by Beezy Marsh
‘Nancy, oh, Nancy, you are alive, thank God,’ said Kathleen, falling to her knees at her bedside.
‘Kathy . . .’ Her voice was just a whisper. ‘I can’t move. The pain . . .’
‘It’s all right, don’t speak, I will get the nurse to give you something more for it.’
‘My mum, she’s down the end, her leg got broken.’ Nancy pointed a finger to the far end of the ward.
‘I will go there next and check on her,’ said Kathleen. ‘I’ll come every day to see you and you will get better, you’ll see.’
The nurse arrived, brandishing a syringe. ‘Just a sharp scratch.’
Nancy’s eyes closed, as she fell into a deep sleep.
Kathleen made a point of going to visit Nancy and her mum every day, just as she had promised to. She got a couple of hours off in the afternoons when she was on shift and she sat with Nancy for the full hour of visiting time. Sometimes Nancy didn’t know she was there – she was knocked out cold with the morphia – but Kathleen chatted to her anyway.
As the weeks passed, Nancy’s burns started to heal but the scars they left on her face were terrible and the nurses had removed the mirror in the bathroom, so that she couldn’t see herself. The skin on one side of her face looked as if it had melted, with livid, raised patches and lumps where the skin had thickened.
Somehow, though, Nancy did catch sight of her reflection because one day, when she was sitting up in bed and Kathleen had brought her a copy of the People’s Friend to flick through, Nancy started sobbing. ‘Who will want me now! I look hideous!’
‘You don’t,’ said Kathleen. ‘You look beautiful; you are still you.’ How could she reassure her friend, who was once so pretty? ‘These things take time to heal. And Roy loves you just the same.’
Nancy’s fiancé Roy had been a total rock, bringing flowers, coming up to visit every time he was home on leave. He had made it clear: he had every intention of sticking to his word and marrying her.
‘I just thank God you are still alive,’ he told her. ‘And I don’t want to put off the wedding a day any longer. As soon as you are out of here, let’s get married!’
The bombings were relentless throughout that spring. Despite the hard work and the danger, Kathleen felt more alive than she had done in ages. Once Nancy was well enough, they would meet up in the afternoons at a little tea dance down at the hall above Burton’s at the Elephant. The dance floor was filled with people in uniform, making the most of their leave or their break, never knowing what peril the evening might bring.
The music sustained Kathleen, she barely had time to sit down because she was always being asked to dance. People weren’t as quick to ask Nancy, but she learned to make a talking point of her scars, if anyone should stare. ‘I got this fighting, Hitler, mate. Now, are you going to ask me to dance or not?’
Kathleen never took anything any further. She was wearing Albert’s ring, for a start, but even that did little to dampen the ardour of some of the men, who were proper waist-huggers when it came to the waltz. One bloke even suggested meeting up in town later that night and going to the Café de Paris, which was more popular than ever because it was twenty feet below ground and the manager boasted it was the safest club in London.
‘No, I can’t. I’m married, see?’ she said, tapping her wedding ring. ‘And I have got to get back. I’m on shift tonight, sorry.’ A lot of married girls still went out dancing when their fellas were away. She wouldn’t have gone, even if she were free. The Café de Paris was a place Albert liked to take her, so that would have felt like a betrayal.
She’d only been on watch at Fount Street with the other volunteer Fire Service girls for a few hours when the dreadful news came that a bomb had plummeted right through the ceiling and exploded on the dance floor of the Café de Paris, instantly killing dozens of diners and dancers. Kathleen left her post for a moment, went to the loos and threw up at the thought of her dance partner being blown to smithereens, just because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have been her.
Early the next morning when she got off shift, she made her way back to her dad’s house. When she walked in, she found Albert sitting at the kitchen table, sipping some tea. Her dad was beside him, chewing on a crust of bread. Dad didn’t even look up at her. It was as if he knew he could not interfere, not between a man and his wife.
‘Pack your bags,’ said Albert. ‘I’ve come to take you home.’
25
Eva, March 1942
‘I am not leaving this bed again for Adolf bleeding Hitler!’ cried Eva, pulling the bedclothes over her head and turning over.
Mum tugged at the sleeve of her nightdress. ‘Come on, Eve! We can’t stay here, it’s dangerous. The siren has gone again.’
A dog was barking its head off in the street and their neighbour downstairs shouted up to them, ‘Are you two coming or not?’ They’d already spent half the night in the Anderson shelter while Jerry dropped his bombs all the over the borough.
‘Honestly, Mum, I’ll be fine. It’s probably a false alarm. It’s getting light out there now,’ said Eva, whose head was killing her. She had made a bit of a night of it with Gladys down the pub. ‘You go, I’ll come in a minute.’
Her mother sighed and Eva heard the front door click shut. She’d just about had enough of the Blitz.
The next night, she and Gladys wandered over to the snooker hall after the pubs had chucked out, taking a pillow and a quilt each from the flat. It would be better than that dank hell-hole at the bottom of the garden, at least.
A bunch of blokes at the bar turned round and there were a few wolf whistles. Eva ignored them, laying out her bed beneath the snooker table. Then she made her way to the bar.
‘I’ll have half a Guinness, please,’ she said to the bartender.
‘Can I get that for you?’
She turned and came face-to-face with a tall bloke with sandy-blond hair and sparkly eyes. It was Jimmy, a friend of her brother Frankies. She’d met him once before when he came to the flat with a message for her mother. She had liked him straight away but didn’t want to let him know that. It troubled her a bit and she didn’t want to turn into one of those soppy girls who thought that men walked on water.
‘I’ll get it myself, thanks,’ she said.
‘Suit yourself,’ he said. ‘Just let me know if you need anything. Me and the lads will take care of you girls.’
Gladys was standing there with her tongue practically hanging out. Eva nudged her in the ribs. Jimmy was quite gorgeous but he probably knew it and there was no need to make it obvious that she fancied him, was there?
‘Well, we can take care of ourselves, can’t we, Gladys?’
Gladys nodded shyly. ‘We might need some help.’
Eva rolled her eyes and went over to the pool table.
A bit later on, just before the air-raid warning sounded, Jimmy came over to her again. ‘I hope I didn’t offend you by asking to buy that drink. I realize you can take care of yourself, Eva.’
‘Been looking after myself my whole life,’ she said, looking him straight in the eye.
‘I meant to tell you, I run a fruit and veg stall down East Street, so if you are ever passing and need anything . . .’
Eva smiled at him. He was all right really. Perhaps he didn’t fancy himself after all. ‘That’s very kind of you, Jimmy. I’ll bear that in mind.’
She was just settling down under the table when there was the most almighty explosion from the other side of the street. The force of the blast blew the windows out in the snooker hall, sending glass flying everywhere.
‘Oh my God!’ screamed Eva. ‘Mum!’
She crawled out from the table and scrambled to the window, cutting her feet on broken glass in the process. The house over the road – her house – was missing half the roof and the exposed timbers were well alight, with flames leaping into the night air. Her bedroom had been reduced to rubble, collapsing onto the flat of the lady downstairs.
‘Jesus Christ!’ said Eva, running down the stairs from the hall, leaving a trail of blood behind her.
The firemen were there in minutes, training their hoses on the blaze. Outside in the street was a scene of absolute pandemonium, as people came out of the surrounding houses. Rescuers were already inside, wading through the rubble, shifting bits of masonry. Children were crying and the firemen were trying to keep people away. She ran forwards. An air-raid warden shouted at Eva, ‘Get back!’
She started to tussle with him and he took hold of her by the shoulders and yelled into her face, ‘Is there anyone inside?’
She had lost her voice. She tried to speak but she was shaking too much. She looked down at her feet and saw they were cut and bleeding.
Out of nowhere, she felt an arm around her shoulder, steadying her, and a voice said, ‘I think her mother might be in there. Is that right, Eva?’ It was Jimmy.
‘The shelter, there is a shelter in the back garden,’ she spluttered.
‘All right, all right, keep back now,’ said the other man from the ARP; they always worked in pairs. ‘I’ll go and see.’
He legged it round a side street and over a garden wall. About ten minutes later, he emerged with Mum, wearing her best fur coat and mink stole – there was no way she was leaving that behind for the Germans to bomb – and the woman from downstairs, with her little yappy dog.
‘All accounted for here: they were safe in the shelter,’ said the ARP to the fireman. ‘There’s no one inside, thank God.’
‘Will you be OK?’ asked Jimmy, giving Eva a little squeeze. He produced her shoes from behind his back. ‘Well, there you go,’ he said. He had brought them down from the snooker hall for her.
She brushed her hair out of her face and looked up at him. ‘Yes, I think so, thanks all the same.’ Being bombed out was such a common occurrence. Some people fell apart but Eva wasn’t going to be one of them.
‘You know where I am if you need to find me, Eva. Perhaps I’ll see you back at the snooker hall tomorrow night?’
She nodded. He was very nice but she didn’t want to give him any funny ideas. It wasn’t as if she was desperate or anything, even if she had just lost her home. Eva linked arms with her mum and they made their way to a rest centre run by the Women’s Voluntary Service in the school round the corner, where they were given a bed for the night and a cup of hot, sweet tea and a biscuit.
Mum drank up and then allowed herself a few tears. ‘We’ve lost everything, Eve,’ she sobbed. ‘I told you staying in that bedroom was bleeding dangerous.’
‘I know, I know,’ Eva soothed. ‘You were right and I was wrong. But we have got each other and whatever you want, I will go and hoist it for you, I promise.’
As she fell into an uneasy sleep on the world’s most uncomfortable camp bed, Eva could only think about one thing: Jimmy, with the sparkly blue eyes.
The next morning brought a visit from a familiar face: Mr Pemberton, from the Poor Law.
‘Oh bloody hell,’ said Eva under her breath. ‘That is all we need.’
‘Good morning, Mrs Fraser and Eva,’ he said, with a tight little smile. He looked older and thinner than Eva remembered. Trust him to turn up like a bad smell when disaster had struck.
‘I suppose the Poor Law will tell us we are not deserving enough, even though we don’t have a roof over our heads,’ muttered Eva, loudly enough for him to hear. She also wasn’t about to point out that her mother was no longer called Fraser, in case he went back and blabbed to her dad about it.
He looked hurt. ‘No, no, it’s not like that,’ he said. ‘We are all in this together. We’re called the Assistance Board now. You’ll be rehoused. In fact, I’ve found a flat down in Tabard Street in the Borough which might suit and we can give you a grant for some basic furniture. I realize it cannot replace things you have lost . . .’
‘You have no idea,’ said Eva, thinking of all the best bits of Gamages she had pinched and displayed on the mantelpiece.
‘But it will go some way at least towards making your new home comfortable.’ He sat down next to her mum. ‘Mrs Fraser, I’m only telling you this because we have known each other a long while now, but I have some china and things I no longer really need because, well, my wife died at the start of the war and I am on my own these days.’
‘Oh, goodness, Mr Pemberton, I’m so sorry,’ said Mum, clasping his hand in hers. ‘I hope she didn’t suffer . . .’
‘No, it was a stroke: sudden and unexpected.’ He was welling up. ‘Although I’m sorry to say it, I’m almost glad she has not had to live through the things we’re seeing today. You’ll have to spend a few more nights here in the rest centre and then we can get you moved into Tabard Street.’
He lowered his voice, so that the family sitting at the next table wouldn’t overhear. ‘The clothes and household goods I can give you are far superior to anything you can get from the WVS and I would really like you to have them. It just seems the least I can do now.’ Mum nodded, as he wiped tears from his eyes. ‘Good, well, that’s settled then. There’s a mobile washing service in a van around the corner, which can take in any laundry you may have, and packs of essential personal items such as combs and toothbrushes from the Red Cross. It’s not much but we are trying to make things as comfortable as we can for you.’
‘Thank you, Mr Pemberton, that’s very kind,’ said Eva, who could hardly believe she was saying those words. Times had certainly changed in Lambeth.
Kathleen came over that afternoon with as many things as she could spare, but she didn’t have much herself as she tended to live in her AFS uniform these days. She had confided to Eva, though, that her days in the Fire Service might be numbered because she’d skipped two periods now. Albert was thrilled about it but mainly because Kathleen would be back at home all day, she told Eva with a little shrug. Kathleen seemed excited about the baby but not as much as Eva had expected.
‘Come on, Kathleen, what’s up?’ said Eva, offering her a sip of WVS tea. It always fell to Eva to get the truth out of Kathleen, who could be a bit of a dark horse about her feelings.
‘I’m scared, if the truth be told, about what having a baby will be like. Not just the pain of the birth and all that, but they are so tiny and delicate, aren’t they? What if the baby gets sick, or really ill, like little Billy from down the road?’
‘Oh, Kathleen, I reckon every mother feels worried about their baby but poor old Joe and Mary never had two brass farthings to rub together, so no wonder their little Billy got so poorly. You will have me, Peggy and Mum and Nanny Day to help look after you. The whole family will chip in. Your baby will never go without and I will always be there for you, I promise, sister to sister.’
Eva held her hand and they hugged for a moment. She only had the clothes she was standing up in but she knew, if it came to it, she would take them off her back and give them to her sisters, in their hour of need.
Kathleen smiled at last, reassured that Eva would be there for her. She reached into her pocket and pulled out some clothing coupons.
‘I’ve heard that Colliers down the Elephant has some stockings in – fancy popping along there later?’
They queued up for some stockings, along with half the neighbourhood, but in the end it was just one pair each.
Eva thought about getting some stuff from the tallyman but when she saw him, he was hawking a few bits of old tat on a barrow. His precious van had been burned to a cinder by an incendiary bomb, along with all his best stock. There was nothing else for it: she would have to go to work up in town. She had barely pinched anything since her prison sentence. It had upset her, being away from home like that and, because of the war, the authorities took law-breaking so much more seriously, even for petty offences like shoplifting.
She felt bad that she hadn’t been to see Alice Diamond since she got out but now she’d been bombed out, she had bigger fish to fry, Alice would understand that. Eva decided she’d hoist a few nice things which the F
orty Thieves could sell on, as a kind of peace offering for her absence these past few months.
Later that day she set off for Selfridges with a sense of trepidation in the pit of her stomach and Gladys’s spare shoplifter’s drawers under her dress. Gone were Selfridges’ beautiful shop window displays of furs and glamorous evening gowns. In their place were mannequins sporting the latest in government-approved Utility wear – hard-wearing, practical and, in Eva’s opinion, not very stylish. She’d even seen some pictures in a magazine of women wearing coats made out of a bedspread. As if she’d ever go out looking like a bleeding bed!
Eva longed for the days when the rails were full to bursting and the shop was rammed to the rafters with punters, elbowing their way through to get to stuff; not least because it made her job easier. Now it was like a wasteland: a few sad rails of drab dresses and coats, stockings guarded by a fierce-looking woman and walkers everywhere, keeping an eye out for people pilfering. These were desperate times and amateurs fancied they could turn a quick profit by nicking stuff and selling it on the black market but, as Alice always pointed out, it took years of practice to be a good hoister.
After rifling through a few pinafores, she decided that the thing she and her mother needed most were shoes – not a popular choice for the hoister because they were actually quite difficult to nick; they were bulky, for a start. Eva started the usual process of asking for one pair of shoes, then another and not quite making up her mind about what to buy. Once she had a good half-dozen pairs out on the floor in front of her, she kicked a pair under her seat and when the shop assistant went to the store cupboard to get something in a different colour, she nudged them into her open shopping bag.