JUNE 1940
I can’t figure out if Len is trying to impress me by joining the Local Defence Volunteers (or Look, Duck, Vanish, as people call them – they even call themselves this). Or maybe Dunkirk has secretly shaken him up. An army instructor came to one of their meetings in the pub. Taught them the German for ‘Hands up!’ Showed them how to spot different types of aircraft, how to handle a rifle and bayonet. Last Sunday, he took them out into the woods and they used grass sods as grenades. They’re planning campaigns. Making decisions. Do we march east to protect Sam Smith’s brewery, or north to guard Joshua Tetley’s brewery? But Len is getting bored. He’s younger than most of them. I think it’s making him feel guilty. Reminding him that he should be in the real army. He’ll soon stop going. LDV service is compulsory, but nobody really bothers that much by us. There isn’t really anyone to check up. We’re off the beaten track. They’re more bothered by those dodging proper military service. Len’s black lung is an embarrassment, to him, but it’s a genuine handicap. He’s better than some of his mates, who are skiving off with all kinds of made-up illnesses and ailments. Now they’ve got something to be embarrassed about, not Len.
JUNE 1940
I was serving two Land Army girls. We all heard the shot. I ran straight from the shop up the street, hair flying this way, legs that. I knew she wouldn’t tell him. Straight into the house and there she was, lying on the floor, blood spreading. And Tommy screaming. And that bullying bastard sitting there as bold as brass with the rifle in his hands and tears running down his cheeks. He kept repeating himself. Get the police, I’ve just done in my missus. The dirty bitch. Sandra had her eyes open and was staring into mid-air as if nothing was the matter. I’ve just done in my missus. The dirty bitch. As if she couldn’t quite understand what all the fuss was about. The thing I noticed about him, though, was his uniform. It seemed odd that he should be sitting there in his uniform. Back from the war to kill. His wife. I told her to write the bloody letter, but she would have to do it her way, wouldn’t she. And look where it landed her. Somebody must have already called for the coppers, because it didn’t take them long to arrive. When they did, he just got up and went with them. One of the coppers put a blanket over Sandra, like she was asleep. Then he told me that there was no point in my sticking around. I might as well get along, hadn’t I. He offered to escort me (his words) out of the house. Somebody had already taken Tommy.
JUNE 1940
Tonight I saw Len, sitting in the pub with his mate, Terry the Farmer. Len was always lecturing me. You don’t mix with anybody. It’s all right, you know. You can come into the pub for a drink with us. We won’t harm you. How do you expect anyone to get to know you if you won’t show your face out? I’d generally look at him, but say nothing. And off he would go to the pub and leave me sitting by myself, listening to ITMA on the wireless. But tonight I went to the pub. I put on my coat and walked up the road. He was sitting in the corner with the man Sandra’s husband should have shot. Mr bloody Farmer perched there like Lord Muck, everybody knowing it was him who’d done it to her, sipping a pint like nothing was the matter. What’ll you have? asked Len. I’ll be having nothing, I said back to him. Nothing as long as you’re sitting here with this slack bastard. I could see it in Len’s eyes that he was ready to belt me one there and then, in front of everybody. If he wasn’t so vain, he’d have done it. I think you’d better go home, was the best he could come up with. Why? I asked. Because I said you’d better. So I turned and left. I didn’t have any desire to argue with him. And I didn’t want to sit in the same place as him as long as he was with that bastard. So I turned and walked back out and into the night. It was so quiet. It was like the whole world had stopped because of this bloody stupid war. And what about Tommy? I supposed they’d find a good home for him. I walked back to the shop, went upstairs, took off my clothes, and climbed into bed. I didn’t want Len near me. Not now, not ever. And I didn’t want him to see me crying.
JULY 1940
All I could think of this morning was that a whole month has passed since Sandra died. And then the inspector showed up. I was standing in the shop with Len, going through the books for the week, when suddenly we heard a van pull up. Len went to the window and fingered the curtains. Then he turned to me and shouted in a whisper that I’d got to go out the back with the eggs and get rid of them. I didn’t need telling twice. He doesn’t tell me much, doesn’t Len, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I work in the shop with him. I’m married to him. I know his game. I dashed into the back of the shop and started to push everything into a flour sack. Hurry up, you silly cow. Why should I hurry up if this is the best he can call me? I heard the doorbell ring, and then there were voices. Me, I took the sack and went out the back. Then I was away through the woods and down the hill, laughing all the way like a crazy bugger. When I got to the stream, I opened the sack up wide. There was nobody around. I was standing by myself. That bastard Len. I knew it was a crime. It was madness. It was the sort of thing that somebody who was plain bloody daft would do. I knew all of this. But I did it anyway. I just threw everything into the stream. Egg after egg. Let the fish or whatever have them. Len said to get rid, so I was getting rid. I’d just pretend that I didn’t understand what he meant. I thought, it’s a hell of an expensive way to spite somebody, but he bleeding well deserves to be treated with spite. When I’d finished, I sat on the bank and laughed. I didn’t know what the bloody hell I was doing in this place. With him. I couldn’t be any worse off in a factory or in the WAAF. I must have been mad. It was mad. To have come to this place at all. I picked up the empty flour sack. Then I looked at the stream. I threw the sack in after the eggs. I didn’t want any of it. What did I need with an empty sack? I didn’t want any of it. By the time I got back from the stream he was in the pub. It was night. I was asleep when he came in. Or at least I was pretending to be. He asked me, so I told him that I’d done what he wanted me to do. I’d got rid of them. He laughed. Then he reminded me that tea and margarine were now on coupons. Then he went to the bathroom. When he found out that it was the truth that I’d told him, I knew he’d want to take a strap to me. But until then he laughed. I think he liked me for a minute or so. He thought I was funny.
SEPTEMBER 1940
Apparently, London is still getting it bad. It’s their turn every night. I’ve been reading about it. It’s all in the papers. ARPs can get no sleep. They’re working hand in hand with the police force around the clock. UXB means unexploded bomb. They say if a bomb’s got your name on it, you hear a whine, then a silence before the explosion. This is because it’s travelling faster than sound. Those who’ve dug in their shelters stand a better chance. There’s those that will take your bolts, spanners and sheets, and put your Anderson into the ground for you. But it will cost you a few bob. There’s money to be made out of misery. Torches, batteries, firemen’s axes, chemical fire extinguishers, whistles, you name it. You can even buy ARP-approved bomb removers. Top of the line is ‘The Gripper’ – ‘grips bombs from any position only 10/6’. Ifit got a bit lively outside, I’m not sure if I’d want to get into a shelter. They say you’ve to take food, warm clothing and blankets to make yourself as comfortable as possible, and sing songs like ‘Me and My Girl’ and ‘Swanee River’. It doesn’t sound like me. Today Len caught me reading the papers. He asked me why I’m always reading, reading, reading. I didn’t say anything. Then he said we might lose the war. He reckons being up here, we don’t really understand how bad it is. We get a rosier picture. The war’s still a bit of a joke to us. I thought, he’s changed his tune. But I said nothing. The Star has started to run a competition called Hitler-Hits. They give you the first line and whoever sends in the best second line gets £10.
If you listen in Hamburg you may hear Lord Haw-Haw say, We’ve killed 10,000 Englishmen – one less than yesterday.
I wish I’d have thought of that one. Today’s first line is a hard one,
On every hand in Germany it’s very plain t
o see . . .
NOVEMBER 1940
That silly brummie bugger Chamberlain’s dead. Almost exactly six months after stepping down. Common opinion is that the strain of holding the highest office killed him. Our blackout curtains need to be fixed. The bobby told Len that last night he saw light. I went into my sewing box to find a needle and thread. I thought, they’re a blessed nuisance. The curtains, that is. Then I saw a rag doll I’d been making for Tommy out of old stockings. I’d only to sew on the buttons for eyes. That was all I had left to do.
DECEMBER 1940
Thursday was always a popular going-out night, in town. I wonder if Hitler knew this. Maybe it was simpler than this, maybe he just knew it was going to be a full moon. It was the clearest night I’d ever seen. I could hear the town sirens in the far distance, wailing their warning, and then I heard the queer engines of German bombers, all out of tune. They sounded different from ours, uglier. And then, away on the horizon, our boys; the ripping sound of anti-aircraft batteries. Everybody knew they were after the steelworks. Firth Brown and Co., J. Arthur Balfour and Co., Vickers. All of them. But there were too many Jerry planes and I knew we were going to get a pasting. It was a real bomber’s moon, and from up there in the sky our roads -must have looked like frosty white ribbons pointing the way to the target. First flares, then incendiaries, then the heavy bombs. We all stood shivering on the hillside and looked down. The town soon looked like a thousand camp fires had been lit on it, beautiful little fairy lights, everywhere blazing. You couldn’t look anywhere without seeing fire. Len slipped a blanket around my shoulders, and the vicar started singing ‘Nearer my God to Thee’. I gave him a dirty look, but he didn’t stop. In between the verses, I heard somebody whisper, The town’s on fire. There was a huge celestial glow, as though the sun were about to rise out of the heart of the town. And then the vicar stopped. He pulled a piece of paper from his frock pocket and announced, ‘Repose.’ There were maybe two dozen of us. We all turned from the town and looked at him.
God is our Refuge – don’t be afraid,
He will be with you, all through the raid;
When bombs are falling and danger is near,
He will be with you until the ‘All Clear’.
When the danger is over, and ev’rything calm,
Thank you Redeemer for courage and balm;
He’ll never forsake you, He’ll banish your fear,
Just trust and accept Him, and feel He is near.
When he finished, there was silence. We all turned and looked back at the town. Fires were still blazing, but we couldn’t hear any more planes. Maybe it was over? Len whispered in my ear, I’m off to the pub. I’ll see you back later. I watched him and his mates walk off. I even heard them laughing. I imagined that I could hear the sound of the ‘All Clear’ in the distance. But, of course, I heard nothing. And then I looked around at the vicar who was praying, stiffing his fear between two folded hands.
DECEMBER 1940
Today I took a bus down to the town to find my mother. I hadn’t slept much. In fact, I hadn’t really slept at all, but I felt wide awake. The countryside looked much the same, but when I saw the town, I wanted to cry. Tram lines were twisted like liquorice. Iron girders were discarded across the street, jutting up into the air and pointing towards the now empty grey sky. I couldn’t believe that this was my town. The bus couldn’t go any further, so we all got off and began to walk. I stared at buildings that were now reduced to one or maybe two walk. Neat rectangular holes that used to be windows provided useless ventilation. Everywhere I looked I could see mountains of rubble, crushed cars, and battered trams. Up above me, the loose, swinging arms of cranes picked their way over the carcass of the town. And in the streets, men with flatcaps and women with head-scarves scavenged at the ruins of their houses, avoiding any hot debris, trying to find bits of furniture, photographs, anything that remained of their lives. As they did so, others – maybe family members – stared on, dumbstruck. I stepped gingerly around a sea of broken glass, and then saw a formal queue of parents taking turns to lift their children into the cockpit of a crashed Jerry bomber. I wondered about the pilot, and then realized that I should be wondering about my mother. I increased my pace. Down a side street, I saw charred bodies covered in soot and glass. Then I realized that they were just Burton’s dummies. It occurred to me that I was lost. That all the familiar landmarks had gone and that I was no better than the sad woman I saw wandering with a bird cage in one hand and some photographs in the other, singing ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary’. The bashing had obviously sent her beyond. I asked for directions from an ARP who looked half-asleep underneath his tin helmet. He said nothing, but simply pointed me towards a junction that I recognized. I wanted to ask him about the football rattle in his hand, but he looked too tired to answer, so I just said thank you. He nodded a quick acknowledgement. I walked on knowing that there was no longer any such thing as a familiar route. Fire hoses like long, endless snakes were strewn across the roads. Fires still spat, but down here the odd girder was all that remained of most buildings. I saw groups of patient employees standing outside shops and offices with no idea of what to do, their work places wrecked. The whole town was in a state of shock. Everyhody seemed to be suffering their own private war tragedy. The odd car rolled by at a funereal pace, but heads didn’t turn. People simply gawked at the destruction. I turned off the main street and continued to pick my way through the back streets. I looked on at the ATS girls, who seemed to be working non-stop, helping the police, driving, standing side by side with the ARPs. They made me feel useless.
DECEMBER 1940
I suppose I knew that she’d be dead before I got there. It didn’t seem possible that others should have died, but not her. I saw the house, or what was left of it. A gap in the street, like a broken tooth. There were no windows, the front door hung off its hinges, and I could see that the ceiling plaster was down and that soot and dirt were everywhere. Nothing looked burned, so I knew that it wasn’t an incendiary. These could be put out with earth and water. That much I’d managed to understand from the papers, not that she would have bothered to do anything about it. It looked like the blast had come from a nearby bomb. And then I saw that the houses across the road had been hit. The ARPs were still cordoning off the road. I saw old Mr Miles. On his back he had a leather coat so mangled it looked like someone had thrown a dead cow over him. When he saw me, he handed his roll of string to another warden. I ducked under the barrier. He put his hand on my shoulder. I’m sorry, love. He took off his tin helmet. You know what she was like. She wouldn’t go in the shelter. She made us laugh, though. She said, I’ve never had a front seat in a war, and I’m not missing my chance now. Where is she? I asked. They’ve taken her off in a corporation bus with the others. It were not good around here as a lot of folk took their chances. They weren’t banking on a direct hit. If you’re a bit squirmish, you’d best make yourself scarce. We’re not finished yet, and there’s more trapped under that lot. I looked behind him as his fellow men, cigarettes dangling from their lower lips, feet stamping to keep themselves warm, shovels in hand, prepared to dig again in the rubble. You’ll get a chance to see her later, love. They’ll not be burying anyone for a while. Can’t do nothing for them. I expect they’ll want you to give identification. And don’t worry about your household salvage. There’ll be no looting while we’re about. So don’t worry. You can come back later today, or tomorrow. Sort out your stuff. I looked into Mr Miles’s tired and crease-lined face, and I knew that this kind old man was near the end of his tether. I wondered how many others he’d had to talk to like this.
DECEMBER 1940
By mid-afternoon it had started to snow. I was sitting in the park watching the endless flow of people filling tin baths from the lake. There was no water. After Mr Miles had sent me on my way, I spent a couple of hours wandering around the town in a daze. I’d noticed the long queues at standpipes. In some lucky streets, the water cart arrived with its larg
e round cylinders. People with buckets and jugs and saucepans, whatever they had, pushed and shoved. The water, flecked with charcoal and lime, spluttered out of large taps, but at least you could drink it. And then the water-cart man shut off the taps and there was no more. That’s it until tomorrow, loves. And off he went to another lucky street. Some went back to the standpipes. I continued to walk and saw folk rummaging like paupers among the rubble of their houses. I spied on people’s lives. The fronts of their houses were often blown clean off, leaving the furniture still arranged, books and crockery in place. In one house, a hole in the back of a cabinet, that must have been previously hidden against a wall, was now revealed for all to see. Nearly everybody’s roofing slates had slid down and into the street, exposing sad, gaping lattice work. Some had been really unlucky. The insides of their houses had collapsed, mixing brick, wood and glass with papers, curtains and clothes. Ladders were up against what walk remained, and broken furniture was stacked neatly on the pavement. I couldn’t stand it any more. The Church Army Mobile Canteens, the WVS Mobile Canteens, the Salvation Army Mobile Canteens, all bringing food and drink to the workers and the homeless. In one street, Jerry had dropped a thousand-pounder bang in the middle of the tram track. The overhead wires were all down. A little girl was bawling as she looked at the burned-out shell of the tram. And outside a barber’s shop, a sign: ‘We’ve had a close shave. Come and get one yourself.’ I walked on in my dazed state, trying not to think of her lying wherever she was. And then I went into the park where I must have fallen asleep. The snow woke me up, cold flakes slapping against my cheeks. I opened my eyes and peered through the pale, watery light of afternoon. It was then that I saw people filling tin baths from the lake. I decided to go back to the village. There was no point in going back to the house and sorting through her things. They’d be wet and useless. And no point in going to find her. She didn’t need me at this moment. I decided to get back to Len. To get back to the village.
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