Authors: Maggie Ford
Filled with resentment, Susan found herself listening for sounds she had never really noticed before: Beryl, sixteen, eighteen months younger than her, sighing in slumber, probably dreaming; June, fourteen and just left school, a restless girl even in her sleep; her father coughing – too many cigarettes made him bronchial. The back door opening then closing gave a little shake to the house – her mother was coming in from the Red Lion at the end of the street where she was barmaid five evenings a week. Soon came the whistling of the kettle, rising rapidly to a thin scream, fading away, like a soul dying, as it was lifted from the gas stove to make her mother’s cocoa.
Susan was still awake when the house vibrated to her mother wearily mounting the stairs. The bedroom door below scraped over the lino, then scraped again as it closed. Complaining bedsprings. The intermittent cough ceased. The springs squeaked afresh as Jack Hopkins humped himself over his wife. After urgent whisperings and a giggle, the springs were soon going like a park seesaw, her mother’s mounting joy evident. Then, after a while, silence. Later came heavy snoring – there were no secrets in this house.
Outside sounded the small noises of the night: the mewling cat near at hand, a dog barking further off; an urgent click of high heels on the pavement below, the clink of a milk bottle being put out for the morning; a low distant growl of a solitary lorry, perhaps an army truck, passing a few streets away on its way through the city towards some barracks or other. She thought of Matthew, probably asleep in his. Dreaming of her? Or was she forgotten? She didn’t think so. He had asked her for a kiss on the corner of her street, hadn’t taken it as his right but had asked permission. He’d asked to see her again. He would write to her when he next got a pass. He had even stood watching her go on along her road, given a brief wave as she turned reaching her door, and gone on his way.
At the recollection a tingle passed through her and in a sudden bout of ecstasy, Susan drummed her heels up and down beneath the bedcover and, taking the sheet between her small teeth, bit hard to relieve the pent-up joy. What did he look like in his sleep? Trying to imagine him, the sounds of the sleeping world went unheeded.
From far away came another sound, faint, but its message already understood, tensing the muscles, plucking at nerves. Rigid, Susan lay listening, waiting though instinct told her to get up and run, though where she was not sure.
The thin lone voice was joined by another, slightly nearer, then another, nearer still, each rising and falling in its own time. The first, hardly discernible now with those nearer wails taking up the cry. That first and the second and the third had died away, their message complete, but their relay was still advancing like a relentless tide.
Her parents’ door opened. Her mother called up, ‘Sue! Get the gals up. Robert! Les! John! Come on!’ Her tone was one of piercing urgency. But Susan was already up, shaking the girls awake.
‘Warning’s gone. Come on – hurry up.’ She dared not put on a light. The blackout curtains were a flimsy affair that needed time to check before one could be sure no chink gleamed out into the night. There was no time to check.
Transition from deep sleep to alert wakefulness was immediate, a gift given only to animals and those in peril. They were on their feet feeling for top clothes – like herself, these times they went to bed in their undies, the easier to dress in an air raid.
Beryl was shivering. ‘Brr! I’m cold.’
In the darkness, June’s voice: ‘I think I’ve got Beryl’s dress on.’
‘It don’t matter – just hurry up.’
‘It does. She’ll tear the seams.’
‘Then hurry up and change over. We’ve got to get down the cellar.’
The boys were already racing past the door, boots clumping down the stairs. Grabbing handbag and warm coat, Susan pushed the girls ahead of her, hearing the first crump of anti-aircraft guns.
‘Where’s the gals?’ came her mother’s anxious call.
‘Sod the gals!’ came her father’s grating voice. ‘Where’s my fags?’
‘Blow your soppy fags – there’s some in the cellar.’
‘Tailor-made make me cough. I don’t like ’em.’
‘You’ll have to lump ’em! Where’re you gals?’
‘Coming, Mum.’
The siren on the roof of the police station in the next street broke into its frantic exchange with an ear-splitting wailing. At the same time the ack-ack gun situated on a piece of waste ground at the far end of the road began cracking. The Hopkins family, like every family around them, all but fell down the four concrete steps into the cellar to be cocooned in comparative safety for the next several hours among the junk of a lifetime spent living in one house. The junk was now pushed to one end to accommodate an ancient double bed, a sagging put-u-up, two camp beds, an oil stove for warmth and a portable electric ring to brew tea, the concrete floor sporting a tattered rug to give a semblance of comfort while age-old cobwebs made grey curtains against the walls.
In this underground environment they sorted themselves out a little more calmly but no less tensely beneath the cold glare of a single electric bulb while above them the night began to rage.
As anti-aircraft guns began whacking away at laden German bombers droning above with their deep-throated, throbbing engine note, most likely caught in a web of searchlights, Susan sat thinking of Matthew. He had said he was in a searchlight unit. Was he on duty tonight? Searchlights were always vulnerable to attack. What if …
A noise, like the tearing of canvas, made the family start. It seemed to be in the very cellar. The explosion sent them cowering to the floor as the light bulb swung madly on its flex to send the shadows of the camp beds flying wildly across the bare brick walls.
When nothing more happened they got to their feet, their hearts still racing, to sit back on the edge of the beds or on one of the old kitchen chairs long since consigned to the cellar.
‘Sounded like it fell right in this street,’ Vi Hopkins said. ‘Jack, you ought to go and look. They might need some help.’
Shakily Jack reached for a tailor-made cigarette. ‘There’ll be others helping, I expect. Better not get in the way, like.’
‘Long as it wasn’t our house.’
‘We’d know if it was, with dust and stuff. And the roof would’ve come in on us.’
‘So much for being safe,’ Vi remarked, looking up at the still-intact basement ceiling. But even if the house suffered, cellars would stand up to anything so long as it wasn’t a direct hit. ‘Someone in this street must have got it though,’ she mused sadly. ‘Hope no one was hurt.’
‘We’ll know in the morning,’ Jack said as the worst of the raid drifted off. The bombers might come back, or they might not. It all depended. But while there was a lull, it was best to sleep. He climbed into the ancient double bed, fully dressed, pulling the blanket over his head.
Susan looked at him, contempt a dull, wordless emotion inside her, and thought of Matthew out there amid falling, jagged-edged, razor-sharp shrapnel from anti-aircraft guns, a tin helmet his only protection as he did whatever people did with searchlights.
With morning and the all clear, the sun shining as though in mockery of last night’s devastation, her father returned from his reconnoitre to say the near-miss had flattened two houses at the end of the road opposite the Red Lion.
‘Hope it’s not put paid to my job,’ Vi sighed. ‘I need that money.’
‘They said one landed in Lile Street.’ He worked in Lile Street in a small factory making the springs that went inside the chin straps of steel helmets. War work and his bronchitis had kept him out of the forces.
‘Anyone hurt on our street?’ Susan asked.
‘One of the families was in someone else’s basement. But they can’t find the woman as lives in the other one. You know, that one with the frizzy hair. Husband’s in the Merchant Navy.’
‘Mrs Norton. She often comes into the Red Lion for half a pint. Oh, not her.’
‘Old Hardwick said he asked her into his basement, but she wanted to stay in her own place, like. She must be under all the rubble. They’re digging now.’
‘Oh, that’s terrible.’ Susan rather liked the plump little woman who always smiled at her when they passed each other. To think of her dead, bleeding limbs all broken and crooked … Shuddering violently, Susan thrust away the horrific injuries her imaginative brain conjured up. She was going to have to pass that house this morning on her way to Cotterels, just off Broad Street where she worked behind the counter selling underwear. What if the broken bleeding body was brought out just as she was passing? She’d be sick there on the spot.
The gap where the two houses had stood towards the end of the long row just like hers struck Susan as she passed as being like two missing teeth in a previously unbroken set, albeit that the set was full of decay, their stumps a pile of rubble. The roofs of the houses on either side were gone, and the windows in all the others were gone too. So were several windows in Susan’s own home. She had left her parents clearing up the glass and her father re-hanging the front door, blown off in the blast, leaving the back of the settee and the living room beyond open to the street.
The Red Lion was minus all its windows, doors and most of its tiles. Already men were spreading a tarpaulin over the roof, the publican having erected a hastily painted sign: ‘More Open than Usual.’
Susan tried not to look as she passed the ARP and Auxiliary Fire Service men working among the rubble, faces white with dust, their sweat for all the chill of the bright March morning tracing sepia rivulets down their cheeks.
‘Watch that wall!’ The warning made Susan stop, but the caller was talking to a comrade. ‘Looks dodgy. There’s a gap down here. Hang on a minute. Listen.’
She wanted to walk on, but found herself standing mesmerised as the man shone a torch into a hole for another to peer in. ‘See anything?’ He shouted into the hole. ‘Anyone there? Are – you – all – right?’ Then to the other man, ‘What’s the old girl’s name?’ The name supplied, he called, ‘Mrs NORTON!’
‘There,’ he broke off. ‘Is that a leg? Can you see?’
‘Only a bit of wood.’
‘MRS NORTON! It’s no good – someone’ll have to get down there.’
It was impossible to tear herself away as a slim man began to squeeze himself through the aperture, careful not to dislodge loose bricks, splintered beams, and broken furniture balanced so delicately. What would they bring out? Susan wanted to run but couldn’t. It was like being a rabbit hypnotised by a snake’s stare. Her stomach churned with a sick feeling.
The AFS man was halfway in when a shout came. ‘There she is!’
Heads swivelled. Turning into Calvert Street, the small round figure, seeing her home in ruins, had broken into a run. Old Mr Hardwick caught her in his arms as she came abreast of him. ‘Where’ve you been, love? We thought you were …’
Over his shoulder her eyes surveyed the destruction. ‘It’s all gone. All my nice furniture …’
‘Never mind your furniture. ’S long as you’re safe.’
‘All my John’s stamp collection. What’s he gonna say?’
‘He’ll be only too glad to know you’re safe when you write to him. You come into my house now and I’ll make a cup of tea. You probably need it.’
Being guided across the road towards his own windowless home with its patches of missing tiles, (‘Thank God it fell at the back of them places, or I’d of had nothing left either,’ he’d said earlier) her gaze still clung to the wreckage.
‘Sorry I didn’t take up your offer,’ she was apologising, as though that mattered now. ‘I ran round to my daughter’s place as soon as the siren went off round here. I had to be with her. She’s on her own too – him in the Navy. I didn’t want her to be alone. I shouldn’t of gone.’
‘If you hadn’t of, you’d of been down there,’ soothed Mr Hardwick as they passed Susan without seeing her.
The diggers were brushing themselves down. Neighbours waiting in the wings had come out with cups of tea for them as Susan went on her way, leaving them standing in groups, sipping gratefully. She had much happier thoughts now, eager to tell Marie who worked with her behind the counter on ladies’ and men’s underwear all about the new chap she had found.
A week went by. A fortnight. Disappointed, Susan had given up expecting to hear from him. Then came a letter. There was a Hollywood musical on at the Odeon. Would she care to meet him outside at six thirty?
Would she
care
? She took so long with her make-up, getting her long dark hair just right, choosing what dress to wear, that she made herself late, finally arriving to find him pacing up and down outside. But his face brightened as he saw her; taking her arm, he conducted her inside.
It was wonderful walking into the cinema on his arm, her small figure making him seem taller than he was. Wonderful standing in the foyer, its dull blue lights, in recognition of blackout regulations despite the two lots of dense velvet curtains shielding the line of doors, giving the sumptuous decor a strange wan look as she stood aside for him to pay at the kiosk – tickets to the balcony, of all things. Wonderful going up the wide, carpeted stairs that muffled their footsteps and then sitting with his arm about her shoulders in the comfortable plush seats as they watched Eleanor Powell dance across the screen in typical Hollywood splendour. Afterwards they had taken a long saunter while he told her more about himself and she in turn told him something, not too much, of her life. His arm had been about her the whole time and the warm September night had wrapped itself about them both, a light warm breeze playing with her hair and the hem of her summer frock, and they might have been somewhere on a high mountain top rather than a crowded, dirty, smelly, bombed city.
In a quiet dark corner away from homeward-bound cinema and theatre crowds, he had drawn her to him and kissed her, a long lingering kiss that had set her blood tingling. He had asked no more of her than that, but she knew that they would meet again, and again, and she couldn’t wait to get to work on the Monday to tell her two workmates there all about it. She was his girl. It was almost too good to be true, unbelievable. Susan prayed that night for this thing to last forever.