by Mary Gibson
‘Hello,’ she said, unsmiling. ‘I hear you’re the girl who found Jack with my Bill.’
Mrs Gilbie stood beside her; all her easy manner had deserted her. There was an awkward silence and for a moment May was at a loss. Did Bill have a sister? He’d never mentioned one. Finally Mrs Gilbie spoke.
‘May, this is Iris, Bill’s fiancée.’
18
Crypt for a Bed
Christmas 1941
‘Oh... pleased to meet you.’ May stood up uncertainly, a fixed smile on her face. She willed it to change to something a little less like horror, but there it was – frozen. And the corresponding expression on Iris’s face announced that the girl had understood May’s feelings, perhaps better than she had ever done herself.
Jack began to cry and May blessed him. The distraction gave her the chance to escape, and she excused herself. ‘Well, thanks, Mrs Gilbie, I’d better be going.’
‘I’ll see you out.’
‘No need!’ May just wanted to run, to escape before any more pleasantries were required of her. But Mrs Gilbie followed, and at the front door, she reached into her apron pocket.
‘Here you are, darlin’,’ she whispered, pressing a scrap of paper into her hand. ‘It’s Bill’s RAF address. Write and tell him you’ve been looking for him. He’d like to know that. But do it soon. He’s getting a new posting and who knows where he’ll be this time next month?’
Mrs Gilbie held May’s hand. ‘I told my Bill not to give up on you.’ She sighed, glancing over her shoulder down the passage. ‘It looks like he’s burned his bridges, but… just make sure you write to him! Bye, love!’ And, seemingly on impulse, the woman leaned forward to kiss May’s cheek.
The night was already drawing in. With snow beginning to dust the pavements and no street lights to guide her, May walked hesitantly into the gloom, feeling transported to those dark days of her childhood blindness. But now she was grateful for the experience, for though hot stinging tears blurred the icy street ahead, she knew how to navigate her way by touch alone. Through this opaque night, she felt her way forward as she’d done when a child.
She was making her way along St James’s Road when the sound of sirens split the night. She looked back at the cloaked bell tower of the church. It was probably another false alarm, but she’d rather not go home anyway. She wanted to hide herself in the depths of a cave somewhere, to lick her wounds and curse herself for failing to know her own heart.
She supposed she could go back to Mrs Gilbie – for some reason the woman seemed to be on her side, and if she’d been alone in the house, May might have. But the prospect of a night in an Anderson shelter with the unsmiling Iris was impossible. The nearest public shelter was in St James’s Crypt, so she joined a group of people hurrying towards the church. They clattered down a small flight of stone stairs at the side of the old Waterloo church, and when May entered the musty, damp crypt, relief flooded her, not for safety’s sake but because she had found her cave to hide away in.
She looked around at the wooden bunks built into the crypt bays. Most had already been claimed by families, who were piling bags and bedding on to them. She pushed her way to the very end of the crypt, next to an iron grating, which blocked off an even darker, danker set of bays full of ancient coffins. Even she couldn’t go that far into the depths, so she settled for the nearest empty bunk, and curled up on it with her empty shopping bag. Would her mother be worrying about her? She must know that May would take shelter. She comforted herself by imagining Mrs Lloyd already tucked up in her blanket on a platform at London Bridge.
May was glad of the bustle around her. Some children were chattering excitedly as they strung paper chains around the bunks, mothers were scolding, and someone on the piano struck up ‘Away in a Manger’, so that soon people all around the crypt began joining in softly, singing along to the old tune. The background noise was thick and white as the fog outside, and on it she was able to write her future as though it were the blank leaf of a book. Dear Bill, I hear you’re engaged…
By the time the vicar came into the shelter, to lead them in a prayer, May had begun to resign herself to the consequences of the first big mistake of her life.
‘Oh Lord defend us, from all the perils and dangers of this night…’ he prayed, and though she knew it was a temporary refuge, for tonight, she was glad of this crypt for her bed and accepted gratefully all its protection and its peace.
*
May was drinking Granny Byron’s dark brown brew, as together they mulled over the state of her mother.
‘She’s a bit better, but she’s still up London Bridge every night, even when it’s not necessary any more. I’m just worried this business with Peggy’s going to set her back. You know Mum’s turned her back on her?’
Her grandmother shook her head sadly. ‘Cutting off her nose to spite her face. She’ll regret it. You can’t pick and choose! She asked for a grandchild, and that’s what she’s bleedin’ well getting.’
‘I think she’ll come round. Not so sure about Dad, though.’ May had been shocked at the strength of her father’s disapproval and she wondered, would he give her the same treatment, should she ever disappoint him?
Granny Byron sat in her round-backed wooden chair, sucking thoughtfully on the old clay pipe. ‘I’ve told Peggy she can come to me, if she needs help.’
Her grandmother could always surprise her, and it warmed her heart to know that when she went back to the gun site after Christmas, Peggy would still have at least one friend in Bermondsey to help her through.
May had told her grandmother about Harry’s child being looked after by Bill’s parents. Peggy had enough troubles of her own, so May had poured out her heart to her Granny Byron.
‘I wouldn’t write off Bill Gilbie, love,’ her grandmother advised. ‘You can have all the fiancées in the world, but it’s not ’apporth o’ coppers if you don’t love ’em. It can all change. Specially in wartime. I saw enough of it during the last one...’
‘I think that’s sort of what Bill’s mum was hinting at…’
‘She sounds like a sensible woman. But what about your mum? We should have got her right out of London.’
May shook her head. ‘She won’t leave Dad.’
In the end they decided it would be enough to take turns collecting her mother from London Bridge each morning. Mrs Lloyd wasn’t about to give up her nightly pilgrimage, but once there for the night she wouldn’t stray, and May could keep an eye on her during the daytime.
In the days before Christmas her mother seemed to improve. There was no more confusion about Jack coming home from the war and, most of the time, she seemed to know where she was. May began to relax, hoping that now they were over the anniversary of Jack’s death, her mother would return to her old self.
*
It was the weekend before Christmas. Her father had a night off from ARP duties and May felt bad about leaving him alone, but she’d arranged to spend the evening with Emmy. She’d seen very little of her friend so far this leave, but tonight, with only a few days of freedom left, they were pushing the boat out. They were going dancing in the West End. Emmy’s brother, Frank, was home on leave too, and had invited himself along. When they arrived at a pitch-black Tottenham Court Road, May was glad he’d come along as their escort. A trip ‘over the other side’ was a rare event, usually reserved for special occasions, and May had no idea which way they should go. The darkened West End streets were bursting with servicemen of all nationalities – free French soldiers, puffing on strong-smelling cigarettes, Polish airmen, with their slick hair and moustaches, big-boned Canadians and bronzed Aussies. The mix of uniforms and accents was dizzying. Parties of girls, with matching hairdos and painted-on stockings, walked in excited bunches along Oxford Street. Without street lamps or illuminated shop fronts to light their way, it seemed easier to bunch up and follow the crowd. Falling in with them, May and her friends headed towards what they hoped would be the Tottenham Court Road Ballro
om.
When the crowd came to a halt, May assumed they’d arrived. Once inside, they had barely checked in their coats when May was swept off her feet by a sailor. It was as if, by walking through the doors, she had declared herself willing to dance with any stranger. He guided her expertly into the circulating flow of dancers so that, try as she might to keep her eye on Emmy, she was soon borne away on an irresistible whirlpool of dancing and music. The sailor, a Scotsman named Donald who seemed to know all the latest dance moves, set about teaching her the jitterbug, and in the glitter of the ballroom lights she found herself hoisted over his shoulder and swung through his legs. She knew she was an adequate dancer, but he made her feel like a brilliant one. By some sort of magic he transformed her, so that for once she felt deserving of her nickname, Ginger. The exhilaration of the night was only heightened when the sirens sounded and the required invitation to leave the ballroom was simply booed down. The dancing went on through the raid and by the end of the night her feet were sore, but her heart was lighter than it had been all that leave. She was happy to give the Scottish sailor his goodnight kiss, and when she made it clear there’d be no more, he draped her coat over her shoulders, pecking her cheek.
‘Merry Christmas, May,’ he said. ‘Sure would’ve liked to take you home to Mother!’
‘Merry Christmas, Donald... and good luck!’ she called after his retreating figure, looking around for her friends.
Emmy had to be disentangled from the arms of a tall RAF boy, and her brother Frank was nowhere to be found.
‘Come on, May.’ Emmy linked arms. ‘He’s big enough to look after himself.’
But when they were almost at the Underground he caught up with them, emerging like a smiling ghost out of the black night.
‘Bloody good escort you are,’ Emmy said. ‘Look at you, with that smile on your face. Who is she?’
Frank pushed back his field cap and stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘Love of me life, Em. Swear it,’ he slurred. ‘Got ’er address an’ everything.’ He held up a crumpled packet of Weights, with an address written on the back.
‘Bet tomorrow you won’t remember your own bleedin’ address, let alone hers!’
He smiled bleary-eyed, swaying and bumping against a Canadian soldier, who told him to ‘watch out, pal’. And Frank, who seemed in love with the whole world, thinking he really was the Canadian’s pal, did an about face and walked along beside the soldier.
‘Wrong way!’ Emmy said, hauling Frank back and steering him between herself and May, so that they managed to keep him on track. By eleven-thirty their Tube train was pulling into London Bridge and they had to shake Frank awake.
‘Do you want to go and see if your mum’s all right?’ Emmy asked.
But May didn’t want to come down to reality just yet. ‘No. She’ll be fast ’oh by now.’
‘Go an’ shee yer mum, May – go on!’ Frank said, with a serious, drunk face. ‘Should go’n shee yer mum… May…’ He prodded her. ‘May…’
‘Chrissake, Frank, she can hear you, leave her alone!’ Emmy said.
He gave her a look of exaggerated hurt, which she ignored.
‘Take no notice of him, May.’
‘Well, I suppose I could do. I might even stay the night here with her. I’ll only have to come back first thing tomorrow morning to turf her out. Seems silly.’
‘All right, love, if you’re sure,’ Emmy said, yawning.
‘Oh, Em, didn’t we have a lovely night?’
‘Yes, love, we did, apart from this big lump,’ she said, hooking her arm through Frank’s.
They were walking towards the stairs, carefully avoiding the feet of sleeping bodies ranged against the platform wall, when Frank found his voice and decided to lead their fellow passengers in a slurred version of ‘Ding Dong Merrily on High’.
‘Shut yer cake ’ole!’ came an angry muffled shout from beneath a lone blanket rolled up against the platform wall. A head poked out and a white-haired woman said, ‘I’m tryin’ a sleep here!’
‘He’s not with me!’ Emmy raised her eyes and the two friends laughed, parting as May turned off towards the Northbound platform.
She smiled as she watched Emmy, supporting her great, six-foot brother, winding their way towards the exit. It had been one of those rare nights when, in spite of being surrounded by evidence of the war, she had felt above it all. She knew it was an illusion, but for a few hours she’d been able to play at living a carefree life. She had tried hard to banish those feelings of regret at losing Bill and perhaps she had succeeded, if just for tonight. She walked to the end of the Northbound platform, feeling hopeful, feeling that this war could not last forever and that, soon, she could begin to live her life.
In the months following the Blitz fewer people had bothered to come down to shelter in the deep Tube lines. But her mother and a few other diehards still had their regular pitches, and she found her fast asleep, near the tunnel mouth, wrapped up in two grey blankets. May lifted a corner of the top blanket and slipped under it, curling round her mother, who stirred.
‘It’s only me, Mum,’ she whispered. Her mother smiled sleepily and, without opening her eyes, said, ‘Good girl, best place for you, safer.’ And she fell immediately back to sleep. Lulled by her mother’s soft snores, May was soon drifting off to sleep herself. Oblivious to the late-night passengers stepping off the trains and over their huddled figures, May felt only her mother’s familiar presence. And she understood how this place, deep in the earth, could begin to seem like home.
Her mother was delighted to find May lying next to her in the morning, remembering nothing of the night before. She seemed to take her presence for granted and May was eager to get her mother moving early, the peace and hope of the night before replaced by a need to get back to her real home. On the bus, May kept her mother entertained with tales of her night out and it wasn’t until they got off and began walking up Southwark Park Road that she noticed the light in the sky had changed. A lurid, false dawn lay ahead of them. May spotted flames, flicking up from several houses and she broke into a run, but her way was blocked by a team of firemen. Struggling with a bucking hose, they aimed a jet of water into flames leaping from a hole in a nearby roof. She came to a halt. Following the jets of water to their target, she realized to her horror that their house was on fire. But how? It looked as if they had taken a direct hit, but how was that possible when there had been no raid?
Mrs Lloyd came up beside her and May held her mother back, trying to shield her from the sight of her home burning. But she pushed May away, the hint of a smile on her face, ruddy in the glow of the fire. ‘I knew we’d get it,’ she said. ‘See! You thought I’d lost me marbles, but I knew we’d get it.’ And the woman started to walk away. May ran after her, holding her tight, like a squirming child. ‘No, Mum, you’ve got to stay here.’ Then, looking back to the house, she remembered – her father had stayed at home last night.
‘Dad, Dad!’ she screamed above the whooshing of the water jet and the crackling of the flames. The top floor of the house was alight, but the downstairs hadn’t caught. Perhaps her father was still in the kitchen. She screamed again, and felt a hand on her shoulder.
Her mother pointed to the fire crew. There was her father at the front, helping to direct the hose. May gripped her mother tightly as they stood and watched their house burn.
When the last of the flames had flickered out and the smell of wet charred timber filled the air, her father finally came over to them.
‘How’s me girls?’ he said, in a smoke-gruff voice. ‘All right?’
He slumped to the kerb, arms on knees, head dipped. May sat beside him, pulling down her mother too, who, careless of the dirt, joined them on the kerbstone.
‘Dad, what happened? We never heard any sirens!’
‘Unexploded bomb, probably been sitting there since the summer. Went off, burst a gas main and the whole lot’s gone up. It’s a miracle I got out, to tell you the truth, love,’
he said, gathering May into his arms.
‘What now, Dad?’ May whispered.
‘Might be able to save some of the downstairs, but all the bedrooms are fire-damaged. It’s the rest centre for you two.’ Her exhausted father could barely speak. ‘I’m staying here, make sure nothing gets nicked.’
‘Not me! No, I’m not going in no rest centre!’ her mother protested. ‘It’ll be Keeton’s Road School all over again – you’re not getting me in one of them!’ Her mother was remembering the bombing of a nearby school rest centre, where many sheltering families had been killed. Mrs Lloyd struggled to her feet, but May held on to her.
‘Well, you’ve got to bloody well go there, and that’s that!’ Her father’s voice cracked and he put his head into his hands.
Mrs Lloyd’s shocked face probably mirrored her own; it was so unusual for her father to raise his voice. She saw despair, even desperation, in his red-rimmed eyes. But May knew how hard it had been to get her mother out of the Underground station. She was certain she’d never persuade her into the rest centre.
An alternative occurred to May, yet she hesitated, fearing to upset her father even more. But, torn between her dissolving mother and her breaking father, May had no choice. She caught Mrs Lloyd’s elbow.
‘Come on, Mum, I know somewhere you’ll be safe,’ she said.
19
Bombed Out
Christmas 1941–January 1942
Letting the green uniform frock fall to the floor, Peggy stepped out of it and stumbled in the darkness across the blacked-out room. The short walk across the passage to the bedroom seemed too far, her legs trembled with fatigue and she swayed drunkenly, her eyes closing even as she dropped on to the sofa. She had no memory of falling asleep, but at some point in the early hours she’d woken shivering and felt around on the floor for her WVS overcoat. She pulled it over her.