She went to the attic. If a bomb fell on the Temperance Hotel she would rather be killed instantly than buried and suffocated in the cellar. She pulled back the curtain and looked towards Manchester. She could hear the crump of bombs and the puttering of our guns. Fire glowed on the horizon and spread across the night sky. They went overhead continuously – German bombers in formation flying lower and slower than she had imagined them and she cried with fury against the Germans and with fear for the people who were the enemy’s target.
Rainow was nearer to Manchester. Rose, Martha and Nat had been awakened by the grunting noise of bombers overhead. They dressed and went down to the kitchen, bringing the baby in his cradle and placing him under the dining table. The infant slept soundly as they debated whether to remain in the house or find shelter in one of the barns.
‘There’s been incendiaries dropped afore,’ Nat said. ‘There were three dropped at Wildboarclough. They set fire to a haystack. We’ll be safer ’ere.’
Martha opened the back door. ‘My God!’ she said. ‘Look!’
They stood with her on the paved yard watching them going overhead in lines, never-ending lines it seemed to Rose, heading for the burning city they could see a few miles away.
Rose could smell the fire and the smoke from where she stood. Flashes high over the inferno were the bursting shells from our guns. Searchlights were swinging, crisscrossing columns of light that probed the sky from the hell of explosions and fire that was Manchester.
They did not go to bed that night but snatched an hour of sleep each the next day, taking turns at watching into the red, blazing distance where the fires from last night’s raid were still smouldering under a pall of smoke.
On the following night the blitz came again to Manchester. There would be a pitiful stream of bombed-out families arriving in Macclesfield and the villages on the following day.
Nat had been down with his milk and reported that Macclesfield had not been hit and that Carrie would not be coming to Rainow until Christmas Day when Vivienne, Mary and two Canadian sergeants would join them. Martha was only too happy to have them. She said it would be a great pleasure to give something back for all they were doing for us.
There was no attack on Christmas Eve and they decorated a little fir tree that Nat brought in from the copse. In the afternoon Rose left the baby with Martha, who was going to feed him with a bottle for the first time, and went with Nat into Macclesfield. She had not wanted to lie-in for two weeks, she told Martha. She had never felt better in her life and she wanted to buy presents for them all if there was anything to be had in town. She also wanted to attend mass at St Alban’s and to pray for Alan’s safe return.
Christmas Day dawned clear, cold and sunny. Rose was up early. She fed the baby, dressed herself in her best skirt and jumper and went down to the kitchen at six o’clock.
‘I ’ope yer brought a lot of winter clothes,’ Nat said when she entered the shining, lamp-lit kitchen. ‘I reckon as we’ll ’ave snow tomorrer.’
Martha cut him short. ‘Happy Christmas,’ she said. ‘He’s always right, like his father was. But it isn’t snowing now and we’ve a day to enjoy ourselves.’
Martha had a goose ready to go in the oven, sausages and ham, potatoes and celery from the garden. She had made trifles and almond tarts, a rich plum pudding and a big fruit cake. There were jars of honey and lemon cheese, jams and pickles in the store cupboard and in an outside cold store a salted ham and two flitches of cured bacon.
Rationing seemed not to have troubled them here at the farm though Martha said they had to go carefully with tea. ‘Do you really think it will snow?’ Rose asked Nat. ‘Will we be cut off from the town?’
‘Aye. We generally gets cut off for a day or so,’ Nat said. ‘But I have a feeling this lot’s going to last a bit longer than a few days. Sit yerself down, lass. Get yer breakfast.’
There was an enormous spread laid out on the kitchen table; enough to last a week Rose thought. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘What do you do about the milk if you’re cut off?’
‘You’ll see,’ Nat laughed. ‘Mam will ’ave yer mekking cheese and butter till yer won’t ever want to see ’em again.’
‘I’d like to learn.’ Rose looked eagerly towards Martha. ‘Will you show me?’
Martha smiled at her whilst Nat continued to recite – ‘And we’ll feed it to the calves, and the pigs, mix it with the hen meal. The cats’ll have bellies like little pumpkins.’ He broke off, laughing heartily. ‘You’ll never see a drop wasted anyroad,’ he said. ‘Not with Mam around.’
‘I’m looking forward to meeting this girl, Mona,’ Martha said, getting a little fun at Nat’s expense. ‘If she’s half as good as he says she is my days of toiling are nearly over.’
Rose ate breakfast and then went upstairs. She had bought gifts for everyone: a pound of botany wool in a lovely shade of apple green for Martha, a knitted pullover for Nat, scent and talcum for Vivienne, three pairs of black wool stockings for Mary and a tin of Quality Street for Mona and her mother. She had positively made a coquette of herself to charm the sweets out of old Mr Potts. For Carrie she had bought, weeks before, a cashmere scarf and a dress length of cream silk shantung. These she had persuaded from Mrs Singer. Mr Singer’s factory was making silk maps of France that could be folded into a tiny square – it was all secret work. Mrs Singer had kept a few lengths of the fine silk.
She handed Martha and Nat their presents and took the others to the parlour that was only opened on special occasions. She placed them under the tree in the pretty room where a fire was laid ready for lighting, little wax candles were clipped to the tree and all was ready for the celebration.
It was going to be a wonderful day but where was Alan? Tears prickled the back of her eyes as she looked around. Would she be able to get through it without breaking down? Sometimes she felt herself ready to go down into a sea of black depression. It was hard to go on believing when all around her people were losing hope.
Surely she would know if he were dead? Surely the little flame in her heart would have been extinguished if he were not going to return. ‘Alan, Alan,’ she whispered, ‘come home soon. I can’t bear to live without you.’
Chapter Twenty-four
Every night for a week they had come down to the dunes at Canet-Plage, twenty of them. Alan was one of five RAF pilots who, night after night, had to return, disappointed. Their despair was increasing with each disappointment. They were near to exhaustion with eyes red-rimmed from scrutinising the flat, empty sea in the early January darkness, haggard from lack of sleep.
Every night they hoped to see the rescue boat. Every night the Resistance leader went ahead, over the dunes, to flash a signal across the water and every time there was no answering light. They had been forced to give up before dawn and return to the cramped conditions of their hiding place, a tiny cottage, which was crowded to bursting, hot and fetid inside.
Alan’s nerves were as strung out as everyone else’s. His leg was playing up. He was filthy but fitter than some of his companions who had arrived at this place, near to the Spanish border, without ever having had a night’s shelter. He had been sheltered, fed and hidden throughout the long months.
Tonight, in shadow, his back to the sand hills, he kept his eyes on the move, scanning the dunes for a sight of the man who was leading them, looking out over the sea to change his eyes’ focus. There was only the regular crushing sound of waves breaking on the sand a few yards in front of him. The nineteen men who were hiding in the shadows were silent.
Then it seemed to appear from nowhere – a black mass, coming towards the shore, a creaking of oarlocks, a splashing and a shadow looming up in front of him. The resistance leader appeared from behind, slipped past him and went towards the rowing boat.
‘Ou sont les fraises?’
It was the password.
‘Dans le jus.’
The password was complete and now they came, silent and eager, from hiding places alon
g the beach. Tiredness was forgotten. The electrifying nearness of liberty went from one to the other of the men wading out to the boat.
Four days later, rested, fed and buoyant with expectation, they sailed from Gibraltar for Southampton in a boat that ran dark and swift through enemy-infested waters. Alan leaned over the rail, watching the bow wave breaking. A storm was blowing up and soon he would go down to the lower deck. He stayed a little longer, relishing the icy wind against his ears that was blotting out sound, as his mind went back over the months of his escape.
He remembered the nerve-wracking start when he had been discovered, hiding in the farmhouse barn. He remembered the French family’s bravery in sheltering him, calling medical aid and hiding him for the four months that the burn and the fracture of the distal end of his fibula had taken to heal.
They had contacted a priest who was arranging passages south for feeble-minded young Frenchmen in the care of the church. He, Père Dupont, had moved Alan, then latterly many other men from monasteries to convents and safe houses on their slow, well-planned journey to Marseilles. His own companion had been Antoine, a young man of extremely limited intelligence.
Now, from the relative safety of the boat, he cast his mind back to the nightmare of the train journeys, especially the crossing of Paris. He remembered his first encounters with the enemy at railway stations and ticket barriers. The part of imbecile had proved easy to play, he remembered with a wry smile, but always he had expected at any moment that the Germans would challenge him, that they would see through it, for he would find himself watching them with a keenness that would be foreign to Antoine and his like.
His reverie was interrupted when he turned his head and saw that a sailor had joined him on the deck.
‘You all right, sir?’ the rating said.
It was, oddly, good to hear someone speak respectfully to him, though he had never taken any pleasure in pulling rank. ‘Fine,’ he answered. The good feeling must have come, he thought, as counterweight to the months of being regarded as an imbecile and the strain of having to pretend.
‘You’d be better below, sir,’ the sailor cautioned him. ‘There’s going to be a hell of a storm.’
He turned angrily, surprising himself. He wanted to tell the fellow to go to hell. If he chose to stand here, alone and watching, then he would. He had become edgy with strangers but there was nothing to be gained by being arrogant. He looked at the sailor and shouted into the wind. ‘What are the chances of getting there in one piece?’
The sailor grinned. ‘A bloody sight better in this weather, sir, than in fair. U-boats won’t be hunting in this.’
The wind tore at his greatcoat and made his eyes sting. He looked out to sea for a few more minutes, towards the north, towards home, and Rose. A feeling of anticipation spread through him. At last – at last he would see her. Soon she’d be in his arms again. He left the rail and, sliding and slipping, made his way down into the darkened ship.
They reached Southampton three days after leaving Gibraltar and Alan was given a rail docket to London. Before he left the docks for headquarters, medical checks and debriefing, he found a telephone and dialled his home. There was a chance that his father was on leave.
Nan Tansley was shocked into unaccustomed hesitancy. ‘Alan?’ he heard her voice, thin and faint. ‘Is it really you?’
‘Yes!’
‘Where are you ringing from?’ This after a few moments’ pause.
‘I’m in Southampton.’ He had given her a fright. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Is it really you?’
‘Yes. I’m alive. I’m well and I’m coming home. Where’s Dad?’
‘In Edinburgh.’ Her voice faded. ‘He’s all right. He comes home for leaves.’
‘Thanks, Nan,’ he said. ‘I’ll try to speak to him now, if I can get through.’
‘Will you be home soon?’
‘Yes. As soon as I can get through all the formalities.’
‘Goodbye.’ He heard her put the phone down and smiled to himself. He had the number of Coastal Command, Edinburgh. He dialled the operator and was speedily put through. Dad was at sea. They would give him the message.
Next, he rang the Regional Bank in Macclesfield. ‘May I speak to Rose Kennedy, please?’ His heart was going fast with excitement.
‘I’m afraid she no longer works here.’ It was an old man’s voice. He didn’t recognise it. The excitement left him.
‘Where is she?’ he asked impatiently.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’
Damn, damn, he muttered to himself. What on earth was that other girl’s name? He remembered. ‘Is Miss Tannenbaum there?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ There was a pause. ‘Do you want to speak to her?’
‘Of course I damn well want to speak to her,’ he snapped. He found it incredible that, with a war on, these people could be so easy going, so stupid. ‘Bring her to the phone. Please.’
He heard Pamela’s voice, clear and confident. ‘Hello?’
‘Alan McGregor here.’
There was a pause. Then, ‘You’re safe! How wonderful.’
‘Where’s Rose?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You must know. What has happened?’ His anger was going. He was beginning to feel the first stirrings of fear.
‘Alan. You’d better get up here. Go to see her aunt. She’ll tell you. And, Alan?’
‘Yes?’
‘Thank God you’re back.’ The line went dead.
He caught the next train to London. From the windows of the overcrowded compartment he saw the devastation the Blitz had wreaked. Towns and cities, shrouded and mantled in snow, were like a lunar landscape. Bomb craters resembled the moon craters he had seen through a telescope. Here and there a church spire pointed to a sky that was as white as the surrounding country.
It took them three days to examine, question and release him before they gave him a first-class ticket to the training camp. The journey that used to take two hours, with detours and delays, now took twelve.
The train went at a snail’s pace and he found himself being provoked into rudeness towards everyone whom he imagined was impeding him. Station staff, Red Cross volunteers who stood on the freezing stations serving steaming tea, all must have found him, at the least, uncivil. He must pull himself together.
News of his return had reached the camp ahead of him. There were new faces at the fighter station including a new flight lieutenant. George Jeffreys had ‘bought it’ during the Battle of Britain a few weeks after he, Alan, had come down.
‘Martin Forsyth?’ Alan asked.
‘He’s a squadron leader. He had a couple of prangs but he was a lucky blighter,’ they told him. ‘They’ll be in in half an hour.’
Alan stood in front of the hangars watching the squadron come in to land. He had no sense now that he wanted to be part of it again. Was he preparing himself for the possibility that they might not let him fly? He had seen the medical men. They told him that, though skin grafts might be suggested in six months’ time, there was some other trouble. Apparently his lungs had suffered smoke damage in the fire and their capacity was reduced to below the flying standard.
He would have more tests done. In the meantime he was on leave for a month and ordered to rest. He smiled to himself at the thought that there was nothing like marriage and a bride to aid his recovery. Then he began to worry again. Had her aunt proved impossible to live with? Where had she gone? Macclesfield was one of the safe areas.
Martin was the last to land. He came haring across the grass as soon as he spotted Alan.
‘Alan!’ Martin slapped his shoulder.
‘Watch it!’ Alan laughed. ‘I’m only here to ask if I can borrow the Riley.’
‘I’ll be glad to see it being used,’ Martin said. ‘I’ve not used my petrol coupons for three or four months. There’s enough for six hundred miles.’
‘Sure you won’t need them?’ Alan asked as they went across the gras
s. ‘I’ll pay for it and drive the Riley back if it all works out.’
‘I’ll get there if I have to fly up,’ Martin said. ‘Anyway, you take her. I think the main roads are clear of snow. Have a couple of pints first?’
‘Right-o.’
He left the camp as darkness fell. The countryside was white and shining. It was perfect weather for bombers. They would have no trouble finding their targets but there were no raids as he journeyed north through the night.
He put his foot down. The Riley went, splashing and crunching over the sand-and-cinder-laden melting snow of the towns and over the icy, new-frozen tracks of the country roads as he trundled anxiously northwards to Cheshire and Rose.
He reached Macclesfield at nine o’clock that evening and went straight to Waters Green where the snow had been cleared. It was heaped right up to the railway bridge and filled the Hundred and Eight steps to the handrails. Churchwallgate was too treacherous to attempt and Alan drove to the Temperance Hotel from the direction of the Manchester Road.
He banged on the front door. Carrie Shrigley answered. ‘Is it you?’ she asked. ‘Is it Alan?’
He grinned at her, relieved at last to be here. ‘In person,’ he said.
She looked bewildered. She was not wearing her glasses and he assumed that she was not sure it was he who stood there.
‘Oh, my!’ she said. ‘You’d best come in.’
He stayed where he was. ‘Is Rose here?’
‘No. No, she’s not here. Come in won’t you?’
‘Where is she?’ He did not want to go inside if Rose wasn’t there. He wanted Rose, not a conversation with her aunt, and his unease and plain bad temper, as he thought of it, was growing by the minute.
‘She’s up at the Coopers’.’ She was smiling at him now.
‘Nat Cooper’s?’
‘Yes.’ She hesitated then said. ‘I should tell you . . . No I shouldn’t.’
‘What’s going on?’ He spoke sharply. He had no time for this prevarication. ‘Why is she at the Coopers’?’
Carrie Shrigley was agitated yet she had seemed genuinely pleased to see him, transferring a sheaf of notes or bills, or whatever it was she was holding, from her right hand to her left and back again. ‘I – I can’t tell you,’ she said.
Mill Town Girl Page 38