Cousins at War

by Doris Davidson

  Hetty was silent for a moment, then she whispered, ‘What if you’d had to go in the forenoon? You’d have been there at the time the bombs fell.’

  ‘But I wasn’t, thank God.’

  Raymond, who had been waiting in suppressed excitement to tell of his lucky escape, took the opportunity of the slight lull to say, ‘We were in the thick of it.’

  Olive could tell that her father had been badly shocked by what he had seen. ‘It was nothing, Dad. We got a scare, but I don’t think we were in any real danger.’

  Mrs Mavor, Gracie’s neighbour on the same landing, came to her door in the afternoon. ‘Did you hear aboot the folk that was machine-gunned in Union Terrace at dinnertime? Doesn’t your Patsy work there?’

  Gracie’s heart raced uncontrollably. ‘Her office is about halfway along . . . oh, I hope she’s all right.’

  Regretting having upset her, Mrs Mavor tried to reassure her. ‘You’d have heard by this time if she wasna.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Gracie, grateful for her concern, gave her a cup of tea, and having been warned, was more able to face the other tenants in the building when they came to tell her the same thing. They were only being neighbourly after all, rallying round her as they would to anyone in trouble. But even although Mrs Mavor stayed with her for almost an hour, she felt nauseous until Patsy came home, unharmed but eager to tell her mother what had happened.

  Gracie was horrified when she heard how close her daughter had come to death, and when Joe came in with the news that Hall Russell’s shipyard had been bombed, and that the single aircraft had caused mayhem all over Aberdeen, she telephoned to ask Hetty if any of her family had been hurt. ‘Olive and Raymond were machine-gunned, as well,’ she told Joe in a few minutes, ‘but they weren’t hit either, thank God. Oh, that damned German, putting the fear of death in folk.’

  Knowing how much his wife was against even the mildest of swearwords, Joe let it go. It just showed how upset she was.

  Neither that night’s Evening Express nor the following morning’s Press and Journal reported the full story, which spread by word of mouth, exaggerated a little more each time it was passed on. Gracie’s conviction that this would put the final nail in the coffin of Neil’s plan to join up was very wide of the mark. Her son was harbouring a deep hatred of the enemy for this act of barbarism and was all the more determined to enter the fight against the Axis powers.

  Over the next few weeks, as the newspapers reported repeated attacks on London, Gracie felt anxious about her brother and his family. Croydon was one of the places mentioned that had been severely hit by bombs, but with so many enemy planes shot down, she believed that the Germans would abandon their fruitless attempts to force Britain’s capital to its knees. It came as a shock, therefore, when she received a note from Donnie’s wife, Helene.

  Thursday.

  Dear Gracie and Joe,

  I hope you don’t mind, but I’m taking Queenie away from the bombing. We have had air raids nearly every night for weeks, and we hardly get any sleep. We’re taking the night train on Friday, and we’ll arrive in Aberdeen early Saturday morning. I’m sorry not to give you more warning, but I don’t want to wait any longer.

  Love as always, Helene.

  ‘It must be terrible for them,’ Gracie wailed, returning the letter to the envelope, ‘and Donnie should give up his shop and come up here with them.’

  Joe shook his head. ‘It’s all very well saying that, but the newsagent’s is his livelihood and he’s worked hard to build up a trade. I wouldn’t leave if I was him, but I’m glad he’s had the sense to get Helene and Queenie away.’

  Gracie’s mind had already jumped ahead. ‘I’ll have to give them Neil’s room – I’ll give it a good going over – and he can sleep on the bed-settee. I’m sure he won’t mind in the circumstances and it’ll just be for a wee while.’

  ‘No, Gracie, it’ll be longer than a wee while. Look, I can sleep with Neil, Helene can sleep with you, and Queenie and Patsy’ll manage on the three-quarter bed.’

  Although it was into August, Saturday morning was cold and misty – the damp even seemed to pervade the glass roof of the Joint Station – and Gracie and Patsy were both shivering after only ten minutes. After another half hour, Gracie began to panic. ‘Maybe the train’s been bombed. For all we know, they could be lying dead somewhere.’

  Patsy gripped her mother’s icy hand. ‘They’d have put up a notice here if the train had been bombed or announced it.’

  ‘No, they wouldn’t. We’re always being told careless talk costs lives.’

  ‘It’s not the same thing,’ the girl said, patiently, ‘but I’ll go and ask, if you like?’ The stationmaster came out of his office at that moment, so she ran over to him. ‘Excuse me. Can you tell me about the London train, please?’

  The man’s stride did not alter. ‘Two and a half hours late at Newcastle, but the last word we had was that it had made up twelve minutes since then.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’ Patsy turned and walked back to her mother to relay the information. ‘Two and a half hours less twelve minutes, that’s . . . just over two and a quarter hours, and we’ve been here three-quarters of an hour, so it’ll be an hour and a half before they come. We can’t stand here – we’ll be frozen to the spot. Will we go home and come back?’

  Gracie shook her head. ‘It’s hardly worth it, and we might miss them.’ After pondering for a moment, she burst out, ‘I know! We’ll go to the fish market and get some fish. Helene says the fish down there’s never as fresh as it is here.’

  ‘Good idea.’ They linked arms and made their way out on to Guild Street, Gracie’s feet protesting after standing for so long in one place.

  What Gracie called the fish market was not the proper fish market on the quay, where trawlers landed their catches and fish merchants bid for them, it was part of the New Market, a conglomeration of various kinds of shops under one roof. Downstairs from the main arcade, with an entrance from The Green, a number of stalls – manned by the wives of fishermen from the small coastal villages – sold fresh fish of various kinds, and each woman who shopped there patronised her own favourite stall. Patsy could tell no difference between them, and smiled when her mother made straight for the one she preferred.

  There followed a long discussion on which particular fish was best that day, and how many she would need to feed six, which led to an explanation of why she was buying more than she normally did. After that, the other woman said that her sister was still in London, but that she was speaking about coming to Aberdeen, too. Finally, Gracie decided to buy some filleted haddock, and while her change was being counted, she said, ‘I thought we were bad having to stand so long in that draughty station, but you’re worse, having to work with ice-cold fish all day – in a draught, as well.’

  The woman gave a roar of laughter. ‘Och, I’m used to it, and it’s nae so bad as what I did when I was a young lassie. A bunch o’ us used to follow the herrin’ fleet, an’ we’d to stand on quaysides in Yarmouth an’ Lerwick in a’ kinds of weather to gut the fish. I dinna cut my fingers to bits now – well, nae so often. Cheerio, an’ I’ll see you next time.’

  ‘There’s always somebody worse off than yourself,’ Gracie observed, as she and Patsy went through the open gateway out to The Green – where, at the beginning of the thirteenth century, William the Lion had a palace, and where, a century later, Edward III’s army defeated the city’s inhabitants. The rich merchants of olden days sold their wares on The Green to any passing travellers, but granite setts – or cassies, as local people called them – had long since replaced the grass, and although the square was lined now by small shops, it was let out to outlying farmers on Fridays and Saturdays.

  ‘We’ve still plenty of time,’ Gracie went on, ‘so we could take a look round some of the stalls for a wee while.’

  Because The Green market mainly sold fresh produce – fruit and vegetables, eggs, butter – which Gracie could get from Joe, she bought n
othing, but spent half an hour in comparing prices. When they reached Rennie’s Wynd, she said, ‘Maybe we should get back to the station, Patsy. The train could have made up some more time.’

  They had been waiting for only about seven minutes when it steamed in, and the doors clattered as the passengers came off. There were so many carriages that it was fully another three minutes before Helene and Queenie neared the barriers, their wan faces pinched, their eyes dark-circled and deep in their sockets. They brightened and hurried forward when they saw Gracie and Patsy, and as soon as they passed the ticket collectors, Gracie enveloped them both in her arms.

  ‘What a nightmare of a journey,’ Helene gulped. ‘We had to stop outside Peterborough for ages . . . they were being bombed somewhere near . . . and again just outside York. I thought we’d never get here.’

  ‘Give me your case.’ The significance of the single small suitcase escaped Gracie, she was so glad to see them in one piece. ‘You’re here now, and that’s what matters.’ She fell into step with Helene, behind their daughters. ‘There’s been some raids here, as well, but nothing like you’ve had in London, so the roses’ll soon be back in your cheeks.’

  Helene hesitated. ‘I’m not staying. I promised Donnie I’d be back on Tuesday morning. I only came with Queenie.’

  ‘You can’t go back! Be sensible.’

  ‘Gracie, leave it for now. I don’t want Queenie any more upset than she is.’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean . . . I should have thought.’

  Nothing further was said about the return to London until after the two girls were in bed, then Helene turned to Joe. ‘I’ve told Gracie I’m leaving Queenie here and going back on Monday night. I can’t leave Donnie on his own, and we’ve to take our chance, that’s all. If we go, we go together.’

  Joe frowned. ‘What about Queenie? Have you thought what it could do to her if she lost her mother and her father in one fell swoop?’

  Helene’s hand went up to her brow, as if trying to massage unwelcome thoughts out of her head. ‘Donnie and I have gone over and over it, Joe. He wanted me to stay here, but I love him. Can’t you understand?’

  ‘You mean you love him more than you love your daughter?’

  ‘It’s not like that at all. I do love Queenie, but I could live without her if I knew she was safe, but . . .’ Her hand dropped to wipe a persistent tear. ‘If anything happened to Donnie, I wouldn’t want to go on living, either.’

  Forcing out the words through her tightened throat, Gracie said, rather stiffly, ‘You’d have to, for Queenie’s sake.’

  ‘It’s for her sake I’m doing it – she’ll have more chance of survival up here, and if anything should happen to Donnie and me, she’ll have you. If she stayed in London, she could be at school when . . . and she’d have nobody – my parents are too old to look after her. That’s why I . . .’ She stopped, biting her lip, and added in a trembling voice, ‘It was a difficult decision to make, Gracie. Please don’t make me go over it all again. I love my daughter as much as you love yours, but . . .’

  ‘Aye,’ Joe put in, gruffly. ‘Well, we’ll all pray that it never comes to it but if it . . . we’ll look after Queenie.’

  ‘I can’t understand how any mother . . .’ Gracie began, but Joe didn’t let her finish. ‘She’s trying to give Queenie a chance and it’s her decision, whatever you think.’

  Helene’s eyes met her sister-in-law’s, beseeching her to try to understand, and after a prolonged pause, Gracie said slowly, ‘I won’t say any more then, and I promise we’ll look after Queenie if the worst comes to the worst.’

  Joe smiled at his wife. ‘I’ll put the kettle on for a cup of tea, and we won’t speak about it again.’

  Over tea, Helene told Joe and Gracie of the nights on end spent in a concrete shelter with neighbours and how the trauma had been eased by little incidents such as one old man forgetting to put in his false teeth and having to be restrained by the wardens from going back to his house to get them. ‘In the morning, there was a huge hole in his roof, and part of his chimney had fallen on his bed. The glass with his teeth in was lying on the floor, and if he’d gone back for them he could have been killed.’

  Helene purposely didn’t tell them that her house had also been damaged in that raid, but went on, ‘Bill Tompkins, two doors along, died a year before the war and Dot, his wife, keeps his ashes in a casket on her mantelpiece. She takes it with her to the shelter, and she always says, “On the day he wed me, he promised he’d look after me for the rest of my life, and I’m not letting the crafty bugger off now, war or no war. Anyway, I don’t want Jerry scattering my old man all over South Norwood.” What a character she is, Joe, keeps us all in stitches.’

  Gracie found it impossible to believe that people could laugh when bombs were falling all around them, and Helene, aware of what she was thinking, said, ‘We’d all go mad if we didn’t joke about it.’

  Gracie looked repentant. ‘I’m sorry, Helene, I didn’t know how bad things were for you. How can you . . .?’

  ‘We have to put up with it, there’s nothing else to do.’

  ‘You must be tired,’ Joe said, suddenly. ‘You’ll be ready for your bed.’

  ‘I haven’t slept in a bed for so long, it’s going to feel queer.’ Helene yawned unexpectedly and gave a giggle. ‘I am tired, though. Goodnight.’

  However queer it was for Helene to be in a bed again, she slept until almost lunchtime the following day and Gracie left her undisturbed. In the afternoon, they paid a brief visit to Hetty, surprised that Queenie, although a few months older than Raymond, was so much shorter.

  The three women talked for over an hour, while Queenie sat beside Olive, uncomfortably aware that this cousin was not as friendly as Patsy. At last, Gracie said, ‘We’d better go. Patsy promised to have our supper ready at six.’

  As they walked the short distance to the tramstop, Helene said, ‘You didn’t say much, Queenie. Auntie Hetty must think you’re very shy.’

  ‘Olive didn’t say anything, either.’

  Gracie patted her niece’s head. ‘Och, don’t mind Olive, she’s a stuck-up wee monkey. If nobody’s paying attention to her, she goes in the huff.’

  After teatime, Joe said, ‘Gracie, what about a tune to buck us up?’ He had bought the old piano secondhand years before so that his children could learn to play, but Gracie had turned out to be more musical than either Neil or Patsy, although she’d never had lessons. ‘She plays by ear,’ Joe went on, proudly, ‘anything you like.’

  ‘I’m sure Helene doesn’t want to . . .’ Gracie protested.

  ‘I’d love a sing-song,’ Helene smiled. ‘In the shelter, we sing all the old music hall songs . . . “My Old Man”, “Down at the Old Bull and Bush”, that sort of thing. One of the men always takes his harmonica with him, and he’s ever so good.’

  ‘Please, Auntie Gracie?’ Queenie pleaded.

  Gracie would have preferred not to – she hadn’t played a note since her father died over a year and a half before – but she sat down on the piano stool and let her fingers run lightly over the yellowing keys. ‘I’m not all that good, but here goes.’

  After giving them her own favourites – ‘When Your Hair Has Turned To Silver’, ‘Silver Threads Amongst The Gold’, ‘Won’t You Buy My Pretty Flowers’ – she turned round. ‘Play some of your songs, Patsy. Queenie doesn’t know my kind.’

  Patsy’s repertoire consisted of songs currently popular on the wireless – ‘Roll Out the Barrel’, ‘Run Rabbit Run’, etc. – for which she had bought the music for sixpence a sheet in Woolworth’s. While the others sang – Joe and Neil joining in lustily – Gracie sat back in her chair, wondering mournfully when they would see Helene again . . . if they would ever see her again.

  She started as Joe nudged her. ‘Cheer up. Everything’ll be all right.’

  On Monday afternoon, when Helene said she wanted to show Queenie a bit of Aberdeen, Gracie did not offer to accompany them. It was only right that
they should be on their own on this last day, for they might not see each other again for a long time. When they came back, they were in high spirits, although Helene’s eyes were perhaps a little too bright and Queenie’s cheeks a fraction too red. Gracie could never get over how unlike they were. Helene’s hair was as black as it had ever been, her complexion almost as dark as a gypsy’s; Queenie had fair skin like her father, though his hair was ginger, and hers a blondie-gold. They quietened down during tea, and by seven o’clock, when Helene had to leave for the station, they were both on the verge of tears.

  Helene hadn’t wanted anyone except Joe to go with her, but Gracie knew that Queenie would not forgive her if she wasn’t allowed to wave her mother off, so only Neil stayed at home. When the inevitable, dreaded moment arrived, Helene waited until the last possible second before giving Queenie a quick hug and going into a carriage. Gracie came forward to put her arm round the girl and Patsy held her hand until the train was out of sight.

  Joe blew his nose loudly. ‘I know you three lovely ladies are going to argue about who’s going to take my arms, so . . .’ He linked arms with the two girls, and Patsy felt a surge of love for her father for putting the smile back on Queenie’s face. He would be fifty in a few years and his hair, what was left of it, was steely grey. If she ever had to go away from home, she would miss him as much as she’d miss her mother. She could understand how Queenie must feel, and she would do her best to make her feel part of their family.

  When they went into the house, Neil said, ‘I’ll sleep on the settee in the kitchen, Mum, if you want to give Queenie a room to herself.’

  It was Queenie who answered. ‘I don’t want to put you out of your bed. Thank you for the offer, but I’d rather share with Patsy.’

  Neil did not argue. He was still planning on going into the army when he was eighteen, and he wouldn’t have long to wait now. Once he was away, Queenie might take advantage of the empty room. Once he was away – he couldn’t wait to get away, for Olive had been a proper pest lately. She didn’t meet him outside his work, thank goodness, but she had taken to lying in wait for him on his way home at teatime, and going on about how much she liked him and asking how much he liked her. It was awful, and what could he say? If he told the truth and said that he hated her, it would cause a row between their mothers, and he couldn’t chance saying that he liked her, otherwise she’d hang round his neck for evermore. Up to now, he’d got away with mumbling things like, ‘I’ll have to go or I’ll be late for my tea,’ or pretending not to have heard and speaking about something else, but she was so determined to trap him that she wouldn’t always be so easily brushed off.