by Ellie Dean
He’d been raised as a Catholic, but after the trenches of the Somme, Ypres and Passchendaele, he’d barely set foot in a church, for he’d seen and heard nothing to convince him that religion was the answer to the world’s ills. In fact it was often used as a weapon – an excuse to start trouble – and people like Fran’s parents were part of the problem with their mulish adherence to old prejudices.
Ron sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands. He felt so sorry for Fran and Robert, but there was nothing he, or anyone else, could say or do to help them, for it would be up to what was in their hearts that would decide their fate.
As for his grandsons … Bob could be called up within months, and Charlie was no longer the cheeky little rapscallion who’d fought so hard to hold back his tears on the day he’d left for Somerset, but a sturdy, growing boy of thirteen with a mind of his own. They would have both left these childish toys far behind them, and Ron wondered how they’d feel about coming home at the end of the war. The farmhouse was large and rambling, the acres of open space around it a paradise for boys with a sense of adventure and too much energy. It would feel strange to come back here to their cramped basement room, and all the restrictions that would entail after having so much freedom. He got to his feet, took one last look at those empty beds and discarded toys and closed the door.
Making his way back to his room, he stood for a moment deep in thought. That letter from Jim had shaken him to the core, although he’d been very careful not to let Peggy see his distress. The fighting in Burma was quite brutal if all the reports were to be believed, and now the monsoon had really taken hold, the conditions out there must be horrendous. It was no wonder his son had been brought so low as to write such a letter, and he could only pray that any premonition he had would prove to be an aberration, brought on by the gut-wrenching exhaustion, the mud and rain, and the constant, mind-numbing noise of warfare.
Ron understood all too well what that was like, had lived through it, cowering from it even though it reverberated into every atom of his being until he thought he would go mad.
He moved towards the wardrobe, dragged over a stool and climbed up to reach the shoe box he’d kept hidden away from prying eyes since 1919. He stepped back down and sank onto the neatly made bed, the box on his lap. He’d made Jim and Frank promise never to reveal what was in this box, and Jim had clearly been at the end of his tether to hint about it in his letter to Peggy.
Ron’s sigh was tremulous. He hadn’t looked inside this box since he’d first put it up there, and he didn’t really know why he felt the urge to look today, and could only assume it was some kind of morbid need to replay his own war. His rough hands caressed the box, and before he could change his mind, he lifted the lid and drew out the four small velvet cases that had nestled in the yellowing tissue paper for twenty-five years alongside his pay-book and the jumble of loose campaign medals.
He moved his fingers amongst the 1914–15 Star, the British War Medal and the Victory Medal. His smile was sad, for the grouping of those medals had become better known to the men who’d fought alongside him as Pip, Squeak and Wilfred.
Opening the fancy velvet cases one by one, he stared down at the medals which had been given to him with little ceremony in the midst of the carnage of war all those years before. The Distinguished Service Order medal, with its red and blue ribbon, entitled him to put DSO after his name, but he’d never bothered with such ostentation. The Military Cross had a ribbon of dark and light blue, and the Legion of Honour’s green and white star gleamed on its red ribbon.
Ron’s gaze drifted to the Croix de Guerre bronze star with its crossed swords, green silk ribbon striped with red and bedecked with two bronze palms and a silver gilt star to denote the times he’d been honoured. He’d received that after the armistice in a ceremony in some grand Parisian mansion with all the fanfare and hullabaloo the French so enjoyed – but he’d barely taken in any of it, he’d been so exhausted.
He sighed, closed the cases and put them back in the box to return to the top of the wardrobe. They were symbols of his war, and a stark reminder of all those pals he’d lost. He had been thankful to be alive and honoured to receive them at the time, but as the years had passed he’d come to regard them as just fancy bits of metal on smart ribbons that served no real purpose. They would probably stay there now until they carried him out feet first and someone cleared the room. If nothing else, they would make fine playthings for the next generation of grandsons.
12
The washing was mostly dry, so Peggy brought it in and folded it ready for ironing before she left Beach View, consoled by the fact that Robert had arrived to be with Fran. As Sarah had decided to go into town with Cordelia, the three of them made their way along Camden Road at a snail’s pace, with Daisy in the pushchair.
‘It’s a great shame some people refuse to see the damage they’re doing to others by being so obstinate,’ said Cordelia. ‘If Fran’s family had been forced to live through air raids and doodlebug attacks, they might be a bit more forgiving. But I suppose they’re smug and safe over in Ireland and have absolutely no idea of what the rest of us are going through.’
As if on cue they heard the distant whine of an engine, and stopped walking to look up at the sky. Everyone in Camden Road came to a halt, tense and ready to run as they watched the pilotless doodlebug drone over the rooftops. The noise of it grew louder as it kept on coming, and to their horror they saw it was not alone.
‘Move,’ snapped Peggy, snatching Daisy out of her pushchair and simultaneously grabbing hold of Cordelia’s arm. With Cordelia between them, and the sound of those deadly weapons coming ever closer, Peggy and Sarah thrust their way through the side door of the Anchor. The motors were still running, but they could stop at any minute and blow them all to smithereens.
‘Rosie, get in the cellar,’ yelled Peggy, hauling Daisy onto her hip.
‘What is it?’ asked a breathless Rosie, running down the stairs with Monty.
Peggy didn’t have to answer her, for the sirens were now screaming all over town and the menacing sound of the doodlebugs was right overhead.
Monty shot straight down the steps into the makeshift air-raid shelter beneath the Anchor, and Peggy swiftly followed Sarah and Rosie, who were all but carrying Cordelia between them. Slamming the door behind her as Rosie lit some of the lanterns and Sarah eased Cordelia into one of the over-stuffed couches, she heard the motors stop.
Peggy’s heart stopped too, and it was all she could do to get to the couch and wedge herself and Daisy in before the explosion rocked the ground beneath their feet and made the sixteenth-century walls shudder, bringing down a shower of plaster and dust from the beamed ceiling. Peggy’s heart was now hammering, the terror of their situation making her hold onto Daisy so tightly the child squirmed and cried out in protest.
Rosie handed out helmets to all of them. ‘Ron said they were surplus to Home Guard requirements,’ she shouted above the noise of the sirens.
Peggy fastened one under Daisy’s chin before plonking her own on her head just as the second explosion made the beer bottles in the crates rattle and the lanterns swing from the beams, casting eerie shadows against the old walls. The women clung to each other in their tin hats as more debris rained down on them and something crashed to the floor overhead, accompanied by the sound of breaking glass.
They remained huddled together as Monty began to howl and Daisy started sobbing and clinging to her mother. ‘It’s all right,’ soothed Peggy. ‘The nasty bangs will stop in a minute.’
Rosie gathered a trembling Monty into her arms as the third and fourth explosions came – but they were further away this time and the tremor beneath their feet was lessened by the distance. ‘Let’s sing a song, Daisy,’ she said, her trembling voice revealing her fear despite her bright, encouraging smile. ‘How about, “Run Rabbit Run”? Do you know that?’
Rosie began to sing, and by the end of the first line Daisy and the others joined in, their vo
ices faltering as yet another distant explosion echoed through the town and into the cellar.
As the song came to an end, and it seemed the last of the doodlebugs had gone over, Rosie fetched Daisy a bottle of lemonade, and beers for herself and the other women. They sat in silence, each with their own thoughts on what they might find once the all-clear sounded and they could return to the street.
Peggy could hear fire engine and ambulance bells and fretfully wondered if her house was still standing, and if Doris and Ivy were all right up on the factory estate, and if Kitty and Charlotte’s cottage in Briar Lane had been spared. And then there was the fire station, the railway and hospital, the shops crowded with people on this Saturday morning. Some of those explosions sounded much too close, and the distant ones could very well have come down on the factories despite the vast numbers of barrage balloons protecting them. And where was Ron?
Daisy complained and she realised she was again gripping her too tightly and tried to relax. But it was impossible.
Doris held onto Ivy as the explosions rocked the underground shelter and the lights flickered. She could feel the girl trembling in her arms, and was shocked by how small and slight she was. ‘It’ll be over soon,’ she murmured, silently praying she was right.
‘Let’s just ’ope it’s third time lucky.’ Ivy shivered, her brown eyes huge in her elfin face. ‘I been ’ere before, remember, and it were my Andy what ’ad to pull me out when the fire come – and then Havelock Road went up too. I must be jinxed.’
‘Then we’re all jinxed,’ said Doris firmly. ‘This isn’t the first time Cliffehaven’s come under attack – and I doubt it’ll be the last.’ She reached into her cardigan pocket and passed over the clean handkerchief. ‘Do stop sniffing, dear. It’s most unpleasant,’ she admonished gently.
Ivy used the handkerchief and then nestled back into Doris’s embrace. ‘You ain’t such a bad old stick, are yer?’ she murmured.
Doris hid a smile. ‘I try not to be,’ she replied. She looked around the vast shelter at the men and women who sat in clusters, some talking, others sitting huddled together for comfort. It was a gloomy, foul-smelling place with its lavatory buckets behind screens and the damp in its walls, but much sturdier than any Anderson shelter, and she could only hope it was built to withstand anything that might come down on it. She’d known about Ivy’s narrow escape, for they’d both been living in Havelock Road at the time, and although she’d shown little sympathy then, the thought that the girl had virtually been buried alive in the old shelter made her shudder. It was no wonder Ivy needed someone’s arm about her – she’d have felt the same. Indeed it was a comfort to her to hold her close, for the claustrophobia was starting to make her feel very edgy.
The raid had come without warning, but a keen-eyed security guard had seen the doodlebugs approaching and raised the alarm. Colonel White ordered the men to raise the height of the barrage balloons immediately, and within seconds there was the sound of whistles and shouts as everyone poured out of the factories, canteen and workshops. Doris had had just enough time to grab her handbag and cardigan before the Colonel had hustled her down the stairs and across the estate to the underground shelter.
She glanced across at him now, admiring how calm he appeared to be as he went around the shelter to talk to some of the women who were on the verge of hysteria, or simply sobbing quietly into their hands. It came as no surprise to her that he’d risen so high within the army ranks, for he was a man who could take charge in a dangerous situation, thereby instilling a sense of security in even the most fearful.
Doris wondered what his wife was like. He never mentioned her, but as he was so beautifully turned out every day, she must work hard to make sure he always looked smart. They rarely spoke of personal things, there was too much paperwork to get through, but he had told her his son was a POW somewhere in Germany, and that although the boy would be champing at the bit to get back into the fighting, Colonel White was relieved he was out of it now.
‘Are they ever going to give the all-clear?’ moaned Ivy. ‘I ’ate it down ’ere.’
Doris gave her a reassuring hug. ‘We all hate it, dear, but better to stay until we’re absolutely sure it’s safe to go back up.’
‘I ’ope Mum and Dad are all right,’ she said. ‘These doodlebugs ’ave ’it London something rotten – especially the East End – and ’aving come through the Blitz in one piece …’
‘Are all your family in the East End, Ivy?’
‘Just me mum, dad and sister. Me two big brothers are in the Navy and the younger ones were evacuated, but Mum’s been talking about bringing ’em ’ome again when it looked like the bombing ’ad stopped.’
‘I’m sure she’s realised it’s safer to leave them where they are,’ Doris said soothingly.
‘Yer right there,’ said Ivy. ‘Mum and Dad’ve been bombed out three times already, and from what it says on the wireless, it looks like Jerry’s determined to wipe out what’s left of poor old Bow.’
‘Surely they’d be safer to leave that part of London and find somewhere else to live?’
Ivy shook her head. ‘They won’t ’ear of it. Dad works for the Gas Board, Mum’s got a good job in a canning factory, and they’re Cockneys through and through and proud of it. They’ll stick with it.’
Doris was saved from replying by the welcome sound of the all-clear wailing throughout the estate. ‘Come on, Ivy,’ she said, pulling the girl to her feet. ‘I’ve got tea and biscuits in the office. I don’t know about you, but I could do with a strong cuppa after that.’
‘Well, if yer sure,’ she said hesitantly.
‘I wouldn’t have offered otherwise,’ Doris said briskly. She turned to the Colonel as he approached. ‘I’ve asked Ivy here to tea and biscuits before we get back to work, Colonel. I hope that’s all right?’
‘Jolly good idea, Mrs Williams,’ he said and shot her and Ivy a beaming smile.
They slowly emerged into the bright sunlight and a cloud of dust. It seemed the factories, warehouses and workshops had escaped, but the dairy that had stood nearby for almost a hundred years had been reduced to a flattened pile of burning debris.
‘Oh, them poor horses and cows,’ cried Ivy, the tears once more streaming down her face.
The Colonel pointed beyond the shattered walls of the dairy to the field beyond where four Shires stood trembling beneath a tree and the small herd of cows continued to graze in a nearby field as if nothing had happened. ‘There’s no need for tears, Ivy,’ he said gently. ‘It seems they’ve escaped. Let’s hope the dairyman and his workers have too.’
‘Shouldn’t we go and see if we can ’elp?’ asked Ivy, still in some distress.
‘The firemen are already there along with the wardens and Home Guard,’ said Doris. ‘They’ll make sure everyone gets out.’
She cast a quick glance over the town at the bottom of the hill, saw smoke rising in several places and could only pray no one from Beach View had been caught up in the raid. She exchanged a fearful glance with the Colonel and then purposefully steered Ivy towards the office and a welcome pot of tea.
Monty had refused to leave the cellar and was curled tightly in the corner of a chair. The women went up the steps cautiously, wondering what they would find, for the very foundations of the old pub had been shaken, and it had sounded as if the damage could be serious.
To their immense relief, they discovered that it wasn’t as bad as they’d feared. The thud they’d heard was the old grandfather clock in the hall falling down, but as it had never worked properly anyway, Rosie wasn’t too upset.
What did concern her was the state of the bar, and the fact that nearly every bottle and glass on the ornate shelves behind it had been smashed, and that the big mirror in its Victorian oak surround had a crack in it like a lightning strike right across the middle.
‘Well,’ she sighed mournfully. ‘That’s seven years’ bad luck for a start – and it will cost me an arm and a leg to replace those bot
tles and glasses – if I can get replacements at all.’ She looked around the room, noting the soot which had come down the large chimney to cover everything in sticky black, and the way the old piano had been rocked across the floor in the blasts to end up leaning against the front wall.
‘I don’t fancy having to clean all that soot up,’ she muttered, ‘but I suppose I should be grateful the old place is still standing.’
‘We’ll help you, Rosie,’ said Peggy immediately. ‘I’m sure we’ll have it shipshape before you have to open.’
‘I don’t think I’ll bother this lunchtime,’ she replied. ‘There aren’t enough glasses to go round, and we’ll never get the place clean in time. Let’s go and see what’s happened outside.’
Peggy held Daisy’s hand as she stepped out of the Anchor and into Camden Road with Sarah, Cordelia and Rosie crowding behind her. They stood in dumb shock as the clouds of dust and the stench of burning stung their eyes and throats whilst smuts of oily soot settled in their hair and on their clothes.
The house three doors down from the Anchor had taken a direct hit along with its neighbour, and was now a pile of burning rubble. The block of flats at the other end of the road had been scythed in half, the debris flung into the street and across the hospital forecourt. The flats in the half that was still standing were open to the elements, curtains flapping, furniture hanging precariously over the crumbling edges of what had once been dividing walls and floors.
And as they looked from one end of the street to the other, they could see that every window had been shattered, chimneys had been made unstable, doors had been blown off, and the pavement was littered with the tragic remnants of people’s lives and homes.
Peggy covered her mouth to stifle a sob. It was a miracle the hospital hadn’t been hit being so close to those flats – a miracle too that Solly’s factory hadn’t been touched, for when she thought of all those women working inside it, she felt quite sick.