The Wayward Wife

by Jessica Stirling

  There was movement everywhere, people running from the market stalls in Cherry Street; men helping women, women pushing prams, carrying infants or dragging young children along by the hand, small boys staring up at the German aircraft, a plane-spotter’s dream.

  Shading her eyes, Susan peered up at the sky. They were high, the bombers, so high that in the golden afternoon light they appeared almost transparent.

  An ambulance came whizzing down Thornton Street, horn blaring, followed by two fire tenders. The old folk and children that the ARP wardens were herding towards the public shelter cheered as the tenders roared past as if the appearance of firefighters in their street signalled victory.

  Clouds of black smoke were visible above the rooftops. Millwall, Limehouse and the Surrey Commercial are taking a pasting, Susan thought, and the basins of the Upper Pool, quays, warehouses and cargo ships must be sitting ducks too.

  An incendiary struck the roof of a house three down from Stratton’s and tumbled, splashing flame, into the street.

  Old folk and children scattered. The woman who had been sipping coffee a few moments ago appeared with a stirrup-pump and extinguished the fiery puddle just as another incendiary fell close by and, bursting like a vegetable marrow, spilled flames across the pavement.

  On the corner, where Thornton Street folded into Docklands Road, the front of the Co-op Bank exploded.

  Susan watched the building shudder and lean out, folk running, then a plane appeared through the eruption of smoke and she heard the chatter of machine guns and, transfixed, saw the plane dip and, close enough to touch, zoom away over her head.

  ‘What the ’ell do you think you’re doin’?’ Breda shouted.

  ‘I have to get back to London,’ Susan said.

  ‘This is London, you silly cow,’ said Breda and hauled her off the street and into the larder where Nora, Billy and three frightened neighbours were already taking shelter.

  21

  Falling in love had conferred a degree of reticence upon the garrulous Griffiths. Even Mrs Pell, an expert in wheedling, had been unable to tease the truth from her lodgers. Kate was just as unforthcoming as Griff on what exactly had happened on the Brecon weekend and what plans, if any, the couple had made for the future.

  ‘Oh, come on, Danny,’ Kate said. ‘Don’t be so grumpy. Dance with me.’

  ‘I can’t dance.’

  ‘Anyone can do a quickstep,’ Kate said. ‘I’ll show you.’

  ‘I tell you I don’t dance.’

  ‘Silwyn doesn’t mind.’

  ‘Of course, I don’t mind. I could do with a breather.’

  The tea dance had been arranged at the last minute, the band made up of musicians of varying degrees of talent. The floor of the Greenhill lounge shone like a skating rink in the glare from the open windows and girls in frocks or slacks and men sweating in suits and collared shirts might have tumbled out of a gala at the Hammersmith Palais.

  The afternoon dance was intended to appease those on late shift who would miss the Saturday night free-for-all which, in the scented dusk of the harvest month, ran serious risk of becoming an unbridled orgy of booze and petting.

  The band was playing ‘What Is This Thing Called Love?’. Danny had often heard it on the wireless. He had watched Griff dance, elegant and assured, and had taken grisly pleasure in noting how Griff’s hand rode on the swell of Kate’s hip and how her long legs flashed in the turns and runs.

  He no longer resented Griff stealing Kate away. Griff had so much more to offer her than an orphaned Glaswegian with a failing marriage on his hands.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re missing,’ Griff said.

  ‘He just wants to be coaxed.’

  ‘No, Kate, I do not want tae be coaxed.’

  ‘Sit there feeling sorry for yourself if you must. If you won’t dance with this lovely lady then I will,’ Griff told him.

  Kate arched her back and gave a little shiver of pleasure as Griff took her by the hand and, catching the beat, swirled her away from the table by the wall.

  Danny followed their progress among the dancers.

  How happy and carefree they looked, he thought, how ideally suited. He wondered what Susan was doing right now, who she might be with and regretted that he had never learned to dance, had never danced with his wife.

  In an hour or so, the band would strike up a goodnight waltz, the drinkers would leave the bar and the dancers the floor and head out into the early evening light to catch a bus to Wood Norton or, arm-in-arm, walk through the quaint streets and tree-lined lanes to relieve their colleagues who, even with a long shift behind them, would shake off fatigue and head for the Greenhill, and, Danny thought, nothing much would change except that by then it would be dark.

  Then, abruptly, the music stopped.

  The bewildered dancers gathered round the bar where, standing on a stool, Mr Gregory prepared to address them.

  ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of distressing news,’ he began, ‘but, as you will no doubt hear soon enough, the Luftwaffe has just launched a massive air raid on London.’

  ‘Nothing new in that,’ said a voice from the floor.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ Mr Gregory went on, ‘it appears the blitzkrieg Hitler has been promising us in recent weeks has begun in earnest.’ He held up a hand to silence the mutter from the floor. ‘The news tonight will be bad. I want you to prepare yourselves for it. It’s important – nay, essential – that we aren’t distracted by exaggerated German claims of casualties but stick to our tasks with our usual objectivity and’ – he paused – ‘do not dwell too much on what might be happening’ – he paused again – ‘elsewhere.’

  ‘Are we finished here?’ someone asked.

  ‘Pardon?’ Mr Gregory said.

  ‘The dance?’

  ‘For God’s sake, man,’ Mr Gregory exploded, ‘what sort of a fatalist are you? The Nazis are bombing London to bits and you want to go on dancing.’ He closed his eyes, sniffed and got control of himself. ‘The bar will remain open and food will continue to be served but, no, ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid the party’s over for tonight.’

  Kate and Griffiths, hand in hand, returned to the table. Danny got to his feet.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ Griff said. ‘Is there someone you can telephone?’

  Danny shook his head.

  ‘What about your wife?’ Kate said. ‘Will she be at work?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Danny said. ‘In any case, the chances of gettin’ through are slim.’

  ‘What then?’ Griff said.

  ‘Head for Hogsnorton, I suppose,’ said Danny.

  Kate touched his arm. ‘Danny, are you all right?’

  ‘Aye,’ Danny said. ‘I’m fine.’

  The larder still smelled of cheese but when the electric light bulb flickered and suddenly went out the odour of the paraffin lamp that Breda lit soon chased the friendly smell away.

  The lamp stood on a small, knee-high table that Nora used as a step to reach the high shelves. The faces of the occupants of the shelter were lit from below as they leaned forward to converse in whispers, like conspirators.

  There were two bench-bunks, each piled with blankets. Four quart bottles of water and an assortment of fizzy drinks had been placed in a corner which, Matt said, was safer than putting them up on shelves where they might fall on someone’s head. Tucked under the table were a small camping stove, a kettle and a cardboard box containing mugs, a canister of sugar and a tin of Fry’s cocoa, but at that hour of the afternoon no one was interested in sampling the home comforts.

  Nora had Billy on her knee. He seemed quite unperturbed by the thunderous explosions that shook plaster dust from the overhead beams and made the glassware in the corner chatter. He had filled his mouth with fruit gums from the packet his Aunt Susan had brought and, cheeks bulging, was content to suck and slaver noisily, unaware that his mum, his grandma, his aunt and the three elderly neighbours to whom Nora had offered shelter were putting on brav
e faces for his benefit.

  ‘Nora tells me you were in the trenches in the last war, Mr Brennan?’ Susan said. ‘You must have experienced a great deal worse than this.’

  ‘Never gassed,’ the man said. ‘Never feared nuhfink but the gas. Bloody Huns. We ’ad ’em on the run then all right.’

  ‘What regiment were you with?’

  ‘Artillery. Big guns. By God, they was noisy.’

  The timing, Susan thought, was broadcast perfect: no sooner had Mr Brennan uttered the word ‘noisy’ than a huge explosion somewhere close by shook the building and brought down more plaster dust.

  One of the women let out a shriek.

  Billy, still sucking, turned and looked up at Nora who, with more savvy than Susan might have expected, just raised her eyebrows and said casually, ‘Ooow, that’s a big one.’

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ said Billy.

  ‘Out with the fire brigade,’ said Breda.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Billy and, apparently mollified, settled into Nora’s lap and dug into the sweet packet for another gum.

  It was close to six o’clock before the raid ended.

  By then both female neighbours were shaking and tearful, Billy was bouncing around from one bunk to the next and Breda had smoked so many cigarettes that her throat was raw.

  Susan pulled open the larder door.

  Shafts of sunlight from the yard were defined by a thick white clogging dust. The door to the yard had been blown in but, Susan noted, there wasn’t much debris on the stairs.

  She stepped cautiously along the corridor.

  The kitchen was littered with broken glass. The blackout curtains had been torn to shreds but the ceiling was still in place, the big dresser, the table and the oven too, though some of Nora’s ornamental plates had toppled from the high shelf and were ornamental no more.

  There was almost no damage to the front shop. The tiny window was intact and also the door, though the upper panel bulged ominously inward. The tables were coated with a layer of fine grit but there was no smell of gas.

  ‘Could be worse,’ Breda said. ‘I’ll fetch them out, okay?’

  ‘No,’ Susan said. ‘Wait.’

  Scraping open the front door, she went out into the street.

  On the corner where the Co-op Bank had been was a ragged-edged void. The sky was smeared with smoke as far as the eye could see. Vehicles were jammed into the far end of Thornton Street where pipes and cables crawled from a gaping crater and wardens, policemen and CD volunteers were frantically trying to organise a clear way for the rescue teams.

  Susan surveyed the rubble-strewn street and wondered just how far she would have to walk to find a bus to carry her back to Portland Place.

  Breda came out of the shop with Billy on her back. The hustle-bustle, din and smoke had excited him. If she put him down even for a second he’d be off like a shot for sure.

  ‘I’d better be going,’ Susan said.

  ‘Goin’? Goin’ where?’ said Breda.

  ‘Home,’ said Susan. ‘I mean, to work.’

  ‘How’re you gonna get there?’

  ‘Walk, if I have to.’

  ‘You just want to get back to your fancy man, don’cha?’

  ‘What?’ said Susan. ‘Bob? No, he’s in Dover.’

  ‘Bully for ’im,’ said Breda.

  Billy twisted from side to side, taking in the carnage. Breda clamped her arms over his knees.

  ‘Tell Dad …’ Susan began.

  ‘Tell ’im what?’ said Breda.

  ‘Tell him I’ll see him soon,’ Susan said and, before Breda could stop her, stepped over the rubble and started out for home.

  The ground-floor concert hall had been stripped of seats and turned into a dormitory complete with mattresses where newsreaders, typists and supervisors rubbed shoulders with producers from the Empire Service and reporters from America.

  For news staff three days on and three days off was the general rule but producers of topical programmes like Speaking Up did not have the luxury of punching a clock and it came as no surprise to Susan to bump into Larry heading through the entrance hall with a blanket over his arm and, floating on a wire hanger, a spare shirt.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not risking a trip out to Kennington tonight,’ Larry answered. ‘My sister can look after herself for once. This place might not be the Ritz but it’s better than a stinky Anderson shelter. Where you been?’

  ‘Shadwell.’

  ‘How’d you get back?’

  ‘Hoofed for a bit then found a taxi.’

  ‘Word is it’s bad down that way.’

  ‘It is,’ Susan said. ‘Very bad.’

  It had been less difficult than she’d imagined it might be to put the East End behind her. She’d avoided the worst areas of devastation and when she’d reached the top end of Fleet Street a cabby had taken pity on her.

  She said, ‘Is Basil in his office?’

  ‘Doubt it,’ Larry said. ‘I think he went home.’

  ‘Mr Gaines?’

  ‘Haven’t seen him all day,’ Larry said. ‘What you need right now, if you don’t mind me saying so, is a wash and brush up and a nice cup of tea. Canteen’s not closed but they’re using the annexe. Even if you don’t have a ticket I’m sure someone will find you a berth in the concert hall. Ladies are at the back behind the curtains if you’re worried about decency.’

  ‘Decency is the last thing on my mind,’ Susan said. ‘Have you been here all afternoon, Larry?’

  ‘Yer, on loan to the Canadians. They’re very excited ’cause the war has finally arrived on our doorstep. They’ve been firing off bulletins all evening. Half of them, along with the Yanks, are watching the fireworks from the roof.’

  ‘If it’s damage they’re after,’ Susan said, ‘they should be downriver. Lots of casualties.’

  ‘Bully-boy tactics,’ Larry said. ‘If Churchill hadn’t bombed Berlin …’ He shrugged. ‘Well, heck, we can’t just sit back and let the beggars do as they like. You’re not going upstairs, are you?’

  ‘I do have work to do, you know.’

  ‘Only the news studios are in use. The offices are deserted,’ Larry said. ‘By the sound of it, it’s going to be a heavy night. I’d keep my head down, if I were you.’

  ‘Talking of heads, you wouldn’t happen have a spare hairbrush on you, by any chance?’

  Larry laughed. ‘No, nor a spare pair of knickers either,’ then, still chuckling, headed across the foyer to the door of the concert hall and left Susan to make her own way to the ladies’.

  22

  The acoustics in the concert hall had been designed to enhance sound but the chorus of snores, sighs, moans and other unsavoury noises that rose from the bodies huddled on the floor was a far cry from a nocturne by Debussy or a Brahms lullaby. Even muffled by the curtains that screened the tiers at the rear of the auditorium the snores of a couple of hundred men trying to snatch some shut-eye was enough to keep Susan awake.

  There was also much coming and going along the dimly lighted aisles. Duty Officer, House Supervisor and various other officials, including wardens, matrons and a nosy copper or two, kept popping in not just to ensure that everyone was comfortable but to check that there was no hanky-panky going on which, given the circumstances, there most certainly was not.

  Susan removed her stockings and dress but kept on her slip, unlike some of the younger girls who, defiantly throwing modesty to the wind, had peeled down to bra and pants before snuggling down to sleep.

  Sleep, though, was hard to come by. Susan dozed fitfully on and off, waking every time the door above her squeaked or the light of a warden’s torch flickered and, of course, every time a bomb went off in the vicinity of Portland Place.

  At four, or shortly after, an all-clear sounded.

  The dishevelled pack stirred, yawned, groped for trousers or skirts and set about buttoning, fastening and lighting cigarettes or, draped in blankets, stumbled off to find t
he nearest lavatory. By five, the canteen was in full swing serving breakfast to those whose day was about to begin and supper to those who had been on watch all night.

  By six, washed, dressed and fed, Susan was at her desk in the third-floor office peering blearily at her memo pad when the door flew open and Bob Gaines pranced into the room.

  His tie was loose, his jacket unbuttoned. The sweat-stained fedora, pushed back from his brow, added a raffish touch to his appearance that seemed at odds with the early hour and the fact that it was Sunday.

  ‘I thought you were in Dover,’ Susan said.

  He looped an arm about her neck and kissed her mouth.

  ‘I was,’ he said, ‘and I’m damned glad to be back. For a while there I thought we might not make it. The bastards were machine-gunning the trains. Can you believe it? Coming in low and shooting the daylights out of passenger trains. More than half the lines are closed and Waterloo station is belching smoke like a goddamned volcano.’

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘Come on,’ he said, tugging her arm. ‘Come and I’ll show you how I got here. Bring your coat, honey. We won’t be coming back any time soon.’

  ‘Robert, I’m on duty.’

  ‘Not any more, you’re not. This,’ he said, ‘you’ve got to see,’ and waltzed her out into the corridor and along it to the lift.

  The van was one of two damaged Outside Broadcast vehicles that had been dumped in a yard behind the plant room. Its side panels were pocked by shrapnel and the cab door hung half off its hinge. A mechanic in a tin hat and blue overalls was poking about in the rear where turntables and cables had been wrenched from their fittings.

  ‘This?’ Susan said. ‘You came all the way from Dover in this wreck? How in heaven’s name did you all fit in?’

  ‘There were only four of us, plus a couple of your guys. The unit was useless anyway. Took a blast from a shell that ruined all the recording equipment. We persuaded the OB crew that sitting in the open on Dover harbour in a busted truck wasn’t the safest place to be and we’d be better off heading for London.’

  ‘In the dark, in middle of the biggest air raid we’ve had so far?’ Susan said. ‘You’re mad, you’re completely mad.’