Survivor

by Lesley Pearse

  The house seemed very big and empty now with Rose gone. Noah was either writing articles about how the war was for ordinary people, or out doing his bit with the Home Guard. Lisette had gone back to nursing at the local hospital. But then, Mariette wasn’t home much either; on the days when she helped out in the East End, more often than not the sirens went off, and she ended up staying the night in a shelter.

  She couldn’t remember how many dead bodies or body parts she’d seen now after air raids. Or how many people she’d comforted when they’d lost loved ones. She’d taken children whose parents had been killed to stay with relatives; she’d written letters to husbands in the forces to tell them their wife and children were seriously injured in hospital. Just last month, when it was bitterly cold, she’d found an old man dead outside the office in Baker Street. People must have seen him in the doorway as they went by but thought he was a tramp, sleeping off the effects of too much to drink. The ambulance men said he died of cold.

  Mr Greville had a new factory now, out in Berkshire, and much of the office work was done from there too. He’d made a fuss when Mariette told him she wanted to help out in the East End, but in fact it had all turned out for the best because Doris could run the Baker Street office almost single-handedly. Greville only came in on Mondays, when he dictated all his letters to Mariette, and she typed them the following day.

  He’d found the new premises shortly after that first terrible air raid, and took on new machinists in the same area. All the employees in the East End had been astounded when he gave them all an extra five pounds in their last pay packet. Clearly, he felt bad about laying off people who had worked for him for years. But, as it was, most were happy enough to go into jobs at munitions factories, or become clippies on the buses, as it paid better. That extra five pounds meant a great deal to all of them, though, and they talked about it for a long while afterwards.

  The cellar of the old factory was now a real air-raid shelter, complete with wooden bunks and a proper washroom. The workroom above was used as a rest centre during the day, and it was here that Mariette worked. People donated clothes, bedding and household equipment to the rest centre, and those who’d lost everything could find whatever they needed. It was also open to everyone in the area; they could get a cup of tea and a sandwich and talk to people who could help them with any problems they had. Homelessness was the worst problem, and no one seemed to know how to tackle it. There just wasn’t enough housing stock available to shelter these people. Some went down into the underground stations each night, others camped out in schools and church halls. Then there were other people who just stayed in a badly damaged house, hoping they could get it repaired.

  The factory cellar was Mariette’s first choice as a shelter in an air raid as so many of the old staff used it too. Some nights, it was almost like going to a party with everyone mucking in, sharing food and drink and inventing games to pass the time. They laughed about how scared they’d been during the first few air raids, and the other girls would tell her little stories about the adventures and romances they’d had since then.

  It was astonishing how blasé everyone had become about the danger. After fifty-seven consecutive nights of bombing they spoke knowledgeably about the difference between high-explosive bombs, incendiary devices and parachute bombs, as if they had always been part of their life. Young lads of eleven and twelve had been roped in to put out small fires caused by incendiaries, using a bucket and a stirrup pump, to save calling the Fire Brigade. And they did it with speed and thoroughness, taking pride in being useful. People would spend the night in a shelter, often going home in the morning to wash and change, only to find their house had been bombed. Yet they didn’t sit down and wail, they went off to their work as if nothing had happened. Shops too carried on, even without windows. Mariette had seen one such place with a big sign reading ‘More open than usual’.

  Again and again Mariette was reminded of what Morgan had told her about East Enders. They were the most resilient of people. They took anything that was thrown at them on the chin, laughed in the face of calamity, stuck together like glue, cared for each other’s children, shared everything they had, and when one of their number was bombed out, they all rallied round.

  People took risks, running home in the middle of an air raid to get their knitting, or call on a neighbour who hadn’t come to the shelter, or check they’d turned the gas off. They all seemed to have the same fatalistic idea that, if a bomb had their name on it, there was nothing they could do to avoid it. Nearly everyone she knew had had very close shaves. Mariette had flung herself down on the ground one night when she heard a bomb coming, covered her head and said a last frantic prayer. But it landed thirty or so yards away from her, and the only damage had been to her coat, which was covered in brick dust.

  Johnny was a fatalist too. He would tell her hair-raising stories about being trapped by a ring of fire, truly believing these were his last few moments of life, then suddenly and miraculously something would happen. A wall would fall down and create an exit. Or someone on the outside of the ring of fire would turn their hose on the flames hard enough to create a gap for the trapped men to jump through to safety. Once, when he was trapped with four other men, they pulled up a manhole cover and climbed down into the sewers to emerge stinking to high heaven several streets further on. He said that each time he got lucky, he wondered when his luck would run out.

  Mariette talked about him sometimes to Noah and Lisette, but only ever as her friend the fireman, Mr Greville’s nephew, not as a sweetheart. But that was what he was – her sweetheart – and their relationship was just as Johnny said, a sweet romance. She hadn’t had sex with him, just kissing and holding hands, cuddling and laughing together. It was almost like being eighteen again, innocent and trusting, yet burning to see him, without the guilt that she was doing anything wrong. In a world that was, at times, both cruel and nightmarish, he made her feel safe. But she still felt unable to tell Lisette and Noah that Johnny was more than just a friend, because she knew they wouldn’t approve. And there was no point in making them anxious when even she had no idea where this little romance was going.

  Back in New Zealand, when she had first fallen for Sam, she thought she knew what love was. She soon discovered how wrong she was, and still smarted at what Sam had put her through. Then along came Morgan, who showed her how wonderful lovemaking could be and made her think this was true love. But then he’d turned brutal and made no attempt afterwards to explain why. Gentlemanly Gerald had put her on a pedestal, but all she felt for him was friendship.

  Johnny was completely different from the other men. He could communicate in every possible way, from the tender way he smoothed back her hair, to the expression in his eyes, his laughter, and even his silences. He had a knack of turning up just when she most needed him, yet he would never be a doormat in the way Gerald had been. He didn’t make sweeping promises, he didn’t even talk about the future, but perhaps that was because he flirted with death every night fighting fires. They always had so much to talk about, but so little time together.

  Did she love him?

  It certainly felt like love when her heart leapt to see him lounging against the factory wall in the morning after another night of bombing. Sometimes he was still in a wet uniform, face all grimy, but on other mornings he’d washed, shaved and was in civilian clothes. Almost always he was exhausted, though. But he’d said more than once, ‘If I only saw you after a good night’s sleep, I’d never get to see you.’

  Their romance was all snatched moments. An early morning cup of tea together in a steamy café while, out on the streets, people were sweeping up broken glass and rubble from the night before. Or an hour in the afternoon, when they’d walk together, trying to pretend the cold wind wasn’t cutting them in two, knowing that as darkness fell he’d have to go back to the fire station.

  Yet there was something very unreal about their relationship, almost as if they were characters in a film. She
had confided in her cockney friend Joan about this.

  Joan just laughed. ‘Well, I’d call the film a bleedin’ melodrama. You dole out old togs, Johnny puts out fires. You come from the posh end of town and ’e comes from the rough end. You never get long enough together to find out if you’re suited. On top of that, you’ll be going ’ome to the bottom of the world when and if this sodding war ends. Not sure I can see a ’appy ending, ducks.’

  There had been a lull in the bombing in the New Year because thick fog, or snow, deterred the bombers. There had been a few nights when she and Johnny had put on their best clothes and gone dancing in the West End. For a few hours, while he held her in his arms, the horror of war was put aside and they could be the way sweethearts used to be before the war.

  But as soon as the skies cleared, and the moon shone down on the Thames, the bombers were back, following that shining silver ribbon to guide them into central London to destroy more of the capital.

  Tonight, there had been no air raid. St John’s Wood hadn’t seen the massive destruction that had taken place in the east and south-east. People around here made a big deal of the few sticks of bombs that had dropped, but in fact it was next to nothing. The cellar under the house was very comfortable as a shelter but Mariette had been in it only four times, and on those occasions the closest any bomb came to the house was 300 yards away.

  Mariette turned off the bedroom light and pulled back the blackout curtain to look out. As always, searchlights scanned the sky for bombers approaching. She smiled, knowing that Noah was manning one of those lights on Primrose Hill. He was out most nights now, and he seemed to enjoy it. That was another odd thing about the war: people did seem to be happier having a part to play. And, despite all the hardships they had to endure, it was said there had been no suicides during the Blitz.

  But in two days’ time, on 8th March, Noah wouldn’t be manning searchlights, Lisette wouldn’t be dressing wounds, and Rose would be back here all dressed up ready to go to the Café de Paris to celebrate Mariette’s twenty-first birthday. It was Rose’s suggestion because it was not only the place to go in the West End, but it was also considered the safest as the dance hall was four floors below Leicester Square.

  Hanging on the wardrobe door was Mariette’s new evening gown, a slinky body-clinging dress made of silvery-grey silky velvet that flared out behind into a fishtail. Noah had bought it for Lisette in Paris during the early twenties. But Lisette insisted she was far too old at fifty-six, and too thick around the waist, to ever wear it again. She had been delighted that it fitted Mariette perfectly without any alteration.

  ‘Belle and Etienne would be so proud to see you in it,’ Lisette had said the day she tried it on. ‘Their little girl all grown up, and so beautiful. We must have some photographs taken to send to them. It will be hard for them on your birthday, not being with you to share your special day.’

  Mariette went over to the dress and stroked the soft, sensuous material. When Lisette had first got the dress out to show her, she’d thought silver-grey would drain her of all colour, but she’d been wrong. It reflected light back on to her face and made her glow. She couldn’t wait to wear it. Lisette was also right about her parents being sad: birthdays had always been a big thing in their family, with bunting put up around the kitchen and in the garden. Belle always made an elaborate crown for the birthday boy or girl, which had to be worn throughout the party. All their friends and neighbours came, Mog would make a fantastic cake, and everyone had to wear their best clothes and play party games. Often, the adults carried on drinking and dancing until the early hours, and Mariette could remember wishing she was grown up so that she could stay up with them.

  Mariette could imagine both Belle and Mog crying a little on the 8th. Maybe Mog would make a cake anyway, and they’d all raise a glass of wine to toast Mariette. But it would be a very quiet affair as Alexis had been called up as soon as he’d turned eighteen, in January. He was off at a training camp now, waiting to hear whether his regiment would be sent to Europe or North Africa. In less than a year it would be Noel’s turn. Mariette could hardly believe her skinny little brothers had turned into young men capable of firing guns. She wondered too how her parents and Mog would cope without any children in the house.

  She wished she could go home and see them; all those scathing thoughts she’d once had about Russell being a primitive backwater where nothing ever happened seemed so stupid now. She’d give anything to be sailing out on the bay, or climbing up Flag Staff Hill to look at the spectacular view. Just to sit in the quiet of the evening on the veranda, with a warm breeze fluttering her hair, seemed like paradise.

  Returning to her letter, she wrote down those thoughts about home and how much she wished she could be there with them. She added:

  As I’m writing this, it will be early morning for you. I can almost hear Mog raking out the stove and calling up the stairs for Noel to get up. I expect Mum is outside feeding the chickens and collecting the eggs, maybe Papa has already left the house to take someone out fishing. I didn’t appreciate how lovely it was when I was there, but I do now.

  Tears filled her eyes as she remembered how she’d played her parents up. She recalled the deceit, all the fibs, and thinking she was somehow deprived because Russell was so small and quiet. She knew now, after seeing children who really were deprived, that she’d had the best childhood anyone could have. She’d always had enough food, and so much love and attention. No one had ever taken a stick to her. Her father never came home drunk and nasty, turning on anyone in his way. Her mother made things fun, and Mog was the comforter. Her lap was one of the best places on earth to be when Mariette was small.

  She knew now she wanted a marriage like her parents had – sharing everything, good and bad, their love for each other shining out like a beacon – and how foolish she had once been to daydream that this was how it would be with Morgan. And yet, she found it very annoying that she couldn’t forget him either. The last message she’d had from him arrived just after the Blitz began. She couldn’t call it a letter as it was so brief. He wrote that he was leaving the hospital any day now, and he hoped she would keep safe.

  There was not a word about his injuries, whether he was going back to his regiment or to another hospital, and she’d heard nothing from him since.

  Johnny maintained that Morgan had someone else and wasn’t man enough to admit it. But that made no real sense, because why would he have bothered to write from the hospital?

  She just didn’t understand him at all. But from what she’d seen and heard about people’s behaviour in the last six months, nothing would surprise her. She’d seen married women with children have a torrid fling with someone else while the husband they professed to love was serving overseas. Two women she knew were pregnant with the child of a man they’d met at a dance, and would never see again. Iris’s husband had gone AWOL and was caught in Portsmouth with a girl of just sixteen. He’d written to Iris while waiting for his court martial and said he didn’t love her and never had. He’d only married her because he had to. An elderly man living near the factory had reported his wife missing after an air raid. A couple of days later, her body was found under some rubble, but her injuries were consistent with being struck several times on the head with lead piping, not being hit by falling masonry. When the police began investigating the crime, the husband broke down and confessed it was him. He said he was convinced he was going to die in an air raid, and he couldn’t bear the thought of her being left alone.

  It seemed to Mariette that war altered everyone’s character to some extent. The meek could become brave, the mean become generous, and mild-mannered men could turn into little Hitlers once they put on an air-raid warden’s uniform. She knew she had changed too. She could hardly believe how self-centred she used to be, and yet now she chose to spend her days sorting out old clothes for people, when she could be earning good money as a secretary, and going out nightly to dance and flirt with off-duty officers.


  Peter was bringing a fellow pilot with him to her birthday celebration. His name was Edwin Atkins, he was twenty-six and, according to Rose, very handsome and good fun.

  Mariette wished Rose and Peter would give up on playing Cupid; this was the third man they’d tried to push on to her since Gerald was shot down. She expected he’d be much like the other two – well bred, hearty, a bit full of himself. Fighter pilots might be national heroes and most girls’ dream, but they weren’t hers.

  Noah perched on the padded top of the fireguard in the drawing room, smiling as the photographer he’d booked to call at the house before leaving for the Café de Paris took some pictures of Mariette on her own.

  She looked sensational in the silver dress, her strawberry-blonde hair cascading in loose curls over her bare creamy shoulders and the elaborate necklace Lisette had lent her sparkling like real diamonds, even if it was only paste. But the bracelet on her wrist was the real thing, his present to her for her twenty-first.

  It was just on two years she’d been with them, and he’d grown very fond of her. She had Belle’s easy manner, a ready smile, and a genuine interest in other people. When she’d first got here, he thought she was a little calculating, as if she was weighing up everyone to find their weak points. But that must have been just his old journalistic mind seeing shadows where there were none, or perhaps it was because Annie, her grandmother, had been like that. Annie had felt no loyalty to anyone, particularly not to Mog who had been devoted to her. Etienne, Mariette’s father, had some worrying traits too. He was the best possible man to have on your side, but cross him at your peril.

  Yet, whatever he thought two years ago, he was wrong, and Mariette was now very much her own person. She might have her mother’s dogged persistence in doing what she wanted to do, with her father’s courage and a sprinkling of Annie’s arrogance thrown in, but she also had a big heart. He was hoping she was going to fall for Edwin tonight. He was made of the right stuff – intelligent, charming and from a good family.