Unbeknown to him, while he slept, Ida had popped to the Town Hall to check the lists of dead and injured. Mercifully, Queenie’s name wasn’t on any of them so all through tea he’d expected her to walk through the back door. However, when she still hadn’t appeared by the time Ida set off for the shelter with the boys, an uneasy feeling coiled in the pit of his stomach.
Unease changed to anxiety after he’d asked around the market and discovered that the last time she’d been spotted she was walking past Wickhams Store heading towards Bow. Realising no one had seen hide nor hair of her for over twenty-four hours, he began searching for his mother.
He’d started in her usual haunts along Cable Street and around London Docks and Shadwell Basin but with no success. He’d even tried the shelter in St Patrick’s crypt to see if any of her old pals who attended there had seen her but with no luck.
He was now standing in the Boatman public house which was situated at the Limehouse end of Wapping High Street. A squat, black-beamed Tudor pub squashed between lofty Georgian warehouses, the Boatman wasn’t one of his mother’s regulars but he’d been everywhere else he could possibly think of. Well, everywhere except the morgue at London Hospital.
‘Can I stand you a half of the good stuff while you’re here?’ asked Bert.
Pushing his unsettling thoughts aside, Jerimiah shook his head. ‘I’ve got to get on.’
‘Chin up, Jerry. She’ll pitch up soon.’ Bert grinned. ‘Take more than bloody Hitler to finish off your old ma.’
Jerimiah forced a smile and prayed he was right. Shouldering his rifle, he made his way through the drinkers and, pushing aside the heavy curtain hanging in a loop around the door, left the pub. He tucked the collar of his battle tunic around his neck, pulled his sheepskin jerkin a little tighter and headed towards the grey forbidding walls of the Tower at the other end of the cobbled street.
The searchlights on Tower Green streaked across the sky, criss-crossing each other from time to time in the icy night sky. Crunching his hobnailed boots through newly formed puddle ice and shining his torch on the ground, Jerimiah marched between the silent warehouses looming over him. The ever-present smell of charred wood and brick dust drifted up his nose as fire engines and ambulances passed him on their way back to their bases.
After twenty minutes of trudging along, deep in thought, he reached the entrance to Tilbury Shelter. Greeting Ted the main ARP warden who was standing outside with a roll-up dangling from his lips, Jerimiah lowered his head and went in.
It was now close to lights-out at ten, and other than someone’s wireless playing softly in the background, all the evening activity had ceased. Children lay curled up in blankets while their mothers sat in a huddle a little way off drinking cocoa and chatting quietly.
In the dim lights hanging above, Jerimiah picked his way between the camp beds and deckchairs to the arch where Ida set up camp each night. He saw her sitting in the small fold-up chair she brought down with her each night. On the old loading-bay ledge alongside her were Billy and Michael, fast asleep and wrapped in blankets. A little way from them he could see Peter also asleep clutching his teddy, while Patrick slept in his pram. His attention returned to Ida, with her head bowed in concentration over her knitting.
Although she drew the line at wearing the all-in-one siren suit the government was forever urging people to adopt, Ida had taken to wearing trousers in the shelter. And very nice they looked too, drawing the eye to her womanly hips and rear. However, her familiar curves were currently hidden away under the forest-green winter coat he’d bought her three years ago. A lock of her dark hair, secured under a tartan scarf tied in a turban, escaped and he watched her tuck it back behind her ear. He’d seen her do the same a hundred times over the years, while sitting by the fire, writing her shopping list or reading to the children.
Sensing someone watching her, Ida looked up. They gazed at each other for a couple of heartbeats then she set aside her knitting and stood up.
‘Any luck?’ she asked, her breath escaping in little puffs as she spoke.
He shook his head. ‘I’ve asked everywhere and no one seems to have seen her since yesterday afternoon.’ He raked his fingers through his hair. ‘I tell you straight, Ida, if she’s not home in the morning, I don’t know what I’ll do.’
All the guilt he’d kept bottled up about the argument he’d had with his mother in the court suddenly surged up and gripped his chest. Pressing his lips together, Jerimiah looked up and studied the ceiling.
‘I’m sure she’ll be back tomorrow,’ Ida said softly. ‘But if she’s not, I’ll come with you and we’ll look for her together.’
Leaving his contemplation of the iron girders above, Jerimiah lowered his head and met Ida’s gaze. With her lovely, dark eyes large in the dim light of the shelter, she smiled encouragingly up at him.
They stood for a couple of heartbeats then a voice cut between them.
‘Hello, Dad,’ said Cathy, holding an enamel mug in each hand. ‘We don’t often see you down here.’
Wearing a scarf tied in a turban around her head and her winter coat wrapped over her siren suit she, like her mother, was ready for a night in a subterranean concrete bunker.
Dragging his eyes from Ida’s face, Jerimiah smiled at his daughter. ‘Hello, luv. I just popped down to let your mum know how the search was going.’
‘Any luck?’
Jerimiah shook his head.
‘I hope she’s all right,’ said Cathy, looking concerned.
‘Course she is,’ he replied, forcing a cheery smile. ‘It would take more than Hitler to see off your gran. In fact, if he had the brains he was born with, Churchill would be sending her over to Germany to sort the lot of them out.’
‘You’re right there, Dad.’ Cathy laughed. ‘I’ve just got me and Mum a Horlicks. Do you want one?’
‘No, I’m fine,’ he replied. ‘And I ought to get back before Old Hitching-Wells puts me on a charge for being AWOL. I’ll see you and the lad on Christmas Eve for the Mass, will I?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it,’ Cathy replied.
Placing the mugs on the floor between hers and her mother’s chair, she went to check on her son.
‘Poor Cathy,’ said Jerimiah quietly, watching her tucking the blanket under Peter’s chin. ‘Stuck in that house with Stan’s miserable mother.’
‘I know,’ Ida replied. ‘But what can she do? Stan’s army pay isn’t enough to keep her and it’s hard enough for her to hold her head up as it is with everyone knowing Stan’s inside without her adding to the gossip by leaving him.’
Aching for his beloved daughter locked in an unhappy marriage, Jerimiah forced a smile. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘And although she’s got to put up with his cow of a mother,’ continued Ida, ‘at least Stan’s not there and not likely to be for many a long day.’
The overhead lamps flickered on and off, signalling ten minutes until lights-out. Jerimiah turned his attention back to Ida.
‘Looks like Jerry’s gone home so you should have a quiet night,’ he said, smiling warmly at her.
‘Let’s hope,’ she replied, smiling back.
They stood gazing at each other for a long moment then Jerimiah pulled himself up straight. ‘Well, I’ll be on me way.’
‘Yes, and I’d better bed down,’ Ida replied.
They smiled at each other again. Jerimiah turned to leave but as he did, Ida caught his arm.
‘Mind how you go,’ she said softly.
Although he longed to hold her, Jerimiah contented himself with placing his hand over hers.
‘To be sure I will,’ he said, enjoying the feel of her hand under his. ‘And I’ll be seeing you, me darling, in the morning.’
Chapter Twenty
‘WELL, THIS IS the last victim who matches the description of your mother, Mr Brogan,’ said the green-coated attendant, lifting the sheet.
Ida felt Jerimiah tense as they looked down at the old woman lying on the f
loor at their feet. She was covered in dust, and the right side of her head was caved in. Her jaw was out of kilter and sat at an odd angle to her cheeks and although someone had straightened her clothes, her stockings were shredded and a shoe was missing. But whoever this poor old soul was, she wasn’t Queenie.
It was now Tuesday, the day before Christmas Eve, and three days since they’d arrived back to a cold house and found Queenie gone. They had spent any free time they had on Sunday making enquiries locally then after Jerimiah’s interview at the local Fire Brigade headquarters on Monday morning they had spent the rest of the day visiting all the hospitals and temporary morgues in the area. After sifting through the recently deceased in the London, the Jewish and the East London Children’s Hospital, whose cellar had been drummed into use, they still had not found her. They’d even visited the temporary morgue in the basement of the Old Dispensary in Cable Street but without luck before they had to head home to get tea for the boys and check on Ellen again before going back to the shelter.
Tuesday morning found them standing in St Andrew’s Hospital morgue just down from Bow Bridge. They’d already been through the property of the handful of unidentified deceased the council had taken to the Manor Park Cemetery for cremation without recognising any of the items recovered. Now they were working their way through the fresh crop of corpses delivered by the Luftwaffe the night before. Mercifully, the temperature within the vaulted stone space under the hospital’s west wing was close to freezing as some had been here since the day before.
Jerimiah let out a long breath. ‘It’s not her.’
The attendant, a young chap with acne, let the sheet drop. ‘I’m afraid that’s the last of them.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jerimiah flatly.
He looked away but not quickly enough to hide the moisture gathering in his eyes.
‘Thank you,’ Ida repeated. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
‘Of course, the heavy rescue fellas are still digging up bodies, so it might be worth you ringing through to the WVS desk later and seeing if they’ve brought in someone fitting your mother-in-law’s description. That’s, of course, if the Post Office blokes have pulled their fingers out and fixed the phone lines by then.’ The young man’s face brightened. ‘You could have a shifty at the body parts – arms and legs, you know – we keep them out the back, lots of people find their nearest and dearest like—’
‘I think we might give that a miss,’ cut in Ida, feeling Jerimiah tense at the suggestion.
‘Okey-dokey,’ the young man replied.
The double doors at the far end of the basement swung open and two men in dust-covered dungarees and tin helmets with HR painted on the front hurried in; they were carrying a stretcher between them.
The young man glanced over his shoulder then back at Ida. ‘I should . . .’
She gave him a tight smile.
‘And I hope your mother turns up safe, Mr Brogan,’ the young man added in a tone that wasn’t convincing.
Jerimiah didn’t move for a second then he turned to Ida.
‘We might as well go home,’ he said.
‘Don’t you want to go to Plaistow Hospital?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘I’ll pop around to the Town Hall again later but if we’ve heard nothing by midday tomorrow, then I’ll jump on the tram to Plaistow.’ He gave her a heart-wrenching smile. ‘I’m guessing you’ve probably got a thousand things to do so we’d best head back.’
Ida gave half a laugh. ‘A thousand and one but if—’
‘Let’s go home, Ida luv,’ he said, tucking her hand more firmly in the crook of his arm. ‘I think we’ve seen enough dead bodies for one day.’
Jumping off the running board of the number 15 bus as it slowed at the traffic lights, Jerimiah turned up the collar of his greatcoat and turned towards St Bridget’s and St Brendan’s on the other side of the road.
He waited until a couple of army trucks, brimming with fresh-faced soldiers, passed then he crossed the road. Walking between the sandbags stacked to shoulder height on each side of the door, Jerimiah opened it and entered the dark interior of the church.
It was now almost three thirty, a few hours since he and Ida had returned from the Andrew’s morgue, and as it was still an hour until Father Mahon started evening prayers, there were only a few people dotted in the pews.
Slipping into the back row on the right, Jerimiah wedged himself against the pillar at the far end. Resting his forearms on his thighs and clasping his hands together, he closed his eyes then bowed his head.
Other than celebrating weddings and baptisms or commiserating with those mourning a newly departed soul, Jerimiah left the day-to-day communion with the heavenly realm to the Brogan women. And while he readily acknowledged the existence of the Almighty, he tried not to bother him too much because, with the world as it was at the moment, the Lord had enough on his plate without Jerimiah adding to it. However, given that Queenie, one of the Lord’s most fervent devotees, had been missing since Friday, he felt it was time to call on divine help. Truth be told, his mother was probably already with the saints, but if she wasn’t, then perhaps they wouldn’t mind giving him a bit of a hand to find her.
But his mother’s fate wasn’t the only worry threatening to crush him.
Although, after what he’d done to her, it might be beyond the powers of even Our Lord and his Mother to have his darling wife love him as she once had, and take Michael as her own, he did know that if there was any woman on God’s earth who could, it was his Ida.
Deep in his dispiriting thoughts, Jerimiah was vaguely aware of people leaving and entering the church but the sound of a pram’s wheels as they rolled over one of the air vents in the aisle jolted him back to the here and now. He looked up to see Mattie putting the brakes on Alicia’s pushchair and slipping into the family’s usual pew, halfway down on the left.
Taking down the kneeler that was hooked in front of her, Mattie knelt down. She rested her arms on the back of the pew in front of her, clasped her hands together and bowed her head.
Jerimiah watched her for a few moments, pondering on the fact that no matter how old they were, when you saw your child in pain, all your heart wanted to do was kiss it better. He made the sign of the cross then stood up and sidestepped out of the pew.
Alicia spotted him and started waving her arms as he approached, and Jerimiah’s heavy heart lightened a little.
As he reached where Mattie was kneeling, she looked around and smiled.
‘Dad,’ she said, sitting up on the pew and sliding along so he could sit beside her. ‘We don’t often see you here during the week.’
‘Well, you know how it is, luv,’ he said.
She pressed her lips together and nodded, her eyes bright with tears.
‘Don’t worry, he’ll be back,’ said Jerimiah.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I got a telegram from him this morning saying the same. I suppose he would have phoned but the domestic telephone lines are still down.’ Placing her hand on her stomach, she gave him a brave little smile. ‘Still, at least I’ll have something to keep me busy until he does.’
‘Oh, me darling girl.’ Happiness washed over Jerimiah’s bruised spirits. ‘Have you told your mum?’
She nodded. ‘I met her in the market just now. And Jo and Gran know too.’
‘But not Daniel?’ he asked.
Mattie shook her head. ‘He’s got enough on his mind,’ she replied, a tear sparkling in her eye.
Jerimiah put his arms around her. He drew her close and she snuggled into him.
Pressing his lips into his eldest daughter’s hair, he closed his eyes and added another request to his already long list.
She remained in his embrace for a few moments then Alicia started fretting at being left out, so Jerimiah unclipped her from her straps and lifted her on to his lap.
‘No news of Gran, then?’ Mattie said, as Alicia curled her little fingers around his large one.
J
erimiah sighed. ‘No, ’fraid not. I’ve even been over to Hackney Hospital, but no luck. I’ve got a few errands to run first thing tomorrow but then I’ll head off to the Wanstead to sift through unidentified belongings—’ From nowhere a lump choked off his throat and moisture blurred his vision. Mattie put her hand over his, and Jerimiah forced a smile. They sat there together in silence for a few moments then Mattie patted his hand and stood up.
‘Well, Jo’s in at six so I ought to get back and get the tea on,’ she said.
‘Me too,’ said Jerimiah, rising to his feet. With Alicia still in his arms, he stepped out of the pew.
‘Time to go home and see Auntie Jo, Alicia,’ Mattie said, holding her hands out.
The baby started wriggling and Jerimiah handed her over but just as Mattie sat the little girl back in the pushchair, the vestry door opened, and Father Mahon walked out.
Spotting them he hurried towards them.
‘Good afternoon, Father,’ said Mattie.
‘And to you, my dear, and my favourite angel,’ he said, bending forward to tickle Alicia under the chin. ‘But it’s you I’m glad to get sight of, Jerimiah. Any news of Queenie?’
‘I was just telling Mattie that—’ He stopped. ‘What’s the matter, luv?’ he asked, puzzled at the astonished expression on his daughter’s face as she looked at him and Father Mahon standing side by side.
‘Oh, nothing, Dad,’ she laughed. ‘Just something Daniel mentioned a little while ago.’
Blowing on his hands in an attempt to get the blood flowing back into them, Jerimiah picked up the next buff envelope.
It was almost three thirty in the afternoon on Christmas Eve and he was sitting in his improvised office at the back of the yard. The two-bar electric fire was plugged in but, as he didn’t have a shilling to spare for the meter, he hadn’t switched it on. He’d left the double gates open to let in as much daylight as possible but, as the arch was north facing, he’d been forced to switch on the table lamp so he could see what he was doing.
A Ration Book Childhood Page 30
