His heart leapt into his throat.
He was sure there had been a piece of plywood in front of the entrance to the parlour. It wasn’t there now. He could see it leaning against the wall just to the left of the doorway. His knees started to tremble so hard he thought he might have to sit down. His mind immediately started to race with excuses – I thought I saw a light in here and thought I’d better make sure … I’m a Boy Scout.
Oh God, there was somebody just inside the parlour, a shadow against the lighter window. It moved towards him.
Suddenly a torch light flashed into his eyes, blinding him. “Stay right there, you little bastard,” a man’s voice hissed. “One move and you’re a dead man.”
Jack turned to make a bolt for it, flinging off his rucksack as he ran. He hadn’t even reached the front door when he felt the man grab hold of his collar. He was lifted into the air and slammed down hard on the floor. Then the man knelt on him so heavily it was hard to breathe. Jack was sure he was going to die on the spot, but suddenly the weight shifted and the man got off him.
“Turn over slowly.”
Gasping, he did as he was told and the man pulled off the balaclava. Jack heard the sharp intake of breath.
“Jack. What the hell are you doing here?”
He could just make out the man’s face. He was unkempt and filthy, but unmistakable.
It was his own brother.
Eileen Abbott climbed into bed, thrusting her feet between the flannel sheets to find the hot-water bottle, now only lukewarm. Usually the blessed privacy of her snuggery soothed and eased her, but tonight the room felt cold and lonely. Some time ago, when it was clear that she was the daughter who’d be living at home, Eileen had asked to have the front parlour as her own bed-sitting room. She furnished it simply: one armchair, the bed, and a matching wardrobe and dresser. Just enough space for books, her wireless, and a gramophone.
Eileen pointed her toes underneath the covers, something she did without thinking. Her aspirations to be a dancer had long since gone, but every so often when she felt wistful, she would push back the armchair, wind up the gramophone, and dance to a record. Even in that restricted area Eileen prided herself that she could still manage a tight pirouette or two.
She shifted restlessly. Sleep seemed far off. She sat up again and snapped on the bedside lamp. Perhaps writing her report would help her get out of this agitation.
At the outbreak of the war, she’d volunteered to be one of the diarists that the group called Mass Observation had asked for. They also used trained observers to record the voice of the people, as they put it. Typically, these observers noted down overheard conversations and opinions of the general population. “Good Lord, isn’t that what spies do?” her father had remarked when he heard about it. “They’re not undercover, just sometimes anonymous,” said Eileen. Joe had grunted skeptically. Eileen was more trusting. She thought it was a good idea and potentially lessened the gap between the governed and the government. However, she’d gone for the personal diary record. She could hardly use her position as a nurse to note down what were often private conversations with her patients.
Funny thing was, she found writing in the diary was comforting and she’d stuck to it faithfully. Mass Observation had assured all their volunteers that everything was read even if they couldn’t comment.
She unscrewed the top of her Thermos and took a gulp of the hot cocoa her mother had made for her. Then she reached for the notepaper that was on the beside table. Each sheet was stamped across the top: MASS OBSERVATION. DIARIST NUMBER SIXTY. BIRMINGHAM. (PLEASE DATE)
Her hand still didn’t feel quite steady and she took a deep breath. Just because she was a trained nurse didn’t mean she could be unaffected by the terrible accident that had occurred, but, as always, she forced herself to keep her emotions under control. Getting all weak and teary wasn’t going to help anybody.
Sunday, November 24, 1940.
Forgive me for putting it like this, but today was a day from Hell.
There was an explosion at Endicott’s this afternoon. Sunday is my day off so I wasn’t at the factory when it occurred. My mother and I were in the living room listening to the wireless when we heard it. It could have been anything – an unexploded bomb, a broken gas main – but we both said, “That sounds like it came from Endicott’s.” Dad had not long before gone in because he was working the afternoon shift, and Mum turned quite white. We went immediately to see what had happened. There were already a lot of people in the street, but it was so foggy some had their hands on the shoulders of the ones in front of them, like blind people do. We plunged into the stream with Mum clinging to my arm, and we were able to move at a good pace. The girls from the factory were standing outside, several wearing the red armband signifying they worked in the Danger Section. Mr. Endicott’s secretary, Mr. Cudmore, was trotting up and down like the White Rabbit, trying to get everybody to move across to the other side of the road. He’d come straight from home and he was without his tie, unheard of for him – he is utterly punctilious about his dress. The girls were slow to obey, seeming shocked into paralysis. Fortunately, there were many family members in the crowd that had rushed over, and they claimed their daughters. A light plume of smoke was coming from the roof but there were no flames. Mum and I were highly relieved to see Dad. He was standing with his arm around the shoulders of one of the girls, who was sobbing. He in turn looked relieved to see us. The person he was comforting turned out to be Vanessa, my nephew’s wife. Trust her to find an available man to cry all over. Seeing that Dad was none the worse for wear, Mum took over and told Vanessa to buck up, which she did promptly. Nobody had much information except that the explosion had occurred in the B section of the Danger unit. The A section operatives were unscathed. Vanessa and the others had been in the canteen or working on the main floor, which was untouched. Dad said that the fire wardens had already put out any fire and there didn’t seem to be any danger to the rest of the factory. The Danger Section is separate from the main floor and has reinforced walls. But Dad said there were injured people inside. I was about to go in when an ambulance arrived. I knew the two men. One’s a conshie named Nigel or Neville, something like that. He’s a nice lad, really. Works hard. The other is a dour Scot who says he isn’t going to fight another war. Everybody calls him Mac. He must be getting on for fifty but he’s very strong, physically and emotionally.
They got a stretcher from the ambulance and the three of us entered the building. I stopped only to fetch my first-aid kit from the clinic and we went through the walkway to the Danger Section.
Eileen paused, remembering. As they entered the shed, the smell of cordite, blood, and feces assailed them.
What a sight. Since the bombing raids started, all of us have had experience in dealing with dead and mangled bodies, but this was very hard. Probably because I knew all of the young women. One of them, Tess Deacon, lived on this street. She was dead, lying like a doll covered with dust, but not a mark on her. The percussion had killed her instantly. The worst was Irma Dimble. She had been eviscerated. Mac stepped forward to deal with that, bless him. Both of her arms had been severed and lay, one on each side, a few feet away. I could see that her ring finger was covered with a piece of sticking plaster. Funny how you notice irrelevant details like that in a crisis.
I checked on the others. Prue McDermott’s throat was sliced, a raw red gaping mouth of a wound. Her eyes were open and for a second she focused on me. She tried to speak but that only made more blood bubble out. I put a pad on her throat but she sort of sagged and her eyes rolled back in her head. I knew she was dead. No time to mourn. Young N. was beside me and he was stalwart. We went over to the two girls who were still alive. Sylvia Sumner’s right arm had been severed just below the elbow. It too was lying to one side like a mannequin’s broken limb. Her left hand was a bloody mess. Poor, poor girl. She had got engaged only a month ago and she’d come into the clinic especially to show me the ring.
Th
e other girl was Audrey Sandilands. Funny, cheeky Audrey. She was unconscious but breathing, although she was bleeding from the nose and mouth. Another percussive injury. Not much I could do for her on the spot. The damage was all internal.
Mac, in the meantime, was examining the two men who had been injured. They must have been working nearby. One of them – Doug Aston – had a deep head wound and the other’s eye had been blown out and was lying on his cheek. His name is Peter Pavely and I’ve known him for years. A kind fellow, a devout Methodist.
I had to decide quickly whom to move first. Audrey, Sylvia, and Mr. Pavely were the worst off. I thought Sylvia and Peter could be saved; I wasn’t so sure about Audrey. Fortunately at that moment another two ambulance men arrived and I didn’t have to make that choice. I directed them to Audrey and they loaded her onto the stretcher and took her off. I got Mac and Neville to help with Sylvia. She was semi-conscious and moaning softly. I applied tourniquets to both arms and wrapped pads around the wounds. They took her away. I did what I could for Mr. Pavely and Doug Aston until more help arrived.
Eileen gulped down more of the cocoa. She kept some brandy in her cupboard, but she was too chilled to leave the precarious warmth of her bed, so she tugged the covers up higher and continued to write.
Another ambulance arrived and was able to take both men off to the hospital. I stayed behind to organize removal of the three bodies to the mortuary. I asked the wardens who were standing by to assist with the cleanup – a euphemism if ever there was one for scraping human tissue and bone from the floor and the benches and mopping up pools of blood. There were four wardens, none of them young men, and they were superb. I knew that two of them had served in the Great War, the same as my father had, so perhaps they’d had experience. I know Dad did, although he rarely talks about it. Dad even got through the police cordon and came to see if there was anything he could do. I told him to deal with the rest of the workers, get them to go home and make sure somebody was with them. He didn’t try to talk me out of my task, bless him. The factory caretaker, the Polish refugee, came in. He’s been nicknamed Wolf because his real name is unpronounceable. He immediately volunteered to fix the huge hole in the roof with a temporary tarpaulin. He doesn’t speak much English but he was calm and efficient, although he too looked dreadful. Bless him too. In emergencies such as these, people going about their business without being asked are deserving of the George Medal, if you ask me.
I’ll try to go to see the Deacons tomorrow. At least Mum went on our behalf tonight when she heard the news about Tess. She said the sorrow was almost unbearable. Tess was their pride and joy. Just twenty years old. We sent her a birthday card two weeks ago. What a waste of a young life, the promise snuffed out in an instant. I assume there will be some kind of investigation into what happened, but with the kind of work those young women were doing, an accident can happen anytime. It’s both tedious and dangerous, which is the worst kind of combination.
Christmas will be here in no time. I’m not looking forward to it. How desolate it will seem with so many men overseas and so many families destroyed by the bombing. It makes you wonder if we can keep going.
Eileen looked over what she had written and replaced the notepaper on the table. Was there really somebody reading these diaries? Or was it a futile gesture that mattered to no one?
She turned off her light and lay awake in the dark.
Steelhouse Lane Police Station was an imposing three-storey building that had an aura of authority reminiscent of the Victorian era. In actuality it had opened its doors only in 1933. It was often called grand, sometimes intimidating. Tyler thought that your opinion was dictated by your conscience. At the moment, however, its dignity was somewhat diminished by piles of sandbags stacked around the perimeter. Tyler stepped into the grand arched doorway and pressed the bell. Alf Mason himself answered the door immediately.
“Tom. Good to see you. Wasn’t sure you’d ever get here.”
“Sorry. They had to clear the tracks twice.”
“You were lucky it was only twice. Come on in.” They shook hands heartily, with some additional thumps on each other’s arms. “Give me your things.”
Tyler handed over his hat and coat and Mason ruffled his hair playfully.
“What happened to the carrot top? You’re almost as much silver as red now.”
“At least I’ve still got some,” retorted Tyler.
Mason chuckled, rubbing his own smooth dome ruefully. “I heard that bald heads were a sign of intelligence.”
“The brains burning out the hair, I suppose?”
“Something like that.” He snatched Tyler’s suitcase before he could protest. “Here, let me take your bag. Let’s go up to the common room. I’ve got a kettle on the boil.”
He led the way up a poorly lit flight of stairs and ushered Tyler in. Warmth and brightness welcomed him.
“Thought you’d like a bit of a warm,” said Mason. “Mind you, we had to burn some of the furniture to keep the fire going.”
Tyler grinned. “Too bad there’s a war on. You could requisition some new stuff. Looks like you could do with it.”
Heavy use had already softened the furniture and scuffed the wood flooring.
“Go and warm up your cockles,” said Mason. He began to gather together the newspapers that were scattered on one of the couches. “That’s all my mess. I spend most of my time in here when I’m not working. My house took a hit a few days ago and I’ve moved in here with the bachelors.”
Tyler had obediently gone to the hearth. He turned around. “Good Lord, Alf. I didn’t know you were bombed.”
Mason shrugged. “Only just happened. Fortunately the girls are both stationed up in Scotland and Yvonne had gone to stay with her sister in the Lake District. It seems the safest place to be at the moment, and she thought she’d be closer to the girls. Not that she’s seen much of them by all accounts, and last I heard she says she’d rather risk a bomb than the slow death by boredom that she’s currently experiencing.” He winked at Tyler. “Yvonne was never one for the beauty of the unsullied countryside. She says there’s nothing to do there except count sheep, which puts her to sleep.”
“I’m surprised she even agreed to it, knowing your missus.”
Mason shrugged. “She’s going to give it a trial period. She’s only been gone for a month. Course, she wanted to come back when the house was knocked out but I talked her into staying where she was. Everything’s boarded up tight.” He gave a wry grin. “Truth is, I miss her. Wives! You want them out from underfoot when they’re here and can’t stand your own company when they’re not.”
Tyler smiled in response, although Alf was certainly not speaking for him in this regard.
“How’s Vera?” Mason asked as he poured some tea from a silver pot on the trolley.
Tyler shrugged. “Bearing up. She doesn’t say much.”
Mason handed him a cup. “That must be tough for all parties.” He pointed. “Do you want me to add a splash to that? I’ve got whisky – Canadian Club – only good for livening up the tea. We might as well drink it now; there won’t be much more where this came from. I think those that say the war will be over by Christmas have got their heads up their jacksies. We’re in for the long haul.”
Tyler nodded agreement and Mason added a healthy shot to each cup.
“You look done in, Tom. Drink that up and I’ll show you your room. You’ll find it nice and quiet. There’s hardly any of the lads around now and none that you would know. They’re all away trying to shore up cities worse off than us. That or they’ve signed up.” He held up the whisky bottle. “More?”
“Thanks.”
“With the tea or without?”
“Without. That’s goddamn awful char you made, Alf. Did you stew it for a week?”
Mason laughed. “Almost. We just keep adding tea leaves to the pot. The only way to deal with the rationing.”
He splashed some more whisky into Tyler’s cup and looked o
ver at his friend.
“How’re you making out these days, Tom?” he asked quietly.
“All right. Thanks for your letter, by the way. I appreciated it.”
“I was utterly stunned when I heard what happened at the internment camp. What a dreadful case! And what came from it must have been hell for you.”
Tyler nodded. He didn’t want to go into it, not even with Alf.
They sipped at the whisky in silence for a moment, then Mason put down his cup. “I’ve got to hit the wooden trail or I’ll be useless tomorrow. I’m off to Nuneaton to help sort out some administrative problem. I assume you’ll be going over to the factory in the morning. The BBC reported the explosion. Did you catch it?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“They couldn’t say where it had taken place – they never do. It was just called a Midlands town. They said there were three fatalities, but one of the injured girls is in critical condition. It’ll be four dead soon. Endicott’s is closed down tomorrow, so you’ll get a chance to have a gander ’round.” He tried to stifle a yawn.
“One more thing, Alf,” said Tyler. “Our Mr. Grey is wondering if there might be sabotage involved. Communists and so on.”
Mason frowned. “I doubt it. All of the workers get security clearance, but we don’t clap somebody in irons just because they’re on the bolshie side.”
“Anybody I should pay particular attention to? Nationalists, for instance?”
“Don’t get me started on the bloody Celts. They don’t know which side their bread is buttered on. They’ll be singing a different tune if Hitler comes knocking on their doors. Do you think he’ll welcome them? Fat chance. He hates nationalists of any stripe.”
“No IRA sympathizers?”
“Not that I know of. I hope to God we squelched that lot when the last two got the drop for trying to blow up the police station.”
“That was back in February, wasn’t it?”
Mason nodded. “We haven’t heard a peep since then. Good as bloody gold they are. So, sabotage? I doubt it. It’s my view that the explosion was an accident. Those gals are rushed through their training. They’re young, heads in the clouds. One mistake, one lapse of attention, and boom, you’re a goner.”
Beware This Boy Page 3