by Casey, Jan
He ignored her, still piling on his hat and coat. ‘I heard him say there ain’t enough helpers.’
‘That’s enough now, Johnny.’ She meant this to be the last word. ‘Back into bed this instant. You’ll wake Will and Ruth and then we won’t be able to have a biscuit and put a puzzle together, just the two of us, will we?’
But the others were sitting up, frightened looks on their faces, watching Johnny dress himself for the outdoors.
Then she could not grasp what happened next. Johnny ran to the door and opened it with a clean blow to the latch. Gwen lunged at him and had his coat in her fist but he twisted from her grip and bolted in the same direction his dad had taken. ‘Johnny!’ she shouted, his name vanishing amidst all the others being screamed for in the night. Will and Ruth were crying and Gwen turned back to them, then spun again and shrieked for Johnny. Will was getting out of bed. Gwen pushed him back then plucked Ruth from her bunk and shoved her in with her brother. ‘I’ll be back in five minutes,’ she said. ‘Stay here together.’
‘Don’t leave us, Mum,’ Will said.
‘I have to – just for a bit. Be good and do not go anywhere. We’ll be back very soon.’
She lurched through the same hole in the fence that George and then Johnny had run through, calling Johnny’s name until her throat burned. Would he have turned left or right, run straight through the bomb site on the opposite side of the road, or doubled back towards the river? Nothing looked the same; all landmarks were gone, obliterated. Black holes where windows had been, odd bits of cutlery and chairs strewn along the pavement, a lamp post twisted and fizzing across the bar of The Builders Arms. If she couldn’t get her bearings, then how could a small boy?
She gulped down his name then screeched it out again. She flew across the road, tunnel vision blurring the flames and debris around her. When she reached the corner of Pier Street her heart was pounding so hard it felt as though it was moving up through her chest to where she would heave it from her mouth. She had to stop and try to force it back down. Behind her, a handful of people were picking through the wreckage of Price’s little grocery shop. She ran towards them shouting, ‘Johnny. Johnny.’
A few dirt-streaked faces looked up, the others too intent on their own miserable searches. ‘Mrs Gregson.’ Gwen recognised the voice of Evans and scrabbled her way towards him. He kept his torch down but she could make him out, his badge glinting in the dark. He left what he was doing and caught her as she stumbled. ‘What’s happened to your Johnny? And to you?’ Gwen saw him look her up and down, taking in the soaking slippers on her feet, the torn stockings stuck to her knees with blood, the apron still tied round her waist.
‘Have you taken a hit?’ Evans asked, fumbling through his satchel for his notebook.
‘Have you seen Johnny?’ Gwen’s voice rose to a shrill, piercing pitch. ‘Has he run past here?’
‘Now, now, Gwen,’ said Mrs Price. ‘That won’t help.’ The older woman put an arm around Gwen and tried to get her to sit on an upturned bucket.
Gwen backed away from them and spun round. ‘He’s trying to follow George.’ She sniffed at the tears and snot running down her face. ‘To help him.’
A boom. A blinding flash so close it distracted them and for a moment they stood, arms covering their heads, backs hunched against the onslaught. Evans took her by the elbow. ‘I spoke to George not five minutes ago,’ he said. ‘He was heading back to his station and asked me to keep an eye on all of you.’
‘And Johnny?’ Gwen sobbed. ‘You must have seen him. Which way did he go?’
Evans shook his head. ‘Best thing you can do, my dear, is get back to the other two.’
‘They’re still indoors, are they?’ Mrs Price asked.
‘In the shelter.’
‘With a neighbour?’ Evans waited for Gwen to answer.
Gwen shook her head. ‘On their own.’ Then she remembered. ‘With a candle.’
‘Come along now.’ Evans began to march her back the way she’d come.
‘But Johnny…’
‘Johnny will be safe and sound by now, drinking tea with George in the station. Let’s get you home.’
With a prod of her elbow, Gwen escaped him. ‘Can’t you send someone to check on Will and Ruth?’ She swiped at the air. ‘My Johnny’s out here by himself.’
‘I’ll go,’ said Mrs Price. ‘I’ll walk round.’
‘No,’ Evans shouted as she staggered over the rubble. ‘Mrs Gregson, be sensible.’
From there, Gwen had meant to cross Mudchute Park towards George’s station, but she stumbled into Manchester Road, caught up in the surge of people rushing towards that terrific crash from a few moments ago. She could see that the whole bottom end of the thoroughfare was alight: flames consuming the school, the sweet shop, the row of houses, the ropeworks, the post office. Every building was nothing more than a smouldering shell – and still the bombs exploded.
Backwards and forwards she veered along the road. A wheel cracked and fell off a cart, narrowly missing her foot. She ran in front of a fire engine, then jumped out of the way of an ambulance manoeuvring around a lorry parked with both doors open.
He wouldn’t have come this way, not Johnny. Not unless he was very muddled or something had compelled him. This was the opposite direction from where his dad had been headed. But if she had come this way, moved along by the crowds and the noise, why wouldn’t he have done the same? As she got closer, she could feel the heat from the fire and had to shield her face from the ashy soot that settled on her clothes like dirty grey sludge. She thought she saw a small figure darting towards the back of a blackened shed but when she screamed out Johnny’s name, she saw it was an elderly woman, round-shouldered in a huge dark coat.
A good few people had formed a column and were shouting orders to each other as they passed buckets and hoses along the line. No one was allowed through the makeshift cordon and Gwen found herself standing with a pitiful crowd, watching and waiting. She convinced herself that she wouldn’t find Johnny here and turned to make her way back through the side streets and alleys to George’s station. Shivering, she stopped to draw her cardigan together and heard voices in the crowd behind her call out; then there was a hush.
She looked to where their attention was drawn and there, emerging through a charred doorway, was George. He walked as though he had a metal rod in his spine, his coat wrapped around a small body pressed hard against his chest. It must be someone else’s kid, surely? Countless children wore the same shoes, had a scab above the dimple in their knee. Then she knew, and at once her retching sobs pierced the lull.
Calling out their names, she threw herself towards them but George looked straight ahead and continued to walk through the crowd with the same measured pace, leaving Gwen to cling to his sleeve so she wouldn’t fall to the ground. When she reached round to hold Johnny’s hand, she found a tiny piece of shrapnel in his fist. They buried it in the coffin with him.
*
During the long days and nights after the funeral, Gwen wondered how things could be so different and yet carry on around her in the same way. So many people had lost someone – she knew that. George’s work pal lost two sons at Dunkirk. The woman at the end lost her baby early when her house caught a packet. But everyone else could blame their loss on the Germans, the government, the war in general, a loved one’s bravery or stupidity. She alone was responsible for her own son’s death, as sure as if she had murdered him. How she wished she had done something to him that was accountable in law, so that then she could shout, ‘Guilty, guilty,’ on every count and find relief in the punishment.
After the initial retelling, no one questioned her again or asked her to justify herself, not even George. But she tortured herself without respite, reliving every detail. She forced herself to think about what would have happened if… and in every imaginary outcome Johnny was still there, rushing around with his football, working his tongue at the corner of his mouth as he frowned over his proble
ms, swinging his legs under the chair while he ate his tea; breathing, laughing, teasing his brother. Alive and warm beside her. If she hadn’t hesitated at the end of the garden, if she hadn’t stopped at Price’s, if she’d let Evans resolve matters his way. She could feel Johnny’s coat in her fist and she was sure now that if she had just tightened her grip on it then…
Over and over she twisted and turned through those last hours until she reached the thought that gave her the most pain. Johnny should not have been in London. He should have been in Wales with his school pals. And that, too, had been her decision.
George sat still in his chair for hours on end, an unopened paper on his lap. When he shuffled to the table for a meal or stared, unblinking, out of the window, Gwen found the stoop he’d developed unbearable and she had to turn away. She thought he’d be angry with her or more. She waited for him to fly into a rage, shake her and call her names. Perhaps he would leave her and take a room somewhere close to the station or shout that from then on, he would be in sole charge of Will and Ruth.
None of those things happened. But the slumping quiet was not characteristic either and she thought his staged politeness was the only way he could control the hate he must have for her. One dismal afternoon, while the kids were upstairs, she went outside and heaved a wall of broken bricks and concrete against the door of the Anderson. She let the sharp edges tear at her hands, opening up the bitten sores until her fingers were bleeding and raw. She would never go in there again. George came out and stood watching, then turned away without saying a word and shut the door behind him.
Weeks passed, each grey day indistinguishable from the last. The war raged on with cruel insensitivity. George returned to work and to his fire-watching duties, speaking but not really talking to her when he was at home. Gwen kept her eyes lowered, sure others in the shop queues must be talking about her. The food she cooked was flavourless; buttons went unsewn on shirts and trousers. A bright, hopeful snowdrop dared to appear under the front window and she kicked at it until it broke off at the root.
One Sunday morning, Ruth helped her mother by putting slices of bread on a plate for breakfast as Gwen cut them off the loaf. ‘Two for Mum, two for Dad.’ She piled the slices on top of each other. When Gwen stopped cutting the loaf at eight, Ruth, still warm and puffy from sleep, looked around and said, ‘Ain’t Johnny having toast?’
Will tightened his mouth and nudged her under the table.
‘I forgot,’ she said, and buried her face in Gwen’s neck. Gwen wished she could forget. She would gladly have abandoned everything were it not for Ruth and Will. She kept them close and made sure she was holding on to them whenever possible. At night, they sat under the stairs until the all-clear, then she put them into bed with her, entwining her arms and legs around theirs. Without protesting, George slept in Ruth’s bed – unable, Gwen thought, to face Johnny’s empty place behind the curtain on the boys’ side of the room.
By the end of February Will was restless and took any opportunity to go to his room, with Ruth trailing behind more often than not. They can’t wait to get away from me, Gwen thought, and I don’t blame them. Sometimes she listened at the door to catch what they might be saying, but all she could make out were the sounds of play.
Will stopped talking about Johnny and started asking questions about himself. ‘When am I going back to school, Mum?’
Gwen felt the knot in her stomach tighten. ‘We think you should both stay home for a while, love,’ she said.
‘Then can I play out? Marty plays football every day before tea. With Richard and some of the others. Why can’t I?’
‘You know why.’
He shook his head crossly. ‘They think I’m a baby. Always stuck in with you.’
‘It ain’t forever, Will,’ she said. ‘Just until…’
‘When?’
The end of the war. When the bombing stops. If I can ever trust my judgement again. Never. Those were the answers she wanted to give. Instead she knelt next to him on the floor and rocked him.
‘Please, Mum,’ Will said. With the heel of his hand he wiped at her tears. ‘I ain’t going to run off like Johnny. Promise.’
‘Let me talk to Dad,’ Gwen said. ‘And if he gives his permission, I’ll take you back to school on Monday morning.’
Will let out a cheer and called up the stairs to Ruth.
An hour after the raid ended, George came in and kicked off his boots. Gwen lay in bed and listened to the hiss of the gas under the kettle, the clatter as he took his plate from the oven. When she thought he’d be sitting down to eat, she put her dressing gown around her shoulders and went downstairs, creeping on her toes across the sitting room in the light from the kitchen. Not wanting to startle him, she put her head around the door and called softly.
But his chair was empty, his food growing cold on the table. ‘George,’ she whispered again. She followed a noise from the pantry where she discovered him standing with his back to her, clutching the salt cellar in one hand, holding onto a shelf with the other. When he turned, she saw the rings under his eyes, the creases around his mouth, the swollen nose, chapped from crying. She took the salt from his hand and led him back to the kitchen.
‘Talk to me, George,’ she said, pulling a chair close to his.
He looked away.
‘I don’t care what you say. Nothing can make this any worse. Tell me you hate me. Say you wish it had been me.’ She grabbed his arm. ‘Say it.’
George shook his head. He unpeeled her fingers from his shirt and placed her hand on the table. He looked down at his knees and into the corner above the meat safe; anywhere but at her. He hacked as if something was caught in his windpipe. Then he said, ‘That night. After I left you in the shelter…’ The clock ticked and from a distance came the early sounds of clearing up.
‘I can hear everything, see it all again. Do you know what I mean, Gwen?’
She nodded.
‘I… I can’t…’ He swiped at the tears caught in the black and grey of his unshaven chin. ‘It was…’
A bed creaked in the room above and George turned his face towards the noise.
‘Go on, George. Please.’
‘It don’t matter now.’ George stared, as if studying her after a long absence. Then his eyes narrowed. ‘It won’t bring him back.’
It did matter, though. To her it did. But all she could say was, ‘Nothing will.’
‘As for them,’ George said, pointing upwards. ‘They’re going to Wales.’ She opened her mouth to tell him he was right, even though the idea petrified her, but he stopped her short. ‘No discussion. No arguing. That’s the end of it.’
*
Gwen had been mortified when it seemed that Betty wouldn’t be able to move back into number forty-seven and there had been talk of her and Len staying with their daughter-in-law in Clapham. But the rubble was cleared and when the side door and two windows were bricked over, the inspector gave permission for them to return. Gwen was so grateful for Betty, who split her time between seeing to Len and helping her organise the clothes and books the kids would need to take with them. They had a week to get things ready, but a year wouldn’t have been long enough for Gwen to prepare herself to let the children go. Together they darned socks and scrubbed collars, folded a change of clothes and pyjamas into two small suitcases. Soap and toothbrushes were rolled up in towels. Gwen wanted them to wear their best, so used some money she’d put aside to buy them each a coat and shoes.
Will was wild with excitement, choosing first one book, then swapping it for another and trying to wedge in his beloved tin Spitfire without denting the wings. Marty and Richard were the last of his schoolmates to leave for Wales and he couldn’t wait to meet up with them and the other boys he hadn’t seen for weeks. Ruth was less happy. Sometimes she copied Will’s boisterous preparations, but most days she wanted to sit on Gwen’s lap or trail along after her, clutching her knitted doll. There was no question of exchanging Susie for a game or a puzzle,
so Betty dressed the doll in a new outfit for the occasion, sewn together from the scraps of her old armchair, which had been salvaged from the hit.
On the Saturday afternoon before they were due to leave, Gwen put on a special tea. Even though the thought of eating anything turned her stomach, she wanted the children to have something nice to remember about their last day at home. George was late on the trains and couldn’t change his shift, at least that was what he said, so Betty came in and tried to jolly them along. The custard was burnt, the tea was weak and Will did most of the talking. ‘Will they ask about Johnny?’ he blurted out.
Gwen had no idea what, if anything, the children from Johnny’s class had been told.
‘What will I tell them?’ he asked.
Ruth looked at Gwen, her lips trembling. ‘I don’t want to talk about Johnny. It makes Mum cry. And Dad.’
Gwen knew that Betty was waiting for her to come up with an answer, but she couldn’t lift her eyes from her plate.
‘You tell them your Johnny was a very brave boy,’ Betty said at last. ‘A proper little hero and it was all Hitler’s fault. Ain’t that right? Gwen?’
Gwen pushed a bit of greasy sausage around her plate, then stabbed it with her fork.
A horrible couple of hours passed before Betty scraped her chair back and said, ‘Well, my dears. I best get back to Len. Make sure he’s behaving himself – you know what a terror he can be.’ She held her arms out to the children. ‘Give us a hug, then.’
Ruth wrapped her arms around Betty, but Will stood back, holding his hand out to shake hers when Ruth released her grip.
‘Is that all I get, young sir?’ Betty asked, forcing his head into her chest. ‘You’re almost up to my shoulder, ain’t you? Look at him, Gwen.’
Will stood tall and measured himself against Betty. ‘Almost,’ he said.
‘Next time I see you I expect you’ll be up here somewhere.’ She marked an imaginary height inches above her head.
‘And I’ll be just there.’ Ruth stood on her toes and touched Betty’s nose.