by Nancy Revell
Seeing her go off with Ronald, she knew what he’d think. What he would presume.
Normally, she didn’t give two hoots what anyone thought, but loath though she was to admit it, she did care what Bill thought.
When Helen stepped out of her front gate on the corner of Side Cliff Road and Park Avenue, she was shocked to see just how near to her home the bombs had landed.
It was bedlam.
Firefighters, ambulances and army trucks were travelling in both directions along the main road that ran parallel to the park. She presumed they were taking the injured to either Southwick Hospital or Monkwearmouth. Spotting a warden walking down Roker Park Road, she hurried and caught up with him.
‘Where’s been hit?’ she asked.
‘More like where hasn’t,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘That bad?’ Helen asked, keeping abreast with him.
‘They reckon a hundred and thirty bombs dropped,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘As usual this side’s had it bad. The railway crossing’s been hit up at Fulwell. There’s been carnage up Atkinson Road way. Four houses totally obliterated. At least another hundred and fifty damaged.’
He exhaled.
Helen recognised the look.
‘How many dead?’
‘Eleven. Including a family of six.’
They exchanged looks. Neither needed to say anything. The warden tipped his tin helmet before hurrying across the road and disappearing into a crowd that had gathered outside the Wesleyan church. It too had taken a direct strike. Those who should have been worshipping and singing psalms this time on a Sunday morning were now salvaging furniture and books from their place of prayer.
A few minutes later Helen reached the corner of Roker Baths Road and stopped in her tracks. The Roker Park football stadium had been pummelled – and more than once by the looks of it. The car park, just twenty yards from the nearest turnstile, was wrecked, as was the old clubhouse.
Overhearing two old men in front of her, she learnt that the pitch was now a deep crater, but worst of all, a special constable who had been patrolling the area last night had been killed. He’d died just a few yards away from his home in Beatrice Street. Helen thought of the poor man’s family. Had they been the ones to find his body?
Ten minutes later, Helen reached Thompson’s to find it a hive of activity, and knew immediately that the yard had taken a hit.
‘What’s the damage?’ She grabbed hold of one of the workers heading out of the yard.
‘We’ve been lucky, Miss Crawford,’ the man said. ‘Just some minor damage over by the quayside.’
Heading over there, she bumped into Harold.
‘Denewood took one. She’s letting in water,’ he said, puffing on his cigar.
‘Will we lose her?’ Helen said, her heart sinking. She knew the amounts of sweat and sheer hard graft that had gone into getting her down the ways.
One step forward and two steps back.
‘We might be able to save her.’ Harold sounded hopeful. ‘The lads are on the case. They’ve got the pumps going. They should be able to keep her afloat long enough to get her patched up.’
Harold gestured over to the admin building and they both started walking.
‘I think Jerry’s managed to mark just about every district in the borough,’ he said. ‘They reckon about seventy dead and well over a thousand injured. And that’s a conservative estimate.’
‘Right, well, let’s make sure we’re up and running for start of shift tomorrow,’ Helen said, reaching the main entrance to the admin building and pulling open the door.
It was the only way she knew how to fight back.
Chapter Sixty-One
It was twelve o’clock.
Half an hour before opening.
Pearl had managed to get herself cleaned up. She didn’t look too bad, all things considered. Although behind the veneer of relative normality, her head was pounding, her mouth felt like cotton wool and she was filled with the familiar feeling of self-loathing that went hand in hand with the downer that inevitably followed a bender.
Pearl hurried across the road, thankful her journey to work took all of thirty seconds.
Looking up and down Tatham Street, you wouldn’t have guessed that the town had been so badly bombed last night. Their street had escaped unharmed. Thank God.
Pearl banged on the pub door.
This was the first air raid she couldn’t really remember. She could just about recall being half carried into the cellar by a blaspheming Ronald, but that was about it.
She’d heard Beryl’s big gob going this morning as she’d been having a quiet fag in the backyard. She’d been yakking to one of her bairns, saying that Fenwick’s Brewery in Low Row had been bombed; two Fire Guards had dodged death by the skin of their teeth when part of the building had collapsed; and that the nearby waste pipes had burst and there’d been sewerage everywhere. Pearl had almost gagged and ended up chucking her half-smoked cigarette and going back into the house, out of earshot.
Pearl banged on the door to the Tatham Arms again. Louder this time.
‘Where’s the bugger?’ she mumbled.
She walked along the pavement, stood on her tiptoes, put her hands to the taped-up windowpane and looked into the bar. ‘Place’s dead as a bloody doornail.’
Turning around, she saw Geraldine crossing the road.
‘Didn’t think I’d see you here today?’ She looked Pearl up and down.
‘Aye, well, yer thought wrong, didn’t yer?’ Pearl snorted.
Geraldine reached the pub and tried the front door.
Pearl tutted loudly.
‘I have tried the door, yer knar? I’m not just poking my nose through the bloody windows for the fun of it.’
Geraldine glowered at Pearl. She didn’t know if she preferred her drunk or sober.
‘Well, if he’s not here, he’s not here,’ Geraldine said.
‘Bill’s always here,’ Pearl snapped.
‘He’s probably sleeping it off at the Welcome.’
‘What do yer mean? He didn’t gan there last night, did he?’ Pearl was taken aback.
‘He said there was a lock-in,’ Geraldine said.
‘But he never gans to lock-ins. Not other people’s anyway.’
Geraldine shrugged her shoulders.
‘Well, if you see him,’ she said, turning to cross the road, ‘tell him just to shout if he wants me to do a shift.’
Pearl watched as the cocky young barmaid hurried back across the road and disappeared round the corner.
‘Ma!’
Pearl shifted her vision to see Bel standing in the doorway of their home, her eyes squinting against the midday sun. Her face looked puzzled. She too was clearly wondering why Bill hadn’t opened up.
‘I dinnit knar where he is,’ Pearl shouted out as she crossed the road. ‘He always opens up,’ she said as she reached Bel. ‘That Geraldine girl says he went to the Welcome for a lock-in last night.’
Bel’s face fell immediately.
‘What’s wrong?’ Pearl demanded.
‘Joe’s just come back for a cuppa and he says it’s bad down there.’
‘What do yer mean, it’s bad down there?’
‘He said that he bumped into Martha and she told him Barrack Street was hit – badly. Two heavy bombs … Five houses and two pubs demolished.’
Bel motioned for her ma to come into the house. She was met with a vehement shake of the head.
‘He didn’t say which pubs, though,’ Bel said.
‘There’s only two on that street. How many dead?’ Pearl demanded.
‘Four,’ Bel said. ‘And quite a few badly injured.’
Pearl turned on her heel.
‘Ma, where’re you going?’
‘Where do you think?’ Pearl was angry. Angry because she knew that if she hadn’t got so hammered last night, Bill wouldn’t have felt the need to go to some lock-in.
Pearl half walked, half jogged down Tatham S
treet. A few moments later she heard someone running up behind her.
Looking round, she saw it was Bel, juggling two gas masks and her handbag.
‘Yer dinnit have to come with me, Isabelle. I’m auld ’n ugly enough to look after myself, yer knar.’
‘I know you are, Ma,’ Bel said, linking arms. ‘I know you are.’
When Pearl and Bel arrived at what had once been Barrack Street they stopped in their tracks. It had been bad enough seeing the damage caused by last night’s raid as they had walked the mile here – but this was catastrophic. Even worse than the Tatham Street bombing. Not only had five houses been razed to the ground, there were others that weren’t far off and the two pubs were now just rubble.
Bel looked at her ma. Her heart went out to her. If Bill had been in the Welcome Tavern when the bombs landed, he would be lucky if he was amongst the injured.
‘There!’ Bel pointed.
‘Where?’ Pearl’s voice rose.
‘Sorry, Ma.’ Bel realised her ma had thought she had spotted Bill. ‘Follow me,’ she said, ‘there’s a warden with a clipboard, which says to me that he knows what’s what.’
Pearl followed, the pair clambering over plaster and bricks to get to the old man wearing a young man’s uniform.
‘Excuse me,’ Bel said in her politest voice. ‘We’re trying to find a friend who was here last night.’
The old man turned to face them. He looked at Bel and then at Pearl.
‘Yer not gonna find yer answer by gawping at us, are yer?’ Pearl’s voice was practically a growl.
Bel took her ma’s arm and squeezed it.
‘Sorry, we’re just a bit worried,’ she said.
‘Aye, like half the town,’ the old man said, giving Pearl a look like the summons. ‘Name?’
‘Hardwick,’ Pearl said.
‘Ma, he means Bill’s name.’ Bel saw the ravages of last night’s binge on her mother’s face.
‘Lawson,’ Pearl said. ‘William David Lawson.’
Bel looked at her ma. She was surprised she knew his full name.
They both watched in silence as the old soldier put on his glasses and went through his list one by one. Pearl had to stop herself from snatching the clipboard off him. Instead, she held her breath.
‘Here he is,’ the Home Guard said, looking up and taking off his glasses.
‘Is he dead?’ Pearl spat the words out.
Mother and daughter seemed to be staring at the old man for ever before he opened his mouth.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Your William David Lawson is still with us. Or at least he was when he left here.’ He looked at the two women. The gobby one looked a pale shade of grey.
‘But,’ he added, ‘he has been injured. I don’t know how badly. All I’ve got down here,’ he put on the glasses again, ‘is that he’s been taken to the Monkwearmouth Hospital.’ He looked up at the two women. ‘Which I’m sure you know is on the Newcastle Road.’
‘Thank you, thank you so much.’ Bel would have liked to have hugged the man, but he had already turned and was talking to another couple who looked as worried as they did.
‘Bloody hell, Bill.’ Pearl was grappling around in her handbag for her fags. ‘Yer’ve just knocked ten years off my life.’ She laughed as she sparked up her fag. ‘Which, I’m sure yer’ll agree, I can ill afford.’
Bel looked at her ma muttering to herself. Her relief was clear to see.
‘Right then,’ Pearl said, smoke swirling out of her mouth. ‘Fancy a trip over the river?’
At one o’clock Helen and Harold had drawn up their battle lines.
‘Right, I think our work here is done,’ Harold said, scraping back his chair. ‘See you tomorrow.’
As soon as Harold had left, Helen checked herself in the mirror before grabbing her handbag and gas mask and hurrying out of her office.
Ten minutes later she was walking along Dame Dorothy Street. Seeing a bus heading into town, she hailed it as if it were a taxi. Normally it probably wouldn’t have pulled over as Helen was not waiting at a bus stop, but today was not a normal day.
‘No charge today, miss,’ the bus driver said.
Helen smiled her thanks and sat down on one of the front seats. There were only a few other passengers on the bus.
Ten minutes later, having picked up a few other stragglers who looked as though they had been up most of the night, the bus pulled into the main depot at Park Lane.
As soon as she got off, she saw that the once beautiful King’s Theatre in Crowtree Road had been badly damaged by a load of incendiary bombs.
She thought of Theo.
They had met there on the afternoon he had told her he was ending their relationship.
Then John.
He had taken her there to see a movie she had wanted to see with Theo. They’d had a lovely evening. So much better than any she’d ever had with Theo.
It was another instance of how John brought light and laughter into her life. How the dark memories left by Theo had been replaced by happy new times she’d enjoyed with John.
Walking over to the stop for the Ryhope bus, she suddenly had a change of mind.
She was taking control of her life.
Taking hold of the reins.
She would drive herself.
Pearl and Bel were both thankful that the buses and trams had started running again, as neither had fancied walking the mile and a half over to Monkwearmouth Hospital.
‘They reckon the death count’s up to seventy-five,’ the bus driver said over his shoulder, but keeping his eyes on the road.
Pearl felt that for once, fate had looked favourably on her. Thank God Bill was not one of the bodies lying in either of the makeshift mortuaries that had been set up to deal with the dead.
How badly injured he might be was a different matter, but he was alive. That was the main thing.
As they crossed over the Wear they saw a blanket of oil burning on the river, presumably from a damaged oil tank. It looked dangerously near the wooden gates to one of the main docks.
A few minutes later, the bus slowed down and stopped.
The driver had a short conversation with the Home Guard soldier.
Pearl and Bel could see the road ahead was in the process of being cordoned off.
‘Sorry, folks,’ the driver said, standing and hitching up his trousers. ‘There’s an unexploded bomb about two hundred yards up the road.’ He took off his peaked cap and wiped his sweaty forehead with a large handkerchief.
‘I’m afraid we’ve reached the end of the road,’ he said, a resigned smile on his chubby round face.
There was a mumbling of discontent as everyone trooped off the bus.
Pearl and Bel looked at the crowd that was forming further up the street.
‘Get yerself home, pet.’ Pearl looked at Bel.
‘You’re joking, aren’t you? I’ve come this far. You’re not getting shot of me now.’
Bel took her mother’s arm.
‘Anyway, I know a little short cut.’
Walking out of the main bus depot, along Cowan Terrace and then along the main stretch of Ryhope Road, Helen saw yet more devastation caused by last night’s raid.
Many of the buildings, which had been there for as long as she could remember, were now shadows of their former glory. Some were merely skeleton structures, others defaced, their innards on show to the public; a few had been obliterated, transformed in the blink of an eye into ugly, oversized scrap heaps of dust and debris.
Seeing it all made Helen realise just how fragile life was. How nothing was permanent. It made her think of those who had lost not only their homes and everything in them, but their loved ones.
She thought of John.
Entering the long stretch of road known as The Cedars, Helen immediately felt the cool in the air created by the natural canopy of large, overhanging trees; the cool changing to a chill as she turned into Glen Path and looked across at the walled-off Backhouse Park. She thought of
Pearl and how she must have taken this route the night she had gone looking for work, knocking on the large oak doors of these grand houses with their sweeping drives and metal gates.
As she walked up the gravelled driveway to her grandfather’s house, it was as though she was going there for the first time – knowing what had happened there made her see it with new eyes. Again she thought of Pearl, a fifteen-year-old girl who had just given her baby up for adoption, standing outside this very house. How she might have escaped the horror in store for her had her grandmother not answered the door. Had she not resembled the Little Match Girl.
Bizarre. The more she got to hear about her family, the more she felt as though she had only skimmed the surface. And that, like her mother had said to her, there was an excess of skeletons in the Havelock cupboards.
She rang the bell.
Within seconds, the door opened.
‘Miss Crawford, how lovely to see you. Please, do come in.’ Mr Havelock’s manservant opened the door wide and gave Helen a genuine smile.
‘Hi, Eddy, is Grandfather about?’
‘I’m afraid he’s having his afternoon lie-down, a bit earlier than normal due to the interruptions last night.’
Helen looked at Eddy. He was doing well for his age. Immaculately turned out, back ramrod straight. Thick grey Brylcreemed hair. His memory was also still evidently sharp as a pin.
‘That’s fine. Don’t disturb him on my account,’ Helen said, relieved that she would not have to see him. After what she had found out yesterday, she didn’t feel she could look at the man, let alone speak to him.
‘I’ve just come to borrow the car actually,’ Helen said. She had been glad to see it parked in the driveway, although she’d guessed her grandfather wouldn’t be going anywhere today.
‘Ah, Miss Crawford.’
Helen jumped. Why was it that Agatha always seemed to appear out of nowhere?
‘Did I hear that you wanted the use of Mr Havelock’s car?’
‘You did indeed, Agatha.’
‘Well, I’m afraid Thomas is out helping with the clear-up. Alexandra Park’s been badly hit.’
Helen walked over to the tallboy.
‘That’s all right, Agatha,’ Helen said, seeing what she was looking for. ‘I can drive myself.’
