Octavia's War

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘It’s all right,’ she would say, in her firm voice. ‘We’re here. We’ve got you. You’re all right.’ And she would light a cigarette and put it between her casualty’s dust-caked lips and smile encouragement at them, even if their injuries were making her ache with pity. It was dreadful when the body lifted from the wreckage turned out to be a child or, even worse, was dead, but she even got used to that after a time.

  ‘Bloody war!’ she would say. ‘I hope they put that bloody Goering up against a wall when all this is over and blow his bloody brains out. Bloody monster.’ She’d never sworn so much in her life.

  ‘Our Dora’s a giddy marvel,’ they said at the ARP post, and she took it as the compliment it was.

  But it wasn’t a job she could do night after night without a break and she was glad when she got time off, especially when she could persuade Edie and the kids to come to Balham and visit her.

  ‘I don’t see much of you what with one thing and another,’ she wrote to Edie at the end of a particularly bad week. ‘How about coming over this Saturday?’

  It was such a good afternoon and the sisters enjoyed every chattering minute of it, remembering old times, drinking endless cups of tea, eating Dora’s special scones, playing Pit by the fire the way they’d done when they were children. Outside their blacked-out windows, the November dusk cast its sooty pall over the High Street and people walked home as fast as they could with their coat collars turned up and their hands in their pockets for warmth, but inside the flat they were too cosy and happy together to notice how late it was getting. When the clock struck six, it made Edie jump.

  ‘Oh, my good God,’ she said. ‘Look at the time, Dora. We shall have to be getting back or the sirens’ll go. Come on you three. Chop, chop. Get your hats and coats. We’re late.’

  ‘Why don’t you go on the Tube?’ Dora said. ‘That’d be quicker.’

  But Edie decided they’d go on the tram the way they always did. ‘We’re used to it, Dotty. It’s the way we go.’

  It was a mistake, for the air raid sirens began to howl as they were passing Tooting Broadway and by the time they reached Colliers Wood it was completely dark and the raid had begun. As they stood on the platform of the tram, waiting to get off, they could hear the laboured drone of the German bombers overhead and ack-ack firing somewhere close by, ferdum, fer-dum, fer-dum.

  ‘I don’t think we’ll go back home tonight,’ Edie decided. ‘We’ll stay on the tram and go straight to the Tube.’

  ‘What about our pillows?’ Barbara objected. ‘What’ll we sleep on if we haven’t got our pillows?’

  ‘You can use me,’ Edie said. ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘What, all of us?’ Maggie said. ‘You’ll be squashed.’

  ‘I can be squashed for one night,’ Edie told her. ‘Don’t make that face. Better to have no pillow than a lump of shrapnel sticking in your head. Come on. We’re here.’

  They climbed down from the tram and ran across the dark road as quickly as they could, dodging the traffic. All three children were panting when they reached the Tube station but none of them minded. They were safe. That was what mattered. Nothing could hurt them once they were underground.

  The platform was already crowded and noisy, as mothers tried to settle their children for the night and people gossiped with their neighbours. Mrs Holdsworthy was sitting with her back against the wall putting in her hair curlers. ‘You’re late,’ she said. ‘I thought you wasn’t coming. There’s tea in the flask if you want some. Where’ve you been?’

  ‘We’ve come without our pillows,’ Barbara told her.

  ‘’Ave yer, duck?’ Mrs Holdsworthy said. ‘Well, never mind. You can have a lend a’ mine if you like. You’ll ’ave ter keep your ’ead still or I shall spike you with me curlers.’

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ Barbara said, much impressed. ‘Would you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m a devil with me curlers.’

  ‘I’ll make a pillow of my coat,’ Edie said, and did. ‘Now let’s have you settled.’

  ‘We don’t have to go to sleep yet,’ Maggie said. ‘We’ve only just got here. It’s not time.’

  ‘It’s past time,’ Edie said firmly, ‘as well you know, so yes, you do.’ It was chilly without her coat and she was beginning to wonder whether she ought to have risked it and gone home for the things they needed. The girls were warm enough all bundled up in their coats and scarves but it would be hard sleeping on the platform without the sleeping bags and blankets to protect them.

  It was a long difficult night. Edie turned and fidgeted and couldn’t get comfortable no matter what position she tried and the children were as restless as she was. All three of them woke one after the other and had to be escorted into the tunnel so that they could have a wee and then took ages to settle again. Their immediate neighbour was snoring and so deeply asleep that even when Edie gave her a good hard poke she didn’t stir, and there seemed to be people coming and going all night long. It’s because we’re not sleeping, Edie thought. They probably do this every night only we sleep through it and don’t notice it.

  She was really glad when the first train came through and people began to stir and make ready for the day. ‘Come on you lot,’ she said to her three girls. Now that the night was over, they were fast asleep rolled together in her coat and they looked really comfortable. It seemed a pity to wake them but they couldn’t stay there now that the trains were running. ‘Six o’clock. Wake up. Let’s get home and have a nice wash. You look like gypsies.’

  ‘I’ll follow you down,’ Mrs Holdsworthy said. ‘Must do me hair. See you later gels.’

  It had been a bad raid. Edie could tell that the minute she stepped out into the morning darkness. The air was full of the smell of bombed houses, that horrible combination of brick dust and gas and shit that she knew so well and found so appalling. And there was shrapnel all over the place and shards of broken glass glinting on the pavement.

  ‘Mind where you’re putting your feet,’ she warned. ‘There’s a lot of glass. Hold onto my hand, Joanie, there’s a good girl. I don’t want you running off. And you two hold on tight to one another.’

  ‘That’s Mr Perkins’ paper shop,’ Maggie said, and stopped to take a closer look. Only half the shop was still standing and there was a great pile of rubble where the rest of it ought to have been and lots of men digging and a very strong smell of gas. ‘Look, Mum, Mr Perkins been bombed.’

  ‘Yes,’ Edie said shortly. ‘Come on. They won’t want us in the way if they’ve got all this to clear up. I thought you wanted to get home.’

  They trailed along beside her looking back at the wreckage, wide-eyed and serious. She gave their hands a tug to get them to walk more quickly because she didn’t want them to see someone being dug out. That wouldn’t do at all. ‘Cup of tea,’ she said, ‘and then a nice wash.’ And she turned the corner into Wycliffe Road.

  Even in the poor light of a bombed dawn, she could see that there was rubble all over the road. Oh my God, she thought, it must be one of the neighbours. As they got closer to it, she saw that it was actually a long trail of broken bricks that led to a great jagged pile of bricks and planks and rubble. It looked as if it had just spilt out onto the pavement and it had obviously come from somewhere very near her house. Very, very near. Almost… Then she was stopped by a moment of disbelief and horror, too shocked to move on. Oh dear God, it was right where their house was. No, she corrected herself, not where their house was, where their house had been. She stood quite still holding her two youngest children firmly by the hand, stunned and staring. There was nothing left if it. Not a single brick. It was just a great gaping hole. Their home, where they were going to have a nice cup of tea and a nice wash. Oh my dear, good God! What am I going to do?

  The girls were stunned too. They didn’t cry and they didn’t move and they didn’t speak. They just stood where they were, holding her hand and staring. She knew she ought to say something to comfort them, poor little things, but her mind
was stuck and she couldn’t think of anything. This was my home, she thought. My lovely home. And there’s nothing left of it.

  She was aware that there was somebody standing beside her and looked round to see Mr Topham. At first she thought he looked like a ghost in that dreadful darkness but then she realised that he was covered in dust, his dark suit smeared all down the front, and his shoes so white it looked as though he’d been walking through flour. Even his moustache was dusty, poor man, and he looked so drawn that for a moment she barely recognised him.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Direct hit, I’m afraid. We’ve had a right night of it. What a blessing you was in the Tube. Was Mrs Holdsworthy with you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, looking back at the hole that had been her home. Where had everything gone? It couldn’t just have disappeared, all the sheets and the pillow cases and the cooker and her nice clock and everything. Then she saw that half of Arthur’s chair was sticking out of the pile, covered in dust, and that two of her best cups were lying next to the legs all chipped and filthy. Bloody Hitler, she thought, doing this to me.

  ‘I’ll just make my report,’ Mr Topham said, ‘and let them know you’re OK. Be back in a jiffy.’

  Barbara was pulling at her mother’s sleeve and whispering urgently. ‘Mummy, mummy. What are we going to do?’

  She gave herself a shake and took a decision. ‘We’re going to catch a train and go to your Aunt Tavy’s,’ she said.

  Octavia and Emmeline had overslept that morning and were sitting by the kitchen fire swathed in their dressing gowns gathering their thoughts before they began the day. It was Sunday so there was no rush.

  ‘The nice thing about Sunday,’ Emmeline said, ‘is having time for an extra cup of tea with your feet on the fender.’ And then, just as she settled her cup into its saucer, the doorbell rang.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Octavia said. ‘It’s bound to be for me.’ Janet was upstairs cleaning the bathroom and there was no point in calling her down just to answer the door. ‘I’ll get it, Janet,’ she called from the hall.

  The surprise of seeing Edie and her children on the doorstep quickly turned to shock when she realised what a dishevelled state they were in, their hair unbrushed, their faces filthy dirty, with no luggage.

  ‘We’ve been bombed out, Aunt,’ Edie said. Her voice was totally without emotion, as though she was speaking in a dream. ‘It’s all gone.’

  Octavia was mentally checking them over, looking for signs of blood or injury and relieved not to find any. ‘Never mind,’ she said, comforting at once and by instinct. ‘You’re here now.’ And she took the nearest child by the arm and led her into the house, calling over her shoulder for Emmeline. ‘Em! It’s Edie.’

  Emmeline came out of the kitchen in a rush, took one look and ran towards them. ‘Oh my dear, good God!’ she said. ‘What’s happened to you? Are you all right?’

  ‘They’ve been bombed out,’ Octavia told her calmly, ‘but they’re all right. They haven’t been hurt. Have you? No, I thought not. And I’ll bet you haven’t had any breakfast either.’

  ‘We came straight here,’ Edie said, still stony-faced.

  ‘Quite right,’ Octavia said, and turned to the girls. ‘Let’s get you into the kitchen and see what you could fancy,’ she said. ‘And then we must get you into a bath, mustn’t we, Em?’

  To her considerable relief, Em took her cue and led the children into the kitchen. ‘Nice pot of tea,’ she said. ‘And then I’ll rustle up some nice boiled eggs and soldiers. How would that be? Would you like a boiled egg, Joanie?’

  And at that Edie began to cry, her whole body shaken by tearing sobs, on and on and on. Emmeline let go of Barbara’s hand and turned her full attention to her daughter. She put her arms round her, kissed her and held her, murmuring to her as though she was a child. ‘Never mind my little lovely. I’ve got you. You’re all right now. Never you mind. We’ll look after you.’

  Octavia left them to it. There were other things that had to be attended to and she was already thinking about them. People who’d been bombed out got special ration cards and allowances to help them with the things they needed, like food and clothes. They couldn’t live in the same clothes for long so the sooner she saw about that the better. Now who would know? The WVS probably. What was the name of that nice woman who helped us when we first arrived? We must have a record of it somewhere. Maggie would have it. And she took the phone off the hook.

  Maggie was having a bit of a lie-in too that morning. It had been a difficult week. But she got up at once when the phone rang and walked quickly across the room to answer it.

  ‘You don’t happen to have the name and address of that nice WVS woman, do you?’ Octavia said. ‘The one who gave us the list of all the billets when we first got down’

  ‘I can’t remember it off hand,’ Maggie said, ‘but I know where it is. Hold on a tick and I’ll get it for you.’

  Thank God for our Maggie, Octavia thought. Now what else has got to be done? She reached for a pencil and began to make notes on the telephone pad. Clothes. Make list. Where to buy? Primary schools. London or local? Beds and bedding. Chertsey Road? What a good job we’ve got those two rooms in the attic. Inform ARP at Colliers Wood. Register ration books. Library tickets.

  * * *

  After the shock of their arrival, Edie and the girls settled in extremely quickly. By the time the children had all been put in a warm bath and made presentable, Janet had given the attic rooms a quick brush and polish and made up the double bed for them. ‘Now you have a nice little rest,’ Emmeline said, tucking them under the clean sheets, ‘and when you wake up you shall have dinner with us and then you’ve all feel much better.’ Privately, she was worrying about how little food she’d got in the cupboard and thinking what a nuisance it was that it was Sunday and she couldn’t go shopping, but it was a minor worry, she would soon work something out. The great thing was that they hadn’t been hurt.

  ‘Sleep tight, my ducks,’ she said as she left the room. ‘You’re with me now.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Lizzie Meriton was looking forward to Christmas that year. She knew she couldn’t go back to London and spend it with her family. The bombing had put paid to that. But her brothers were coming down to see her, they’d promised faithfully, and so had her mother and Pa, and there was the sixth-form play to look forward to and the music festival and the Downview party. It was going to be a good time, Smithie said so. And if Smithie said so, you could depend on it.

  The weather was foul, damp and cold and miserably dark, but inside their two school buildings the walls were sun-bright with paper chains and lanterns and there were boldly coloured pictures all along the corridors, thanks to Miss Bertram and her art classes, and they sang their favourite carols at every assembly. It was normal, like it had been in Roehampton, when there weren’t bombs and people getting killed and injured, or dog-fights and people getting shot down and having to worry about your brothers, when it was peaceful and you could get on with your life in your own home and sleep in your own bed and see your Pa every day. What a long time ago Roehampton seemed! A lifetime. But Christmas was coming and it was going to be lovely. Smithie said so.

  Edie was looking forward to the holiday too, which quite surprised her, because when her house had been bombed she’d thought she would never be able to enjoy anything ever again. But there you are, she told herself, you get over things somehow or other and Aunt Tavy’s making such an effort with this Christmas it would be unkind not to enjoy it. They were going to have a family party and Dora was going to try and get down and had promised that, if she did, she would bring David with her, and John too if he could get home, and Johnnie had written to Ma to say that he would do ‘his darndest’ to join them ‘and he couldn’t say better than that’. Of course, she kept thinking of poor Arthur, all on his own in that horrible prison camp, but she and the girls had sent him the best parcel they could put together, with a pair of hand-knitted socks to keep him warm and th
e writing paper and envelopes he’d asked for and even a bar of Nestle’s chocolate she’d bought with her sweet ration, and she’d written him a long letter telling him how much she loved him and wanted to see him again, and the girls had painted special Christmas cards for him. Even Joanie had made a card of sorts scribbled all over with her coloured crayons and with her name written inside, with a bit of help from Maggie. And now everyone in the house was getting ready for Christmas Day.

  Janet seemed to be everywhere all the time and always hard at work, making up camp beds and giving all the rooms a thorough good clean, answering the phone and the door, up and about long before everyone else, making the breakfast. She said she wanted to get everything good and ready before she went to Gateshead. Ma was in her element with all the family coming. She’d made a huge Christmas pudding. The house had smelt of it for days. There was a cake too, not iced of course because the sugar ration wouldn’t run to that and in any case you weren’t allowed to ice cakes, but a nice cake just the same. Aunt Tavy had made a wreath of holly and hung it over the door knocker; and the house was decorated with paper chains; and there were carols on the wireless; and the Christmas cards were beginning to arrive, even though it was only the 10th of December. We’re eager for it, she thought, because it’s the season of peace and goodwill. But thinking the words upset her because there was no peace, the bombing was still going on and Arthur was still a prisoner of war, and not much goodwill either. The papers kept saying that Hitler’s U-boats were sinking our merchant ships every single day and hinting that the rations were going to be reduced again when the holiday was over. But for the moment it was Christmas and candles were lit behind the blackout. And the war couldn’t go on forever. It had to end sooner or later.