by Pamela Evans
Whatever the truth of the past, he must make things right with Ron Bikerley, who hadn’t deserved that onslaught. He would go and make his peace right away, although he wouldn’t be surprised if the other man didn’t accept his apology. George was deeply ashamed and felt as though he didn’t know who he was any more. He certainly didn’t feel worthy of May’s love. She deserved better than him.
The tension had been building for months, but in early June, when people knew that D-Day was imminent, the air positively buzzed with the feeling that something was going on, increased by intense activity in the skies, which were rarely free of aircraft roaring overhead day and night.
When the news finally came through on the eight o’clock news on the morning of the sixth of June that Allied troops had landed in France, May had already left for work. It was only later, after the switchboard was jammed with calls – practically on fire, she said to the office in general – and she wondered what was going on that Miss Palmer said, ‘It’s because of D-Day, dear, everybody wants to talk about it.’
‘Has it started, then?’
‘Yes, our boys are over there, God bless them,’ she said. ‘The King is doing a special broadcast to the nation about it tonight.’
Everyone seemed excited, but May had mixed feelings. Although she knew the invasion was necessary to end the war, she was also painfully aware that somewhere among the thousands of men risking their lives would be George.
During a brief lull on the switchboard, she cast her mind back to the last time she had seen George. He’d had a brief embarkation leave, which had been a huge disappointment. He had seemed very tense and distant towards her; it was almost as though the marriage proposal hadn’t happened. She’d put it down to nerves about the military task he had to face, but it was hard to take after the euphoria of their last meeting. Joe had been unusually naughty and offhand with his father so the atmosphere for romance had been painfully absent. George had told her he loved her, though, and she believed him. But there had been something horribly ominous about his mood and a sense of doubt about their future together had lingered in her mind.
That evening May, her parents and Connie gathered around the wireless to listen to the King’s broadcast, delivered in his achingly sincere style.
‘Surely none of is too busy, too young or too old to play a part in the nationwide vigil of prayer as the great crusade sets forth.’
The words heartened and warmed May. They broadened her vision and made her feel part of a whole. So what if George had had an off mood when he was last home. There were bigger things at stake than her personal feelings. George’s life for one thing and all those others with him in the dangerous mission to bring this awful war to a conclusion.
‘Oh my Lord, whatever’s that?’ said Flo, staring up at the sky one evening a week or two later as she was taking some washing off the line. What appeared to be a damaged aircraft was hurtling noisily across the sky with flame spurting from its tail.
‘Looks like a German raider on its last legs,’ observed Dick, who was attending to the vegetable patch. ‘Good job too. That’ll be one less of the buggers to drop bombs on us.’
‘Girls, come out here, quickly!’ Flo shouted into the kitchen where May and Connie were washing the dishes. ‘It’s a Jerry bomber in trouble.’
‘Ooh er,’ said May, dashing into the garden with a tea towel in her hand and staring heavenwards. ‘I hope it doesn’t land on anyone’s house.’
‘Looks as though it’s about to crash-land somewhere,’ observed Connie.
The aircraft disappeared over the rooftops and a few minutes later they heard an explosion, which they judged from experience to be a few miles away.
‘That’s the end of that, and good riddance too,’ said Dick. ‘Let’s hope it didn’t do any damage.’
It did cause a lot of damage and plenty more of its kind followed, and not just at night but during the day as well. Speculation as to what the aircraft actually were ended a few days later when a member of the government announced that pilotless aircraft were now being used against the British Isles, and that when the engine of the machine was heard to go out an explosion would soon follow.
‘Whatever next,’ lamented Flo, when they heard the news on the wireless. ‘Just when things are going so well for the boys overseas and we were all thinking we’d got Hitler beat, he comes up with this rotten trick.’
‘He’s probably getting desperate and is using every means he’s got,’ said Dick.
‘He’ll soon run out of ideas,’ suggested May.
‘Let’s hope so,’ said her dad.
But the doodlebugs, as the new weapons became generally known, wreaked havoc, and coming at this late stage, when people thought the war was drawing to a conclusion, they were loathed by everyone. Being unmanned, they seemed weird and sinister, but they were lethal and caused extensive damage.
They also caused a new wave of evacuation from London. May arrived at the Bailey home one day to find Dot in tears, packing a small case.
‘I shall have to send Joe away on the school evacuation scheme,’ she wept. ‘I always said I would never let him be evacuated; the poor little thing, having to go and live with strangers. It breaks my heart.’
May wanted to weep with her. She too hated the idea of Joe going away. ‘The doodlebugs are worse in south London than around here, so I’ve heard, Mrs Bailey,’ she mentioned hopefully.
‘Maybe they are,’ said Dot, ‘but we are getting them here as well; all day long the perishing things come rattling over. It’s too dangerous for a child.’
‘But he was here during the Blitz,’ May reminded her.
‘He was too little to be sent away then, and we knew where we were with those raids,’ she said, sniffing into her handkerchief. ‘These wicked things are dropping all day and he has to go to school. I can’t protect him like I did before.’
‘No, I suppose it will be for the best,’ May agreed sadly. ‘It’s what George would want for him, and the government are recommending that people send their children away.’
Dot stopped what she was doing and sat down with her head in her hands. ‘Oh May,’ she sobbed. ‘First his dad goes away, then his mum dies, and now I’ve got to send him away as well; to live with people he doesn’t know in the middle of the country somewhere. It’s enough to damage him for life.’
‘He’ll be all right,’ encouraged May, though she was sick at heart. ‘Kids are tough little things; he’ll soon adapt.’
‘Some of the country people don’t want us Londoners in their villages,’ said Dot. ‘You hear such awful stories. I remember that when the kids came back after the Blitz.’
‘The stories aren’t all bad. It’s only occasionally you hear of an unhappy experience. Some children have a lovely time,’ May pointed out. ‘And it might not be for long.’
Dot seemed suddenly to pull herself together. ‘Yeah, you’re right, dear. I’ve got to be strong for him.’ She blew her nose. ‘I won’t half miss him, though, May.’
‘You and me both,’ said May, wiping the tears from her eyes.
It occurred to May in that moment that it wasn’t only the drama from the battlefields that touched your emotions in this war. It was the little things, like a six-year-old boy being sent away from everything he knew and loved, and a devoted grandmother trying to be strong for him, that broke your heart.
George often found himself fighting alongside or close to Ron Bikerley as they advanced from the beaches towards Caen. They hadn’t become best mates after George’s apology – events of the past still came between them – but neither were they enemies. They existed in a state of indifference which George didn’t like but didn’t know how to change. However, all the men were more interested in staying alive and winning the war than how they got along with individual members of the platoon, as important as mates were in army life, especially in action.
Since the landings it had been a hard and dangerous slog as they trudged on through consta
nt bombardments. The morale of the men remained reasonably high despite heavy losses, probably because at last something was actually happening, and although they were experiencing resistance along the way, there was a definite sense of progress.
Along with his comrades, George was marching along a country lane with bayonet fixed, trucks coming up in the rear. Suddenly something moved out of the corner of his eye, and looking up he saw the barrel of a gun poking out through the branches aimed slightly ahead of him.
Instinctively he flung himself forward, pushing the man in front to the ground just as the bullet passed over where he had been standing.
‘Blimey,’ said Bikerley, scrambling to his feet. ‘That one was meant for me, I reckon. Thanks.’
‘Instinct, mate,’ said George modestly. ‘You’d have done the same for me.’
‘Thanks anyway.’
This was no time for fancy speeches, just bullets and bombs to be dodged. George was certain he would have acted in the same way whoever the man ahead of him had been. But he was very glad it had happened to be Bikerley, because he now realised that the other man had been through the same pain as himself, losing his father at a young age.
Proof of his own instinct to save life was a huge relief to him, as the tendency to violence he had discovered in himself still worried him. He thought his action had probably gone some way towards having Ron as a pal in the future, if there was one. Oh well, here we go again, he thought, as a grenade exploded nearby.
May called in to see how Dot was getting along without her beloved grandson, expecting to find her in pieces.
‘I miss him something awful,’ Dot said, ‘and he’s only been gone a few days.’
‘That’s only natural,’ said May, though the other woman seemed calmer than she had expected.
‘Anyway, I won’t have time to brood too much, because I’ve got myself a job,’ she announced.
‘Oh, really!’
‘You can put your eyes back into their sockets,’ said Dot drily as May stared at her in astonishment. ‘They’re employing women of all ages these days, even old codgers like me. Now that I don’t have Joe to look after, there’s no reason for me to stay at home, not when they need people to go out to work to keep the country going.’
‘Good for you,’ approved May. ‘What sort of job is it?’
‘On the buses; a conductress, or clippie as they call them these days,’ she replied.
‘Ooh, that will be fun, but a bit tiring for you, up and down those stairs collecting the fares.’
‘It’ll be better than sitting at home moping,’ she said.
‘It certainly will,’ agreed May, knowing that the other woman was fretting terribly over Joe.
‘I hope I don’t make a mess of it,’ said Dot, looking worried. ‘Still, you can only do your best, can’t you?’
‘Of course you won’t make a mess of it.’ May knew that Dot hadn’t been out to work for years so would naturally be feeling nervous, but she was doing it with a willing heart and once again showing that she had mettle. ‘You’ll be a smashing clippie, Mrs Bailey! One of the best in London!’
Chapter Sixteen
Although bombs were still raining down on London at all hours, hopes were high that the war would end in the autumn. News from abroad of the breakout from the Normandy beachhead and then later the liberation of Paris created huge optimism at home, especially as there were also rumours about some of the blackout restrictions being lifted.
‘At least there are signs that normality is on its way back,’ said May to Connie one Saturday morning in Oxford Street. They both had the morning off and were shopping with what was left of their clothing coupons.
‘The blackout makes no difference to the doodlebugs as they are robots, so the government might as well get rid of it altogether,’ remarked Connie.
‘They must be confident that there won’t be any more proper piloted bombers to have mentioned lifting some of it in September,’ said May.
They stood looking in a dress-shop window, rather wistfully as neither had many coupons left.
‘I don’t actually mind the utility clothes,’ mentioned Connie. Utility garments were manufactured under restrictions as to the minimum amount of material that was used and the price was strictly controlled to make them affordable. ‘I quite like wearing simple things.’
‘I don’t dislike them either,’ said May. ‘But it will be nice after the war when rationing finishes and we can buy what we like again; pretty, stylish things.’
‘Oh I’ll say,’ agreed Connie. ‘I don’t think anyone can wait for that.’
They walked on, stopping to look in every dress-shop window. The siren went, but very few people took any notice. Even when the doodlebug clattered into sight, with its distinct grating roar, most people just glanced up and then went on their way.
‘We are all getting a bit too casual about the darned things now,’ Connie remarked.
‘Mm,’ agreed May. ‘The siren is going so often, most people just ignore it.’
‘Everything looks so shabby, doesn’t it?’ observed Connie, looking around. ‘Even our lovely West End.’
May nodded, glancing at the bomb damage and the peeling paint on the woodwork of the buildings. ‘The store owners can’t even give their shops a lick of paint, as only essential repairs are allowed,’ she said.
‘Let’s go in Lyons for a cuppa,’ suggested Connie. ‘That’ll cheer us up. At least there are still some tea shops around, even though a lot have disappeared because of the war.’
As usual, Lyons tea shop was crowded, noisy and fragrant with the scent of toast. The siren sounded again while May and Connie were in the queue with their tray. People paused in their chatter for a few moments then carried on regardless. A careless attitude perhaps, but there was something courageous about it to May’s mind.
‘What are you looking forward to most about the end of the war?’ asked Connie when they were seated at a table with tea and a bun.
‘Oh, there are so many things,’ replied May wistfully.
Her friend looked surprised. ‘I thought your answer would be George coming home,’ she said.
‘Obviously that is at the very top of my list,’ she said. ‘Same for you with Dave, I expect.’
‘Not half.’
‘Are you a bit nervous about it, though?’
Connie thought about this for a moment. ‘I expect I will be when the time comes, because you don’t know if it will be the same after so long, do you?’
‘No, you don’t,’ said May with that last disappointing leave in mind. ‘George and I go back such a long way, but we’ve never made it work somehow and I don’t know if we ever will.’
‘But he asked you to marry him.’
‘Yes, he did, but we haven’t had any time together to make the transition from being just friends; to get to know each other in that way,’ she said. ‘Besides, things change and so do people, and the boys have been through so much it’s bound to have had some sort of an effect on them. You just never know.’
‘That’s the way life is. Nothing is ever certain even when there isn’t a war on,’ said Connie. ‘And talking of change, Mum has found somewhere to live where all the family can be together at last, so I’ll be moving out of your place soon.’
‘Oh.’ May was downcast. She’d got so used to Connie being around, she’d almost forgotten that it wasn’t permanent. ‘I’ll miss you, and I know that Mum and Dad will too.’
‘I feel a bit sad about leaving too. It’s been fun and I’ve felt very much at home with your family, but Mum will be glad to have us all back together again.’
‘So I lose my surrogate sister,’ sighed May.
‘I suppose you do, but we’ll still be friends.’
‘Course we will,’ said May, struck with a sudden memory of another friend who was still often in her thoughts.
Having Connie around had helped to fill the emptiness of a lost friendship, but no one would ever replace Bet
ty completely.
Expectations of an autumn victory began to fade in September when Hitler launched a new and even more deadly weapon on London. The V-2 long-range rockets just dropped and exploded, giving no warning so there was no time to shelter.
Later that month the Allies suffered a setback abroad with the failure of the airborne landing at Arnhem, and everyone accepted that they had to wait longer for peace.
May was distracted from the technicalities of the war when Dot Bailey came to call at the Stubbses’ one evening on the verge of tears and clutching a letter she’d had from the evacuation office at the Town Hall.
‘They’re moving Joe to different lodgings because the people he’s with can’t cope with his difficult behaviour,’ she said, holding the letter out for May to read.
‘Difficult behaviour?’ echoed Flo, who was peeling potatoes at the sink. ‘But Joe is the easiest little boy I’ve ever come across.’
‘Exactly,’ said Dot.
‘It doesn’t say what he’s actually done to bring this about, does it?’ said May, having read the letter.
‘No it doesn’t, and the office was closed when I came off my shift,’ Dot said. ‘But the only place he’s being moved to is home. I’m going down to Wiltshire to get him. I’m not having him shifted about like a piece of luggage with no one wanting him.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ offered May to give the other woman some support; she knew that Dot had never been far afield on her own. ‘It’s Saturday tomorrow. We’ll go after I finish work at midday. We’ll have to try and find lodgings for the night when we get there.’
‘Oh May, will you really come with me?’ said Dot, imbued with gratitude. ‘I could certainly do with some company.’
‘Of course I’ll come. He’s my godson, remember, and I’m as upset about this as you are,’ she told her. ‘We’ll go together and get it sorted.’
‘A good thing too,’ added Flo supportively.
It was raining heavily as May and Dot got off the train at the small country station and trudged down a narrow lane, having been given directions by the man in the ticket office. The abundant puddles were deep and muddy and the women’s town shoes no match for them. The wind blew their umbrellas inside out so by the time they reached their destination they were soaked to the skin and thoroughly chilled.