by Lisa Bingham
Clawing at the dirt and debris beneath her palms, she fought to move an elbow beneath her, propping herself up. But when she attempted to push herself to her knees, she realized that pieces of Mr. Meade’s ruined desk pinned her in place.
Bit by bit, she dragged one leg forward until she could push on the desk and free herself. Pieces of broken glass and brick dug into her shins, scraping, slicing, but she finally managed to scramble free. Panting, she staggered to her feet, even as the floor shuddered beneath her.
Lunging toward the door, she gasped when she saw Ed slumped against the wall.
“Ed. Edward!” She could hardly hear herself over the roaring that reverberated in her ears. Kneeling beside him, she sobbed when she lifted his head, then recoiled again, scrambling backward when the bones of his face moved beneath her fingers like bits of crushed chalk. His eyes were open. Glassy. Blood oozed from his nose and ears.
Pressing her hand to her lips to hold back her gorge, Susan lurched into the hallway, making her way to the iron stairs that led to the factory floor. Renewed shudders nearly knocked her from the treads and she realized in horror that the bombs were falling faster. The air around her was growing hot and difficult to breathe, laden with smoke and dust.
Once at the bottom, she turned to run toward the evacuation shelter, only to confront a collapsed wall blocking her way. She had no way of knowing if the others had made it to safety or if they were now entombed by the rubble.
The Tube.
She headed for the back door, but found countless obstacles in her way. Heavy workbenches had been tossed aside like children’s toys. The lockers lining the far wall were crumpled like old cans, doors peeling free and hanging crazily by their hinges.
A gaping hole lay where the exit had once been and she clambered over the rubble, emerging into the very epitome of hell.
Flames leapt from crippled buildings on either side of the street. A hot unnatural wind blew down the canyons of the dockside businesses, whipping at her skirt and robbing her lungs of air.
Turning, she panted, trying to make sense of a world where she was marooned, left to battle the unfamiliar elements. And even though this portion of the city was as familiar to her as her own back garden, she found herself lost in a landscape that had suddenly been stripped of markers she’d relied on since she was a child and her father—
Daddy.
Sobbing, she turned. She had to find her father. She had to—
Just as she would have darted into the heat of the firestorm, a hand grabbed her elbow, dragging her back. She fought against the man’s grip, but he held tight.
“No, Miss. Get t’ the shelter.”
Although she didn’t know the man, she recognized the uniform of the ARP.
“The docks are on fire!” he shouted, leaning close so that she could hear. “Ye’ve got t’ get t’ safety!”
“But my father—”
“Ye’ll do him more good being safe than trying t’ find him in a bloody air raid!”
As much as she wanted to argue, his fingers clutched her so tightly, she feared that he would drag her bodily toward the Tube, so she allowed herself to be propelled toward the next block where the ARP warden all but pushed her toward a stone staircase nearly obscured with sandbags.
Numb, trembling, she filed into position behind others who were looking for refuge from the confusion above. Down, down, they moved like numb sheep, descending escalators robbed of power and frozen in position, following an unknown leader until they found themselves crammed into a space far too small to hold them all. The air was dank and damp, rife with the stink of sweat and urine and fear.
Bracing her back against the tiled walls, Susan positioned herself as close to the wooden escalator as possible. Images popped in her mind like flashbulbs. Edward’s crumpled form. The docks ablaze.
Her lower lip began to tremble and she turned away. Since the shelter was crowded predominantly with men, she didn’t want them thinking she was a hysterical female about to come unglued. But when she thought of what lay just at the top of the stairs and the fact that her father could be out there…
The sobs came, whether or not she willed them away.
• • •
As the streets around her dissolved into chaos, an overwhelming, inexplicable need to return home swamped RueAnn like tidal wave. It didn’t matter that Charlie’s house had not proven to be a “home” yet. Nor did it matter that the inhabitants of Exington Street were all but strangers to her. She needed to get back, to make sure that Edna and Louise had found shelter. Hiding under the stairs would do them no good if a bomb dropped on the house.
But the streets were suddenly crowded—mothers with prams, businessmen, shoppers with packages, men and women in uniform. RueAnn soon found herself swept away with a current of humanity pressing forward toward the entrance to the Underground. Unable to resist the flow, RueAnn eventually gave in to the swell, riding the wave down the stalled escalators, down to the subway platform below. Once there, she stood trembling, listening to the distant thud, thud, thud of bombs.
Shivering at the sudden chill found underground, RueAnn listened intently to the eerie symphony. As soon as there was a pause in the barrage, she would hurry home to ensure everyone was safe.
Agonizing minutes ticked by. A quarter hour. A half. And still the cacophony above continued. Shock gave way to frustration, then anger at the Germans. Then despair. This was no flyover, no random bombing. This was a calculated raid that went on and on and on.
When it became apparent that there would be no quick respite, RueAnn sank to the floor with the others. Wait. She would have to wait.
But even as she leaned her head back against the tile and willed her heart to ease its thumping, her mind continued its racing.
Was this what Charlie had been enduring for months? This noise, fear, frustration…
Regret?
So many regrets.
Shuddering, she realized that this wasn’t what she had planned for herself all those years she’d plotted an escape from her father. She’d been determined to make something of herself, to prove that she was valuable. Worthy of consideration. Yet, she’d done nothing of the kind. Instead, she shivered in a dark hole like a cowering rabbit, still as much beneath her father’s shadow as she’d ever been. Worse yet, she’d compounded her problems by marrying a stranger.
Did he ever think about her? Did Charlie ever wonder what could have happened between them if the war hadn’t intervened? Were his dreams plagued with memories he would rather forget? Bittersweet dreams where his arms were around her, his lips…
Without warning, a siren split the gloom.
The all-clear.
RueAnn’s head jerked up. Glancing at her watch, she stared in disbelief at the dial. She’d been down here for hours.
Scrambling to her feet, she hurried up the stairs, flight after flight, pushing past those as eager as she to escape the close confines of the Underground.
Bursting out onto the street, she paused, breathing deeply of muggy air laden heavily with smoke. But as her eyes focused on her surroundings, she grew still.
Not long ago, this had been a beautiful city lane with neatly painted shops and spotless sidewalks. Now much of the block had been razed. RueAnn stumbled forward, picking her way through the debris littering the street—bits of brick, broken glass, torn curtains.
A tiny shoe.
Disoriented, RueAnn searched for familiar landmarks and found none, until, pausing at the corner, she saw a dustbin. And there, scorched and covered with ash, was the “help wanted” poster she’d thrown away moments before the air raid had begun. Turning in a wide circle, RueAnn eyed her surroundings, finally focusing on the wreckage of Grimshaw’s Tea House. Despair and defeat pressed in upon her as she realized she wouldn’t need to return to the restaurant early the next morning.
Briefly, she wondered what had happened to the harried proprietor, Mrs. Buxton, and the nattily dressed customers who had been sip
ping tea. Had they made it to safety? Or had they gambled on hunkering beneath the tables, unaware of the utter devastation to come.
Whirling away from the sight, RueAnn began running in the opposite direction. She had to get home. Now.
What had been a ten-minute walk earlier in the day took twice as long on the return, but as she rounded the corner, she was relieved to see that the houses on this block were relatively untouched. A few roof tiles had fallen, and some of the homes sported broken windows, but the buildings were still standing.
Rushing to the Tolliver’s, she let herself in, startling Edna who’d been sweeping up dust from the floor.
Although the older woman didn’t speak a word in greeting, the tense line of her body eased.
“Louise?” RueAnn whispered.
“She went home to check on her family.”
Edna’s voice trembled and she pressed her lips tightly together, so RueAnn didn’t press. Instead, she took the dustbin from Edna’s hand and bent to hold it steady so that the older woman could sweep the damage away.
• • •
As soon as the all-clear sounded, Susan emerged into an alien world of flames and smoke. The docks were ablaze, factories and offices destroyed. The fire brigade was already at work, pumping water from the river. Hoses snaked over the ground. Sparks and spray mingled in the air with bits of ash.
Coughing, Susan covered her mouth with her hand and squinted against the acrid smells that stung her nose and caused her eyes to water.
Slowly, she picked her way back to the Ironworks. Her father’s workplace would be two blocks to the east, butted up against the river. He would be all right. She knew he would be all right. The factory where he worked had a bomb shelter. He would be all right.
But it was difficult to continue her litany when the destruction of the docks was so overwhelming. Roads and walkways had been obliterated. A false twilight had fallen, obscuring visibility for more than a few yards.
Rounding the corner, Susan froze in horror. Amid the rubble in front of her, dozens of naked bodies littered the road, their skin gleaming dully in the shifting light of flames and sunlight. Recoiling, she turned to run, then paused when she realized that she wasn’t looking at real human flesh, but the broken forms of display mannequins that had tumbled from a nearby warehouse.
Nervous laughter bubbled from her throat, but she pressed it back with her fist, her heart still pounding in her chest. At least now, she had her bearings. The mannequins had come from the collapsed Peterson Tailoring and Supply Company, which was only a few yards away from her destination.
Picking her way forward, she ignored the limbless plaster torsos, mangled unpainted faces, twisted support stands, until she reached the alley beyond.
It wasn’t far now. Only a few scant feet. A few…
She stopped, seeing the gaping crater ahead of her, the tumbled wreckage of the building, the seeping water from the docks already forming oily, black puddles. And this time, the bodies she saw were real.
The German bombs must have scored a direct hit on the factory and its shelter.
Sensation drained from her body like grains of sand. Her extremities prickled as she picked her way through the ruins. She knew a few of the men she found—Mr. Grover who fed her peppermint drops whenever she dropped by to see her father, Peter Wilkinson, a boy Matthew’s age who used to come to their house when Matthew was on the cricket team. Elton Fullery. The foreman.
An icy shudder caused her to stumble. Bile rose in her throat.
She should go, get out of this place. She didn’t want to see any more. Her father had probably gone in search of her—he might be halfway home by now. He would be angry that she’d come here, that she’d subjected herself to such sights, that she’d—
Without warning, her gaze caught on a bloody hand emerging from the rubble. Even as she refused to believe what she saw, a trembling began in the soles of her feet, radiating up, up, up, until she could no longer stand.
It was only a hand.
A hand.
But she knew it as well as she knew her own. The slender fingers, the knuckles enlarged now with arthritis, the calluses upon the palm. How many times had that hand stroked her hair or patted her cheek, the rough skin slightly scratchy, but familiar? Oh, so familiar.
Gingerly, she began to shift the rocks and brick, the splintered beams, the dust. Until she exposed an arm…a shoulder…then the sweet profile of her father’s face.
Kneeling beside him, she pressed her cheek to his, seeking reassurance—a hint of warmth, the scant caress of his breath.
But there was nothing but cold stillness.
• • •
The air raid sirens began their low, escalating scream long before RueAnn and Edna could finish their cleaning. For the most part, the house had escaped the bombing raid relatively unscathed. A few patches of cracked plaster, a shattered window, and, of all things, a boot which had been thrown into the tomato plants. Even so, the barrage had shaken the house to its very foundation, letting loose decades of dust and debris hidden within its pores.
As they’d bent over their task, RueAnn had comforted herself with the thought that the Germans couldn’t do much more to them. Not for a day or two.
But she’d been incredibly naïve in that regard. The Germans were launching a second wave and she and Edna had only a few minutes to get to safety.
This time, there was no inner vacillating as to whether or not to take shelter. RueAnn had already seen a portion of the German might and the inefficiency of a table or closet to defend against a direct hit. And she had no desire to subject herself to any more than necessary.
RueAnn and Edna had been working upstairs, scrubbing the floors and woodwork with cloths dampened with Vim. But as the siren crescendoed, they both ran to the window overlooking the front yard.
“We’ve got to go to one of the Public Shelters,” RueAnn insisted.
This time, she received no argument from Edna. “The Underground station is only a few blocks away.”
RueAnn frowned. Edna was pale, her gray eyes overly large, the rouge of her cheeks garish.
“Edna?”
Edna shook her head, collecting herself. “W-we’ll need blankets a-and pillows…since I don’t expect the Hun will finish…will finish…anytime soon,” Edna said.
The day’s events must have taken a toll because the vitriol Edna usually used when speaking about the Germans fell flat.
The older woman turned, her movements unsteady. “I’ll collect those items if you’ll…if you’ll run down to the kitchen…and gather the emergency basket I’ve…assembled and put in the larder.”
Nodding, RueAnn raced pell-mell down the stairs. She gathered the basket, what was left of a loaf of bread from the counter, and a pair of apples from the bowl on the table. Then, heart pounding, she snatched a knife from the drawer and slid it in between the items tucked under the dishcloth. There wasn’t time to go to her room for anything more. But if German bombs were to be followed by German paratroopers, she wanted some form of protection, however small it might be.
Racing back to the staircase, she waited impatiently, sure that she heard the low drone of planes beneath the whine of the siren.
“Edna? Edna, we’ve got to hurry!”
The drone was growing more recognizable now, the hum of the fighter escorts, the grumble of the bombers.
“Edna!”
When there was still no response, RueAnn set the basket on the bottom tread and hurried upstairs. Was Edna having trouble carrying everything?
But as soon as she reached the top, RueAnn saw the crumpled shape of her motherin-law.
“Edna?”
Rushing toward her, RueAnn carefully rolled the woman to her back, wondering if she’d tripped on the rug and dazed herself.
But as soon as she looked at her motherin-law, she knew what had happened. The left side of Edna’s face was unnaturally slack, her mouth drooping as if pulled by an invisible string. A small ri
vulet of saliva rolled down her chin. Her nostrils flared as she fought to breathe. Her eyes were wild and filled with fear.
As hateful as Edna had been to her since she’d arrived, RueAnn felt nothing but pity. And shock. The speed with which Charlie’s mother had been leveled from imperious matriarch to invalid was incomprehensible.
Framing Edna’s face in her hands, RueAnn tried to calm her, fearing that her sobbing inhalations could only exasperate her condition.
“Edna. Edna, I think you’ve had a stroke.”
Edna’s eyes teared, her breathing still spasmodic.
From somewhere in the distance, the distant thump of bombs heralded the arrival of the Germans.
Although Edna needed medical attention, there was an even more pressing need for shelter. But there was no way that she could carry Edna, and to attempt to drag her down the staircase…
Racing back downstairs, RueAnn grabbed the emergency basket and the first aid kit that Edna kept bolted to the rear of the larder wall. Although there was probably nothing inside that could help Edna’s condition, at least she would have a few rudimentary supplies.
As she rushed toward Edna again, tears welled over the woman’s lashes and ran down her temples into her hairline. Too late, RueAnn realized that Edna must have thought she’d been abandoned.
Unintelligible sounds emerged from Edna’s throat, but RueAnn patted her cheek, shushing her as if she were a child.
“Shh. I’m not leaving you. I promise. I just wanted to get the emergency basket.”
The noise grew louder, the rumble of the engines overhead causing the window panes to rattle.
“Edna, I need to move you somewhere a little safer, do you think that would be okay?”
Again, an incomprehensible garbled noise gurgled from her throat.
“I’ll be careful. I promise.”
Vainly searching the hall and then the bedrooms, RueAnn finally saw a rudimentary means of protection.