by Ellie Dean
Rita was in a daze as she clambered over the wreckage, her breath sounding impossibly loud in the awful silence. She stood where her home had once been, staring at the charred remains of furniture, the blasted, buckled frame of May’s beloved BSA and the solitary shoe that lay half-hidden under what was left of the garage doors. It was one of her father’s. Picking it up, she held it to her heart, staring in stunned bewilderment at the wreckage, unable to take in what had happened.
‘Get out of there! Can’t you smell the gas? This whole place will go up in a minute and take us both along with it.’
She stared at the ARP warden – at his wild, red-rimmed eyes, his soot-smeared face beneath the tin helmet and his bedraggled uniform. Her mind was frozen and his words made no sense.
He grabbed her by the arm and almost dragged her down the lane. ‘Go to the Town Hall,’ he said firmly. ‘They’ll look after you there.’
‘Louise,’ she muttered, her thoughts suddenly clearing. ‘What’s happened to Louise and all the others from this street?’
His expression became grim. ‘She probably went down the public shelter in Brook Street,’ he replied, not meeting her frantic gaze.
A terrible suspicion lay black in her heart. ‘What happened to the shelter?’
‘It got damaged,’ he said, his tone less brusque. ‘There were some casualties, but they’re pulling everyone out as soon as they can.’
Rita was trembling as she stood before him clutching her father’s shoe. ‘Casualties?’ she rasped through a tight throat.
‘A few. We won’t know until we’ve got everyone out.’ He placed a kindly hand on her arm. ‘I wouldn’t go there, luv,’ he said. ‘Best you head straight for the Town Hall.’
Rita backed away, shaking her head. ‘I have to find Louise. Have to make sure she’s all right.’ Still clutching her father’s shoe, she ignored his shouts, climbed onto the Norton and almost fell off as she attempted to steer with one hand and took a corner too swiftly. With the shoe tucked inside her jacket, she forced herself to remain calm and focused. It would be very stupid indeed to kill herself now after the night she’d just been through.
She reached Brook Street to find it in chaos. The blast had toppled the old tenement building into a heap of smoking rubble, and the rescue workers were desperately trying to get to the people trapped in the shelter beneath it. Those lucky enough to have already been rescued stood in bewildered, tearful huddles as babies cried, wardens tried to restore order and a shrouded stretcher was carried over the wreckage to be placed almost reverently beside two others.
Rita’s fear for Louise was all-encompassing as she looked at those stretchers, but as she warily approached them, she was stopped by a warden. ‘There’s nothing you can do for them, dear,’ he said, his eyes red-rimmed with weariness.
‘I’m looking for my mother,’ she managed through her tears.
‘She’s not here,’ he replied softly. ‘Two little kids and an old man lie under those sheets, God help them.’
Rita took a deep, shuddering breath, sad for the lives lost, but thankful it wasn’t Louise. She turned back to the milling crowd that waited by the entrance the rescue workers had dug into the rubble. They seemed determined to stay there, heedless of the wardens’ furious shouts to leave. ‘Louise,’ she yelled. ‘Louise, where are you?’
There was no answer, and she pushed her way through the confused, stunned onlookers. ‘Have you seen Louise Minelli?’ she asked everyone she passed. But they shook their heads, their muttered replies barely intelligible – they were too shocked and afraid to be able to comprehend her urgency.
‘Louise, where are you?’ she called, close to tears. ‘Louise. Louise!’
‘I’m here.’
Rita spun round and gathered her into her arms. ‘Oh, Mamma, I thought I’d lost you,’ she sobbed. ‘The house is gone, there’s nothing left of Barrow Lane, and I thought – I feared . . .’
‘It’s all right, cara mia. We are both alive, and that’s all that matters.’
Rita heard the aching weariness in Louise’s voice, the hitch of sharp-edged fear, and drew back. Louise regarded her with eyes dull with shock. She was barely recognisable beneath the coating of dust and grime. Her greying hair was straggling from its pins, her skin was as pale as putty beneath the sooty smears, and her hands shook so badly she almost dropped the precious bag of treasured letters and photographs.
Rita put her arm round her. ‘Come, Mamma, we’ll go to the Town Hall and get a cup of tea.’
Louise remained stock-still as if planted to the shattered pavement. The tears rolled down her face, leaving tracks in the soot that had settled there. ‘But how will Tino and Roberto find us now we have no home?’ she whispered in Italian. ‘They will not know – they will think we have forgotten them.’
‘No, Mamma, the authorities will make sure we get their letters. They’ll know how to find us.’
‘You promise?’
Rita nodded and gently steered her towards the abandoned Norton. Taking the bag from her, she quickly placed it in the second pannier with their gas mask boxes.
‘It’s a long walk into town, and you’re exhausted,’ she said softly. ‘Will you agree to me driving you there?’
Louise, who had always refused to have anything to do with the motorbike, wordlessly perched side-saddle as they did in Italy, and clasped her arms round Rita’s waist. ‘Don’t go too fast,’ she said, resting her head wearily on Rita’s shoulder. ‘The road isn’t safe and I don’t want you getting hurt.’
‘No, Mamma,’ she replied. ‘Whatever you say.’
Chapter Twelve
BEACH VIEW AND the surrounding houses had escaped the worst of the bombing, but nearly every window had been smashed by the blasts, the gas, water and electricity were off, and all the telephone lines were down. Camden Road had come through unscathed, but one of the smaller hotels on the seafront had taken a direct hit and the debris had made the buildings on either side unsafe.
Wally, the ARP warden, had gleefully told them about the enemy plane crashing into the pier, which was now a twisted, charred iron skeleton sticking out of the sea. He seemed almost to delight in being the bearer of bad news as he described the damage in the town, and on the factory estate; the loss of life at the Brook Street shelter and the devastation caused to the airfield. But, frustratingly, he didn’t know any of the details about what had happened to the men and women at the RAF base and had left Anne even more frantic for news of Martin and Cissy.
‘I wish to heavens I could go out to the base,’ she muttered, ‘but as a civilian I’m forbidden to go near it – and I wouldn’t be of much use anyway.’ She paced the kitchen, unable to settle to anything. ‘If only he could telephone.’
‘I’ve always found that it’s best to keep busy at times like these,’ said Mrs Finch. ‘Your mother would be calling on the neighbours to make sure they’re all right, and then turning her hand to cleaning this place as if her life depended upon it.’
Anne nodded, unable to speak for fear it would unblock the dam she’d desperately erected to stem the great tide of fear that threatened to overwhelm her.
Mrs Finch looked up at Anne and smiled tremulously as she handed her the broom. ‘I’ve sent Ron to check on the neighbours, and Lady Sylvia has gone to the hospital to see if she can lend a hand there. Let’s make a start on clearing away all the broken glass before someone cuts themselves.’
Anne fumbled for the broom, but her mind was numb, her hands shaking too badly to keep it from clattering to the floor. She stared at it in dumb despair, unable to retrieve it.
‘Come on, Anne, dear. Sit down and have a cup of tea. You’ll feel better with something inside you.’ Mrs Finch gently led her to the chair by the range and pressed her into it before pouring the last of the tea from the flask. They’d all forgotten to fill the kettle before they’d rushed for the Anderson shelter.
Anne felt sick and disorientated, the sleepless night and the worry over Marti
n and Cissy exacerbating the effects of that terrifying raid. Yet she sipped the over-sweet, stewed tea obediently in the hope it might calm her, and tried to garner warmth from the meagre fire in the range. She was cold to the core and couldn’t seem to stop shivering.
‘Your father should be back soon and then perhaps we’ll know more,’ soothed Mrs Finch as she retrieved the abandoned broom. ‘He’s bound to have spoken to one of his pals who were manning the searchlights by the airfield.’
‘I want my mum,’ murmured Anne, the tears sliding down her face. ‘I miss her so much.’
‘There, there, dear. Don’t cry.’ Mrs Finch perched awkwardly on the arm of the chair and held her close. ‘Your mother will be home very soon.’
‘It’s so hard without her here,’ Anne managed, ‘and I’m terrified something will happen to her – to Martin and to Cissy – and that I’ll never see any of them again.’
‘I know it’s hard,’ soothed Mrs Finch. ‘But we must keep faith that they’ll come home safe and well.’
Faith was such a small word, but it held a universe of meaning Anne found impossible to comprehend while the dark fears haunted her. She placed her trembling hands protectively round her distended belly, feeling the baby move beneath her fingers as she prayed fervently for her family to be spared.
‘I don’t see why we can’t go to Beach View,’ said Louise as they came to a halt outside the grey, forbidding building that had once been the local asylum. ‘Peggy has always said we’d be welcome should we need somewhere, and this place makes my skin crawl.’
‘I’ve already explained several times, Mamma,’ Rita said wearily. ‘They don’t have any room.’ Rita climbed off the motorbike, took the box of emergency rations they’d been given at the Town Hall from Louise, and helped her off the bike.
‘I don’t mind sleeping on the floor, or in the dining room on the couch,’ Louise continued. ‘Anything’s better than staying here.’
Rita didn’t voice her deep concern over Martin and Cissy, but she kept seeing that red glow which had lit up the sky to the north of Cliffehaven, marking the almost complete destruction of the airfield where six people had been killed. Beach View could well be a house of mourning, and this was not the time to go begging for shelter.
‘They’re using the dining room to feed everyone,’ she said firmly, ‘and Cissy will be sleeping on the couch when she’s on leave. At least, here, we’ll have beds.’
Louise looked as if she was about to argue, then gave a sigh of defeated weariness and distress. ‘Tino and me worked so hard to make a success of the café,’ she sobbed. ‘We’ve lived there all our married life, raising our children and making plans for the future. How is it that everything can be wiped out so swiftly, Rita? What have I done to deserve losing my home and my family?’
Rita had no answer, for she was still mourning the loss of her own home and the garage where she and her father had shared so many happy hours. The memories would remain with her for always, but the pain of losing everything still ran deep and she longed for her father’s quiet consolation and reassuring embrace.
‘You’ve done nothing wrong,’ she replied a little unsteadily, ‘and neither did anyone else who lost their homes and their livelihoods last night.’ She took Louise’s hand, feeling its tremble and its chill. ‘But we have each other, Mamma. We aren’t alone.’
Louise snatched away her hand as she turned her tear-streaked face to Rita. ‘But you’ll be leaving after Christmas,’ she said bitterly, ‘and then I shall be left with no one and no place to call home. It would have been better to die in the shelter than endure such an existence.’
Rita knew she’d been beaten – that it would now be impossible to pursue her dreams and leave Louise behind – had realised it when she’d found Louise standing helplessly beside the rubble of the collapsed shelter. ‘I’ll go to the recruitment office tomorrow and see if it’s possible to do my training here and fulfil my duties locally. If not, I’ll withdraw my application,’ she said, her voice trembling with emotion.
Louise’s tears dried almost instantly. ‘You’re a good girl, Rita.’ She squeezed Rita’s hand, her smile a little unsteady. ‘I knew you wouldn’t desert me.’
Rita battled with her mixed emotions as they stood hand in hand among the choking weeds of the gravel drive and stared up at the gloomy building that was to be their billet until they could find something less daunting.
Shielded by a high wall and surrounding trees, the Victorian asylum stood in large, unkempt grounds that isolated it from the westernmost heights of Cliffehaven. There were no houses nearby, and the little-used cart track leading up to it from the seafront meandered steeply through clumps of gorse, brambles, wild apple trees and stinging nettles.
It was quite a climb, and even the Norton had had trouble carrying them to the top, but Rita suspected the view would have been quite spectacular if the town hadn’t been shrouded in the remains of smoke and ash which still rose from the ruined buildings.
She regarded the asylum warily, remembering the stories she’d heard as a child about this place being haunted. She no longer believed in ghosts, and the poor insane souls who’d once been incarcerated here had all been evacuated at the outbreak of war. But despite the weak sunlight streaking through the clouds, she could feel the dark, disturbing aura of their madness which seemed still to linger in the grey ivy-clad walls, turrets and barred windows.
Rita shuddered at the thought of actually having to sleep within those walls, but they had no other choice and Louise was feeling fragile enough without her voicing her childish fears. ‘Come, Mamma. We have to make the best of things, and I’m sure it’s much nicer inside.’
They carried their bags of precious belongings up the steps to the sturdy, iron-studded front door. The woman at the Town Hall had told them there would be no one to meet them and to just let themselves in.
The door creaked ominously as Rita pushed it open and they stepped into an echoing, marble-floored entrance hall. A once-grand staircase swept off to one side, the red carpet worn through, the brass stair-rods tarnished with age and neglect. There were faded patches on the walls where large pictures had been taken down, and the chandelier that must have hung from the ornate plaster rose in the high ceiling had been replaced by a single unshaded light bulb. There was no furniture, and it looked as if it had been many months since the place had been dusted and polished.
Rita and Louise moved further into the hall, their footsteps echoing in the silence as they explored their new home. Several rooms led off the square hall, each of them numbered, and, behind the staircase, a passageway led to a vast kitchen with an ancient range, scrubbed wooden tables and mismatched chairs. Unlike the hall, this room was as neat as a new pin, and still held the aroma of last night’s supper. There were pots and pans hanging above the range, plain white china sat on deep shelves or in the wooden drainers above the sink, and a huge stack of logs had been placed in a corner to feed the fire. Several wooden clothes driers were strung from pulleys across the huge ceiling, bearing a collection of underwear, sheets, towels and nappies.
‘The woman at the billeting office did say we weren’t the only ones here, but I was beginning to have my doubts,’ muttered Rita. ‘The place feels deserted.’
‘What you doing ’ere?’
Rita whirled round in horror to face Aggie Rawlings. ‘We were bombed out last night,’ she stammered.
‘This place ain’t fer the likes of ’er,’ Aggie snarled, eyes flashing with anger as she glared at Louise. ‘There’s camps for bleedin’ Eyeties.’ Her venomous glare settled on Rita. ‘And for the likes of you an’ all,’ she added, folding her arms beneath her pendulous bosom. ‘You don’t fool me, Rita Smith. You’ve got more than a drop of Eyetie blood in you, I’ll be bound.’
Rita could feel Louise cowering beside her. ‘You’re entitled to your opinion, Aggie,’ she said, ‘but I warn you – if you say or do anything to hurt Louise, you’ll have me to answer to. And I fi
ght dirty, Aggie. Especially when my family’s threatened.’
‘You wait till my old man finds out you’re here,’ Aggie retorted. ‘You won’t be so big for yer boots then.’
‘Drop it, Aggie. There’s enough trouble without you making things worse. None of us want to be here, but we have to make the best of it.’
Aggie sniffed and stomped off into the hall, her heavy footfalls ringing out until they heard the slam of a door.
‘Who was that horrible woman?’ Louise shivered and pulled her coat collar to her chin.
‘No one important. Just ignore her and don’t let her get to you. She’s mostly hot air, and not everyone thinks the way she does.’ Rita gave Louise a smile of encouragement. ‘Come on, Mamma, let’s find our room and settle in.’
They checked the numbers on the doors and began the long climb up the stairs to discover their room was at the very top of the house in one of the round turrets. Louise was exhausted by the climb, and Rita was sweating in the heavy fire service overcoat that she’d worn over her old leather flying jacket since the night before. But when she slotted the heavy key in the lock and opened the door they were both drawn instantly to the broad bay windows and the amazing view.
Setting aside their bags and the box of rations, they looked through the sturdy iron bars which had been cemented into the frames. Far below them the smoke had cleared enough for them to see the leafy green hedges and red roofs of Havelock Gardens. The little white kiosk on the seafront that had once served afternoon teas and ice creams to the holidaymakers had survived the raid, as had the roofs and chimneys of the big hotels at the western end of the promenade. They could see very little of the rest of the town from here, but the pier was in ruins, the tail of the enemy plane sticking grotesquely out of the charred skeleton of what had once been the ballroom.
‘The room’s bigger than I expected,’ said Rita with determined cheerfulness, ‘and certainly not the padded cell I thought we’d get. This must have been one of those private asylums where the rich hid away their embarrassing relatives.’
