by Ellie Dean
The special ward for premature and sick babies was at the end of the corridor. Although it was now four in the morning, Julie pushed through the door. The room was hushed and dimly lit, with a line of small cots down the middle and two nurses and a VAD on duty.
The senior nurse must have been warned that Julie might come, for she left her desk and greeted her with a warm, understanding smile. ‘William has been fed and doesn’t seem to have suffered too much from the trauma of such a rapid delivery,’ she said quietly. ‘But he will have to stay with us for a few weeks as he’s still very small.’
Julie followed the nurse to the cot and looked down at the tiny scrap lying there, unaware of the drama that had surrounded not only his conception, but his arrival. ‘May I hold him?’ she asked, her voice gruff with tears.
At the other woman’s nod, Julie lifted William from the cot and rested her cheek on his tiny head, breathing in the sweetness of him. He was an intrinsic part of Franny, her final and most precious gift for the man she loved, and Julie was almost overwhelmed by the sense of responsibility for this tiny scrap.
William stretched and squirmed and pulled a face, his rosebud lips working as if he was dreaming of milk.
‘We’ll look after you,’ she whispered. ‘Me and Mum and Dad will keep you safe. I promise.’ She kissed the peach-like cheek and held him close, knowing that no matter how hard it became, or however long it took, she and her family would protect and love him for Franny until Bill came home.
Chapter Four
JULIE CYCLED STRAIGHT to Mrs Bessell’s after leaving the hospital. The sweet woman was clearly devastated by Julie’s news, and they tearfully consoled one another before Julie plucked up the courage to go up to Franny’s room.
Mrs Bessell must have made the bed and tidied up during her long, sleepless night, but Julie felt a sense of abandonment in the room as she slowly gathered up the family photographs, the few pieces of clothing and the blanket their mother had knitted so lovingly. She wept as she found the drawer filled with baby clothes, and the packet of letters from Bill which had been tied together with blue ribbon. Franny had had such hopes and dreams – and now this was all that was left of a life half lived.
With everything packed away in one of Mrs Bessell’s spare suitcases, Julie closed the door softly behind her and went downstairs to say goodbye. Mrs Bessell stood on the doorstep, her plump, sweet face lined with sadness as Julie promised to bring back the case and let her know about the funeral arrangements.
Julie still felt as if she was sleepwalking as she fixed the case to the bicycle and rode away, but as the morning sun broke through the haze of smoke, she felt the chill of reality settle round her heart. Franny was gone.
It was after nine by the time she reached the hostel to report in. All the nurses and volunteers would be out on their rounds by now, which was probably for the best as Julie didn’t have the strength or heart to talk to anyone. But as she stepped into the hallway, she could hear Horace and Mabel, the cook, having a furious row over his inability to do anything without making a mess of her kitchen.
Born and bred in the East End, they both possessed a wide, colourful vocabulary that included every swear word and insult known to man, which they used freely, and at the top of their voices. To those not familiar with the broad Cockney accent, their rapid-fire slanging match would have been unintelligible, but to Julie, already feeling heart-sore and infinitely weary after her terrible night, every angry, foul word cut like a knife as they tore into each other. It was the final straw, and she burst into tears, fleeing up the stairs, only to find her way blocked by Matron on the first landing.
‘Go into my office,’ the older woman said kindly. ‘I’ll deal with those two.’
She closed the door behind her and Julie put down the case and let her emotions finally pour out in a torrent of anguished tears. Her heart ached with the loss, and she was pierced by a sense of failure that she had not seen, not known that something was wrong with Franny when she’d last visited her. The regrets flooded in. She should never have gone out last night – should have checked on Franny and insisted she was admitted to hospital sooner.
Julie became aware of Matron’s return, sensed her closing the door on the heavy silence that now pervaded the house, and heard the muted rattle of a cup and saucer as it was placed on the desk in front of her. She was embarrassed to be so distraught, and tried her hardest to stem the tears and gain some control over her emotions. But it seemed the trauma of the night’s events had struck too hard and too deep, and she simply couldn’t stop crying.
‘Mr Philips came to see me,’ said Matron quietly. ‘I’m very sorry to hear about your sister, but you must not blame yourself. These things happen, unfortunately, and there is absolutely nothing you or anyone could have done to forestall it.’
Julie dredged up the last of her strength in a determined effort to pull herself together. She blew her nose, wiped her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Mr Philips explained,’ she rasped through her tight throat. ‘He was very kind.’ Her hands were shaking as she lifted the cup and gulped down the hot, milky tea in the hope the sugar might restore her senses.
‘I understand no one has been able to reach your parents,’ said Matron, her pale blue eyes regarding Julie with kindness. ‘The bombing last night was rather severe, which would explain the lack of a telephone service. You may have the rest of the day off to go and see them, but you will remain in your uniform and carry your medical bag as you are officially still on duty until tomorrow evening.’
Julie couldn’t really see the point of such a silly rule but didn’t care enough to argue about it. ‘Thank you, Matron,’ she said, her spine stiff with the effort of maintaining some semblance of calm.
Matron’s smile was warm and full of understanding. ‘Cut along then, Sister,’ she said softly. ‘But you might find it easier and quicker to cycle to Stepney. I’m told many of the railway lines have been damaged, and the buses are having difficulties getting through.’
Julie nodded, thinking the interview was over, but Matron came round her desk and took her hand. ‘Have you eaten since last night, my dear?’ At the shake of her head Matron sighed. ‘I thought not. Get Mabel to make you a sandwich. You won’t be of use to anyone if you faint.’
Julie left Matron’s office in a daze of weariness and grief. She felt grubby and rumpled and so tired she could barely put one foot in front of the other – let alone eat one of Mabel’s indigestible doorstep sandwiches. She just wanted to go home – to see her mother and father and find comfort and consolation in the little house where she and Franny had been born.
Having stowed Mrs Bessell’s suitcase in the wardrobe, Julie washed her face and hands and combed her hair, which made her feel a little more prepared to face her parents. Collecting her medical bag, she went down to the bicycle shed and was soon on her way to Stepney.
The cold air on her face revived her as she pedalled, but as she passed bombed-out houses and corner shops, and navigated the piles of debris littering every street, she began to fret. It was clear the East End docks and warehouses had taken a hammering last night, for everywhere she looked she could see gaps where familiar landmarks had once stood, and piles of rubble strewn across the once bustling roads.
The maintenance and heavy-lifting crews were hard at work on almost every street: shoring up houses, repairing gas and electricity mains, replacing telephone wires and demolishing those buildings which were too unsafe to leave standing. And all the while the dazed and confused residents stood watching, their hands grasping the few precious things they’d managed to rescue from the wreckage of what had once been their homes.
Julie pedalled harder as she reached the outskirts of Stepney. The cold, damp air was full of the thick smoke that came, not only from the hundreds of factory and house chimneys, but from the steam ships on the Thames, and the burning buildings. London was in for another pea-souper smog.
St Paul’s church was still standing
just off Cable Street, the presbytery and surrounding houses seemingly almost untouched by the Nazi bombers. But something dark and chilling settled round Julie’s heart as she cycled towards Backhouse Lane, for in the swirling smog she could see that the landscape had changed.
She skidded to a halt as she reached the end of the street and stared in horror at the scene before her. Four entire terraces had been obliterated – shattered into a million pieces of concrete and brick, the dust still hanging above the wasteland like a pall. But most devastating of all was what had happened to the tool factory that had once towered above those surrounding houses and had provided the nearest underground shelter.
Julie froze, unable to hold a coherent thought as she stared at the enormous pile of smoking rubble, and the huge, heavy machines that lay scattered, as if cast by a giant hand to lie buckled and twisted among the debris. Gangs of men were working furiously to shore up the sides of the hole they’d dug to rescue those still trapped beneath that pyramid of broken masonry, misshapen pipes, tortured steel beams and shards of glass. They must have been at it for hours – the raid had finished by four this morning.
Julie was aware that she was not alone – that neighbours stood in shocked and disbelieving silence all round her – but she couldn’t take her eyes from that smoking, deadly pile, which looked as if it might collapse at any minute and crush the rescue workers. Had her parents gone down there last night – or had they gone up west to celebrate their wedding anniversary? Dad had said something about seeing a show and having a pie and mash supper afterwards.
‘Watch yer back, Sister. There’s people wot need ’elp, and more to come if only we can get ’em out.’
Startled, she turned and stared at the man whose face was lined with weariness and blackened by soot. His warden’s uniform was in tatters, his hair stuck in filthy, sweaty clumps on his head, and in his hand he carried a pickaxe and shovel. ‘I’m looking for my parents,’ she replied in a daze. ‘Mr and Mrs Harris.’
‘Sorry, miss. The area warden ’ad the list, but ’e copped ’is lot in Dock Road.’
‘My dad’s Bert Harris,’ she said, on the edge of hysteria. ‘He works for the Water Board. You must know him.’
‘Sorry, miss. You’d be better off going to St Paul’s and asking there. The priests are tending to the minor injuries in the church hall, and you bein’ a nurse, they could probably do with an ’and.’
‘Have they managed to get anyone out?’ she asked fearfully.
‘Just a few who were lucky enough to be near the door,’ he replied wearily. ‘But there’s probably over a hundred people still down there.’
Julie shivered and tried not to think of the horror of being buried alive. She watched the warden walk away and join the other men who were digging in quiet desperation at the rubble while the heavy-lifting crew struggled to move the toppled machinery out of the way without bringing the whole mass down. Two ambulances and a fire engine stood close by, the crews willingly joining in as inch by tortuous inch the rescue workers cleared the debris.
Julie searched amongst the people standing dumbstruck amid the ruins of their streets, hoping beyond hope she’d see her parents. But there was no sign of them, and her questions were answered with just a shake of the head. She stifled a moan of terror and headed quickly back to the church.
Father O’Neil saw her the moment she stepped into the hall and hurried towards her, his face ashen with weariness and concern. ‘Thank the Lord, Julie,’ he breathed, grasping both her hands. ‘I’ve done me best, but ’tis a poor effort, for I know little of medicine.’ He glanced across at the two younger priests, who were trying to help an hysterical woman who had blood pouring from a head wound. ‘It is at times like these that I wish we had a convent,’ he muttered as he ran his fingers through his greying hair, ‘for the nuns would know what to do.’
‘I’m looking for me parents,’ she replied, her gaze swiftly trawling the huddled mass of people who took up every spare inch of floor. ‘Have you seen them? Do you know if they got out, or if they were taken to the hospital?’
Father O’Neil knew every one of his parishioners, even if they weren’t of the faith. He frowned with concern. ‘They’re not here,’ he replied, ‘and I’ve not seen them, but someone here might know where they are.’
Julie quickly found several neighbours and questioned them closely as she treated their cuts and bruises and made slings for broken arms and wrists. Then she came across Franny’s best friend Ivy, who was huddled tearfully in a corner.
Ivy had lived next door to the Harrises with her aunt and uncle ever since her mum had left her as a baby on the doorstep – the identity of her father had never been known. As Julie took her in her arms and tried to comfort her, the girl sobbed out her terrible story.
‘I were lucky ’cos I were sitting right by the door, and when it blew I went wiv it – right across the bleedin’ street, straight into Ma Foster’s scullery. I ’it me ’ead something awful on her bleedin’ mangle, and was out cold when they lifted me out.’
Julie swiftly assessed her injuries. There was a nasty swelling at the back of her head which could cause concussion, the cut above her eye would need stitches, and Julie suspected she’d broken her wrist. Apart from that, Ivy had had a very lucky escape.
She wanted desperately to ask if Ivy had seen her parents, but feared the answer, dreaded hearing the words that would only confirm her worst fears, so she remained silent as she cleaned the cut and bandaged Ivy’s wrist. No doubt Ivy would tell her soon enough.
Ivy sniffed back her tears and looked at Julie with eyes shadowed by the fear and horror of what she’d been through, her pinched face streaked with soot and smeared with the tracks of her tears and the seep of blood from the gash on her brow. ‘Have you been up to the factory?’
Julie nodded, the dread cold in her heart as Ivy shivered and wrapped her arms round her skinny waist.
‘I’m sorry, Jules,’ she sobbed, ‘but Bert and Flo was right in the middle of the shelter playing cards with me auntie and uncle. Right under all – them – machines,’ she stuttered.
Julie looked at her in silent despair, the words ringing like a death-knell in her head.
Ivy took a shuddering breath and smeared away the tears. ‘I don’t know what ’appened to any of them – but I’ve looked and looked, and can’t find no one.’
Julie held her close until the tears subsided. With four floors of machinery above them, how could anyone survive? And yet she had to keep faith – had to keep believing in miracles. For if Ivy and these others had got out, there was a chance her parents would too.
With the dread threatening to overwhelm her, Julie made a sling for Ivy’s wrist, seeking comfort in the familiar ritual. ‘You’ll need to go to hospital to check on that bump on your head,’ she murmured, ‘and I think your wrist’s broken, so you’ll—’
‘I ain’t going nowhere,’ Ivy blurted. ‘Not till I know what’s happened to me auntie and uncle. They’s all I got, Julie. All I got in the world.’
Despite her own terrors, Julie put a consoling arm round Ivy and gave her a hug as the girl again burst into noisy tears. She wouldn’t tell her about Franny. It would be too cruel.
Frantic now to get back to the bomb site, Julie waited for the sobs to ebb and then handed Ivy over to the stalwart ladies of the WVS, who’d just arrived to dispense tea, sympathy and blankets to the shocked survivors. Hurrying out of the hall with her medical bag, she cycled back to where the tool factory had once stood.
There was still a profound silence amongst the watching crowd as the rescue crews shouted to one another and continued to make the hole bigger and safer until it was deemed ready to enter.
Julie watched breathlessly as those brave, brave men wriggled and squirmed to get through the hole they’d managed to open up some way back from the original entrance. All digging had stopped now, and everyone listened as their muffled voices came back to the surface. They’d found survivors.
; The crowd sighed as one and shuffled closer, drawn by hope.
With infinite care the hole was widened and the first of the walking wounded was helped out. She stood blinking and confused for a moment and then was gathered up by her joyous, tearful relatives. A small boy was lifted out, a man swiftly following him – then two women, and another three children with their distraught mother, all dazed from their ordeal. An elderly couple followed but they were so traumatised, they had to be carried to the waiting ambulance.
The crowd shuffled closer as each new bloodied and bewildered survivor emerged from what could have been their tomb. Hope was alive again.
Julie realised the crews were hopelessly short-handed and rushed to help assess the wounds and direct the patients either to the ambulances or to the church hall. But as each man, woman and child scrambled to freedom, she prayed that her parents would be next.
The size of the crowd had strengthened now, with people coming from every corner of Stepney to witness this miracle and lend a hand. The ambulances rushed back and forth, their bells clanging, and the fire crews continued to shore up the rubble and dampen down the little fires that kept springing up.
The air was full of noxious smoke and floating ash, the dust sifting down into the sulphurous smog and making everyone cough. But it was a small hardship and no one seemed to notice, for all eyes were on that escape tunnel – all hope concentrated on each and every person that was miraculously pulled out alive. If so many had managed to survive, then surely their loved ones would soon appear?
There was a long pause after an old man stumbled out of the hole and had to be helped to his feet. The crowd waited breathlessly and Julie’s hope wavered as stretchers were carefully lowered into the ground. Were they for the seriously injured – or the dead?
The grim-faced bearers finally appeared. There were blankets covering the still forms they carried over the rubble and laid almost reverently on a cleared patch of pavement. These were the first of the dead – which meant they had found no more survivors.