‘Did they find him?’
Billy shuffled uneasily ‘Well, no, but I heard them say nobody could have still been alive in that lot.’
‘Well, we’ll go and see. Right now.’
A determined Emma marched her wayward son through the streets, keeping a firm grip on his shoulder. When they arrived at the end of the street where Mr Rabinski’s bakery had stood, Emma stopped and gaped in horror, feeling an indignant anger flooding through her. This stupid, stupid war, she railed inwardly. Wasn’t it bad enough that the enemy destroyed lives and homes without gangs of vigilantes taking the law into their own hands? How could anyone have done such a thing to a nice, harmless old man like Mr Rabinski? She shuddered. And if he had perished in the fire, what would become of her now at the mercy of Mr Forbes? She pushed the selfish thought away and urged Billy towards the blackened shell, the smell of smoke still hanging like a pall.
An elderly man in a long black coat stood in the middle of the road staring at the destruction, his shoulders hunched with misery, his hands holding his hat in front of him as if paying his respects at a funeral. A playful breeze lifted the wisps of his grey hair but the man, unaware, stood quite still.
‘That’s him!’ Emma cried. ‘That’s Mr Rabinski! He’s alive!’ She hurried forward, hustling Billy along with her, ignoring his protests. A few feet from the bent old man she stopped and said gently, ‘Mr Rabinski.’ The old man did not move until she came nearer and touched his arm. ‘Oh, Mr Rabinski, I’m so sorry.’
As he turned to look at her, she could see tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks. ‘Ah, Mrs Smith. How could they? I haf never harmed anyvon. Who could do such a thing? I thought the people round here, they like me . . .’ In his distress, his normally perfectly spoken English was thick with the foreign accent.
She took hold of his arm. ‘They do. They do, Mr Rabinski. It wasn’t locals.’
He shook his head gazing sadly at his former home. ‘My life’s work. My business, all gone.’
‘But you’ve other property, Mr Rabinski,’ she urged. ‘You can open up another bakery.’
Again he shook his head and said flatly. ‘No, no, I’m too old and too tired to start again.’
‘Have you somewhere to go, because if not, you can come home with me?’ Ignoring Billy’s gasp of protest, she hurried on. ‘There’s a spare room – now that Charles is away in the forces.’
The old man’s wrinkled hand covered hers where it lay on his arm. ‘You are so kind, Mrs Smith, but I have a house to go to. Some tenants in the next street, they haf just moved out.’ He nodded. ‘I have a house to go to.’ With a dignified movement he put on his hat but his eyes still brimmed with tears and Emma knew that although the old man might still have a roof over his head, his home had gone.
She turned and pulled Billy forward and, sparing him nothing in the telling of it, said, ‘I never thought I’d have to say this of a son of mine, Mr Rabinski, and although he swears blind he didn’t have anything to do with setting fire to your place—’
The old man was not listening for he had seen the tin box in Billy’s hands. ‘My box, oh, you haf my box. Oh, my boy, thank you, thank you.’ He reached out with trembling fingers to take it from a very surprised Billy.
The boy cast a sly glance at his mother and grinned at the old man. ‘I came past, Mister, when they were putting the fire out and then the firemen got called away. Well, I thought, there’ll be looters along any minute, so I thought to mesen I’d see what I could rescue for you.’
Emma took in a swift breath. The lying little toad, she thought, but she kept silent.
‘Most of ya stuff’s burnt, Mister. But I found this and thought you might like to have it.’
The old man was opening the box with an awed kind of reverence. ‘My papers and my vatch. Oh, I am so happy not to haf lost my vatch.’ He reached out and startled Billy by patting his cheek. ‘You are goot boy. You are goot family. I’ll not forget this.’ He turned away and clutching the box to his chest moved slowly up the street. ‘I’ll not forget this.’
When he was out of earshot, Emma rounded on her son, ‘You lying little toe-rag,’ she hissed and raised her hand to clout him, but this time Billy was too quick and he scampered up the road.
Emma lifted her skirt and chased after him, shaking her fist, the pins working loose from her hair until her long plait unwound itself from round her head and unfurled down her back. The boy darted away and disappeared round a corner, his mocking laughter floating back to her. ‘I’m a hero, Mam. Our Charlie’s not the only hero now.’
Billy was still not home by the time darkness fell, and Emma alternated between being outraged and worried sick.
‘Oh, Mary, what am I to do with him?’
‘He’s missing a father’s hand,’ she said and then bit her lip, but the words had come out before she had thought to prevent them. ‘Lots of the kids are with the menfolk away.’
Emma snorted derisively. ‘Well, in Billy’s case that’s hardly true. I blame Leonard for leading Billy into bad ways in the first place.’
‘But Leonard’s never done – well – y’know.’ The woman wriggled her thin shoulders in embarrassment.
‘Thieving, you mean?’ Emma said bluntly. ‘No, not as such. But I reckon he’s sailed pretty near the wind at times. All that business about the wireless. It was stolen property all right, even if Leonard didn’t do the stealing himself. He’s taught our Billy all about cards and betting and dealing and of course now, with the black market and that, the lad’s in his element. I shudder to think what he does get up to.’ She sighed and shook her head sadly. ‘I don’t mind telling you, Mary, though there’s not many I’d admit it to, I dread hearing a knock on the door and opening it to find a policeman there.’
‘I think we all dread opening the door to bad news of any sort at the moment,’ Mary said quietly.
Emma was silent a moment and then said slowly. ‘Aye, you’re right. Perhaps I ought to be thankful if that’s the only bad news I do get.’
‘Aye, but you’ve had your share of that an’ all, if the War Office is to be believed. I don’t suppose there’s been any more news? About Leonard. I mean?’
‘Only another letter confirming the first one. They found his dog tags but they – they couldn’t identify his body.’ Her voice faded to a whisper. ‘It was unrecognizable.’
Mary patted Emma’s arm and sighed heavily. ‘Well, at least they’ve found his tags. Surely that’s enough, ain’t it?’
Emma shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’
‘Well, I bet before this lot’s all over there’ll be many a wife who never will know if she’s a widow or not. Not for certain.’ Mary gave a low moan and shuddered. ‘Oh, Emma, isn’t it all dreadful?’
The two women sat together, each thinking of their two sons in constant danger.
‘At least your Charles and my Joey are all right,’ Mary said, ‘because as me old mam used to say, “No news is good news.”’
Emma smiled at the daft, though strangely comforting, remark, and gripped her friend’s hand swiftly. ‘Oh, Mary, what would I do without you?’
Thirty-Eight
There was a whine, a whoosh and a loud bang and the ground shuddered beneath the foundations of the houses. Emma clutched the kitchen table and held her breath, automatically looking to the ceiling as if she would be able to see the next bomb. Then she heard the whine, louder this time and coming closer . . . closer . . . She gave a small scream and, with no time even to get through to the front room and the Morrison shelter, dived under the sturdy kitchen table.
The whole world seemed to erupt, noise blasted her ears and she heard the crumbling of masonry and the splintering of wood and brick. She heard a high-pitched scream and realized it had come from her own mouth. She was choking with dust as the house caved in upon her. The noise seemed to go on for ever and then suddenly there was silence with only the occasional shifting and settling of rubble. The hum of
aircraft seemed to be receding and, mockingly, the all-clear sounded.
‘Fat lot of good that’ll do now,’ Emma muttered crossly for there had been no warning sounded. The air raid had been swift and unexpected and devastating. In the pitch black Emma put out her hands to find herself feeling the sharp edges of smashed bricks and mortar. She coughed and covered her mouth with her apron. Dust was everywhere, stinging her eyes, clogging her nose and throat and she could see nothing. And what unnerved her the most was the deathly silence. She might have been alone in all the world.
She tried to quell the fear that she was buried beneath a huge mound of rubble and that she would suffocate. With trembling fingers she felt all around her in the blackness, but everywhere her hands touched sharp stone or splintered wood. Then, on one side of the table, she found a small space. Emma reached out and felt the wood of a beam that had fallen against the table and held up some of the brickwork. Feeling her way carefully she crawled forwards, pushing rubble out of the way as she went. Every few moments, she stopped to listen, but there were no sounds, no shouting voices, no pounding feet coming to her rescue. Nothing. The world was black and silent.
In the darkness, coughing the choking dust from her throat, Emma gave a little sob. Her hands and knees were cut already and she could feel the stickiness of blood in the palm of her hand. With every movement, sharp edges bit into her flesh. She felt something on the floor lying flat and smooth. Running her fingers along it she felt a door knob and knew that the kitchen door had been blown from its hinges. Clambering over it, she felt for the frame and cautiously hauled herself upwards, surprised to find that she could now stand upright. Arms outstretched, and with tentative fingers feeling the way all around her, she inched forward step by step, until she felt a cool draught of air from the back door. Her foot caught against something and she almost plunged forward into blackness but steadied herself and picking her foot up higher this time, she took another step.
This is what it must be like to be blind, she thought, and for a moment understood completely the sufferings of those bereft of sight.
Then she was out of the house and into the night air, but even in the yard, the ground was littered with debris and the way was just as precarious. Glass crunched beneath her feet and a jagged piece cut through her shoe and stabbed her foot.
‘Mary! Mary!’ she tried to call, but her voice was a hoarse, quavering sound that even she would not have recognized as her own. She found the gate to her backyard, miraculously still intact and even fastened. She clicked up the catch, her sight now becoming accustomed to the dusk, so that now she could discern vague shadows. Pushing at the gate leading into Mary’s backyard, she found the wooden door would only open a few inches before it hit something solid. ‘Mary! Mary! Are you all right? I can’t get in. Mary . . .’
Emma stood and listened for a moment. Not a sound came out of the grey shadows. The silence now, after all the noise, was uncanny and unnerving.
‘Mary!’
Behind her in the passageway between the two houses, there was a noise, the sound of rubble moving as someone climbed over it.
‘Mary?’
‘Wait there,’ a man’s voice said.
Emma drew a swift breath. The shadowy figure came closer, until she felt him reach for her, his fingers clasping her arms, pulling her closer. She began to struggle, thinking that it was Forbes on duty as air raid warden in this district. Emma struggled to free one arm and, blindly, she lashed out, her hand striking against the side of his face.
‘Em – it’s me.’
Emma gasped. There was only one man who called her ‘Em’ and as she recognized the voice, that dear, beloved voice from her childhood, she flung herself against him. His arms were tightly about her. He was holding her close and his lips were kissing her face, her cheek, her forehead and then searching for her mouth. She was clinging to him, weeping and laughing and crying his name over and over.
‘William! William! oh, William . . .’
‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.’ The words ran through her mind like a never-ending prayer as Emma stood in the street the following morning and watched the men carrying Mary Porter’s lifeless body from the mound of rubble that had once been the Porters’ home. William, his strong arm supporting her, stood quietly beside Emma, who gripped his hand in her own, oblivious to the curious stares of her neighbours, not caring who saw.
The night had taken her dear friend Mary from her, but, like a miracle, it had brought William to her when she needed him most.
They had pushed open the back gate into Mary’s yard and had seen that the Porters’ house had been demolished. Emma began to scrabble at the pile of bricks, crying, ‘Mary, Mary . . .’ the tears streaming down her face until she felt William’s strong hands on her shoulders lifting her up and away. For a brief moment she struggled against him, but then gave way and buried her face against him.
She heard the deep rumble of his voice in his chest as he said, ‘Em, if she was in there, there’s no way she can still be alive.’
‘But she might be under the table or—’
The Porters had no shelter, they shared Emma’s, but the air raid had come with such unannounced ferocity that there had been no time for Mary to run next door. Even Emma had not been able to go the short distance from her own kitchen to the shelter in her front room. What chance, then, had Mary had?
‘There’s nothing we can do till we get more help,’ William had assured her. ‘If we go plunging about and disturb more rubble, we could do worse damage than has already been done.’
She knew the sense of his statement but it was hard to turn away. It was hard to wait when her friend might be lying dreadfully injured beneath the debris and no one was trying to reach her. ‘Ought we to find the wardens? What about Alf – her husband? Oh, we ought to find Alf.’
‘Where is he?’ William asked.
‘He’ll be on fire watch duty.’
Through the deepening darkness she heard William’s sigh. ‘Then there’s no knowing where he’ll be.’ William was silent a moment before he said, ‘Em – the raid was a bad one coming so unexpectedly. The rescue teams will be fully stretched.’
‘But we must do something.’
‘Come on, then,’ he said, finding her hand. ‘Let’s go out into the street. See if we can find anyone.’
Clinging to William, she climbed over the debris blocking the passageway. In the street, neighbours were gathering.
‘Someone’s gone to find Alf Porter,’ someone said.
‘There’s nothing we can do. Thank God there’s no fire.’
‘You come to my place, Mrs Smith,’ a voice came out of the darkness
‘No, no, thanks. It’s very kind of you, but I must stay here in case Billy comes home.’
‘All right, love. But if you want owt, just knock on our door.’
One or two men started to move some of the wreckage, but as they did so part of a wall still standing crumbled.
‘Look out! It’s coming down!’ the shout went up and the men scuttled back out of the way.
‘We’ll have to wait for daylight.’
The decision was taken and although it was the sensible one, no one there liked it. Worriedly, Emma allowed William to lead her back into what was left of her house. There was nothing more anyone could do until the light of morning.
‘Where is young Billy?’ he asked.
‘I – I don’t know. He’s been gone three days now. I can’t control him, William.’
William’s only answer was an understanding squeeze on her arm.
They spent the night back in Emma’s house beneath the kitchen table, a refuge, a haven that became, in those few short hours, a heaven. The night was a tumult of emotion, her love for William spilling over and engulfing them both.
‘I can’t believe you’re here.’
‘No miracle, Em.’ His deep chuckle came out of the darkness. ‘I have been here before – several times.’
&n
bsp; ‘Oh, and I missed seeing you. Was I out? At work?’
She felt a small movement as he shifted uneasily. ‘No.’ In his voice there was a strange shyness. ‘No, I never came to the house. I just stood in the street and – and—’
‘Oh. Oh, William,’ she breathed and laid her head against his chest, a tremor running through her as his arms came about her and his mouth brushed her forehead. She lifted her face to his and amidst the carnage and the destruction, they were lost in their own blissful world, shutting out for a few moments her desperate grief for Mary, and anxiety for Billy.
‘I’ve always loved you, Emma. You must know that.’
‘No,’ she murmured. ‘No, I didn’t. I never even thought about it.’ The realization surprised her.
He gave a wry laugh. ‘No. You wouldn’t. You could think of no one but Jamie.’ There was silence between them, before he murmured sadly, ‘Jamie, always Jamie.’
She snuggled her head against him. ‘But why did you never say anything? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Now, how could I?’ he said reasonably.
She thought back over the years, remembering her life back at Marsh Thorpe when she had been so obsessed with Jamie Metcalfe that she had been blind to the love William had carried for her even then. This man she lay with now was twice the man his brother had ever been, yet she had been so blind. And even when she had realized there was to be no future for her with Jamie, even then, she had turned to a stranger, wooed by Leonard’s charm and carried along on the tide of her father’s approval, for the first time in her life, basking in his approbation. And look where that had led her.
‘Oh, William,’ she breathed again, her voice full of sadness and regret.
Hearing it, he held her closer. She felt his arms tighten around her as if, amidst all the devastation and the sadness the morning might bring, having found her again, he would never, ever let her go.
Now in the cruel light of day, as they stood in silence, watching Mary Porter carried from the wreckage, Emma realized how close she too had come to death. She clung to William’s arm, her dark eyes wide with fear, scanning the devastated street. Half the houses on her side of the street had been damaged, three beyond any repair. They would need complete rebuilding. Six others were so badly damaged that for the moment they were uninhabitable until some repairs could be carried out.
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