by Emma Carroll
‘What’s this I hear about a new air-raid warden starting tonight?’ Mrs Gable was saying now.
‘A new one?’ Velvet asked. ‘What’s happened to Mr Perks?’ Though it was Nipper she was really thinking about. On recent nights, he’d chosen her lap to sleep on, and it was ever so comforting when the bombing got too much.
Mrs Gable glared at her: even on Barton Street kids didn’t butt in on grown-up conversations. But Betty was friendlier. ‘He’s gone to his sister’s on Dartmoor, love. He’s worn out, poor chap, what with all these raids. Said he needed some country air.’
‘He was looking peaky, Betty,’ Mrs Gable agreed. ‘And coughing something rotten, which never bodes well.’
The thought of no Nipper tonight made Velvet glum.
‘This new warden,’ Betty went on, ‘calls himself Mr Jackson and he’s already told Mr Khan to make sure we sit in house number order.’
Lynn, who liked things to be organised, looked almost impressed. Then, seeing Velvet’s face, she said, ‘Sounds a bit like school.’
‘Well, it is school,’ Velvet reminded her, because the shelter itself was deep in the cellars under their school, and the man whose job it was to enforce the air-raid warden’s rules was their head teacher, Mr Khan.
*
Down in the shelter, people crammed on to the benches that ran along either side, and when they were full up, sat on the floor. The new rule about sitting in house number order wasn’t going down well.
‘It’s quite simple, Mrs Gable,’ Mr Khan said, trying to keep his temper. ‘You’re number six so you should sit next to number seven.’
‘But all the odds are on one side of the street,’ she protested, ‘and all the evens on the other. So that’s not the right order.’
In the end, just to get everyone inside and the door shut behind them, the new rule was abandoned. Velvet sat cross-legged on the clammy brick floor, with Lynn on her left, and Mo, her other best pal, on her right. There were elbows, feet, dogs, baskets and boxes everywhere, and with it a weary sense of business as usual. Lanterns were lit, flasks of tea poured. People got out their books, knitting, packs of cards, peppermints.
Overhead, the German planes had already arrived. The sound was horrid – a slow, never-ending rumble that made Velvet’s eardrums ache. She would’ve rather liked to hold Lynn’s hand, but her friend was busy rocking Sprout like a baby. Times like these she wished she had a dog of her own to hug. Or at least Nipper, who despite being ancient had fur that smelled like butter. But her mum always said pets were too much responsibility.
‘I’ve enough worry looking after you,’ she’d say, which Velvet thought was a bit rich when most of the time she was either asleep or working. These days Velvet had to wash her own clothes and cook her own suppers, both with limited success.
Inside a box near Velvet’s feet, someone’s cat had started yowling as if it was about to be sick. A few of the shelter dogs were panting and whimpering. Though some had got used to the raids these past weeks others, like Sprout, still got horribly frightened.
‘Shh there, silly, it’s all right,’ she said, trying her best to soothe the animals near enough to hear. Though by now her own nerves were welling up. Being surrounded by animals didn’t seem to be helping tonight.
She turned to Mo. ‘You think it’s going to be a heavy raid?’
‘Hmm?’ He didn’t look up from his book, which was typical. Mo – short for Mohammed – lived two doors down from Velvet. He’d come to England with his parents a couple of years ago from a city called Lahore in India, where people were fighting a war of their own over which country they should belong to, and other things Velvet didn’t understand.
‘The raid? D’you think—’ Velvet was distracted by a movement in Mo’s jacket pocket, as a small pink rodent-sized nose appeared. Mo’s pet rat, Sherlock, was super intelligent, and super sweet. ‘I’d get more sense out of you, wouldn’t I?’ she murmured, stroking his silky whiskers.
There was a sudden sharp knock at the shelter door, and Sherlock ducked back into Mo’s pocket. The whole shelter went quiet.
‘D’you think it’s him?’ someone whispered.
‘What, the new air-raid warden?’ This was Mo’s mother, Mrs Hussein.
‘Who else could it be, Mum?’ Mo muttered. No one went out in an air raid for the fun of it.
Murmurs spread along the benches. Should they move seats? Should they organise themselves into house number order? Would Mr Khan get into trouble if they didn’t?
The knock came again, louder and more frantic. Mr Khan stood up. Turning to everyone, he put a finger to his lips.
‘Not a word about the seats!’ he hissed.
He lifted the black curtain slightly, edging open the door.
‘I thought you were never going to let us in!’ The voice was a woman’s.
Before Mr Khan could reply, she’d shouldered her way inside. She was shivering in a flimsy summer frock and sandals. With her was a boy and a scruffy dog. Velvet recognised him instantly.
‘Don’t tell me that’s the new air-raid warden,’ Mo whispered.
‘Of course it isn’t,’ Velvet replied.
It was someone far more interesting.
2
The boy’s name was Robert Clements. Last week, on a rare day when Velvet’s mum hadn’t been asleep, they’d been out shopping when the boy stepped right into their path.
‘Thank you,’ he’d said, staring at Mrs Jones. ‘For what you did last night. Thank you.’
Her mum never talked about what happened on her night shifts. And Velvet never asked. She knew it must be grim, though, and the look of almost panic on her mother’s face confirmed that she really didn’t want to be speaking about it here, in the middle of the street.
‘That’s all right, chum,’ she’d said and kept walking.
Afterwards, Mrs Jones told her just enough: the boy was called Robert, and he lived with his mother – a Mrs Clements – on Portland Place. An incendiary had fallen in their back garden, setting fire to their shed. They’d got off lightly compared to some of their neighbours who’d been badly bombed.
‘All I did was bang on their front door to tell them,’ she explained. ‘You’d think I’d fought off the Germans single-handed from how grateful he was.’
But the boy’s face had been so full of hero-worship, it left Velvet wondering whether there was more to her bossy, practical, overall-wearing mother than met the eye.
And now here was the boy again, this time with a dog in tow, looking far less excitable than he had that day in the street. He was dark-haired, pale-cheeked and wearing the grammar school’s uniform: Velvet noticed the black and yellow wasp-striped tie around his neck. His mother, in her summer dress, smiled politely at all the faces turned their way. It was odd how no one smiled back.
‘Do the door then, son!’ Mr Khan instructed.
Robert stood on tiptoe to pull the blackout blanket across the doorframe. When he’d finished, everyone was asked to shuffle along the bench so he and his mother could sit down. Reluctantly, people moved, making just enough room for one small person. ‘Thank you, you’re very kind,’ Mrs Clements said, sliding into the space. Hers wasn’t a Barton Street accent, or even a Plymouth one. And yet from the frosty reaction, everyone seemed to know who she was.
Robert remained on his feet.
‘Sit with us if you like.’ Velvet patted a spot nearby on the floor. She was, she decided, going to ask him about the night with the incendiary. She also rather liked the look of his dog.
‘I’ll stand, thanks,’ he muttered, gesturing to his dog. ‘She’s a bit funny with dogs she doesn’t know.’
The dog was whippet-sized but hairy, with a round belly and very skinny legs.
‘She’s pregnant!’ Lynn whispered excitedly in Velvet’s ear.
‘Is she?’ Velvet didn’t question how her friend could tell. Lynn knew more about animals than all the Encyclopaedia Britannicas put together.
‘
No, Sprout, stop sniffing,’ Lynn tutted, because he was interested too and was nosing his way through people’s legs to reach Robert’s dog.
He’d almost made it when another pounding on the shelter door made everyone jump.
‘YOU IN THERE! YOUR LIGHTS ARE SHOWING!’
There was no mistaking the authority of the person shouting. It was the new air-raid warden, Mr Jackson.
‘Uh-oh,’ Betty from the pub groaned. ‘We’re for it now.’
Robert, as the last person in, was supposed to have secured the door. The boy looked so uncomfortable Velvet felt rather sorry for him. The fine for showing light in a blackout could be as much as £20.
‘OPEN UP AT ONCE!’ the warden demanded.
And so, with a weary sigh, Mr Khan opened the door. The man who squeezed inside was short: the top of his tin helmet didn’t quite reach Mr Khan’s shoulder. He had a sharp face, the chin made even sharper by a very pale, very pointy beard.
‘Ferret-face,’ Mo said under his breath. Velvet had to pinch her nose to stop the nervous giggle that was threatening to turn into a snort.
‘You seem very full tonight, Mr Khan,’ Mr Jackson observed. When he shone his torch into the corners and down at the floor, he got a big surprise. ‘It’s like a ruddy zoo down here!’
It was true: the shelter was crammed. People were squashed together like pilchards in a tin. And coming in from outside as Mr Jackson had, he must’ve noticed how the air reeked of pipe smoke, hair oil, beer – and, of course, animals.
Mr Khan straightened his shoulders. ‘What do you expect us to do about it now?’
Whatever Mr Jackson was about to say was lost in a terrific bang. Someone screamed. Velvet covered her ears, suddenly afraid. Brick dust showered down from the shelter roof, covering everyone’s hair and clothes. Then, with a blink, the candles went out. And so did Mr Jackson’s torch.
There was a beat between the bombs. Velvet felt the air change. The animals sensed it too. The barking, miaowing, scrabbling sounds grew frantic. Something fluttered past Velvet’s head.
‘Oh heck, my budgie’s on the loose!’ a woman called out. ‘Can you catch her?’
‘How are we supposed to do that, Doreen?’ someone else snapped. ‘We can’t see further than our own noses!’
Even with the racket outside, you could hear a gasp, a squeal, as the bird landed on someone, then took off again. Velvet prayed the poor thing wouldn’t make the mistake of landing near a cat, or a dog for that matter.
‘I’m going to try and get it,’ Lynn decided, scrambling to her feet.
Except suddenly everyone else had the same idea. The dark was full of moving things – a shoulder, an arm, outstretched hands. Velvet grew hotter and more afraid.
‘Stop pushing!’ she cried.
Worse were the dogs – all eight or so – who’d now whipped each other up into a deafening howl. In amongst the mayhem, the bombs kept falling: a high-pitched whistle, an almighty thump, more debris falling from the ceiling.
When things reached panic point, Mr Khan did the only thing he could do: he opened the shelter door. Cool night air flooded in as people tumbled up the steps and into the street. Velvet clung on to Lynn’s hand. For a split second she was relieved to be out of the crush. Then, the smell of anti-aircraft fire and brick dust. The sky still thrumming with enemy planes. It felt like the end of the world.
Most people were now trying to get back into the shelter. Two lone figures and their dog – the Clementses – hurried off in the opposite direction down the street.
‘That’s right! Run away!’ Mrs Gable shouted after them. ‘Cowards, you lot are! Bloomin’ cowards!’
Velvet didn’t think they should’ve run away, either. But a coward was a harsh thing to call someone, especially in wartime.
‘You’re lucky I’m not sending you to court!’ Mr Jackson yelled in Mr Khan’s face. ‘There are rules for the blackout. And you, sir, with your light showing and all the pets of Plymouth inside that shelter, have broken two of them!’
‘I couldn’t turn people away,’ Mr Khan insisted. ‘They didn’t know the rules had changed.’
‘I’m in charge here now, not that soft-touch Mr Perks.’ Mr Jackson was blocking the shelter doorway. ‘From now on, animals are banned. End of story.’
‘Now hang on a minute!’ Doreen the budgie owner cried.
Lynn looked at Velvet, alarmed. ‘I can’t leave Sprout on his own!’
Overhead, the German planes seemed lower and louder than ever. Anti-aircraft fire rattled across the city. It was dangerous to be out here, cowering in the gutter. Yet Velvet knew her friend wouldn’t go back inside without her dog, and she’d be exactly the same if Sprout were hers. In fact, all the pet owners were now clutching their animals tightly and staring at Mr Jackson with real hate.
Maybe it was this, or the surge of panic, that made her rush up to Mr Jackson.
‘You have to let us all back inside, Mr Jackson,’ Velvet pleaded. ‘Otherwise we might all die out here in the street and that’ll be your fault.’
Mr Khan coughed.
Mr Jackson sized her up coldly. ‘Is that so?’
His eyes went from her to the sky. The whistling sound came next, then a yell of ‘Bomb incoming!’ People and pets dashed for the shelter, and Mr Jackson, though he tried, couldn’t stop them.
It wasn’t the end of the matter, though, not by a long way.
3
The next day, with the smell of cordite still sharp in the air, a letter arrived on every Barton Street and Portland Place doormat. It was signed, in spiky ink, by a Mr Eugene Jackson. From now on the public shelter was for human use only. To save any future confusion, the new rule was there – in writing – for all to see.
‘… owing to unprecedented demand for seating …’ Velvet read aloud to Lynn and Mo. Sprout was with them too, though not listening.
‘But the Portland Place lot are only using our shelter because theirs got bombed,’ Lynn pointed out. ‘They won’t be coming forever.’
‘Let’s hope the Germans won’t, either,’ Mo replied.
Velvet sighed. ‘I just wish Mr Perks was still here. And Nipper.’
It was after school and they were walking towards the seafront. They often went down there when the weather was glorious, the salt smell of the sea making a pleasant change from brick dust and smoke.
Today the sea glittered gold in the sunshine. In the park overlooking it, Smeaton’s Tower stood as majestic as ever, its red and white stripes as bold as a barber’s pole. Years ago it’d been a lighthouse and on a very clear day you could still see its stumpy remains, miles out to sea on Eddystone Rocks. In Victorian times, when the rocks eroded, the lighthouse was brought back to Plymouth, and became a memorial to the man – Mr Smeaton – who’d invented it.
The nearest lighthouse now was at Budmouth Point along the coast, and that had been daubed with dull grey paint to camouflage it from German pilots. Velvet was glad the coastguards had left Smeaton’s Tower alone – its bright colours were such an uplifting sight. If it survived Hitler’s bombs then there was hope for the rest of them too. Today, though, Mr Jackson’s letter was doing its very best to dampen her spirits.
‘And …’ she read with emphasis, ‘for reasons of hygiene and public health …’
‘Well, it does stink a bit down there with all those dogs,’ Mo admitted.
Lynn glared at him. ‘And rats.’
‘Failure to comply will lead to a fine of £25 – crikey, that’s gone up – or a court appearance,’ Velvet read on. ‘The possibility of custodial sentencing cannot be ruled out.’
Mo pulled a face. ‘He means prison!’
Velvet, who still couldn’t believe her own nerve at standing up to Mr Jackson last night, was worried. She’d need to be careful from now on.
Yet it was obvious they had to do something. The bombers would be back, if not tonight then very soon. There must be a way of keeping Barton Street’s animals safe during an air raid.
They’d entered the park by now, with its beautiful views out over Plymouth Hoe. Lynn unclipped Sprout’s lead so he could have a run about.
‘Here’s a good picnic spot,’ said Mo, flopping down on to the grass. Between them, they’d clubbed together to buy one sticky bun, the icing of which was melting rapidly, and a bottle of lemonade.
Velvet sat beside him, and Lynn was about to when Sprout set off on little terrier legs across the park.
‘Uh-oh, what’s he seen?’ she asked, staring after him.
‘Who’s he seen, more like,’ Velvet replied, because Sprout was making a beeline for a boy and his scruffy grey dog.
Mo shielded his eyes from the sun. ‘Isn’t that …?’
‘Robert Clements,’ Velvet finished. ‘With his pregnant dog.’
Picnic forgotten, Lynn and Velvet pelted across the grass. They reached Robert just as Sprout was going in for a nose nip.
‘I’m ever so sorry,’ Lynn panted, yanking him back by his collar. Velvet held him steady while she fastened his lead. He was still growling as she pulled him a safe distance away. ‘Is your dog okay?’
There didn’t seem to be any damage, but Robert’s dog was snarling. She was a funny-looking creature – grey-haired and whiskery with giant knobbly paws. Her stomach looked rounder and fuller than ever.
‘Lynn could check her over if you like,’ Velvet offered. ‘She knows heaps about animals.’
Robert pulled his dog protectively towards him. ‘No, thanks very much. And by the way, your dog should be on a lead.’
He was right, of course – Sprout was a temperamental little toad. But for someone who’d caused a fair bit of trouble himself last night, Robert was sounding rather a prig.
‘There’s no need to get shirty,’ Velvet replied hotly. ‘We’ve said sorry. Anyway, you’re a fine one to talk. It’s because of you not pulling the curtain across properly at the shelter that we can’t take pets down there any more.’
Robert stared at her, confused. ‘What?’