The Girl from the Corner Shop

by Alrene Hughes

  Helen and Sissy rushed out of the staffroom to see the whole switchboard lit up. Headphones on, she plugged into a flashing light. Her training kicked in automatically – work quickly and accurately, writing down the details, confirm the report, put it in the tray. Within seconds it would be collected by a runner and in the hands of senior police officers moments later, when they would assess and deploy officers on the ground.

  Before long the low droning sound of planes could be heard in the distance above the hubbub of the switch room. No one acknowledged it, intent as they were on processing calls in a quiet, efficient manner. The sound grew louder and louder, and now the ack-ack guns could be heard in response, but the noise of the planes never faltered and in minutes they were directly overhead. Seconds later there was an almighty explosion that shook the building. Helen was shaking as she took the next call. On the other end it sounded like chaos – shouting and screaming – then the calm voice of a policeman giving his police number and Peter Street police phone box as his location. He then informed her that the Theatre Royal had received a direct hit and he was checking for casualties.

  It was clear that the city centre was being targeted and serious damage had been done to an area not five minutes’ walk from where they were sitting. Around three o’clock there was a lull in the bombing and Tommy and another messenger returned to headquarters. They made themselves useful brewing cups of tea and the supervisor allowed a few operators at a time to go to the staffroom for a drink. When it was Helen’s turn, she managed to have a quick word with Tommy. ‘The Jerries got their bearings using the town hall,’ he told her. ‘Then dropped bombs all the way up Peter Street, like apples out of a basket. There’s a lot of casualties and I’m hopin’ I get out there again soon. There’s a lot to do.’

  ‘Well, don’t take any chances, Tommy.’ She left him then and had walked only half a dozen steps back towards the switchboard when there was a deafening noise and she felt a huge force lift her off her feet and throw her across the room. She must have passed out for a moment and when she opened her eyes it was pitch dark. Alarms were ringing and she sensed the chaos around her. She lay face down as debris rained down from the ceiling. Stunned for a moment, she struggled to breathe with the dust in the air, while the acrid smell of cordite caught in her throat. She struggled to her feet and stumbled back to the staffroom. The roof and the outside wall had gone. ‘Tommy! Where are you?’ she cried. By the light of the moon she could just make out someone lying near the sink. She stumbled over the rubble. It was a messenger. She turned away from him and retched. He was dead, half his face had gone, but his blond hair told her that it wasn’t Tommy.

  She called his name again and this time there was a barely audible answer. A twisted steel ceiling joist lay across the room and somebody was underneath it. She was picking her way around it when there was a shout. ‘Stop! Stop! This floor isn’t safe.’ It was the chief inspector. ‘Turn around slowly and come towards me. It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘But somebody’s trapped under here,’ she shouted.

  ‘Helen?’ It was no more than a whisper.

  ‘Yes, Tommy, it’s me.’ He was lying on his back in a pool of blood, a shard from the girder piercing his lower body. She knelt beside him, took his hand. ‘I’m here, Tommy. I’ll sit with you until help comes.’

  She could hear the chief inspector shouting orders – something about a girl.

  ‘I can’t feel my legs,’ he said.

  ‘That’s because there’s some sort of joist lying across you. They’re coming to move it.’

  ‘Me mam’ll be ever so angry. She never wanted me to sign up for a messenger. She’ll stop me doin’ it now.’ He screwed up his face in pain. ‘It hurts so much.’

  ‘Listen to me, Tommy, I’m going to tell your mam how brave you are and what a good messenger you are. You’re doing your bit for the war and I’m sure she’ll be proud of you.’

  ‘I always liked going in your shop. I missed you when you left. You always gave me a penny chew when your mam weren’t lookin’, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s because you were my favourite.’

  ‘I liked the Black Jacks best.’ He shuddered. ‘I’m cold.’

  She took off her tunic and put it over him. ‘There, that’ll keep you warm. We’ll get you out soon and they’ll wrap you in a cosy blanket.’

  ‘Has it gone dark? I can’t see anything.’

  ‘The bombs have knocked out the electric. Close your eyes, Tommy, and I’ll stay with you while you sleep.’

  His hand was like ice in hers… his breathing slowed… it stopped… and he was gone.

  There was someone shouting her name and ordering her to come away, that it wasn’t safe.

  ‘I’m coming,’ she called. ‘I’m coming.’

  After that, everything happened so fast. A first aider checked her for injuries and found the back of her legs cut by flying glass and an inch-long chunk embedded in her skull. ‘We need to get you checked out at the hospital, but it’ll be a while before there’s an ambulance available, with all that’s going on outside.’

  ‘I’m not going to hospital, I’m going back to the switchboard.’

  ‘No, you can’t do that. You need to go to the first aid room; we’ll try and clean you up, but I’m worried you might have concussion, you look a bit stunned to me.’

  ‘I’m all right, don’t fuss.’ She went back to her position, not mentioning her double vision.

  There were other flying glass injuries among the people on duty and every one of them stayed at their post and thought of the two messengers, young lads, lying dead on the floor in the staffroom.

  It was after five in the morning when the all-clear sounded. By then Helen was exhausted, her head was splitting and she just wanted to sleep. But the first aider had arranged for those who needed treatment for their injuries to go in a police van to the infirmary and he insisted on putting her in the van, even though she protested.

  The queue to be seen by the nurses stretched endlessly along the corridors. Most people were propped against a wall and some were lying on the floor. Around her were the walking wounded, but every now and again there would be shouts of ‘Clear the way!’ and the ambulance men would rush through them with someone on a trolley covered in blood. Helen slept a little and woke up stiff, and still the pain in her head was enough to make her cry. By the time she got to the door of casualty, bright sunlight was flooding the room. There were no empty cubicles and most of the injured people she had spent the night with were treated sitting in a chair.

  The nurse who tended her looked younger than she was. Her apron was bloody and there was a smear on her cheek. A strand of mousey hair had come loose from her cap and she looked exhausted. She examined Helen’s legs, bathed them and bandaged them. Then examined her scalp. She began picking small shards of glass from her hair and dropping them into a kidney dish, then she teased the other small pieces out of her skin, dabbing it with stinging iodine. Finally, she examined the bigger piece of glass embedded at the back of her head and touched it. Helen let out a scream at the sharp pain. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to get Sister.’ She rushed off. Helen closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on the pain, now centred around the wound, willing it to subside and trying desperately not to cry out loud.

  A touch on her shoulder and someone speaking her name. ‘Helen.’ She opened her eyes and there was Laurence. ‘You’re injured. What’s happened to you?’

  She turned her head and moved her hand over the glass shard.

  ‘Yes, I see it.’ He didn’t touch it, but she was aware of him moving her hair, looking at it from every angle. ‘Hmm, I think we can remove it. Can you stand up?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said and he took her arm and guided her towards a cubicle, stopping only to tell the young nurse that he would deal with this patient and asked her to fetch what he needed. She lay on the bed face down.

  ‘Try to relax, Helen. I’ll have to cut away some of yo
ur hair round the wound, I’m sorry. Then I’ll give you an injection to numb the pain.’

  His hands were gentle and slowly she could sense a movement in her scalp. And all the time he spoke soothingly to her. ‘Everything’s going well, don’t worry. We’ll soon have you sorted… nearly done.’

  The pressure on her skull eased away.

  ‘Now I’ll put a few stitches in to close the wound.’ She could sense the smile in his voice. ‘Rest assured, my needlework is praised throughout the hospital.’ When he finished, he asked her to lie still for a while. He needed to complete some paperwork and he would be back shortly.

  She dozed off and didn’t wake until he touched her again and said, ‘Come on, Helen. I’ll take you home now.’

  She sat up, a little woozy, and stared at him. ‘You can’t take me home, you’re working.’

  ‘I’ve been working for twelve hours with only ten minutes off for a cup of tea and a sandwich. The worst of the night’s casualties have all been seen to and I was just going to lie down for half an hour when I saw you.’

  ‘I’m all right, I can make my own way home.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, you’re not all right. I can see in your eyes that you’re disorientated and, when that injection wears off, you need to be in bed, not walking the streets.’

  He was right, she felt terrible, and together they went out into the new day.

  She wanted him to leave her a few minutes’ walk away from her house. ‘To clear my head,’ she said, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

  ‘Will your husband be at home?’

  ‘My husband?’ In that split-second she had forgotten Laurence didn’t know Jim was dead, but she quickly answered. ‘No, when there are big raids like last night the firemen can be away for a couple of days. There’s a rota and the men sleep at the station house, a few hours on and a few off until the buildings are safe.’ She pointed to her house. ‘This is me here.’

  He went to get out of the car and she snapped at him, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m going to see you inside.’

  ‘No, you’re not. What would the neighbours think?’

  ‘But I just want to make sure you can manage on your own.’

  ‘I’ll manage fine.’ She knew what she had wanted to say, but it had come out all wrong. She was snappy and tired, the throbbing in her head had started again and all she wanted was her bed. ‘I’m sorry, Laurence, I’m so grateful for what you’ve done for me, but I just need to sleep.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But promise me you’ll come back to the hospital if you don’t feel right, and in a week you’re to go to your doctor to get your stitches out.’

  She smiled at the concern on his face. ‘I promise,’ she said.

  Chapter 24

  Never in a million years would she have imagined returning to that church. Now here she was, staring at the altar, thinking of Jim’s funeral. She could almost see herself there wearing that little hat with a veil, and the borrowed widow’s weeds. How long ago it seemed, but it was easy to feel again the fear that engulfed her that day.

  After the bombing of police headquarters she had two days off, and when she returned to duty Sergeant Duffy spoke to her about Tommy’s funeral. ‘It’s on Saturday morning and we always send representatives to the funerals of personnel killed in the course of duty. The chief superintendent will be there, as will the messenger supervisor. Tommy’s mother has asked if you would be there too. Not only because you know the family, but because you were with him when he died and offered him such comfort.’

  Helen couldn’t answer, knowing she hadn’t the strength to be at Tommy’s funeral. The two days she had spent at home had drained her. She couldn’t get Tommy and Peter, the other boy who died, out of her head. She had wept for them and their families and when she slept she dreamt she was sitting in a pool of blood, holding Tommy’s hand as his life drained away. She was shaken too at the realisation that she had been only seconds away from death herself.

  ‘It would mean such a lot to the family, Helen. Please say you’ll do it.’

  She thought of Jim and his funeral and all the people there. It was a terrible ordeal, but she had got through it. She should be brave, just like the lad was when he lay there talking about penny chews…

  ‘All right, I’ll go.’

  It was only when she left Sergeant Duffy’s office that it occurred to her that her mother might also be at the funeral.

  *

  The service was soulless and soon over, as though there was little to say about a boy of fourteen. Only the chief superintendent spoke of Tommy’s bravery in becoming a Police Auxiliary Messenger, riding his bike delivering important messages at the height of the bombings. Helen had managed to hold back her tears, but when his sister went forward to place his messenger beret on the coffin, she could choke them back no longer.

  The service over, she made her way out of the church and some people recognised her and nodded. But she didn’t stop to talk. There was even a whisper. ‘She was with the lad when he died, you know.’ It was beginning to rain and she walked quickly away and out through the gate when someone stepped in front of her. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t recognise you, dressed up like that? I already knew you were in the police, from the dead lad’s mother.’

  ‘Hello, Mam. What do you want?’

  ‘I want to speak to my daughter.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

  ‘Really? I’ve been worried sick about you. You could’ve been dead, for all I knew.’

  ‘Well I’m not dead, am I?’

  ‘Don’t get cheeky with me!’

  By now the rain had come on heavy. ‘I’m not standing here getting soaked,’ said Helen and she crossed the street.

  Her mother ran after her. ‘I need to talk to you. It’s important.’ She caught her arm and pulled her into the doorway of a bakery. Now the rain was bouncing off the street and Helen resigned herself to her mother’s ranting.

  ‘For a start, you accused me of stealing money from your dead husband. And I’ll have you know I’m no thief!’

  Immediately Helen was on the back foot. There was nothing else for it but to own up. ‘I made a mistake. I was confused.’ She tried to explain. ‘Jim had just died. I didn’t know what I was saying. I found it later in another pocket of his jacket.’

  ‘And you never thought to come and see me to apologise?’

  ‘Look, Mam, I’d had enough of you always telling me what to do and making me feel small and stupid. I knew if I went back to the house, you’d bully me into staying. I wanted a clean break. I wanted to be on my own.’

  ‘You could’ve let me know where you were.’

  ‘So that you could turn up and demand I went back to the shop? Well, I’m telling you now, I’m never going back there. I was buried alive in that shop.’ And to Helen’s astonishment her mother began to cry.

  ‘You don’t understand what I’ve been through, since you left. It takes two to run the shop. I’ve struggled to keep it going and I’m not a well woman, you know.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with you, Mam.’

  She tried another tack. ‘And this is what you’re doing now, is it?’ She waved away the uniform as if to dismiss it. ‘What kind of a job is that for a young woman? Mixing with criminals and scum.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what kind of job it is: one where I’m respected and where I get some satisfaction in what I do. And as for the people – the ones I work with – they’re dedicated to keeping this city safe, to helping those who are suffering in this war – families bombed out of their homes, women and children who need protecting. We don’t “mix” with criminals, we arrest them so decent people can sleep safe in their beds.’

  ‘Well, that’s quite a speech, isn’t it? Pity you don’t have the same care and thoughtfulness when it comes to your own mother. You do more for strangers than you do for me.’

  Put like that, Helen couldn’t deny the truth of it, but she was
wary. In the past, her mother had often pulled the ‘you don’t care about me’ card to get her own way and she wasn’t going to fall for it any more. ‘I’m not going to argue with you, Mam. I’m just going to say that I’ve made a new life for myself and at the moment I just want to concentrate on my job. I’m not saying I’m never going to see you again, but I need to live my own life.’

  Her mother laughed. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense!’

  That was the last straw. Helen walked out into the rain.

  ‘Wait, at least tell me where you’re living.’ Helen didn’t stop. ‘But what if something happens to me?’ She didn’t look back.

  She had felt drained and so sad at Tommy’s funeral and now the bad-tempered conversation with her mother added annoyance to her mood. Although she had the rest of Saturday off, she couldn’t face going home to an empty house so, when she reached Conran Street and saw a bus going into the city centre, she jumped on it. A wander round the shops might distract her for an hour, but what she really needed was something to take her mind off such a terrible morning.

  Whitworth Art Gallery, on Oxford Road, was an imposing red sandstone building and she couldn’t help wondering what the people from the bombed terraces thought about their temporary home.

  She remembered reading in the Manchester Evening News that, following the Christmas Blitz, the council had made great strides in finding houses or lodgings for a lot of families, but months later the rest centres were still in use.

  She hesitated under the grand semicircular portico. What if Laurence wasn’t there? What would she say if they asked what she was doing there? At that moment the door flew open and first one boy and then a second rushed out. Within seconds they were rolling on the ground, the biggest boy landing a heavy punch. Helen ran after them and got hold of him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him to his feet. ‘Get off me!’ He started kicking.

  ‘Stop it!’ she shouted. He ignored her. ‘If you don’t give over, I’ll take you to the police station.’