by Vince Cross
You’ve got to hand it to Mum. If she says she’s going to do something there’s no stopping her. Yesterday she went down and signed up as an ARP warden, just like she’d said. No uniform, though. Just an arm-band with ARP (for “Air Raid Precautions”) written on it in big white letters.
Dad laughed when he saw her. “We’re all in trouble now, Beattie,” he said. “Signed up just like that! How do they know you aren’t a German spy?”
“Sid Bazeley’s running the show down there,” Mum answered, unpinning her hat. “If he doesn’t know I’m not a spy, there’s something wrong. We were kids together in Madras Terrace. There’s a few stories I could tell you about Sid!”
Ever since Shirl and I had our spot of bother last week, Mum’s been flapping about the blackout. She checks our room every evening, and makes us pin up spare blankets round the window.
“Now it won’t matter what you two monkeys get up to,” she says.
I suppose if she’s going to be a warden and boss other people about, she’s got to keep things tight at home.
The warden’s post is in our old school, down Hengist Road. They moved in as soon as the kids were evacuated last year. There hasn’t been any proper school since, because all the teachers were evacuated as well, and it’s funny to think of the wardens sitting in our old classrooms drinking tea. Mum says it’s about time the ARP did something more for people than just shouting at them. She’s got ideas about running concerts, and parties for the kids and all that. We’ll see. From what I remember of Sid Bazeley, it’s not the kind of thing he’d go for. He keeps a fruit and veg shop up towards Catford and he’s always been as miserable as sin with us kids.
As far as the blackout goes, there’s good news and bad news. You’d be surprised at the number of accidents that happen because no one can see anything in the dark. Last week in Dad’s local paper I read that someone was killed falling off a railway platform over near Bromley. And just down the road old Annie Makins toppled off the kerb one night and broke her ankle, poor thing! In some places they’re painting the kerbs white, and even putting a white band round postboxes so that you don’t walk into them, but they haven’t got to Summerfield Road yet.
The good news? You should just see the stars! In the old days before the war they were always hidden by the street lights. Now on clear evenings the sky’s jet-black and covered with millions of sparkly diamonds. You can even see the Milky Way stretching across like a sort of gauzy scarf.
Wednesday, 7th August
I’m really bored. It’s raining and it doesn’t feel like the summer holidays one bit. But then since there’s no school terms now, what’s a holiday and what isn’t?
When everyone was evacuated last year, it was great at first. As I said, all the teachers went off with the kids, and there wasn’t anyone left to run the schools so we had to stop at home. But I really didn’t want to be packed off to Sussex or Devon or somewhere where we wouldn’t know anybody, and I could see Tom was scared stiff too. I got myself in a right state worrying till finally Mum said they’d send Tom and me away over her dead body.
Mrs Chambers from the school paid us a visit to try to make her change her mind. I was listening outside the front parlour door and there was quite a row. Mrs Chambers said Mum was setting a bad example. She ought to do what the government said was best. Mum said she didn’t like anyone telling her what to do when it came to her children. Mrs Chambers snapped: what would Mum feel like if a bomb dropped and Tom and me were killed?
Mum didn’t say anything for a moment. I put my ear right to the keyhole and heard her whisper that if we were, she hoped we’d all go together, and she wasn’t going to give in to threats from Hitler or Mrs Chambers, thank you. And that was that.
So, most of this year, Tom and me have spent three mornings each week with Mrs Riley. She used to be a teacher until she retired. Mrs Riley’s very nice, but it’s not like school. For starters she has trouble staying awake a whole morning, and though she’s all right at reading and writing, I know more about geography than she does. Tom isn’t interested at all. It’s all Mrs Riley can do to keep him in his seat for ten minutes at a time, he’s such a shufflebottom. I read with him a bit each day and give him a few sums to do. The rest of the time I help Mum, and do as many paper rounds as I can for Mr Lineham. He owns the corner shop.
So you see I miss school, and my friends. Especially when it’s raining like it is today!
The same bloke walked Shirl home again last evening. Looks a bit old for her, if you ask me! And he’s got a moustache. I won’t ask Shirl if it tickles!
Saturday, 10th August
Yesterday was my birthday. I can’t quite believe I’m twelve. I keep saying, “Edie Benson is twelve years old!” to myself. I think it sounds much better than eleven, don’t you?
Mind you, it was a funny start to a birthday. We were all in the Anderson half of Thursday night. The sirens went at nine in the evening and then again somewhere around midnight, so we were all a bit bleary-eyed by the morning. There’s still no bombs, leastways not that we’ve heard. I wonder what it’s going to be like when they do start falling?
In Mum’s Woman’s Own the “Doctor’s Note” column says if you want to sleep at night you should eat lots of lettuce and nothing at all in the evenings. Oh, and cotton wool ear plugs are supposed to help too. I bet the Doctor doesn’t spend his nights with four other people in a hole the size of a rabbit hutch! Is that why rabbits eat lettuce? To help them sleep?
There was a lovely surprise at tea-time. Maureen had got some leave and turned up on the doorstep with a big bunch of flowers for Mum, and a really nice hair-band for me. Fancy that! I’d been secretly hoping Frank would get home too, but at least he remembered to send a card to his “favourite not-so-little sister”.
In the evening we all went off to the Lewisham Hippodrome to see Over the Rainbow, with me feeling very grown up about going out to the theatre of an evening. Even Dad managed to wangle out of a shift to come with us. Over the Rainbow is the Wizard of Oz story, just like the film with Judy Garland that everyone’s talking about. It was so funny and sad and beautiful, and even though we were sitting right up at the back it was a wonderful treat for a special day. Best of all, we got right through the evening without an air-raid warning, so well done Frank and the lads in the RAF. They must have scared the bombers away just for me. By the time we’d walked back to Summerfield Road we were all properly done for, what with the lack of sleep from the previous night.
One of the things I miss about school is not being in plays. I’d really, really like to be Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. Last night I just wanted to jump up on stage and sing along.
Sunday, 11th August
Today was Civil Defence Day in Lewisham, and of course Mum had to be on duty along with all the other wardens. Dad was working, and went out grumbling. They’d all been told to turn up with their shoes shined and their uniforms smartly pressed. “Someone important” was coming to inspect them. “Don’t they know there’s a war on?” he muttered. “We’ve got more than enough work to do, without standing around waiting for la-di-da rubberneckers.”
Shirl had gone off to Chiesman’s at about half past seven, so when Tom and I’d done the breakfast dishes and got the house more or less straight (well I had!) we sneaked out to see what was going on.
Until we talked about it the other evening, I hadn’t cottoned on that Mum’s going to be right in the thick of things if the bombs do start falling. When a factory or a house gets hit the wardens are supposed to get there as quick as they can. They take a quick shufti and then they’ve got to telephone the Town Hall to tell the ARP centre what’s happened. How many people have been hurt or killed? Is anyone still trapped in the rubble? Then they do what’s necessary, rescuing people and giving first aid until proper help arrives.
Mum’s very brave. It made me shudder to think about finding dead bodies and things. I d
on’t think I could do it.
Down by Finch’s Builders’ Yard there was a crowd gawping at something, but we couldn’t get close enough to see. Tom amazes me, really he does. He knows the alleys and back doubles much better than me, and eventually he found a wall we could sit on with a view out over the yard.
Everyone was pretending a bomb had just fallen. We couldn’t see Mum but various wardens were running around like scalded cats. There were people lying on the ground. They were groaning loudly and waving their arms and legs to show they were injured until nurses came and bandaged them up. None of them would have won any prizes for acting. Then they were stretchered off into a couple of ambulances. After five minutes of this Tom was already saying, “I’ve had enough,” so we jumped down from the wall and walked on into Lewisham. Occasionally we could hear the bells on the fire engines ringing, so we headed for the Fire Station, me trying to keep up with Tom.
“Just make sure Dad doesn’t see us,” I shouted at his heels. “We’ll catch it if he does, especially today!” Dad doesn’t like us hanging around the Station. “Work and home?” he says. “Oil and water!”
The crowd around the Fire Station was huge, so this time there was nothing for it but to push to the front. There was a lot of excited chatter.
“Let the littl’uns through,” said a big lady wearing a pink and yellow headscarf who was looming behind us. “They’ll want to see royalty.” As the crowd parted, she shoved us forward, using us as the excuse for her to get a better view too.
I turned my head and asked her, “What royalty?” and over the crowd’s cheering she shouted, “It’s the King and Queen, ducks! Come to see how the other half lives!”
In front of us we could see a line of firemen standing against a gleaming fire engine, while with their backs to us a man in smart military uniform moved slowly down the line accompanied by a lady in a blue feathered hat. We were just in time to see them pass Dad. The King stopped and seemed to say something, and Dad bowed his head slightly, smiling a reply.
“It’s not the King!” said Tom a bit too loudly. “Where’s his crown?”
“Don’t be so daft,” I said. “You don’t think he carries it with him everywhere, do you?” Tom tutted. “You’re the end, you are,” I said. “Here’s your dad meeting the King, and all you care is that he’s not wearing the Crown Jewels on his head.”
A few minutes later, the King and Queen shook the mayor’s hand and sped off in shiny black cars towards Blackheath. Then there were some rescue demonstrations with people jumping off the Fire Station tower into sheets, and firemen showing how to put out pretend incendiary bombs – the little ones that don’t blow you up, but just burn you to death by starting fires. Apparently you don’t throw water over them like everyone thinks. That only makes things worse. You have to use sand. I think Tom enjoyed that more than seeing the King.
“Funny thing about that inspection, Beat. . .” Dad said to Mum later at tea.
“I know,” she said. “I heard. Didn’t come to see us workers, did they?” She sounded miffed, but she was only joking. Proud really.
“Spoke to me, he did,” said Dad, looking round at us all. “Our King spoke . . . to me.”
Dad had us in the palm of his hand. We were holding our breath waiting to hear details of this great conversation.
“Do you want to know what he said, then?”
We all nodded our heads. Dad pulled his mouth wide, showed his teeth and put on a high-class accent, “‘Isn’t it a laavely day’.”
“Bert!” said Mum.
“He did!” said Dad. “Come to Lewisham to cheer us up, and talks about the weather. I ask you! I feel so much better now!” He shook his head.
“At least he came!” said Mum. “They could just hide away in a bunker, you know!”
Monday, 12th August
Mum sprung something on us today. She’s taking Tom and me to see Auntie Mavis down near Tonbridge tomorrow. Yippee! And we’re staying till Friday. It’s a holiday, or at least something like it.
No beach, but at least we’ll be out of smelly Lewisham. (And getting smellier all the time! Now they’re letting people keep pigs in their back garden and they’ve put waste bins on the street corners. The idea is we should put all our old food scraps in them to feed the wretched porkers. And when it’s as hot as it was yesterday, you don’t want to go nearer than half a mile to those bins. They stink to high heaven!)
Shirl’s in a right sulk about Tonbridge. She scarcely spoke to me all evening. I think she fancied a few days in the country.
When we were getting ready for bed, I asked her about the bloke who walks her home. She blushed red to her roots. Very satisfactory!
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Mind your own business!” Shirl snapped. Then, because she was clearly dying to tell someone, she gave in. “Oh go on! It’s Alec, if you must know. I think he’s a bit sweet on me.”
“And you?” I pushed.
“Mind your own business!” she said again. And this time the shutters were down. For the time being. . .
Tuesday, 13th August
We caught a bus down to Hither Green and didn’t have to wait long for the electric train to Sevenoaks. That was where the fun and games started.
When you get to your destination these days, you have to hope you hear the porter shout “Sevenoaks” or whatever the station is because there aren’t any signs. They’ve all been taken down. Dad says the idea is that if the Germans ever do invade, they won’t know where they are. It’s the same with road signs.
Luckily that wasn’t a worry because our train was only going as far as Sevenoaks. Then we sat and waited for ages for the steam train to take us on to Tonbridge. Tom didn’t mind. I can’t think why, but he actually likes standing on station platforms watching engines shunting backwards and forwards.
“Flippin’ war!” said a man standing next to us. “Gives them all the excuse they need, don’t it? Blessed trains don’t never run to time now.”
Eventually a train puffed into a platform on the far side of the station. We ran over the footbridge in a panic. No one seemed to know if it was the Tonbridge train, and even when we finally set off, Mum was still a bit nervous, asking the other passengers if we were all going to end up in Hastings.
Inside the trains now there are blinds on every window so it’s really dark. It’s the blackout again. A brightly lit train would be a sitting target at night I suppose. There are strange blue lamps in all the compartments so that you can just about see, though only so as not to fall over each other.
We were two hours late arriving in Tonbridge, but little Uncle Fred – red cheeks polished and shining under a cheeky hat – was still there waiting for us. With his car.
“We could have caught the bus,” said Mum. “Think of the petrol. You don’t want to waste your rations.”
Uncle Fred tapped his nose. “No names, no pack-drill,” he said. “Never a problem with a bit of extra petrol, if you know where to ask.”
Mum pretended to look shocked. Then: “How’s Mavis?” she asked. I glanced over at Tom. The way she asked the question, it wasn’t just a polite enquiry, she was really concerned. But Tom hadn’t noticed anything.
“The old girl’s not so well. Not at all,” Uncle Fred answered, and I could have sworn he blinked rather more than he should’ve.
Of course as soon as we actually saw Auntie Mavis I knew why we’d come to Tonbridge all of a sudden. She seems half the size I remember, and her skin’s a sickly kind of yellow colour. This might be a holiday for us, but I’m afraid Mum’s visiting her sister for quite another reason.
Wednesday, 14th August
When we got a moment to ourselves this morning, I asked Mum about Auntie Mavis. She looked me straight in the eye.
“She’s very ill, Edith,” Mum said softly. I always know something’s up when she calls
me by my full name like that. “We’ve just got to look after her as much as we can. And Fred. I don’t know what he’d do without Mavis.” And she turned away rather too quickly.
In the afternoon Tom and me walked out through the houses into the fields. We climbed up steadily towards a wood, the corn as high as Tom’s shoulders on both sides of the path. We were almost level with the trees when we heard the first planes, high and distant. We turned and looked, shading our eyes against the sun.
“There,” said Tom, pointing into the sky. It took me a couple of moments but then I saw them too, a formation of dots dodging the clouds.
“Germans,” Tom added.
“Do you think so? How do you know?” I asked.
“Heinkels! You can tell by the shape, can’t you?” he said, like I was just a stupid girl and knew nothing. But he was right, because then there was the sound of more planes coming from behind us over the wood, and as the German bombers came nearly overhead, suddenly the sky above us was full of aircraft zooming up and down, and we began to hear gunfire.
I don’t know about Tom, but I was rooted to the spot. I’d never seen or heard anything like it, and it was all so sudden and unexpected. I didn’t know whether to run for home, or take shelter in the woods.
“What do we do, Tom?” I asked, though I should have been making the decision myself.
He just shrugged his shoulders. “Stay and watch?” he suggested.
So we did. It seemed like the dogfight went on for hours, but it was probably more like ten minutes. We saw one plane start to smoke as it wheeled away from the pack. Then it seemed to hang and pitch forward, before tumbling over itself into a dive that took it out of sight to the side of a hill. It must have fallen miles away, because there was no sound of its landing, no explosion.