By Lydia’s third large glass of sherry her shaking stopped. Beryl had lit the fire in the parlour and she was insisting Lydia stayed the night too. Bert Baker had looked in for a moment, but then gone out again, down to the Bridge Inn for a pint.
‘I should send a telegram,’ Lydia said, staring into her empty glass.
Bonny had come round enough before being put to bed to relate in detail how drowning felt. She’d said that she felt she was being sucked into a black hole and however she struggled she couldn’t get out.
‘I saw Mum and Dad holding out their hands to me,’ she said, her eyes huge and terrified. ‘I couldn’t reach them.’
‘I reckon this is one thing you should keep quiet about.’ Beryl shrugged her shoulders. ‘I mean what good’s it gonna do telling ’em? They’ll get all worked up, rush down here and take ’er home. Then the way the war’s going she might have to be shipped off somewhere else again, and the worry’ll kill ’em.’
‘But I can’t disregard parental rights like that.’ Lydia looked horrified.
Beryl half smiled. ‘D’you think I worry about what the boys’ ma would say each time I clout them? I know Mrs Easton don’t give a tinker’s cuss about ’em and Bonny’s folks think she’s the sun, moon and stars. But when they handed over their kids to us, I reckon that gave us the right to make decisions for ourselves.’
‘Well, I can’t do anything tonight,’ Lydia sighed. ‘I’ll see how things are in the morning.’
‘Are you awake, Jack?’ Bonny whispered.
She was in Tom’s bed, Jack a couple of feet away in his own.
‘Sort of,’ he replied, his voice heavy with sleep. ‘What’s up?’
Bonny had been awake for some time. She’d heard Mr and Mrs Baker’s bedsprings creaking as they got into bed and she’d just lain thinking about things.
The stationhouse reminded her a bit of her home in Becontree, with square small rooms and none of the luxury she’d grown used to at Briar Bank. But although Mrs Baker’s home was shabby, Bonny sensed something here that she’d never encountered before. A kind of cosiness, a sense that nothing bad could happen, a house where people didn’t pretend about things or worry about what others thought of them. For some reason it had made her feel guilty.
‘I don’t ever want to go in water again,’ she whispered. ‘It was so horrible. I lied to you when I said I could swim.’
‘That don’t matter,’ Jack said. Bonny could see no more of him than a dark shape but she was glad he was close. ‘We all tell fibs sometimes. Can you really speak German?’
‘No,’ she admitted, explaining those were just odd words Lydia had taught her.
Jack sniggered. ‘Fat lot of good it would do saying it to a German prisoner then. He’d think we was gonna bring him some grub.’
Bonny giggled, her fear subsiding. ‘Tell me about your mum?’ she asked.
‘Ain’t much to tell really,’ he whispered. ‘She ain’t like yours for a start.’
Bonny listened as he told her about about the basement flat in Braganza Street, Kennington. About his two older brothers who’d left home because of his mother’s drinking. The picture he painted, of being left alone to fend for the two younger boys all the time, the lack of food and clothes, made Bonny want to cry.
‘I thought I was in ’eaven when I got ’ere,’ Jack said. ‘Mrs Baker picked us three out because nobody else wanted us. Michael had messed his pants and we all had ’oles in our shoes. I love ’er, Bonny. I wish she was our real ma. I don’t ever want to go back to London.’
Bonny found herself admitting that she didn’t either. She spoke of her embarrassment when her parents came to visit.
‘Mummy’s so dreadful sometimes,’ she said. ‘She pretends she’s posh and she goes on to Aunt Lydia about having me and stuff all the time. She thinks I’m a baby and she won’t let me out of her sight. Daddy’s okay, but sometimes I feel like I’m being suffocated by Mummy.’
They talked of their plans for when they were grown up. Jack said he wanted to be Alec’s apprentice at the garage, and one day he’d have his own one. Bonny said she was going to be a film star, and Jack didn’t laugh.
‘Thank you for saving me,’ Bonny said as her eyelids began to droop.
‘It weren’t nothin’,’ Jack replied a little gruffly. ‘That’s what friends is for.’
‘Am I your friend?’ she whispered.
Jack had made a reputation for himself by being tough. Back in Kennington he would lie, cheat and steal to get what was needed for him and his brothers. But living with Mr and Mrs Baker had altered things: now he saw that the best things came to those who worked hard for them. It was better to be liked than feared. He’d even torn Tom off a strip today for stealing the chocolate. Bonny was like him in an odd sort of way, full of all that bravado and cockiness, but underneath the spoilt brat there was something kind of sweet and nice.
‘Course I’m yer friend,’ he said gruffly.
‘For ever?’ she asked, aware now that she’d never had a real friend.
‘For ever,’ he agreed. ‘Now go to sleep.’
Chapter Six
‘Share the joke with me!’ Amos Gilbert looked up from sawing a length of timber as Ellie laughed aloud.
They were in the workshop. Ellie had brought Amos a mug of tea on her return from school. Now she was sitting in a patch of sunshine just inside the door on an upturned box, reading her letter.
It was Thursday afternoon in late September. Although it was still warm for the time of year, long shadows and the reddening leaves of the Virginia creeper on the workshop walls suggested autumn was almost here.
‘It’s another one of Mum’s funny stories,’ she replied, looking up, her dark eyes full of laughter. ‘Max Miller was just ready to leave the dressing-room when she noticed he had a little split in the seam of his trousers. Shall I read it to you?’
‘Go on then.’ Amos wiped his brow with the back of his hand, perched on a trestle and took his pipe out of his pocket.
This was the time of day Amos liked most – funerals over for the day, Grace out and Ellie sharing tea and chatter with him before she went into the house to prepare the evening meal.
Ellie looked very pretty, he thought, in her candy-striped school dress, her plaits coming loose and wisps of dark hair framing her sun-tanned face.
Since the spring, when Amos was forced to take his sister in hand about Ellie, a great deal had changed, both in his home and the progress of the war.
The ‘Phoney War’ had come to an end with the evacuation of Dunkirk in June. Paris was captured and occupied by the Germans a couple of weeks later. There had been the Battle of Britain, the first daylight bombing of London, in July, and then the start of the London Blitz in August.
Although the residents of Bury St Edmunds hadn’t faced any bombing on their town yet, it had come dangerously close. Back in June, visitors were banned along twenty miles of the East coast, and the beaches were mined and small boats immobilised for fear of invasion. In July, a German Junker caught fire in midair in the middle of the night and crashed down in Bury St Edmunds, causing consternation but also great excitement, particularly amongst the small boys who rushed next morning to see it. Norwich had more than its fair share of suffering, with two raids in July and more in August when some two dozen people were killed.
Spectacular air battles fought overhead in August, as the Germans made a massive synchronised assault on all the East Anglian airbases, brought danger even closer. Martleham, where raiders aimed about thirty bombs, was hit first. A Fairey Battle on the ground caught fire and the bombs on board exploded with such violence that two aircraft hangars were destroyed and the watch-tower demolished.
These assaults on airfields had gone on day after day until mid-September, but now, aside from the odd stray bomber coming inland, the Germans appeared to be concentrating their efforts more on London and the south.
To someone arriving from London, Bury St Edmunds might seem an
oasis of calm and serenity: there were no smoking ruins or roofless, windowless houses. But the town had its share of problems. Resources, already stretched by evacuees, at times nearly reached breaking-point as still more strangers flooded in.
Exhausted, battered families turned up almost daily from London: desperate people who could no longer stand the lack of sleep, noise and confusion, some with injuries from shrapnel, burns and broken limbs. Small children with white, strained faces clutched their mothers’ skirts, wide, frightened eyes reflecting the horrors they’d witnessed.
Wives and girlfriends arrived in the hope of snatching a few hours with their men at Fighter Command in Duxford, Debden and Coltishall, always afraid it might be their last chance to be together. Many old ladies who before the war wouldn’t have dreamed of letting a room to a couple without seeing proof of marriage now let the spirit of romance sweep them along, often wiping tears from their eyes as young lovers parted on their doorsteps.
ATS and land-girls rode in on bicycles from nearby barracks or farms to meet airmen and soldiers. They filled the teashops, cafés and public houses and on Saturday nights they jitterbugged in the Corn Exchange to touring bands in the style of Glenn Miller.
The schools were overcrowded, and the doctor, billeting officers and police were all overworked. Housewives complained that this constant influx of people was reducing their rations of food and making the queues still longer. The old guard of the town said that drunkenness and ‘loose behaviour’ was rife amongst the young.
The meat ration had been cut again, so the country folk went back to their old ways, shooting rabbits and even blackbirds, which they claimed were better than pheasant. Stocks in shops were depleted, but while most people accepted the food shortages calmly, the lack of everyday things like elastic, batteries, face cream and candles infuriated them.
Yet despite all the problems and shortages, the war united people. Each East Anglian serviceman killed in action brought it home to people that tomorrow their own son or husband might be added to the ever-growing list. Fear and uncertainty drew different classes together in ways unknown in peacetime.
Land-girls with plummy accents palled up with cockneys. Women who’d lost husbands in the First War offered comfort to those recently widowed. Aristocratic ladies made room in the sewing bees for women they once thought of as ‘housemaid’ material. Crusty farmers were glad of a pair of extra hands, whoever they belonged to. Loneliness became a thing of the past for the many old people who opened up the doors of their cottages to strangers transplanted by war and suddenly found themselves part of a family again.
Shopkeepers had a brisker trade, the pubs and cafés were busier, and the churches were packed on Sundays. While many of the older folk wished for a return of quiet serenity, the young embraced the changes. Strangers added colour and excitement to their lives. Girls who once expected to stay at home until they married joined the ATS and the WAAF and delighted in taking an active part in the war. Danger brought a new romanticism, heightened by the films and songs. Long drawn-out courtships became a thing of the past. Love was to be savoured now: tomorrow might be too late.
Amos Gilbert had his share of headaches. Petrol was in short supply, and good timber and brass handles were hard to find. Few people found it appropriate to send their relatives off with style, when young men were giving their lives heroically for their country. His apprentice had been called up, and the stonemason was always off drilling with the Home Guard. On top of his own business he had fire-watching duties, and he’d cleared part of the yard to grow vegetables, enough to keep any man busy. But Amos was a happier man than he had been in years. He was growing increasingly fond of Ellie, and Grace had found a new interest.
Once Grace had discovered from a government leaflet that parsimonious talents such as hers were applauded by men in Whitehall, she made it a crusade to insure no one in the town wasted anything. Whether it was collecting jam jars and bottles, spare cooking utensils and scrap metal, or merely old jumpers to be unpicked and re-knitted as blankets, Grace masterminded the task. Because she had a reputation of being fearsome, people did as she said. It was less taxing to divide waste into separate bins for bones, paper, tins, bottles and food scraps, than have Grace Gilbert telling them they were ‘letting England down’ by throwing it all in together. Armed with a small cart converted by Amos out of an old pram, with a placard on each side proclaiming ‘Save for Victory’, Grace Gilbert was to be seen daily making her rounds up and down the streets whatever the weather. She smirked with pleasure when people said ‘What would we do without Miss Gilbert’, never knowing that she was also referred to as ‘Goebbels’ behind her back.
This collecting work proved to be the answer to Ellie’s prayers. It took Miss Gilbert out of the house for long periods and appeared to have a calming effect on her. She was no longer quite so fanatical about cleaning, and occasionally she would actually sit down in the evenings to knit or sew. She would flare up every now and again about something trivial, but overall, life at High Baxter Street was a great deal more pleasant.
With Grace away from the house so much, Ellie and Mr Gilbert formed a close alliance. Most days they would share the washing up and clerical work for the business and then go into the living-room to listen to ITMA or Much Binding in the Marsh on the wireless.
Soon Ellie was reading Amos her mother’s and Marleen’s letters and that brought her on to telling him about her previous life and the characters in Alder Street. It seemed to Amos that Ellie had seen far more of life than he had, despite her tender years. He encouraged her impressions of people, got her to rehearse her parts for the school productions in front of him, and found himself dreading the time when his sister would arrive home and halt such jollity.
It was the laughing together in secret that cemented their friendship, but it was the little kindnesses to one another that laid the foundations.
Amos would clean Ellie’s shoes, sneak her a glass of milk and a slice of cake and give her money to go to the cinema. Ellie dried his coat when he’d been out in the rain, and left him a hot drink in a vacuum flask when he came back late from fire-watching. She discovered the meals he liked best, and as far as rationing would allow, she tried to provide them, now that she was regularly preparing supper. Grace had never done such things and Amos was careful not to reveal them, for he sensed his sister was like a coiled cobra, perfectly capable of suddenly striking out in jealousy.
Amos watched Grace carefully. Although on the face of it she appeared more kindly disposed to Ellie, just occasionally he noticed an icy, calculating look in her eyes. She sniffed when the neighbours remarked that the girl was turning into something of a beauty, and when Mrs Forester sent money for a new summer dress, Grace deliberately bought it a size too large. She even insisted Ellie’s hair was tightly plaited at all times. But it did no good: anyone could see the girl’s beautiful eyes, the child’s body gradually turning into womanly curves, and guess at what was to come.
Amos smiled now as Ellie read this latest letter. He guessed that much of the comedy of this story about Polly Forester pursuing the star of the show with a needle and thread right to the wings wasn’t actually written down, as Ellie wasn’t following the written word too closely. As usual she had picked up the gist of the story and added her particular brand of humorous embroidery.
All through the year there had been letters from Mrs Forester about the Empire’s show, Haw Haw. Amos sometimes thought he’d actually seen it: he knew Max Miller’s co-stars were Ben and Bebe Daniels, he knew about Gusto Palmer the juggler who purposely dropped the balls, and about each one of the cancan girls. Now Haw Haw had ended and Apple Sauce had taken its place, but Max Miller was still the star, along with Vera Lynn, and according to the reviews enclosed with Mrs Forester’s letters it was even funnier than the previous show.
Since the London Blitz had started, Amos had become almost as anxious about Mrs Forester as Ellie, for she’d had several close shaves. Alder Street got a d
irect hit one night at the end of August and number 18 and the two adjoining houses were completely destroyed. Fortunately Polly was down in the tube station at Whitechapel, along with Wilf and Edna. In a letter just after this she had described how the next morning they picked their way through the smoking rubble to find their house completely flattened but somewhat incongruously a chair, still with her cardigan slung on the back, sitting there as if waiting for her.
This kind of stoic humour, when she had lost everything she owned, endeared the woman even more to Amos, so much so that he wrote immediately to the theatre and offered her a home here, without even thinking what Grace would say. Fortunately perhaps, Fully didn’t take him up on it, as by then she’d moved in with Marleen.
Being in London sounded like the worst kind of nightmare to Amos. Nights in tube stations, packed in like sardines with little or no sleep, often walking to work because bombing had created havoc with transport. Arriving home to find the water and gas had been turned off. Noises and confusion everywhere.
But still the show went on nightly, although earlier than usual so people could get home before it was dark. Polly had reported how the stage door man stood watching bombs drop in distant parts of London, daring Hitler even to think of dropping one on the Holborn Empire.
‘I wish Mum would leave London,’ Ellie said suddenly. A break in her voice made Amos look round at her. To his surprise, her eyes were welling up with tears. ‘What if she got hurt, Mr Gilbert?’
Ellie no longer ached to go back to London. She’d grown to love this pretty town and found joy in being the star of all the school productions. She was fond of Amos, who’d become the father she’d never had, and she’d even learnt to tolerate Miss Gilbert. If her mother would only come here, life would be just perfect.
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