by Dan Smith
When Mam had rinsed the soap off me, she sat back on the hooky mat and looked at me. Her eyes were ringed red, almost like she’d been crying.
‘I love you,’ she said.
‘You look sad.’
‘I’m not sad,’ she replied. ‘I’ve got my Peter to make me happy.’
‘What about Mr Bennett,’ I asked. ‘He makes you happy, doesn’t he?’
Mam made that sad face again. ‘I s’pose he does in a way. It was nice of ’im to come round. He’s nice, don’t you think?’
I shrugged.
Mam sighed. ‘I understand why you try so hard to not like ’im, I really do, but Jack – Mr Bennett – is a nice man. He’s kind and funny and thoughtful and he’s done a lot for us, Peter. He’s done a lot for me. He’s a good friend, that’s all.’
I ran the soap along my arm.
‘He looks after us. Brings us things we need – things we can’t get.’
‘He’s always here,’ I said.
‘He comes to check on us. Make sure we’re all right. He does it for your da’ as much as he does it for you and me. And I like the company.’
‘What about me?’ I asked. ‘Am I not company?’
Mam raised her eyebrows and looked away to the window. ‘Not in the same way, Peter, no.’ When she looked back at me, she had that sad expression again. ‘Grown-ups sometimes need a different kind of company. You don’t understand that now, but you will when you’re older.’
‘I’m old enough,’ I said.
Mam shook her head. ‘Not yet, son.’
‘You like ’im, though.’
‘Aye. He’s a good man, Peter. He’s not your da’ but he’s a good man. And I think he’s a bit lonely, like me, so it’s good to have a friend; someone to talk to.’
‘Like me and Kim?’ I said. ‘Someone your own age?’ It made sense. I talked about things with Kim that I didn’t talk about with Mam.
‘Aye.’ Mam smiled. ‘Aye. A bit like that.’
‘And he’s not your fancy man?’
‘No, pet, he’s not. Sometimes it’s difficult but I’m true to your da’, I promise.’
‘What do you mean, “it’s difficult”?’
‘I mean . . . well . . . I haven’t seen him for such a long time and . . . I miss him, Peter. It’s hard without him. I need him here.’
‘Aye,’ I said. ‘Me too.’
After my bath, I went upstairs while Mam got in. I knew that after she’d had a bath, she’d put our clothes in the water to soak, so she’d be downstairs for a while yet. I had at least a few minutes to do what I needed to do. So I went to my bedroom, quickly put on my pyjamas, and then slipped across the landing into Mam’s bedroom.
There was a dark-framed double bed against the far wall, close to the window, and I tried not to imagine Dad pushing himself up on one elbow in bed to ask what was wrong. I stood there, as if rooted to the spot, staring at his side of the bed. I hardly ever went into that room. Even now, I almost never went in. But I remembered times, before the war, when nightmares or a full bladder woke me and I went into their room. It was always Dad who would wake up first, as if he’d been waiting for me.
I wished he were there right now.
Hearing a scrape from downstairs, I shook myself and reminded myself why I was here.
There was a dresser on the right-hand side, made of a different-coloured wood, with a mirror over the top of it. On my left was the wardrobe, and that’s what I went to, opening it up and looking in at the clothes. There wasn’t much to look at. A handful of Mam’s dresses hanging on one side, and a handful of Dad’s shirts on the other. There were a few pairs of Dad’s trousers on a small shelf at the top.
Movement downstairs again. The sound of water sloshing about in the metal tub as if Mam was getting out.
I stood on tiptoes to take a pair of trousers, but when I pulled at them, the other pairs followed, the whole pile falling out into a heap on the floor.
A door closed downstairs and suddenly everything was happening in a rush. I knew Mam’s routine and I knew I had to be quick. I didn’t have much time. Mam had just been into the scullery to get the washing powder. She’d poured some into the tub, taken it back, and closed the door. Any moment now, she’d be coming up the stairs. She’d walk right in and find me taking clothes and then . . .
I got down on my knees and grabbed at the trousers, folding them carefully but as quickly as I could. My hands were trembling, my fingers not moving fast enough, but I managed to get the trousers into a neat pile and I stretched up to slide them back onto the shelf, just as I heard the kitchen door open.
A creak. Loud and clear. The first floorboard in the hallway.
Mam was on her way. Any second now she’d come in and catch me.
I snatched a shirt from the rail and moved the other ones about to fill the space where one was missing. I closed the wardrobe and turned around, hurrying to the bedroom door. I slipped out of Mam’s room and darted across to my own, just as Mam put her foot on the bottom stair.
‘Peter?’ she called. ‘What you up to?’
‘Eh?’ I put my head around the door.
‘You up to something?’ she asked, coming up the stairs.
‘No,’ I said, showing her my most innocent face.
‘Hm. I thought I saw you coming across from my room.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not me.’
When Mam got to the top of the stairs, she looked at me. Then she turned to go to her room. She pushed the door open and stopped, turning around. ‘Stay out of trouble,’ she said. And then she went in and closed the door.
*
That night I lay in bed looking at the ceiling for a long time, thinking about everything that had happened over the last few days and beyond. I tried to remember what it had been like before the war had started, but I couldn’t.
I thought about Erik in the woods and I thought about Kim stuck with her Aunt Hillary, and I thought about Mam and whether or not she was happy. I thought about a hundred things – a thousand things. And muddled into all those things as I fell asleep, I wondered if I might have heard the sound of the kitchen door opening, the low murmur of voices. But my mind told me it was only the beginnings of a dream and I sank deeper until sleep took me away from everything.
It was feet on the stairs and the horrifying wail of sirens that brought me back.
DUNKIRK
My whole world was in panic again. The dual-tone rise and fall of the village sirens blanketed the night, and the hurried fall of feet rushed upstairs.
Mam came into my bedroom in a whirlwind, shouting ‘Get up!’ and I scrambled from under the blanket. I shoved my feet into my slippers and Mam threw my dressing gown around me, bustling me out before I had the chance to put it on properly.
‘Mask!’ she said, and I snatched my mask from the peg by the door.
We raced downstairs and turned along the dark hallway, heading for the kitchen – and I stopped dead.
There was a figure standing in the doorway. Silhouetted against the lamp that burnt on the table.
Mam bumped right into me, shoving me towards the figure.
‘Don’t stop,’ she said as she steadied herself. ‘Go!’
‘Come on, you.’ Arms reached out to stop me from falling, and I looked up into Mr Bennett’s face. ‘Let’s get you to the shelter,’ he said.
My first thought was to wonder why on earth Mr Bennett was in our house, but I didn’t have time to say anything because he grabbed my arm with a tight grip and pulled me through so I was in front. He pushed me towards the kitchen door and ushered Mam behind me.
I was the first into the night. I couldn’t hear any planes yet, but the sirens were still blasting, so that meant they must be coming. I stopped to wait for Mam, who hurried out, tripping on the step. I reached out and grabbed her arm with both hands, keeping her on her feet. Mam steadied herself and took my hand, and we set off across the garden towards the shelter. Mr Bennett emerged behind us, putting o
ut the lamp and closing the door before following. He overtook us easily and reached the shelter, yanking open the door and stepping aside to let us in.
He held out a hand to help me, but I ignored it and backed into the shelter, stepping down the short ladder into the dark. Mam came next, accepting Mr Bennett’s hand as she found her footing, and when she stepped down, Mr Bennett came in. He pulled the door shut, muffling the sirens and leaving us in complete darkness.
‘That was exciting, eh?’ he said, coming down the ladder. ‘Persistent buggers, aren’t they?’
Then I felt his presence beside me in the dark, and despite the musty, damp odour of soil in the metal tube, I could smell him. Something about that smell reminded me of Dad. It was the smell of sweat and soap and after-shave and the outdoors. And, for a moment, I thought it could almost have been Dad standing beside me. It made me feel strangely comfortable and secure.
‘Got a candle or something?’ he said, and then I heard the scraping of matches and light flared in the gloom. Mam stuck the candle on the shelf at the back and the flame on the wick grew, casting its orange circle of light.
‘Phew,’ said Mr Bennett. ‘That was quite a rush.’
Mam moved me to the bunk and sat down beside me, putting her arm around my shoulders.
Mr Bennett went to the chair opposite me and Mam, and sat with his forearms resting on his thighs. ‘Not exactly cosy in here, is it?’ He looked around as if inspecting the inside. ‘Wouldn’t be my first choice of where to spend the night, but it’s better than getting blown up. And that Mr Anderson knew what he was doing when he had them build these things. Safe as houses. So to speak.’ He smiled at Mam, but she didn’t smile back. She looked frightened.
‘Really,’ he said. ‘They’re very sturdy.’
‘What if a bomb landed right on top of us?’ I asked.
‘Oh, that won’t happen. Not here.’
Outside, somewhere behind the wall of sound from the sirens, I heard the drone of engines break through.
‘They’re comin’,’ I said.
Mam’s arm tightened around my shoulders.
‘They won’t come over us,’ Mr Bennett said.
And then we heard the first distant whistle. The high-pitched squeal, like a kettle boiling on the range. It was joined by more, the bombs singing as they fell. In a few moments came the crump and thud, the dull, flat sound of impact.
Mr Bennett watched us both with a serious expression.
‘That’s close,’ Mam said, squeezing harder still.
‘Quite an unusual sound, that whistling. Almost tuneful,’ he said, but there was nothing tuneful about the sound at all. It was a terrifying sound – the sound of death falling from the sky. Some people even said the Nazis made their bombs especially to make that noise so that people would be scared.
‘We should whistle with it,’ Mr Bennett said. ‘Try.’ He put his lips together and blew, whistling a note that blocked out the sound of falling bombs.
I looked at Mam and tried to whistle, but my lips were too dry.
Outside more bombs thumped into the ground, the explosions chased by more and more in quick succession. The ground shuddered and Mam’s breath caught in her chest. She squeezed me tight and I felt her body shaking. It was a moment before I realised I too was trembling with fear.
‘Everyone all right?’ Mr Bennett asked.
‘I think so.’ Mam nodded and squeezed me again.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, flinching as another series of explosions boomed in the night. The whole shelter shook, as if a giant was jumping up and down just outside. The shelf at the back rocked from side to side and the candle was snuffed out.
‘I’ll get it,’ Mr Bennett said and the shelter was filled with the dim light once more.
Outside, there was a lull in the explosions, but we could still hear the sirens and the monotonous drone of the aeroplane engines.
‘Maybe that’s the last of it,’ Mr Bennett said.
‘Why here?’ Mam said. Her voice was tired and afraid. ‘Why here?’
‘Maybe they’re lost. They’re terrible navigators.’ He sat back down again. ‘Trying to get the airfield at Acklington, or the listening post. I don’t suppose they came all this way just to blow up some farms.’
‘Well, they’re doing a canny good job of it,’ Mam said.
Mr Bennett watched Mam with a look I hadn’t seen before. It was like he was worried and happy and afraid all at the same time.
‘Maybe they’re just . . . getting rid of bombs,’ I said, swallowing against a dry throat. ‘They do that, don’t they?’
‘They do, yes.’ He glanced at me. ‘You’re a clever boy. Brave too.’
I didn’t say anything.
‘And quick. I saw the way you caught your mam like that. She’s lucky to have you to look after her.’
‘You were there, too, though,’ I said. ‘What—’
I stopped speaking when I heard the high-pitched whistle sing out in the night again. The sound of a falling bomb. And it sounded close. So close.
‘Hell’s bells,’ Mam said.
I tensed and squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the blast. Waiting for the bomb to fall right on top of us. Waiting to be blown into a million pieces. This was it; we were going to die. Squashed into a metal shell, half buried under the ground, we were going to die.
The whistling stopped with the dull thump of something hard hitting the ground, and a split second later a tremendous explosion rang in our ears. The bunk shook, soil rained down from the ceiling and the candle went out again.
My ears rang in the silence that followed and we sat in the darkness without speaking. My head felt numb, like it had done the day the plane crashed, and my body tingled.
‘Are we alive?’ I said.
‘Hell’s bells,’ Mam said again.
Once more, it was Mr Bennett who lit the candle. And when there was light, he came to the bunk and sat beside Mam. He put his arm around her shoulder as hers was around mine. And when I looked down, I saw Mam reach out with her free hand and take his. She gripped it so hard her knuckles turned white.
‘Not as close as it sounded,’ he said.
‘Close enough,’ Mam replied. Her voice quivered and I felt her whole body shaking.
We all stared at one another for a while, knowing how lucky we must have been, and then we heard a sound like a hundred pattering feet on the roof of the shelter.
Mam’s eyes widened. ‘What was that?’
‘Incendiaries,’ Mr Bennett said, getting to his feet. ‘Stay here.’ He went to the short ladder and stepped up, pushing open the door.
‘What are you doing?’ Mam stood up. ‘You can’t go out.’
Mr Bennett didn’t reply. Instead, he pushed the door wider and climbed up.
‘Where are you going?’ Mam took a step towards the ladder and I followed her.
Outside, he turned and looked down at us, standing there.
‘It’s not safe,’ Mam shouted.
‘Stay where you are,’ he replied. Then he shoved the door shut and sealed us back in.
‘What the hell is he doing?’ Mam said, going right to the bottom of the ladder. ‘He’s going to get himself killed. I can’t lose two . . .’
But I wasn’t listening. I knew what Mr Bennett was doing. If the Nazis were dropping incendiaries on us, and we’d heard them falling on top of the Anderson shelter, there’d be fires starting up all around our house. Maybe even some on the roof.
The Nazis dropped all kinds of things. They dropped mines that lay hidden on the ground and only exploded when you stood on them. High-explosive bombs were made to blow up buildings, destroy everything, but some people thought incendiaries were worse. They were much smaller, weighing no more than a handful of potatoes, but they were dropped in a big bomb that opened in the sky and let out clusters of them. When they hit the ground they ignited and started fires that were meant to spread and burn everything and show the other planes where to drop their bom
bs.
And I knew what I had to do – what I wanted to do. Like the moment I had hit out and punched Trevor Ridley, I decided enough was enough. I was sick of being scared. I didn’t have to sit in the dark, afraid. I could do something. I could push away the crippling fear and I could actually do something.
‘I have to help him,’ I said, going to the ladder.
‘What?’
‘I have to help,’ I repeated as I squeezed past Mam and began to climb up. ‘I’m the man of the house now.’
‘Get back here, Peter Dixon!’ Mam grabbed the back of my dressing gown. ‘You can’t go out there.’
‘I have to,’ I said, turning to look back at her.
‘There’s nothing you can do.’
‘At least let me see what’s happening,’ I begged. ‘If they’re dropping incendiaries, everything could be on fire. Mr Bennett can’t save it on his own.’
‘Then let it burn.’
‘No!’ I took her hand and tried to pull her fingers away. ‘I won’t. We’ll have nothing left.’
‘Peter Dixon, you’re not—’
‘And what if Mr Bennett’s in trouble?’
Mam’s words trailed away and she stared at me.
‘Please,’ I said.
Then she sighed and nodded. ‘All right.’ She let go of me. ‘All right. Just a look. But be careful.’
I scuttled up the short ladder, and when I reached the top, I pushed hard on the door, almost falling back. Another good shove and the door swung open and I climbed out into the night.
The rise and fall of the sirens’ moaning was louder outside, but the engines were fading. I looked up and saw the planes, at least five or six of them, maybe a mile away now, turning out to sea. Further along the coast, searchlights pointed up into the sky and the dull pounding of the ack-ack guns thumped in the distance. The sky lit up with explosions popping in the air around the planes.
But what was happening right there in our garden was much more frightening.