On the following Monday the postwoman came to Lizzie Crossman’s with the news that George was coming home. He was on his way to the Wharncliffe Emergency Hospital, one of two hundred sick and injured men to return from the front. The news brought Lizzie leaping from the pit of despair. The following day she caught the train to Sheffield and offered her services at the Victoria Station canteen which had been set up for the forces. She might not have been told the extent of George’s injuries, but he was alive, when she had believed him dead. Her beloved George was coming home.
Both Warrentickle and Cottenly chapels were filled to capacity on the following Sunday, as both the Crossmans and the Stanfords gave thanks for George’s return. Jimmy decided to attend the service at Warrentickle, knowing that Sergeant Reynolds was bound to be amongst the congregation at Cottenly. Brian, who had no option but to attend with Auntie Alice, felt quite sick after being forced to stare at the back of the frightening man throughout the service, so sick that he had to stay home from school on the following day. Alice was glad of the excuse to spend the day mollycoddling him, much to Brian’s disgust and Jennifer’s envy.
Because of the excitement at the news of George’s return, only Ruth noticed her nephew’s absence from chapel and afterwards the change in Jimmy’s behaviour, and as it seemed to have quietened him down somewhat she decided that whatever had happened it could only have been for the best. At least the little lad would soon have his father back, even if he wasn’t the same healthy man who had gone away. Ruth said a special prayer as she looked around her at the congregation, a prayer that the end would come soon to the war which was robbing children of fathers and mothers of sons. She looked at Olive, parted from a young man she loved, uncertain if he would ever return. She prayed that the fighting would end before Harry and Joseph and her own Billy were old enough to join the evil wickedness of war. The Luftwaffe had blitzed Coventry only a few nights before. Ruth frowned and wondered where they would strike next. She reached out her hand and twined her fingers round those of her husband and thanked God that as a farmer he was safe. She opened her hymn book and joined the others in singing ‘There is a happy land, far far away’, and found her eyes brimming with tears so that the words formed a blur on the page and she wondered about a God who could allow men to begin wars, and innocent children to be slaughtered. Then she prayed to that same God for forgiveness.
Jimmy and his grandfather were enthralled by the music. The boy had been bored by some of it but the Hallelujah Chorus was another thing altogether. He found his foot tapping to the beat and couldn’t help joining in with the choir’s enthusiastic ‘Hallelujah, hallelujah’. Grandfather Crossman’s face was flushed with pleasure and pride that at least one of George’s brood had inherited his appreciation of music, not only the music hall stuff, but real music. Then the atmosphere was suddenly shattered as the long wail of the air-raid warning filled the hall. Jimmy glanced round him with excitement. Coming into Sheffield at night was in itself an adventure, but an air raid on top of it, wow. The choir faltered slightly, but the conductor carried on to the end. Although tonight was just a rehearsal for the proper concert on Sunday, he was determined to finish and see how the performance went down with the invited audience. It was probably a false alarm anyway and there was no sense in causing a panic. Eventually, after much bowing and applauding, the hall slowly emptied.
‘Can we still go for our pie and peas?’ Jimmy enquired, obviously expecting the promised treat to have been cancelled. Not wanting to let down his grandson by getting the first bus home, the old man looked around him. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry to clear the streets and it would probably turn out to be a non-event anyway.
‘As long as we don’t linger too long,’ he said, ‘I don’t see why not.’ He glanced at his gold retirement watch. ‘Plenty of time before the last bus.’ Then he led the lad, skipping beside him, to the pie and pea stall down by the market.
Unfortunately for the pair, they never boarded the last bus. Instead, they were caught up in what was to be the first and worst raid on Sheffield throughout the whole war. The bus station was in chaos, with buses either diverted or at a standstill. Trams were still running, intent upon getting as many people home as possible just in case this time turned out to be the real thing. As far as Walter Crossman could make out he had two choices: take to the shelter – as most people seemed to be doing after the second alert had sounded – or board a tram to the outskirts of the city and cover the last several miles on foot. He chose the latter, cramming into the crowded vehicle and standing the whole way until they reached the end of the line.
‘Looks like the blighters are here at last,’ the conductor called as the sound of planes droned overhead. ‘Come on, you lot, shift yerselves. Let’s get the next lot home.’ Only a handful of passengers boarded the tram as the man made his way to the other end of the vehicle. By this time the bombing had begun and flames could already be seen rising above the city to the south. ‘Daft lot. You’d be better off in the shelters if you ask me.’
‘I’m going to work.’ A young woman in a nurse’s uniform glared at the man, who looked shamefaced.
‘Aye, lass, so I notice now I’ve opened me peepholes.’ He waved away her proffered fare and gave her a ticket. ‘Looks like yer’ll be needed before the night’s out.’
Jimmy set off by his grandfather’s side, turning frequently to view the glow, orange against the darkness of the sky. ‘It’s a long way, Grandad, for you with a bad leg I mean.’ The old man grinned and thought about the miles he’d tramped during his working life, out to the pit and then back again underground, almost bent double through water-logged seams before reaching the required work place. An upright walk on dry ground would be a doddle, even with a rheumaticky leg.
‘Don’t worrit about me, lad,’ he said. ‘Worrit about the poor souls back there. Let’s hope it’s not a repetition of Coventry.’
Jimmy turned for another look, and at the same moment the drone of a plane drew his eyes upwards. Suddenly his grandfather grabbed him by the waist and pushed him across the footpath and down flat beneath the hedge overhanging the wall. ‘Keep down.’ He covered the boy with his body as the stray bomber shed its load, not on its obvious target of the industrial part of the city, but out here where nothing except stone houses and shops lined the main road. The plane had gone, heading on towards the deep, red sky over the centre. The two figures untangled themselves and looked about them. The explosion happened just as Jimmy finished brushing the mud from his best Sunday trousers.
‘Eeh, lad, some poor devil’s copped it.’ But Jimmy had already jumped the hedge and was running in the direction of the blast. Falling and tumbling, he descended the bank to where the flames and smoke rose thickly into the night. He stumbled over something – a kitchen chair – and now he could see the house, a small one, more like a cottage. The door had gone, disappeared with the blast, and the heat sent another window shattering towards him. Then he heard the scream, and the cry of a baby, or an animal. Jimmy could hear his grandfather calling him to come back. The old man, unsure of his feet in the darkness, had made his way the long way, along the path to the gate, and down the field.
Jimmy went towards the doorway, but the heat forced him back, singeing his fringe of hair. He ran round the building, stepping in a saucepan in his hurry, twisting his foot out of it and rushing to the back of the house. There was no door here. He went to the window, relieved to see the rooms on this side were in darkness. Still holding the heavy iron saucepan, he used it to break the glass pane and climbed in. The heat met him, even through the thickness of the inner stone wall. Fumbling in the dark he made his way to the door, frightened of what he would be met with when he opened it. Suddenly he remembered Olive’s reading book, the one he had seen her studying from the first-aid class. He felt around on the floor and found a rag rug. Wrapping it round him, he covered as much of his body as he was able and pushed open the door.
Nothing but smoke met his eyes and
he realised he was in a narrow passageway. He felt the heat through a second door and was just about to open it when the sound of screams filled his ears, coming from the other end of the passage. He ran blindly towards the cries, which led him onwards and up the stairs. On the landing he was faced with a wall of rubble and from behind it the screaming continued. Jimmy grappled with his hands, digging, shifting plaster and roof tiles. He tugged at a heavy beam of wood and heaved it down the staircase. Eventually, after what seemed an age he managed to make a way through the rubble and break into the room.
The woman crouching against the wall looked like a corpse in the darkness, her eyes staring and her screams so hideous that the baby in her arms was crying mainly from fear of its mother. Jimmy took the baby from her and heaved the woman to her feet. He pulled her roughly out of the bedroom, just as the flames burst through the downstairs door. ‘Look sharp,’ he said and pushed her towards the stairs. The smoke billowed upwards and filled their lungs. Jimmy found the rug amongst the rubble and covered the baby, still pushing the terrified woman, so that she fell halfway down the stairs, where she sat, fearful of entering the flames and agonised by pain from the leg trapped beneath her.
‘Go on,’ Jimmy shouted. ‘Run through the back.’ But the woman sat trance-like, blocking the stairs. ‘Bloody ’ell,’ Jimmy cursed, and ran up towards the room they had just vacated. He could hear the sound of a fire engine somewhere. He went to the window, twisted the latch and heaved at the sash, managing to slide it upwards. He could see nobody. Where were they all? He called out, ‘Help! Round the back.’ Then, at last, somebody was coming, then the sound of footsteps was drowned as the woman started to scream again. Bloody stupid woman. Why wouldn’t she move? He knew she had left it too late to go downwards but she couldn’t stay there. Jimmy saw his grandfather now, his face ashen beneath the window.
‘I’m going to drop the baby,’ he called. ‘You’ll have to catch it.’ He looked down; it wasn’t too far. He wrapped the child tightly in the rag rug and leaned as far as he dared before dropping it gently from his arms.
‘I’ve got it.’ He heard the well-loved voice. ‘Jimmy, there’s help on the way. Stop where you are.’ But Jimmy was gone, back to the woman. By now the wooden laths, the staircase and even the ceiling beams were alight. Jimmy dragged the woman to her feet, by the hair and her underarms, any way he could to heave her back up the stairs. He beat out the flames from the hem of her nightie with his bare hands and dragged her into the room, managing to close the warped door as far as it would go. He pulled her feet first across the floor, wondering if she were dead.
Jimmy vaguely noticed the ladder and the face of the fireman at the open window before the smoke made breathing no longer possible and he sank into unconsciousness.
Lizzie looked at the clock. Jimmy should have been home hours ago and she had spent the last few hours pacing the house and mashing endless cups of tea. She had sent Harry to Warrentickle, in case his brother had decided to stay the night with his grandparents. Her panic had increased when Olive had announced on her arrival home that the fires in the city could be seen from the top of Queen Victoria Street. Bessie, in her usual blustery manner, had almost allayed her mother’s fears – but not quite. ‘It’s just like our Jimmy to stay out and not let us know. I’ll bet he’s at Grandma Crossman’s. It’s a wonder he doesn’t pack up and move in there altogether.’
Lizzie considered the possibility but then dismissed it. ‘No, your grandma wouldn’t keep him without letting us know. Something’s happened, I know it has.’ By this time the whole household was awake and gathered round the table. Olive, calm as ever, simply thought they had missed the last bus and set off walking. ‘The bus has probably stopped running, what with the air raid,’ she said. ‘You go to bed, Mam, I’ll wait up. Knowing our Jimmy, he’ll have persuaded Grandad to loiter about, simply to watch the excitement.’
‘Excitement!’ Lizzie looked aghast at her daughter. ‘How could anyone get excited about something as awful as war?’
‘Our Jimmy could. Oh, come on, Mam, he’s only a child. A high-spirited one, I admit, but still a child.’
‘High-spirited! He’s a little bugger.’ Bessie let the word slip out without realising it.
‘Bessie, what did you say?’ Lizzie wondered what was happening to her family. Oh, she wouldn’t half be glad when George came home.
‘Sorry.’ Bessie poured her mother a cup of tea. ‘But he is, Mam, you know he is.’
Lizzie took a sip of the warm, stewed tea. ‘Yes, well, don’t let me hear that word in our house, ever again. Do you all hear?’
Young Ernest giggled and Lizzie glared. ‘I know lots of swear words,’ he said.
‘Do you all hear?’ Lizzie raised her voice.
‘Yes, Mam.’ They all knew when they had gone far enough, including Ernest Edward, who wasn’t at all concerned about his brother. Jimmy could look after himself. He wished he dared do half the things his brother did. Not that he’d have wanted to sit through some boring old concert.
Mary was fast asleep on the couch. She had settled down quite happily, not thinking so much about Jimmy as about being allowed down every time there was an air raid. She didn’t actually know what an air raid was, but it sounded exciting. The clock on the wall had just struck quarter past four when the knock came on the door. Olive ran to open it, praying it was Jimmy, or at least Harry, who hadn’t yet returned from Warrentickle. She glanced from Grandad Crossman to the stranger accompanying him, her heart missing a beat as she realised her brother wasn’t with them. ‘Where’s our Jimmy?’
‘He’s fine,’ the firewatcher hastily reassured her. The two men followed Olive into the kitchen. Walter Crossman looked round at the family, all white-faced and heavy-eyed, some from worry, others from sheer exhaustion at the effort of staying awake, rather than missing anything by going to bed.
Lizzie moved towards Walter. ‘Where is he?’
‘Now then, lass, don’t start getting upset. Our lad’s going to be fine in a day or two.’
The night’s activities suddenly became too much for Lizzie and she began to sob. ‘In a day or two? But where is he now? What’s happened?’
‘Oh, lass, don’t take on so. I’ve told yer, he’s fine, just a bit of smoke on his chest and burns on his hands, but nowt to worry about.’
‘That’s right, missus.’ The firewatcher stood twisting his cap in his hands. ‘The lad’s going to be all right, and I’ll tell you summat, missus, your lad’s a hero, a right little hero. Saved a woman’s life, he has, and her baby daughter’s. Deserves a medal, your lad does. I should be right proud if he belonged to me.’
Lizzie sat down with a look of incredibility on her face. ‘Who, our Jimmy?’ Then she jumped up again. ‘Suffering burns and smoke on his chest?’ She hurried to the peg behind the door and lifted down her coat. ‘Where is he? Take me to him.’
‘Not now, lass. The lad’ll be fast asleep by now, I shouldn’t wonder, and as right as rain in the morning. We’ll go first thing, don’t you worry.’ Walter led his daughter-in-law back to her chair.
‘Is he in the infirmary?’ Lizzie asked, still buttoning up her coat.
‘No, Mrs Crossman, he’s in the Salvation Army Citadel, but he’s being nursed as well as in any hospital. There’s a doctor seeing to the injured. The infirmary’s bursting at the seams, do yer see, what with the blitz. Nobody knows how many poor souls are still unaccounted for. Lost their homes and everything. Eeh, but the Jerries have a lot to answer for this night.’
Lizzie looked at her daughter. ‘Make a fresh pot of tea, Olive, and pour one for your grandad and Mr, er, sorry, I don’t know your name.’
‘Turner. But I won’t have any tea, thanks. I must get back. I ought not to be here, do yer see. But with Mr Crossman here so shocked I couldn’t leave him to make his way home, not by himself, all that way. Thanks all the same.’ He nodded to the door, ‘If you’re ready, I’ll see yer back to Warrentickle. It won’t take five minutes.
’
‘Aye, the wife’ll be having a fit. I’ll be grateful for the ride.’ He sighed. ‘Eeh, but it’s been a long night. I hope I never see the likes of it again.’ Lizzie opened the door. ‘Goodnight then, lass. I’ll be over in the morning, first thing.’
‘Goodnight, Dad. Thanks for letting us know, and thank God you’re all right. Thanks to you too, Mr Turner.’
The two men nodded and made their way across the pavement, and Lizzie closed the door to the sound of a motor bike being revved up. She clapped her hands. ‘Come on, you lot, upstairs. School in the morning.’ She took off her coat and gently covered Mary, tucking the knitted blanket round her. ‘No point in waking her, she’s fast on.’ Then she turned out the gas and ushered her family upstairs.
‘What a night,’ Olive sighed. ‘It’s almost time to get up again.’
‘Have we got to go to school?’ Ernest Edward moaned.
‘Yes, you have.’ Lizzie pushed her son playfully up the stairs by his bottom. ‘And no arguments.’
‘Fancy our Jimmy being a hero, though,’ the little boy whispered. ‘We ought to be given a holiday to go and see him, I think.’
‘Well, you think wrong.’ Lizzie laughed. ‘Goodnight, all.’
Long after the house was silent Bessie remained awake. She was proud of her brother and sorry he was hurt. But she was more content than she had been for ages, and the feeling was mainly caused by her mother. Tonight she had cried, and smiled, and been angry at the swear word. Her lovely mother was back to normal.
Ruth was on her way home from the doctor’s. During her other pregnancies no doctor had been necessary; she had simply depended on Old Mother, knowing she would be present at her confinements. This time, however, she would need a midwife and would be expected to attend the clinic.
Doctor Swinbourne had been delighted. ‘Yes, Mrs Dolan, there’s a baby on the way, I’m happy to say. Just what Mr Dolan needs, a child of his own. I know for a fact what an excellent father he is.’
The Stanford Lasses Page 25