rocks on the uneven ground. Rose thinks of the hours ahead. Of course, they’ll try to sleep but there will be little chance of that. Arthur suggests that she and Frank should take the back seat. This is a kindness to Frank because the back seat is the best place. So they sit down there and Rose makes a bed on the floor for Mollie, spreading out blankets and a s
ofa cushion. Mollie moans and kicks her legs against Rose’s shins but stops when Rose moves to slap her.
A bomber sounds overhead.
Don’t worry, love, it’s one of ours, a man shouts from the front of the bus. Others guffaw and by the time the laughing dies down the noise of the plane has evaporated. Sheets of black paper are stuck up over the windows of the bus and candles are lit. Their light flickers over the black paper, flares across the ceiling. Frank talks to Mr and Mrs Bostock, the others crammed into the seats around them. They’re all pacifists of one kind of another, or they have pacifists in their family. They pass around whisky and beer, talk about the news of the war. Arthur starts to sing and Rose concentrates on the sound of his voice as it swoops and falls. The sound should be comforting but it exists far away, in another world, and Rose can’t draw it to her. Mollie is asleep on the floor now. Rose sits above her, propped in a corner, in the darkness. She feels stiff and her stomach heaves. Her feet are still wet from the rain earlier. Although it isn’t yet eight o’clock she lays her head down on a cushion and tries to sleep. She can’t understand where Mrs Watson is. Three days ago she lived a few streets away and now she’s gone. Rose doesn’t believe in the afterlife. Only stupid people believe such things. So then it’s just nothing. But even nothing is something, isn’t it?
The men are repeating those tired old phrases from before the war – you must listen to your conscience, war isn’t the answer, a capitalist conflict created by the economic structure of Europe and the colonies. Rose can’t believe they’re still saying these same irrelevant things. The individual conscience is all – but do they never consider that view to be selfish or arrogant, do they never consider the wider good? Frank’s insistent voice kindles her resentment. He has colleagues to work with, people to talk to, and he doesn’t see what it’s like for her. His voice is quavering, lit with a bright intensity. What a fool he is. For what he is saying – what all these people are saying – doesn’t reflect the reality of the furnace city, of the women digging in the rubble with their bleeding hands, screaming for their children. Why do they not talk about death? Rose knows the answer. No one here can afford despair. But still anger churns inside her.
