by Tania Crosse
‘To victory!’
Unbidden, everyone stood up, scraping their chairs on the floor and solemnly clinking their glasses. As well as London, so many other cities had taken a devastating pounding: Southampton, Merseyside, Bristol, Sheffield, Manchester. Coventry seemed to have been almost flattened, losing its beautiful cathedral, the scant remains of which had become a symbol of Germany’s treachery. It was thought that about forty thousand civilians had lost their lives, and the figure was rising.
After Wig’s toast, everyone was lost in thought for a few moments before sitting down again, and as they did so, Meg heard him mutter under his breath to his wife, ‘I just hope Hitler knows it’s Christmas Day.’
‘You should’ve said Death to Hitler, Uncle Wig,’ Boris declared adamantly. ‘I can’t wait to get my hands on Jerry the minute I’m old enough.’
‘Let’s hope it’ll all be over by the time you are, Boris, lad.’
‘Come off it, Uncle Wig. I’m nearly seventeen and a half, so I can sign up soon. Then I could be called up any time after I finish school in the summer. It’s hardly going to be over by then. Haven’t made much progress so far, have we? A few raids on Italy, and tickling the German underbelly in North Africa. We’ll be lucky to keep old Adolf off our own shores, let alone drive him out of all the other countries he’s occupied.’
‘Oh, don’t, Boris, darling!’ Sofia waved a hand over her forehead. ‘I can’t bear the thought of little men with funny haircuts and silly moustaches marching up and down our high streets.’
‘Don’t worry, Sofia,’ Wig reassured her. ‘It won’t come to that. Churchill won’t let it.’
‘Let’s just hope he persuades America to stop sitting on the fence, and come and join us,’ Peregrine put in. ‘It’s just like the other war all over again, only much bigger with all the trouble brewing in the Far East as well.’
‘Well, I think we should stop talking about it and get on with this lovely meal,’ Sofia declared. ‘Gabriel’s done you proud, Clarrie, with this huge spread of vegetables. It’s more than we’ve seen since before the war began!’
‘The twins work really hard in the garden, too,’ Meg told her. ‘And the girls. And they help ever such a lot in the kitchen. We all get on so well. And Penny, that’s Mrs Higginbottom, she’s a marvel at bolstering everyone up. She and Ada, that’s Mrs Phillips as was, they get on like a house on fire.’
‘I certainly don’t know how they manage to stretch the meat rations the way they do. But if this keeps up, we’ll all have to become vegetarians before too long.’
Everyone knew Peregrine and his family were of that persuasion, so at the mild joke, a titter of laughter wafted about the crowded room. Soon the clink of china and cutlery fragmented the conversation, each person talking only to his or her neighbours. The clatter around the table allowed Meg to retreat into her private thoughts for a while. Where exactly was Ralph today, and what was he doing? She only prayed that he was safe. But even if he was, would he be the next day, and the next? What would the New Year hold for them all? Victory? Peace? It didn’t seem likely. But only time would tell.
*
They didn’t have to wait long to find out. Not even into the New Year.
‘Sweet Jesus!’ Peregrine, who hadn’t seen anything like it in his safe home down in Cornwall, cried out in shock as what only an hour previously had been ink-black darkness over London exploded into an incandescent, blazing aurora.
Despite the bitter weather, everyone spilled out onto the terrace – apart from the boys who rushed up the stairs to their rooms to get the best views. The dazzling light grew and grew until it resembled a mountain of fire, flames leaping a hundred feet into the sky. Even from that distance, they could see the banks of grey smoke lit up with a strange, eerie glow.
‘My God, it’s worse than ever.’ Wig was so astounded, his voice was a mere tremble.
‘They’re trying to burn London to the ground.’
‘Yes. Yes, they are. They must be dropping incendiaries rather than explosives. There’s an exceptionally low tide tonight. It’ll be difficult to get water out of the Thames. My God, no wonder there was a lull over Christmas. They were waiting for this!’ Wig’s words had risen to a crescendo as realisation dawned.
‘Oh, Wig, what about the factory?’ Clarrie squealed.
Meg narrowed her eyes as she calculated the angle. ‘I think this is further west than when they bomb the docks,’ she told Wig. ‘We’ve sort of got used to judging where it is.’
‘Good God, it must be the City, then. They want to destroy the very heart of the country! They haven’t managed to bomb us into submission yet, so they think this’ll do the trick.’
‘Well, I’m going to get it on canvas the minute I get back to the studio,’ Peregrine announced bitterly. ‘People everywhere need to see what a bastard Hitler is.’
‘And I’m going to try ringing my manager on duty at the factory, if I can get through. I was going to stay here a few more days, but I’d better get back tomorrow.’
‘Oh, Wig, d’you have to?’
Meg noted the controlled hysteria in Clarrie’s voice. Poor woman. But it was the same for everyone. She prayed nightly for Ralph’s safety. Was it better or worse never knowing where he was or what he was doing? She really didn’t know. All she did know was that the aching emptiness never let up. They might have been able to bring in the Christmas tree and decorate it as usual, fill the house with greenery and garlands and exchange small presents. But they were just fooling themselves. Christmas simply couldn’t be the same.
And perhaps it never would again.
Seventeen
1941
The photograph was everywhere. The majestic dome of St Paul’s Cathedral rising proudly above the blazing maelstrom that raged through the streets of the City in an ocean of flame. But for all his efforts, Hitler couldn’t destroy the soul of London, and on the first day of the new year, RAF Bomber Command emptied its lethal cargo on Bremen in reply, showing that Britain could give as good as it got.
God was on Britain’s side, and the spirit of the British people was, if anything, strengthened by the Luftwaffe attacks. Hitler went on trying, though, continuing to bomb the capital and spreading his campaign of terror to even more cities than before – Cardiff, Portsmouth and Plymouth. But the British people had faith, and reports of some successful campaigns in North Africa early in January gave them hope.
‘Can I help you?’ Meg asked, opening the front door to a middle-aged woman in a WVS uniform one bitingly cold Saturday morning towards the end of January. She seemed oddly familiar, but Meg couldn’t think why.
‘Mrs Jenkins. Billeting officer,’ the woman smiled.
Ah, yes. Meg remembered now. Mrs Jenkins had been to check on their charges a couple of times during the first few months, but had been so satisfied with conditions for the evacuees that she hadn’t needed to return. But perhaps it was time for a routine visit.
‘Do come in,’ Meg invited her. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Sad news, I’m afraid.’ The woman glanced about her as if satisfying herself everything was still in order. ‘Is Mrs Stratfield-Whyte at home?’
Meg knew she shivered. God knew how Clarrie would take it if anything had happened to Wig. ‘It’s not her husband, is it?’ she forced herself to ask. ‘Oh, Lord.’
‘No. It concerns one of your evacuees. Doris Sergeant.’
‘Doris? Oh, no—’
Meg felt her stomach flip over. Doris, who’d been the most sensitive of the evacuees, whose confidence had taken such strides. This could destroy her, and Meg could only pray that the news wasn’t too bad.
‘Perhaps if I could speak to Mrs Stratfield-Whyte first?’ Mrs Jenkins enquired gently but firmly. ‘And then if you could fetch Doris? And anyone else you think should be there. But not any other children. It isn’t always helpful.’
‘Yes, of course. Mrs Stratfield-Whyte’s in the sitting room. Please follow me.’
&n
bsp; Meg could feel her heart beating hard. Oh, Lord, what was she to say to poor Doris? The three girl evacuees had become as thick as thieves, the friendship between them a delight to witness. At least Doris would have that to help her through whatever the bad news was.
Meg went into the kitchen. It was a hive of activity, Louise and Penny mixing up some water glass for preserving surplus eggs, while Ada was overseeing the three girls as they prepared vegetables for a giant pot of soup. Nana May was doing her best to keep an eye on Bella who was not far off two now and quite a handful. Fortunately her two elder brothers were busy playing with their toy cars on a race track Meg had drawn out for them on the flattened remains of a cardboard box.
Meg quietly told Nana May of their visitor. The old lady was like a grandmother to them all, and Meg felt she should be there for Doris as well as Clarrie. Clarrie, she knew, would be ultra sympathetic to anyone else’s misfortune, but Nana May was always the solid rock.
‘This little lady had better go back in her playpen, then,’ Nana May said sombrely, dipping her head at Bella.
‘I’ll do it,’ Meg offered, since she knew Nana May would struggle. And then, as she popped the protesting toddler in the playpen and got her interested in some of her toys, she had to grit her teeth as she turned to the young girl working at the table. ‘Doris, there’s someone to see you,’ she said steadily.
Her heart broke as Doris’s face lit up and she jumped to Meg’s side. ‘Oh, is it Mummy?’ she cried with joy as they followed Nana May along the corridor.
Oh, dear God, what could Meg say to her? She stopped, taking the girl’s small hand. ‘No, it’s not your mummy. It’s someone… I’m not sure it’s going to be good news.’
Doris’s face blanched. ‘Oh, Meg…’
She gripped Meg’s hand tightly as they continued on to the sitting room. Meg could feel her shaking. As they went in, Nana May was lowering herself onto a seat, and all three older women’s faces turned to them in a wall of compassion.
Meg gulped. ‘This is Doris,’ she whispered lamely.
‘Yes, I remember Doris. I picked you up from the station in my car the day you were evacuated. Do you remember, dear?’ Mrs Jenkins asked gently. And then turning to Meg, she went on, ‘Thank you, but this is… a private matter.’
‘No, I want Meg to stay.’ Doris astounded them all by the conviction in her voice. Perhaps she’d grown up even more than anyone realised. ‘If it’s bad news, I want her to be here.’
Mrs Jenkins glanced at Clarrie, but she nodded back. Clarrie knew that a strong bond had developed between Meg and Doris, and understood the younger girl’s feelings.
And so, accepting Clarrie’s opinion, the billeting officer went on gently, ‘All right. But you’d better sit down.’
They did so, sitting side by side on the small settee. Doris hadn’t let go of Meg’s hand, and Meg felt her fingers tighten like a vice.
‘I’m afraid I come with bad news,’ Mrs Jenkins continued gravely. ‘I don’t need to tell you about the raids on London. I’m afraid… your mother wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t face going down the shelter. Her neighbour tried to persuade her, but she wouldn’t get out of bed. And… your house took a direct hit. If it’s any comfort, your mother wouldn’t have known anything about it. I’m… so deeply sorry.’
Meg felt the cold horror of it open up her own wounds. Poor Doris. She knew exactly what the child would be going through. She felt her stiffen beside her, and then remain perfectly still for some moments.
‘Will there be a funeral?’ were the first words Doris spoke.
‘I expect so. I’ll find out for you.’
‘I see. Thank you.’
A frown creased Mrs Jenkins’s brow, and she glanced at the other women in the room. ‘Well, I’ll leave you with your friends, now,’ she said, her voice soft. ‘Unless there’s anything I can do for you, dear? Any questions you want to ask?’ And when Doris silently shook her head, she concluded, ‘I’ll be in touch. You have an auntie in London, I understand. Your mother’s sister. She’ll be making all the arrangements. I’ve given her the telephone number here. I expect she’ll ring, if that’s all right?’
Clarrie hadn’t uttered a word. Her face was grey, shocked as they all were. Now she nodded in reply.
‘If you’ll excuse me, then, Doris, dear. Mrs Stratfield-Whyte has my number if you need me.’
‘I’ll show you out.’ Nana May heaved herself to her feet and the two women respectfully left the room.
Meg swivelled round to face Doris who was staring down at their hands that were still clamped together. ‘Oh, Doris, I’m so very sorry,’ she croaked.
‘Thanks, Meg. I’d like to go back to the kitchen now, please. I’d like… can we do some painting together?’
‘Of course. Anything you want.’
Doris raised her eyes, bright with sorrow, to Meg’s face, but her grip on Meg’s hand didn’t slacken. Meg exchanged glances with Clarrie. Each was so lost in a whirlpool of emotion that there was no room for words. Poor Doris. She was obviously deep in shock. How would she cope when the news sank in? Would a funeral help? Would it be wise for the girl to go to London? It had been a direct hit, so would there be anything to have a funeral with?
Meg’s feet dragged as they walked slowly, numbed, back to the kitchen. How could they tell the others, knowing their parents were in as much danger? Was this the beginning? First it had been Bob, injured and invalided out of active service, although now working in the War Office; now Doris’s mother. What, or who, next?
Suddenly Robin Hill House didn’t feel safe anymore. But where was?
*
‘No, I’m going.’
That night, Doris had sobbed her little heart out. Meg had stayed with her, both Thimble and Topaz curled up on the rug, until the poor child had finally drifted into an exhausted sleep in the early hours. For two days, she hadn’t eaten a thing and had barely spoken a word. But now, her elfin face was set like granite as she stood squarely in the sitting room, her chin jutting stubbornly.
Horror tore through Clarrie’s soul as she watched the young girl with the bright red curls gaze steadily at her, eyes blazing with defiance. She understood her pain, but she couldn’t let her take the risk, not for someone who was already dead. She hadn’t been up to London herself to visit Rosebud’s grave since the bombing had started. Hadn’t been for years, in fact. It wouldn’t bring her little darling back. It was part of the healing, accepting that she was gone. Since Meg had come into her life, Clarrie had no longer felt the need. And so she couldn’t let Doris risk getting caught in an air raid herself, just to say goodbye, because you never really did.
Fear for the girl scorched inside her head, but she had to keep calm. ‘No, I’m sorry,’ she said levelly, though her pulse was racing. ‘Your parents wanted you to be safe. So as I’m in loco parentis I’m afraid I can’t allow it.’
Doris didn’t know what in loco parentis meant, but she could guess. ‘I don’t care,’ she protested. ‘I know you want to protect me, Mrs C. Clarrie. But Daddy’s somewhere out in the Med and they can’t repatriate him just because his wife’s been killed. There’s a war on, you know,’ she added bitterly. ‘So if Daddy can’t go, one of us needs to be there, so it’ll have to be me.’
Clarrie inwardly gulped. She couldn’t believe this was the same shy, nervous little waif who’d come to Robin Hill House eighteen months earlier. She wouldn’t say boo to a goose then, and now she was standing up for something she believed in so strongly that she was willing to put her life in danger. But Clarrie couldn’t allow it, even if every bone in her body sympathised with how Doris felt.
‘I’ll take her,’ Meg said quietly.
Clarrie stifled a gasp and every bone, every muscle in her body groaned. Oh, no. They couldn’t both go! Not the two girls who had come to mean so much to her. Great whirlwinds of terror whizzed about in Clarrie’s head like red tornadoes.
‘B-but you don’t know London,’ she stam
mered. ‘And even if you did, it’ll be much more difficult getting around than normal.’
‘I’m sure I can find my way. And I’ve got a tongue in my head to ask people. And Doris will know, anyway.’ And then, coming over to Clarrie and lowering her voice, Meg ended with quiet determination, ‘I know exactly how she feels, remember. She needs to do this.’
Clarrie drew her forehead in tightly as she waited for the scarlet arrows to clear. Of course, she understood, but she had to protect these two surrogate daughters of hers as she hadn’t been able to protect her own child. There was only one way she could do that. And though she scarcely knew the East End of the capital, she was a Londoner by birth.
Her lips felt like rubber as she said, ‘Then I’ll come, too.’
Eighteen
Doris sat in the crowded train, staring out at the late morning drizzle, part of her still numb with shock at her mother’s death, part of her scared. Not of any bombs that might fall on London that day, but of quite how she would say goodbye to her mummy. And yet overall, the whole situation felt unreal. This wasn’t the journey home that she’d planned. Dreamt of. She’d imagined going home after the war full of joy. Not like this. Although it wasn’t a troop train, they were nevertheless squeezed into the compartment among a group of soldiers coming home on leave from God knew where. Weary, drained, but in good spirits.
If their eyes had been drawn by the beautiful young woman sitting between a girl with red hair and an older, elegant woman, they’d soon noticed the wedding ring on her finger. The little girl wore a black armband and was carrying a small posy of snowdrops as if going to visit a grave or attend a funeral. The soldiers understood death and wouldn’t intrude on the little one’s grief. Besides, they were soon being bombarded with relentless questions by two young lads who were so identical they had to be twins.
‘We’ll come with yer, too,’ Leslie had announced when they’d learnt that Clarrie and Meg were taking Doris up to London for her mum’s hastily arranged funeral. ‘We ain’t heard nuffing from our mum and dad since way before Christmas.’