by Mary Gibson
‘The rescue teams must have moved on,’ Bill said. ‘Wait, let’s think. Tower Bridge nick’s near here. We should take the baby there.’
He began walking rapidly and May hurried to keep up with him.
‘Hang on a minute, Bill. This is the wrong way. You’re going towards the river.’
Bill looked doubtful, but she knew she was right. Her father called it her homing-pigeon instinct.
They began half-running back the other way. Bill gave her his coat to wrap around the child, and looking back at the remains of the old narrow house, she called out a promise to the dead woman. ‘We’ll look after your baby.’
She felt warmth returning to the child in her arms. ‘Oh, Bill, that poor woman, and she looked so peaceful. How could she be dead, when she didn’t have a scratch on her?’
‘Probably the shock of the blast, but her body must have shielded the baby.’
May gave the child her thumb knuckle to chew on. It worked for a time; the poor thing thought it was getting sustenance. But soon the aching hunger returned, and by the time they were mounting the steps of the police station its screams were piercing and the sergeant looked up sharply as Bill approached the desk, quickly explaining what had happened. Either the sergeant was a father himself or he had nerves of steel, for he was able to ignore the baby’s ear-splitting cries while he went through the official procedure of taking down Bill’s name and address and the location of the bombed house. May paced in front of the desk, rocking the baby, changing its position in her arms, in a futile attempt to stop it crying.
‘I’ll get the Auxiliary Ambulance depot on the blower. They’ll have someone nearby can deal with the little mite... and its poor mother too.’
The sergeant picked up the telephone and when Bill returned to her side, she said,‘Bill do you mind if we stay, just until we know the baby’s safe?’
He nodded, looking down at the screaming bundle in her arms, and she continued rocking it while sitting beside him on a hard wooden bench.
But finally the child came to the end of its strength. The screams turned to deeply inhaled sobs, as its lower lip trembled and its eyes closed. The silence, after such turmoil, seemed so deep. May rested her hand on its little chest, feeling with relief the regular rise and fall as sleep claimed it.
They sat waiting while the wounded and lost, the innocent and guilty filed past them, all docketed and ticketed regardless of circumstance by the efficient desk sergeant.
‘I wonder if it’s a boy or a girl?’ May whispered.
‘Check.’
May looked. ‘A boy,’ she said, patting the sopping nappy. ‘I wish we could do more for him.’
Bill covered her hand with his own and said gently, ‘We’ve done a lot, May. We saved his life.’
It wasn’t long before a woman ambulance driver pushed through the swing doors. She came to them and looked down at the baby in May’s arms. May cradled him more tightly, reluctant now to let him go. No doubt the ambulance driver had seen it all before. She gently removed Bill’s jacket and produced a soft white blanket. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘wouldn’t he be better off in this?
May nodded, tasting salt from tears she’d been unaware of. ‘We promised his mother we’d look after him, didn’t we, Bill?’
And the woman nodded. ‘You have done. We’ll do the rest, dear, and find his father if we can.’ She put out her arms. ‘Here, let me take him. I expect he’s hungry?’
Once out of the station, May was surprised to see the sun still shining. She had no idea of the time; it was as if the drama had played out in slow motion. It must have been late afternoon and only now did she realize she was hungry. With an unspoken understanding, they turned towards the river; it didn’t seem right to May, just to go home. They came to a café in the shadow of Tower Bridge.
‘Shall we go in for a drink, and a bite to eat?’ Bill asked, and she agreed, not realizing how tired she was until they sat with drinks and a plate of sandwiches between them.
Although they’d worked together for over a year, and she’d seen him most weeks at the Red Cow, there was still much that she didn’t know about him. He told her that he lived with his parents and two younger brothers in Grange House flats, near the tannery. His father drove a horse and cart, working out of the local railway depot, and his mother worked part time, cleaning the offices at Pearce Duff’s custard factory.
She told him about her own family and he asked if her brother was serving.
‘Jack’s in the army. I do miss him – even though he used to torment the life out of me!’ she confessed, smiling at the memory. ‘But it’s worse on Mum. I dread to think what it’ll do to her if he gets posted overseas. And it’s terrible for Joycie, his fiancée… they’d not been engaged long when he got called up.’
Bill nodded. ‘It’s hard for the people left behind; not that I’ve got a sweetheart to worry about now.’
Dolly had often tried to find out if Bill was ‘taken’. Eventually she’d concluded he was single, more because it suited her than for any other reason. May wasn’t convinced, but she would never have asked – now it seemed impolite not to.
‘Now? Did you have one before?’
There was a moment’s silence, and then came the wry smile.
‘Once, yes. Her name was Iris. But it didn’t work out, probably both too young.’
‘I’m sorry, Bill.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s for the best. War’s so much harder when you have to leave someone you love behind.’
He fixed her with his sea-blue eyes and for an impossible moment she thought she saw herself reflected in their depths.
‘And you, May? Is there anyone?’
The question flustered her and she broke off from his gaze.
‘Me? No, no one special,’ she said, and squirmed inwardly. No one special! As if she were juggling a dozen fellers.
When she looked up again, he was smiling.
‘So,’ she said, trying to cover her embarrassment, ‘have you thought what service you’ll go into?’
‘I haven’t had my call-up papers yet, but I’ll try for the RAF, if they’ll have me. It’s going to be up to us young ones,’ Bill said. ‘We might as well get stuck in and get this war over with as soon as we can, so we can all get back to living.’
Those eyes, bright with anticipation, seemed to be looking into a future as unpredictable as the baby’s they’d just saved, and as he settled back into his seat she wondered if his fearlessness, like hers had once been, was founded on ignorance of all that the future might hold.
A purple dusk had settled over the Thames as they left the café and decided to walk across Tower Bridge towards the north side. They stood on the gap between the two arms of the bridge, and May felt as though she had one foot in the past and one in the future. It was no good wishing for the world to be as it once was. Looking downriver towards Surrey Docks, she could see the pall of smoke that hung above the smouldering timber yards, and isolated flashes of flame shooting high into the air as firemen struggled to save the still blazing docks. Barges were in flames on the river, and they spotted one, loose of its moorings, floating mid-stream and staining the river red. But it wasn’t until the true sunset enamelled the western sky upriver, with turquoise and pink and gold, that they finally turned for home.
*
The following day, May went to see if the factory had opened in spite of the bomb damage. She found workmen shoring up damaged walls and the front gate cordoned off. Uncertain what to do, she glanced over at Grange House, the block of flats where Bill Gilbie lived, and quickly scanned the windows, wondering which was his and whether he would turn up for work today. Instead, the familiar figure of Eddie Barber, the young foreman, came into view. But his normally jovial face was strained and his eyes were firmly fixed on the dust-strewn ground in front of the factory gate.
‘Eddie!’ she called.
He jerked his head up, and lifted a hand in greeting.
‘Hello, May, y
ou’re a good ’un, turning up for work,’ he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets, eyes still fixed on the rubble at his feet.
‘Well, I thought some of it might be open.’
‘Nah,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Too dangerous. But God knows what I’ll do when it does.’
‘Surely there’s nothing that can’t be fixed and we can get back to work?’
‘I should think so, but that’s not what I’m worried about. I’ve lost the bleedin’ dye book,’ he said, anxiety creasing his forehead. ‘All the dye formulas… gone. I should’ve taken it home with me. Daresay I’m for the high jump when the managers find out.’ As he spoke he rubbed grit from his eyes. The repair crew’s bashing and hammering had raised a thick cloud of brick dust.
‘Oh gawd, I forgot!’ May said, and diving into her bag, she produced a small, black leather book, pages a little singed, but still intact and crammed with various handwritings. In all the excitement of rescuing the baby, she had forgotten the other thing she’d managed to pluck from the ruined streets.
‘I found it yesterday, right up near Tower Bridge – the blast must’ve blown it all the way to the river!’
‘The dye book! You’re an angel! Here, give us a kiss!’
She didn’t feel she had any choice in the matter and found herself squashed in Eddie’s unwanted embrace – just as Bill Gilbie strode into view.
‘What’s going on here then?’ Bill smiled, she thought a little awkwardly, as she extracted herself.
‘I was just saying she’s an angel, Bill. Look what she found – thought I’d lost it for good!’
Bill nodded, understanding dawning. ‘She’s an angel all right; somebody else’s angel yesterday,’ he said softly, a tender expression on his face.
*
He walked with her to the end of The Grange, but was hurrying to the ARP station to report for more fire-watching duties, and she stood watching him as he disappeared round the corner into Grange Road. She decided to go to Dix’s Place, to let her friend know there’d be no work at Garner’s today. And Emmy insisted on enjoying a day off, with Dolly joining them. May had to admit she was glad of a rest from hanging the stinking hides. But with the factory still closed for repairs, they were told to report to the Labour Exchange and spent the subsequent days going from factory to factory, accompanied by Dolly, looking for temporary work. It was on the way back from a day at Atkinson’s cosmetic factory that Emmy pointed to the poster urging young women to volunteer for the ATS.
‘We should join up!’ she suggested suddenly.
‘I’d rather die,’ May said. She hated any hint of conflict, it was the reason she always tried to be the peacemaker in their family. The last thing she could imagine herself as was an army girl.
‘Well, you might just do that,’ Emmy said, stopping beneath the poster to light a cigarette, ‘if a bomb’s got your name on it…’
The other girls lit up too and May drew on her cigarette. Looking up at the glamorous woman in the ATS peaked cap and brass-buttoned jacket, she shook her head.
‘Don’t be taken in by that! Jack’s fiancée, Joycie, has joined up and she told me they give you these massive khaki knickers – they call ’em passion killers – and pink, boned corsets just like Mum wears! Apparently, it’s all designed to ruin your love life.’
‘What would you know about a love life?’ Dolly nudged her. ‘Never had a chap in your life!’
‘Leave her alone, Dolly,’ said Emmy, frowning at her friend. ‘And anyway, knickers or not, I think it’d be a lot better in the ATS than hanging about here, with no work nor nothing, just waiting to be blown up!’
‘No, not me,’ May insisted, shaking her head determinedly. ‘If I have to do war work, I’d rather go in a factory in Bermondsey. Atkinson’s are starting war work soon, plane parts, I heard. I’ll do that if I have to, take my chances with the raids. At least I’ll die with my family round me!’ She stubbed out the cigarette with finality and walked on.
***
By December, a bitter winter had begun to bite. Pinched faces in the streets and short tempers in the home told the tale of the past three months, when German planes had dropped their bombs on Bermondsey most days and every night. Flights of enemy aircraft blackened the sky, following the silver ribbon of the Thames, targeting Surrey Docks and the main railway line up to London Bridge, and all the factories along the way.
May was making paper chains for Christmas, pasting together odd links of coloured paper, with a strong mix of flour paste and determined cheerfulness. Her mother was adamant that there would be a Christmas this year, even if they had to eat their Christmas dinner in the shelter. When the sirens interrupted them, May managed to gather up the handicrafts, along with the book she’d been reading. She was nearing the end of Gone with the Wind and couldn’t be parted from it. Though she and Peggy had seen the film earlier that year, May found she liked the book more. Losing herself in the story of another war, in another place, made her feel less beleaguered and alone, Scarlett’s lot seeming so much worse than her own.
With only two of them stuffed snugly into the shelter, they had plenty of room for a change. Her father was out on ARP duties and her brother, home on leave, had gone for a night out with Norman. At least tonight they’d have a bunk each, and May stretched out, angling the torch over her book. But her mother couldn’t settle. She fidgeted and fussed, checking the time every ten minutes.
‘Don’t worry, Mum, Jack’s not stupid. He’ll go under one of the arches if they’re caught out.’
But they both knew that wasn’t true and that he would walk through the bombs, especially if the evening had been a boozy one. It wouldn’t be the first occasion Jack had got caught out in an air raid and ignored the sirens. Their whole lives had been hijacked by the daily bombings, and her brother had quickly dropped his early cautiousness where raids were concerned, deciding that a party definitely took precedence over an air raid. In any case, this was his embarkation leave, the last before he left to go overseas, and he’d been hell bent on enjoying every minute of it. He’d visited Joycie at her ATS camp in Hull and now was making the most of his two precious days at home, before leaving for Southampton.
There was little sleep to be had that night for May, for her mother’s fretting over Jack hadn’t abated. Since he’d joined up her worries centred less around Jack becoming a crook and more about him staying alive, not just for tonight, but once he was overseas. When her mother finally dropped off to sleep, May lay awake listening to the deafening screams of bombs passing over the shelter. Every nerve was shredded as each explosion rocked the little structure like a boat in a storm.
*
‘Come on, Norm, hurry up. Drinks are on Wide’oh tonight!’ Jack tugged at his friend’s arm and swayed a little as the cool night air hit him.
They’d started their round of farewell drinks early, in the John Bull pub, but the whiskey had run out and Jack was determined not to curtail the celebrations on his last night before going overseas. Earlier that day George had invited him to the illegal drinking club he ran out of his lock-up. Jack knew the way like the back of his hand. He led his friend through pitch-black streets, weaving their way down to the river. They were both in civvies and the night was cold, so Jack hurried his friend along, even though Norman wanted to stop at every pub on the way. ‘No! We’re going to Wide’ohs!’ Jack protested. ‘He’ll never run out of booze, believe me. I’ve unloaded enough of the stuff for him… endless supply!’
They came to an alleyway leading off Bermondsey Wall, just wide enough for a lorry. At the end of it was a cobbled courtyard where they found the back entrance to a warehouse. George had the lower floor. It served as a stockroom for contraband, his office, bolt-hole and a lucrative outlet for the black-market booze he acquired. With no licensing laws to interfere with trading and no middle man to cream off his profits, the place was a goldmine.
George came up to them and laid a heavy arm on Jack’s shoulder. ‘What y’avin’
, son, you can’t go off to war dry!’
Jack looked proudly at Norman, aware his connection to Wide’oh gave him some kudos. Norman grinned.
They found their way to a barrel table in the corner of the warehouse that served as a bar. It was packed with servicemen and businessmen in suits, as well as working men, all rubbing shoulders in the dense smoke-filled cavern. The search for alcohol in an increasingly sober world was the only common denominator and George was doing good business tonight.
‘How’s your Joycie?’ George asked, pushing a bottle of Scotch towards Jack.
‘She’s lovely,’ Jack replied, smiling vacantly and digging into his pocket for a photo. The drink and the cold had somehow turned his fingers to blunt instruments, but eventually he pushed the photo over to George.
‘ATS. Still looks smashing, even in uniform.’ Jack looked proudly at the image of his fiancée.
‘You got time to do a little job for me tonight, Jack?’ George bent down to fill up Jack’s glass.
Jack waved his hand vaguely. ‘Noooo! Sorry, Wide’oh, can’t. Joycie made me promise when I went in the army – no more bent jobs for me.’
‘Promised Joycie?’ George gave a wheezy laugh. ‘You shouldn’t put up with that. Nip it in the bud, son, let her know who’s boss!’ He straightened up stiffly. ‘Anyway, if you change your mind just let me know.’ With that George went off to speak to another customer.
‘Joycie got you under the thumb then?’ Norman asked.
‘Not likely!’ Jack protested and then looked sharply at his friend. ‘Did you ever ask my little sis out?’
‘I reckon she’s seeing someone on the quiet,’ Norman said, sucking whiskey through his crooked teeth.
‘You mean she said no!’ Jack tipped back on his chair and roared with laughter.
Norman dropped his long chin to his chest and pushed the chair back. Stumbling forward, he mumbled, ‘Going for a jimmy riddle.’