In Loving Memory

by Winona Kent

  “I am unhurt.”

  They held each other for long moments, listening to the throb of the plane engines overhead, and the roaring thundering boom of the big anti-aircraft guns on the Common a few blocks away, and the unceasing shudder and shake as more bombs fell, some nearby, some further away.

  Then they heard the jangling bells of a fire engine, and an ambulance, and people were shouting in the road. And there was something else: a woman’s voice, crying desperately, muffled by fallen bricks and wood.

  “We must help,” said Mr. Deeley.

  • • •

  There was no shortage of volunteers. Mr. Braden, the ARP warden, had already begun the search for Mrs. Crofton and her two children. He knew the layout of their house and where they were sleeping. And while the firemen sprayed water on the flames, he dug in with the first rescuers, who scrambled to clear the debris and burrow down to where Mrs. Crofton was trapped, in what had once been her cupboard under the stairs.

  “She had a shelter in the back,” one of the neighbours, Mrs. Lane, was saying, to anyone who would listen. She’d appeared in her nightdress and slippers, with her winter coat thrown over her shoulders and her hair in curlers. “Wouldn’t go in it, said it was too damp, always filling up with water. Said it was warm and dry and safe under the stairs. Just goes to show you, doesn’t it.”

  Charlie climbed into the ruins of Mrs. Crofton’s house, joining Mr. Deeley and half a dozen others as they gingerly removed bricks, one by one, to try and locate her.

  Finally, after what seemed like hours, there was a breakthrough. A white hand reached out of an impossibly small space. There was a cheer, and more digging, more careful removal of debris. And at last, Mrs. Crofton was pulled free from the hole in the ground, her nightgown in tatters.

  A woman ambulance driver wrapped her in a blanket and helped her onto a stretcher, and she was carried into the road.

  “My babies,” she moaned, as she was lifted into the ambulance.

  “How many?” the driver asked.

  “Two. They were with me in the cupboard.”

  “Tommy and Lindy,” said Mrs. Lane. “Ever such lovely children.”

  “How old?” one of the diggers asked.

  “Two and a half, and four.”

  “Two children!” the digger shouted to the men standing in the rubble, and the search began again, in earnest.

  At some point, the bombing ceased, and the anti-aircraft guns on Tooting Bec Common stopped their barrage. The Luftwaffe flew home. The searchlights, criss-crossing their beams into the black October sky, blinked out.

  The All Clear sounded.

  And the road fell silent.

  The diggers stopped working, and listened.

  Nothing.

  “Tommy!” one of them shouted. “Lindy! Can you hear me?”

  Nothing.

  Mr. Deeley crouched down, and peered inside the small cave beneath the bricks.

  “Give me a light,” he said.

  A torch was produced, and he shone it into the hole.

  “See anything?”

  “I am not certain,” Mr. Deeley said.

  “I think I hear something,” said the first digger, the one who had been talking to Mrs. Crofton.

  They listened again.

  “Child crying. There.”

  The crying was coming from an entirely different place, several feet away from the hole that Mrs. Crofton had been pulled from. But it was beneath an impossible tower of fallen and broken bricks, and splintered beams of wood.

  Mr. Deeley shone the torch into the hole again.

  “There is room for me to crawl in,” he said.

  “It’s unstable, mate. The whole lot’ll collapse in on top of you.”

  “Then you will have to dig me out as well,” Mr. Deeley replied.

  He manoeuvred himself into the tiny opening, and dragged himself forward. Charlie watched as his legs disappeared, and then his feet.

  “Bloody hell, Charlotte. Your Shaun’s a bit of a daredevil, isn’t he?”

  It was Betty, roused from her sleep, joining the others in the road.

  “It’s one of the things I love about him,” Charlie replied. “He’s much braver than me.”

  “Well, you were right about my house not being bombed. This time, anyway. Is Mrs. Crofton all right?”

  “Yes, she’s in the ambulance. But she’s very shaken.”

  “Poor woman. There but for the grace of God… It could have been us. But it wasn’t. Do you often have thoughts like that about things? I get a little crawly spidery feeling, all up and down my arms. And that’s when I know what I’m thinking definitely will happen—or definitely won’t happen. And I’m nearly always right.”

  “I sort of have a sixth sense,” Charlie said. “I sometimes know about the future. It’s very difficult to explain though.”

  She paused. Why not? Where was the harm?

  “For instance,” she said, “I have a very strong sense that your baby’s going to be a girl. And you’ll call her Jackie. And you’ll have another little girl, too. Wendy.”

  “Another!” Betty laughed. “That’ll be news to Thad.”

  In the ruins of Mrs. Crofton’s house, the men had all stopped working, lest they cause more rubble to fall in on the tiny tunnel where Mr. Deeley was.

  Suddenly, there was shouting, and Charlie’s heart stopped. Part of the excavation had given way. The men scrambled to keep the opening clear.

  A few moments later, a small boy was pushed through the debris, into their waiting hands. And a few moments after that, a little girl scrambled to safety. Both were covered in cuts and dust, but appeared to be otherwise uninjured.

  The beam of the torch shone out of the hole, followed by Mr. Deeley’s hand, which one of the diggers grasped. Finally, Mr. Deeley himself was dragged into the fresh air.

  “Well done, sir,” said one of the diggers. “Cup of tea?”

  A mobile canteen had arrived, and the two women inside were dispensing hot drinks to the firemen and the rescuers. Mr. Deeley happily accepted a large mug of milky tea and a relieved hug from Charlie. The ambulance drove away with Mrs. Crofton and her children.

  “I’m going to have to have a word with you about your heroic deeds,” Charlie said, observing her companion through newly admiring eyes. He looked rather amazingly rugged, she thought, with his dusty, tousled hair, a night’s growth of stubble on his face, and his shirt unbuttoned and torn open by the exertions of his tunnelling. “What if the rest of the house had collapsed and you’d been killed?”

  “Then you would have been left with the certain knowledge that I’d died a heroic death,” Mr. Deeley replied, not entirely seriously.

  Charlie checked to make sure Betty was out of hearing distance. Yes, there she was, exchanging opinions with Mrs. Lane about the merits of an Anderson shelter as opposed to a cupboard under the stairs.

  “You know what you’ve done,” she said. “You’ve gone and changed history. You rescued those two children. They might have died, otherwise.”

  “Or,” Mr. Deeley said, “at dawn, those digging might have unearthed them without my help, and delivered them safely into their mother’s arms. Who is to say what might have been, with or without my influence?”

  “Forgive me.” It was the man who had brought Mr. Deeley his mug of tea. He was fair-haired and tall, in his midthirties, and wearing clothes completely impractical for rescue work. He looked as if he’d come from a night on the town: a white shirt, black trousers, a loosened tie, a dinner jacket, and shoes that must once have been quite new and polished but which were now covered in dirt and soot and dust. “I overheard what you said just now. You’re speaking of time travel, are you not? And the complications which may occur when one finds oneself having to make a decision about whether or not to act?”

  “Yes,” Charlie said, a little warily. “Hypothetically, of course. We were trying to imagine what might have happened if we hadn’t interfered.”

  �
��I’m a time travel aficionado myself. H.G. Wells wrote about it rather well, I thought, though he allowed his socialist political leanings a little too much influence in the narrative. Have you read The Time Machine?”

  “Yes,” Charlie said, “a long time ago.”

  “I have not,” said Mr. Deeley, “but I shall add it to my list of books to investigate. Will it download to your clever iPad, Mrs. Collins?”

  Charlie gave Mr. Deeley a cautionary look, but the gentleman did not appear to be concerned.

  “I would love to discuss the concept of time travelling with you further,” he suggested. “I find the idea variously frightens people, or worries them, or causes them to dismiss me as an impossible eccentric. But your outlook encourages me. I’m staying at the Bedford Square Hotel in London. Do you know it?”

  Charlie shook her head.

  “It’s on Bloomsbury Street, near the British Museum. Will you meet me there tomorrow?”

  “I’m not sure…” Charlie began.

  “Tube to Tottenham Court Road,” the gentleman suggested. “Then a short walk to the British Museum. It’s across the street. Shall we say lunch time?”

  “Mr. Deeley?” Charlie checked.

  “I think this might be arranged,” Mr. Deeley replied.

  Charlie’s silence was interpreted as consent.

  “Excellent. Until tomorrow then.”

  The gentleman took his leave.

  “Wait!” Charlie shouted after him. “What’s your name? Who should we ask for?”

  But the gentleman was gone, swallowed up by the darkness.

  “Is the British Museum far?” Mr. Deeley inquired, as they crossed the road and went back into Betty’s house.

  “Yes, all the way up in central London. What a strange man.”

  “Why is it strange for someone other than ourselves to believe in the possibility of travelling in time? He will have a long walk tonight. Unless there is a train.”

  “Not likely, Mr. Deeley. Perhaps a bus. Though I’m not sure if they ran all night during the Blitz.”

  The light was on in the dining room, where Betty was hunting for something to write on.

  She settled on the back cover of a little blue booklet, War-Time Cookery to Save Fuel and Food Value. “There,” she said, turning around to acknowledge Charlie and Mr. Deeley, who had paused in the doorway. “October the 11th, 1940, Charlotte Duran says I am going to have a little girl. And I will name her Jackie. And a sister for Jackie, and I’m going to call her Wendy.”

  She smiled, then finished her thought.

  “And, she says, my house will not be bombed.”

  She put the pencil and the booklet in a drawer in the walnut sideboard.

  “Crawly spidery feelings,” she said, to Charlie and Mr. Deeley, rubbing her arms. “Let’s see if we can salvage a bit more sleep before dawn.”

  Charlie followed Mr. Deeley up the stairs. At the top, on the landing, he paused, turned, and without words, wrapped his arms around her, enfolding her. He smelled of soot and dirt and brick-dust and the insides of houses when you’ve knocked them down and exposed their old pipes and underpinnings. The protective cave of his armpit smelled like sweat, and the scent of the soap he’d used that morning in the shower, in Stoneford. Something lemony lime and very male-ish that he’d bought after using up all of her Florentyna Shower Crème from Marks and Spencer.

  “I think you really are a hero,” Charlie said. “In case you had any doubts.”

  “I did nothing special, Mrs. Collins. Any other man of honour would have done the same.”

  “Perhaps not so readily, Mr. Deeley. Or so fearlessly.”

  He silenced her with a kiss. A strong kiss, and a passionate one.

  “Good night, Mrs. Collins,” he said.

  “Good night, Mr. Deeley.”

  Chapter Nine

  The bomb in the night had damaged the gas mains, so there was nothing to cook breakfast with. And there hadn’t been enough time to heat the coal-fired boiler for a wash.

  “I’m so sorry,” Betty said, offering Mr. Deeley and Charlie some bread and butter, a little cheese, and an even littler portion of rhubarb and ginger jam. “This jam’s all I can get these days, and they’re threatening to ration that after Christmas! I can’t even make you tea. But at least we’ve still got lights. And the taps are working. Keep calm and carry on, eh?”

  “We shall wash with the cold water from the tap,” Mr. Deeley replied.

  “Speak for yourself, Mr. Deeley,” Charlie said. “I’m not quite as stoic as you are.”

  “As you may recall, Mrs. Collins, I still consider the constant hot water in your cottage a curious luxury.”

  “He used to work in a very old-fashioned country house,” Charlie said, to Betty. “Dodgy plumbing. And the man who owned it was a French count. Completely mad. Kept horses and a carriage. Mr. Deeley was his groom.”

  “How absolutely fascinating!” Betty replied. “You’d be quite at home here, then. We’ve no shortage of horses and carts. Our rag and bone man’s got one. And our milkman. They’ll have a job coming down Harris Road today, though. Have you looked outside?”

  Charlie took the opportunity to do just that while Mr. Deeley was in the loo, braving five inches of October-chilled tap water in the deep, old-fashioned tub.

  There had, in fact, been two bombs. The first had fallen farther down the street, which had severed the gas mains. The second had landed squarely in Number Twelve’s back garden, scoring a direct hit on the empty Anderson shelter and causing most of the house in front of it to collapse. If Mrs. Crofton had, indeed, been huddling inside the shelter with her two children, they would have been killed instantly.

  The irony was not lost on Charlie as she walked across the road. The house was collapsed, nothing left but broken bricks and splintered timbers and roof tiles. The homes on either side were severely damaged and completely uninhabitable. As were two of the houses on Betty’s side of the road, in the direct line of the blast.

  She heard a small noise behind her and turned around, thinking that Mr. Deeley had finished his bath and come outside to have a look at the devastation with her. But no one was there.

  Odd.

  She could have sworn she’d heard Betty’s front gate clicking shut.

  She started back across the road. Betty had been fortunate. Once the windows were replaced, there would be little to betray the fact that there had been any damage at all.

  And there was Thaddeus, walking towards her from the end of the road, in his tweedy cap, with his hands in his pockets, whistling.

  “Hallo,” he said jovially. “Jerry’s made a bit of a mess, eh? Glad everyone’s all right. I’ve managed an hour away from the shop so I can organize someone to come round and mend Betty’s windows. And I imagine it’ll be a bit of a shock for Ruby when she gets back tomorrow. Her windows have all gone as well.”

  • • •

  Both Charlie and Mr. Deeley’s clothes were filthy, a consequence of their overnight activities in the wreckage of Mrs. Crofton’s house.

  “Look at the state of you,” Betty said. “We can’t have you wandering into the Bedford Square Hotel looking like a pair of tramps, even if it is wartime. It’s respectable. I’ve had tea there.”

  She rummaged around in her bedroom wardrobe, deciding on an olive green and cream dress made of crepe de chine, with a fitted waist and a flared skirt.

  “There you are,” she said, holding it up for Charlie to see. “It’s just about your size. And I’m sure Dad won’t mind me lending your friend something presentable.”

  “Am I not presentable now…?” Mr. Deeley inquired, joining them in the bedroom. He did look very well-scrubbed, Charlie thought. His hair was clean, and he’d also managed to shave.

  “You’ll certainly have everyone’s attention if you show up for lunch wearing that,” Charlie laughed, eyeing the three large towels he’d wrapped around himself to preserve his modesty.

  “I have just what you need,�
�� Betty promised. “Come with me.”

  In the tall oak wardrobe in the front bedroom, Betty found one of her father’s white shirts and a grey knitted pullover, and the trousers belonging to one of his lesser-used suits, which were rather baggy and held up with braces.

  “And, of course, a tie,” she decided, selecting one of dark blue silk. “He only ever wears it for special occasions, and church.”

  “Now we look like a proper wartime couple,” Charlie mused, after Betty had gone and Mr. Deeley had exchanged his towels for Bert Singleton’s best Sunday clothes.

  In one of the trouser pockets, he discovered three tiny slips of paper with printing on both sides, and a tiny hole punched into one corner of each.

  “Bus tickets!” Charlie said. “Used.”

  In the other pocket was a peculiar little box, which upon further investigation was revealed to contain a collection of tiny wooden sticks.

  “And what are these?”

  “Swan Vestas,” Charlie said. “Haven’t you seen them before?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Of course,” Charlie said, remembering how, in 1825, embers had been carefully preserved in the kitchen fireplace, then used to light candles, rushlights, other fires for cooking.

  “What is it they do?”

  “They’re matches, Mr. Deeley. They create fire. Like this!”

  She removed one of the matches, struck it against the rough surface on the side of the box, and was rewarded with an instant flame.

  “If only these had been invented when I lived at Monsieur Duran’s manor,” Mr. Deeley marvelled. “What a lot of drudgery might have been dispensed with.... And what foresight displayed by Betty’s father, to carry the means for a fire with him in his trousers!”

  Charlie looked at him. “Are you being naughty again, Mr. Deeley…?”

  “Me?” he inquired, assuming an expression of utter innocence. “What makes you say that?”

  “Nothing,” Charlie replied, matching his tone of innocence with one of her own. “Anyway, Bert smoked a pipe. I remember Mum telling me. She used to love the smell of the tobacco before it was lit.”

  “I shall keep these safe,” Mr. Deeley decided, “in the event of some emergency requiring a fire.” He smiled at her. “Or the sudden appearance of a pipe.” He turned his attention to the necktie. “How is this arranged?” he asked, holding the two ends in his hands.