Survivor

by Lesley Pearse

  Getting the news today that Gerald was shot down has made me realize what war really means. It’s being afraid for those you love, realizing that nothing will ever be quite the same again. I hope I can be as brave as you two were in the last war. And I wish I’d asked you about your experiences then. I’ve been awfully self-centred, haven’t I?

  She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining them all sitting around the kitchen table. She could almost smell one of Mog’s wonderful meat pies cooking in the oven, and hear the faint hiss of the oil lamps and her brothers’ chatter. For the first time since she had left home, she really wished she was back there, with nothing more troubling on her mind than what she would wear to the next dance.

  14

  From early August enemy raiders had begun targeting convoys in the Channel and Dover harbour, then moving on to bomb aerodromes and dockyards. Britain was fighting back with all the force it could muster; from every airfield in the south of England Spitfires and Hurricanes flew out to intercept enemy planes and shoot them down. Doris from the office, who lived in Kent, reported that the sky was full of RAF fighters at first light, bravely setting out in tight formations. But the casualty figures were high, and each time the pilots returned there were fewer of them.

  Then, on 19th August, there was a heavy attack on the docks in the East End of London. Mariette heard about the attack at first hand, from Johnny, because he’d been there fighting the fires.

  Two days after the bombs dropped, he met her from work to take her for a drink. His eyes were still red-rimmed from the smoke.

  ‘I can’t even describe how bad it is, just that it’s bloody terrifying,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve got to get back there tonight an’ all, cos it’s still raging. You think you’ve put out one fire, then up it pops somewhere else. The old hands reckon it’ll take us a fortnight to put it out completely.’

  Mariette had met up with Johnny twice since Gerald’s death. The first time had been the day after his funeral at the church in Finchley that his family had always attended. Rose, Lisette and Noah were with her. Peter and his parents were there too. Gerald’s CO and two of his closest RAF pals had a few hours off to attend the service, and the rest of the congregation were family, neighbours and Gerald’s childhood friends. To see his parents, grandparents, two sisters and a younger brother all bowed down with grief was heart-breaking. It was clear to her that Gerald must have told his family that she was the girl he was going to marry; when they bravely put aside their own grief to offer her their deepest sympathy, it made her feel such a fraud. But her tears were real that day. She couldn’t believe he’d been snatched away so young, before he’d had a chance to fulfil any of the ambitions he’d confided in her. They were such simple ones too. He wanted to learn to ride, because he loved horses, to go sailing with Mariette and to ski in Switzerland. She wished so much there had been time to do all those things with him, and that she could have truly loved him.

  Johnny had telephoned her at work the following morning, catching her at her lowest ebb, when she was dreading going home that evening. She knew Rose would want to talk about Gerald and her fears for Peter. So she agreed to meet Johnny when she finished work.

  She was glad she went because he took her out of herself. He didn’t take life seriously and he saw no reason why she should either. First he took her to a little restaurant on the Marylebone Road, and during the meal he told her funny stories about the firemen he worked with, then they went to a nearby pub where he plied her with drink.

  She told him about both Gerald and Morgan. ‘One is dead and the other doesn’t want me to visit him,’ she said glumly. ‘I feel bad because Gerald cared far more about me than I did about him. What does that make me?’

  ‘Honest,’ he said, and grinned at her. ‘There’s some who would’ve made out he was the love of their life just to milk the sympathy. You liked him, cared about him, but you can’t make yourself fall in love with someone just because that’s what they hope for. As for this other geezer that don’t want to see you because he’s injured, I reckon he either thinks he’s being a hero, or he’s got some other girl he don’t want you to run into.’

  ‘I really don’t think he’s got another girl,’ she said indignantly.

  Johnny raised one dark eyebrow quizzically. ‘Well, thinking he’s a hero is just as bad. He ain’t got his leg blown off, has he?’

  She didn’t know whether to be offended by his bluntness or glad of it.

  ‘If he has, he hasn’t told me so,’ she said. ‘He said it was just some shrapnel.’

  Johnny shrugged. ‘I ain’t got much time for people that can’t be straight. If you want my opinion, you’re wasting your time worrying about him. A man don’t tell his girl not to visit him for nothing, it don’t make sense.’

  Although Johnny’s lack of sympathy for Morgan seemed heartless, he did have a knack of putting things into perspective for her. She didn’t love Morgan – he’d killed that off by his behaviour towards her – and if Morgan cared for her, as he claimed to do, he should be totally honest with her. Whether that meant admitting his injuries were worse than he’d said, or that he had another girl.

  But she’d begun to realize that few people were totally honest. They might not lie exactly but they dressed things up to be more palatable. Noah wouldn’t have approved of Morgan, if he’d met him. But on hearing he’d been wounded at Dunkirk, he put on a show of concern which she knew he didn’t feel. She’d heard people at Gerald’s funeral say that he would have preferred to die a hero, rather than live a long and ordinary life. That was rubbish: Gerald had wanted an ordinary life, the war just got in the way of it.

  Noah and Lisette wouldn’t approve of Johnny either. ‘A cockney spiv’ would be Rose’s opinion, and it was true that he was a bit rough around the edges and not even devilishly handsome like Morgan. But he was bright, funny and it took as much courage to face huge fires and deal with them as it did to fly a plane. So maybe he wasn’t going to be Mr Right, but she liked his green eyes and the mischief in them, she liked the way her hand felt very small in his big one, and she knew she wanted to see him again.

  His red-rimmed eyes and his obvious bone-weariness at their second meeting had made her like him even more. There was something very gallant about a man who had been fighting a fire for two days and could have opted for dropping into the camp bed at the school which had been pressed into service as a fire station. But he’d found the energy to rush off to meet her. He even insisted on escorting her home after their supper together, and when he kissed her at the corner of the street she’d wanted it to go on for ever.

  ‘I don’t know when I can see you again,’ he said, running the tip of his finger around her lips and looking right into her eyes. ‘These bombers aren’t going to give up, I’ve got a feeling it’s going to get a whole lot worse too. But I’ll ring you when I can, and next time I’ll take you dancing.’

  Soon after it was the congested commercial areas of the City, and then on 5th September the enemy bombers turned their attentions to the huge oil installations at Thames Haven and Shell Haven, at the mouth of the river, setting one tank alight with an incendiary bomb.

  Johnny rang her the day after and described how he’d been standing on the roof of an oil tank, aiming his hose to cool the other threatened tanks, when a Messerschmitt roared in low with its machine guns blazing.

  ‘Most of the blokes ran for cover,’ he said quite cheerfully. ‘But I was up higher and didn’t have anywhere to go. And besides, if I’d dropped the bleedin’ hose and tried to scarper, the tanks might have caught fire, and then my mates would all have been trapped, surrounded by fire, so I had to stay put. Luckily, I didn’t cop it.’

  Just that morning, at breakfast, Noah had been speaking about the attack on the oil installations. He said that, because of the good safety record enjoyed by the oil companies in the past, there were few firemen in England with experience of fighting oil fires. He had gone on to say that the men who’d been dealin
g with this fire were true heroes because, if it had spread to the other tanks, it could have led to complete disaster.

  Maybe she should have admitted then that she knew and liked one of those heroes. But coming so soon after Gerald’s death, it didn’t seem right.

  The next morning the air-raid siren went off. Mariette leapt out of bed and went out on to the landing to see Noah in his pyjamas, looking out of the window.

  He looked round at her. ‘It must be a false alarm,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be a beautiful morning, the sky is completely clear and cloudless.’

  Mariette looked out of the window with him. As Noah had said, there was nothing in the clear sky to warrant any concern. ‘Maybe bombers are heading towards the area south of the river again,’ she said. ‘Or even the coastal towns. It must just be a general warning.’

  They all went downstairs for a cup of tea, and it seemed that Noah was right. Everything was calm outside, there were no people rushing around, and there was the promise of a warm day ahead.

  ‘Shame you’ve got to work this morning, we could have gone for a picnic on Hampstead Heath,’ Rose said.

  ‘I’m only working until one. And Mr Greville always gets in by seven on Saturdays, so if I get there early maybe he’ll let me off by eleven,’ Mariette said.

  ‘It’s funny they haven’t sounded the all-clear, if it was a mistake,’ Noah said pensively a little later.

  ‘I don’t suppose they are allowed to, as long as something is going on somewhere,’ Rose said.

  The plan for a picnic was very appealing. Leaving Rose to organize it, Mariette got dressed and hurried off to work. The streets were very quiet still; she didn’t see more than five people on the way to Baker Street, and they all looked totally untroubled, just going to work as she was.

  Mr Greville was already in the office and, judging by the crumpled state of his clothes, she thought he’d probably been there all night. Perhaps he’d been out with friends and couldn’t make it home. He never said anything about his private life. She knew he lived near Epping Forest, and that he had a wife and two sons, both of whom were in the army. But Mrs Greville never came to the office, and Mariette had a feeling they weren’t very happy together.

  She explained why she’d come in early, and he merely grunted his agreement that she could leave at eleven. So she sat down at her desk and began typing the letters he’d dictated to her the previous day.

  She hadn’t been there more than fifteen minutes, when the telephone rang. Greville answered it, and she saw his face blanch at whatever he was being told.

  He thanked whoever he was speaking to, then put the receiver down. ‘They’ve struck Thames Haven again,’ he said. ‘There are squadrons of bombers supported by hundreds of fighter planes. Ford Motor Works has been hit, and Beckton Gasworks. They are making for the docks now and dropping incendiaries.’

  ‘Oh no! Then that siren this morning wasn’t a false alarm!’

  ‘If the factory takes a hit, then I’ll be finished,’ he said, wringing his hands.

  Mariette thought this was a very selfish worry. She had walked around that area many times now and had seen huge warehouses full of foodstuffs and other goods vital to the war effort. There were large cargo vessels, moored like sitting ducks in the bright sunshine, grain silos, flour mills, tar distilleries, chemical works, paint and varnish works, and acres of timber stacks which, if once set alight, were likely to explode and spread the fire for miles. But worse than that – and what Greville ought to have been thinking of – was the number of houses in that area with so many, many people about to be killed or injured.

  It was then she heard the thudding of bombs in the distance.

  ‘Our Johnny!’ Greville said, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘It will break my sister’s heart, if he loses his life.’

  Mariette thought perhaps her boss had a heart after all. She hadn’t let on to him that she and Johnny were more than passing acquaintances. But as her fear for him began to mount, she wished she could admit that she cared for Greville’s nephew, if only so they could share their anxiety.

  But this wasn’t the time to tell Greville such things.

  ‘The warehouse is quite a way from the docks,’ she said, getting up and laying a hand on his arm. ‘It may be safe. As for Johnny, he’s been trained to fight fires, so I’m sure he’ll be fine. It’s the machinists we should be afraid for; an awful lot of them live down by the docks.’

  Mariette made tea for them both. But as they drank it, the sound of the bombs grew louder and louder. They heard the drone of British planes flying overhead too, clearly hoping to fight the enemy planes and make them turn back.

  ‘You’d better go home,’ Greville said. ‘And I must go and see what I can do at the factory.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ she said, without stopping to think what that might entail. ‘It’s the sturdiest building around there, people might go to it for shelter. There is a cellar beneath it, isn’t there?’

  He looked at her, almost as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Yes, there is. We might be able to get some of the goods down there for safety.’

  She hadn’t been thinking of the bales of cloth or sewing machines at all, only the people, but she could work out a plan on the way there.

  The taxi driver turned them out at the start of Whitechapel High Street. They could hardly expect him to go further as acrid black smoke was billowing over from the docks. The drone of planes above and the thud of bombs dropping below, mingled with the sound of ambulance sirens, was enough to make anyone turn tail and run.

  Greville hesitated as they turned into a narrow side street. ‘Perhaps we should go home while we can,’ he said.

  ‘No, we go to the factory,’ she insisted, taking his arm firmly. ‘There have been no bombs here yet. We’re safe enough.’

  It looked to Mariette as if all the people had fled to shelters, or were cowering indoors, as the streets were totally deserted. She was afraid now. The black smoke, the fumes of chemicals, the thumping sound of bombs, the noise of ack-ack guns and the wail of fire and ambulance sirens made her think they were making their way into Hell.

  They quickened their steps to reach the factory but didn’t speak. Mariette knew she ought to have phoned home before leaving the office. Once Noah heard the bombs, he would ring one of his many contacts to find out what was happening and where. When he rang her at the office and found no one there, he would be worried about her.

  As they reached the factory gates, Mariette resolved to ring home as soon as they got inside. But the moment Greville had pushed the gates open, a handful of people appeared in the road.

  ‘Can we come in, mister?’ asked a woman with a baby in her arms and two small children clinging to her skirt.

  When Greville didn’t answer, Mariette spoke for him. ‘Yes, come on, we’ll all be safer in the cellar.’

  An hour later, there were over fifty people, mostly women and children, in the large cellar. They all came from homes in the neighbouring streets, and some of the women worked at the factory. The cellar had never been used for storing material or machinery as it became damp in the winter. But now, at the end of the summer, it was dry. Greville had got the few men, all of whom were either over or under conscription age, to carry some of the sewing machines and bales of cloth down there. Mariette and some of the women had brought chairs and a large trestle table, used for cutting out the uniforms, in an effort to make everyone a little more comfortable.

  The cellar was lit by only two light bulbs, but as they kept flickering Mariette had found a box of candles for backup if they went out completely. Down here the bombing was muted, but she’d heard a little girl ask her mother if they were safe now. She hoped they were.

  When she risked a trip to the workshop, two floors above, the sound of the mayhem by the river seemed to be coming closer. Because of the thick black smoke she couldn’t see more than twenty yards from the windows, but she could hear the sound of fallin
g masonry and hissing hoses, and that sounded ominously close by.

  Noah answered the phone when she rang home. ‘Whatever were you thinking of, going there?’ was his immediate response.

  ‘I have to try to help,’ she said. ‘I think we’re safe enough for the time being. But should the air raid get worse, will you ring someone to tell them there are people in the cellar here?’

  He agreed he would ring the Civil Defence people, and advised her to make sure there was adequate ventilation in the cellar and to take water down there for everyone. ‘If your Mr Greville had had any sense or foresight he would’ve made preparations for an eventuality like this,’ he said. ‘You can’t just fill a cellar with people without making some provision.’

  ‘Is it better for them to die in crushed houses with a sandwich in their hands? Or to be hungry and alive?’ she said sharply, and put the phone down.

  There was what passed for a kitchen at the back of the loading bay. It was very dirty – the factory workers had always used a kitchen just off the main workroom to make their tea – but, whatever its shortcomings, it was safer to use the dirty one than risk people going up another flight of stairs. Mariette collected up all the cups and mugs and tea-making equipment and took it down there. There was also a lavatory beside it; she hoped against hope that the bombing wouldn’t become so bad that they had to resort to using buckets in the cellar.

  Everyone apart from the children, who were too young to know what was going on above them, looked terrified. They sat huddled in small groups, alert to the slightest sound. Iris and Janet, two of the machinists, dished out cups of tea and tried to act as if it was all just a bit of a lark, but the smiles they got back were forced ones.

  Greville kept himself busy by collecting up files and documents and bringing them down to the cellar. ‘Thank goodness that big shipment of uniforms was collected on Thursday,’ he said to Mariette at one point. ‘I suppose the girls could work down here on Monday, if the bombing continues – that is, if I could get some power down here.’