The Rescue Man

by Anthony Quinn

  10

  MEANWHILE HE WAS preoccupied with more immediate demands of salvation. Rafferty’s death had left them without a squad leader, which none of them minded, but being a man short had imposed a heavier workload and longer hours, which all of them minded. One night in the second week of January they were sitting around the Hackins Hey depot when the sirens began to sound. Farrell, who had been playing darts with McGlynn, raised his eyes heavenwards.

  ‘Fuck’s sake! Has Hitler got some personal grudge against us or wha’?’

  ‘London’s had it worse,’ said Mavers, nodding at the photograph of St Paul’s, wreathed in smoke but defiant, which some patriotic soul had clipped from the front of the Daily Mail and pinned to the wall. Stoically they hauled on their winter coats; McGlynn was absently, buck-toothily winding a knitted blue-and-white scarf around his neck, which somehow made him look even younger. He saw Baines watching him.

  ‘Me mum made it for me,’ he explained. ‘For when I go to Everton, you know?’

  ‘Yeah, fat chance of that,’ said Farrell, who was in one of his bitter moods tonight. ‘Another thing to add to early closen we can thank the Germans for – no footie.’

  ‘You red or blue, Tom?’ McGlynn asked.

  Baines shrugged. ‘Neither, I’m afraid. I listen to the results when my uncle does the pools –’

  ‘Wha’?!’ said Farrell incredulously. ‘You’re tellin’ me you come from Liverpool and you don’t like football?’

  ‘I imagine there are others. Besides, it’s not that I don’t like football – just that I never got interested. I was keen on cricket.’

  ‘I’ve heard it all now. So, like, yer dad never took yer to a match?’

  ‘No. I suppose he might have done, but he died when I was eight.’

  Farrell, silenced but plainly peeved to have his flow of indignation stemmed, kept shaking his head. Mavers tactfully stepped in. ‘If they do open Goodison again, you’ll ’ave to come with us one Saturday.’

  ‘I’d be honoured,’ replied Baines.

  A few hours later, they were on their way to a fire in Virgil Street when a bomb screamed down thirty yards in front of them, bounced off a watchman’s shelter and flew through the window of a shop. For an instant nothing happened, then Baines saw the building shiver for a split second before it exploded. He had been riding shotgun next to Mavers, and both of them turned away as the force of the blast rocked the van. Fragments of debris rained down on them as Mavers twisted the wheel sharply and collided with a parked tram. The vehicle had not been travelling quickly – he was a cautious driver – but the front radiator had buckled and black smoke poured from the engine. Farrell, Mike and McGlynn had jumped out of the back and come round to survey the damage.

  ‘Are yous all right?’ Farrell asked. Baines stepped down from the cabin, his legs weirdly hollow. There was also a smarting pain just below his right eye. He touched it, and felt something sharp lodged in the flesh. Farrell was now pointing the torch beam into his face.

  ‘Jesus! Hold still a mo,’ he said, and carefully plucked out a fragment of glass the size of a shilling. He showed it to Baines. ‘Lucky lad – an inch higher and that would have taken yer eye out.’

  The van was a smoking wreck, so they abandoned it and walked the remainder of the way to Virgil Street. They had turned the corner of Cazneau Street when they were startled by a sight so freakishly horrific that Baines for a moment thought he was dreaming. A horse was bolting towards them, its head and mane on fire – a biblical apparition. They scattered and watched the animal careen past them, its screams piercing to their ears.

  ‘What the fuck –’ said Mavers, who broke into a run. The others followed close behind until they reached a stable, engulfed in flames; on the street an old man stood in a daze, watching it burn.

  ‘Bloody vandals,’ he shouted, without looking at them. His voice sounded wild, unmodulated. ‘Bloody Nazi vandals.’

  The smell of burning horseflesh suffused the air: an incendiary must have landed on the stable and turned it into a raging slaughterhouse. Baines, reaching for his handkerchief, felt his gorge suddenly rise, and just managed to keep himself from retching. In the light of the fire he could see the creases in the old man’s face, the patchy bristles on his chin, his jaw working furiously. Above them the planes were still circling, and suddenly the air was alive with a vicious whistling noise that portended what they knew too well.

  ‘Watch yourselves,’ called Mavers, and as one they turned and started for the doorway of a pub opposite. Baines glanced back and, seconds before he threw himself to the pavement, saw the old man still standing there. Flattened against the kerb he didn’t hear the blast so much as feel it, right through his teeth, the shock waves sucking monstrously at the atmosphere around them. The windows of the pub shattered in an instant, and the roasting horseflesh was now mixed with a choking sulphurous stench. When the smoke cleared, they stood up and walked out into the street, or what was left of it. Adjusting their eyes they could see a deep crater about the length of a bus in the very place they had stood less than two minutes before. It was spewing out smoke and ash like a dying volcano.

  It took him a while, but eventually McGlynn lowered the handkerchief from his mouth and said, ‘Where’s the old feller?’

  They looked at each other, not speaking, not willing to be the one who had to explain. He had disappeared, atomised by the one that had his name on it – ‘the one you didn’t hear’. But then Baines remembered how the old man had not responded to Mavers’s warning, had not even turned to see them all running for cover. He had seemed transfixed by the flames.

  The truth was now dawning on McGlynn. ‘So the bomb – ah no …’ He stopped, confusion and horror chasing around his features.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mavers, and gently patted McGlynn on the shoulder. In the distance they heard the bell of a fire engine approaching. The stable was still burning, but the sounds they had heard from within on first arriving had, mercifully, ceased. There were hurrying footsteps behind them; a man and a woman, neighbours, it seemed, had come to inspect the damage. Baines saw them talking with Mavers, who was evidently explaining what had happened to the old man. The woman had raised her hand to her mouth in a reflex of shock. The man simply hung his head. A warden who had just arrived called over to them.

  ‘Are yous the rescue squad?’

  In answer Farrell pointed to the white ‘R’ stencilled on the front of his helmet. ‘What does it look like?’

  The warden wisely decided to ignore his insolence. ‘There’s a collapsed shelter round the corner, a load of injured – they need help bringing them out.’

  ‘We’ll get going then,’ said Baines.

  As they walked away, Mavers rejoined them. He looked troubled by something, and Baines asked him what it was.

  ‘The couple I was talken to, they said the old feller had looked after that stable for years. I told them about the bomb.’

  ‘Did you say how he didn’t bother taking cover?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mavers, his eyes downcast, ‘and now I know why. He was deaf – had been all his life.’

  They worked through the night, dragging bodies from their premature burial chambers. More squads arrived and they had formed lines, passing buckets of debris from hand to hand. They found a few survivors, lucky ones who had been trapped in air pockets and managed to make themselves heard through the sprawling tonnage of brick and plaster. But most of the time they expected the worst, and they had learned to recognise a corpse before they had even touched it. Sometimes it was the colour of their skin; sometimes it was a smell. Baines could tell just from the way their limbs lay disposed. Nothing looked more absolute than the dead. By the morning they had dug out fifteen corpses, and a grisly assortment of body parts, which put an edge of horror on their dark mood.

  Mike had returned from the mobile canteen bearing a tray laden with steaming mugs of tea. They were sitting against a damaged wall, their heads hung low in exhaustion. Ba
ines, looking around, assumed that his own face looked as ashen as everyone else’s.

  ‘Here you go,’ Mike said, handing him a tin mug. ‘Gorra say, there’s a smashin’-lookin’ bird serven the tea.’

  ‘Any food there?’ asked Farrell.

  ‘Sandwiches ’n’ that. Dunno how you can eat anythin’ after a night like this.’

  Farrell shrugged. ‘Just somethin’ to keep me goin’, like. I’m not after curried dog or anythin’.’

  Mike heaved a long-suffering sigh. ‘Where d’you get the idea we eat curried dog?’

  ‘Don’t start this again,’ pleaded Mavers. ‘Mike, ignore him. Terry, go get us a sandwich, will yer?’

  Farrell, chuckling, walked off, taking McGlynn with him.

  ‘He’s an arsehole,’ said Mike, shaking his head.

  Mavers took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘He just wants an audience. Ignore him an’ he’ll stop.’

  Baines shivered against the dawn cold. He felt dirty and depleted, and what was worse, the unignorable taste of death filled his mouth. He cadged a cigarette from Mavers and blew smoke down his nose, hoping to rid himself of it. He thought of the bombs whistling down, the crump as they landed, the compacted fury of detonation. They had been lucky last night, two near-misses within an hour of one another. He should be feeling grateful to have survived, he knew, especially after a night dealing with those who hadn’t, but fatigue had emptied him of nice considerations.

  Farrell had returned with the sandwiches. ‘Charlie’s right about that bird at the canteen.’

  ‘The gear, isn’t she?’ said Mike, surprised at last to have located common ground with Farrell. Baines, still shivering like a whippet, rose unsteadily and stamped his feet, trying to get the circulation back into them. He thought he might go and inspect this paragon for himself; after last night it would do him good to look on something beautiful. He trudged past the ambulance crews and the geysers of water springing where the mains had burst, rounded the corner and spotted the canteen parked against the kerb. Its hatch faced in the opposite direction, and when he walked round it he saw her, busily pouring out tea. Bella. He stopped in his tracks, stunned, and experienced a moment’s indecision. His first instinct was to duck away, so unprepared was he for an encounter with her – but, too late, she had lifted her head and caught him in the spotlight of her gaze.

  ‘Tom!’ she called, her voice almost shrill with surprise. He walked over, certain of nothing but his guilt in avoiding her these past weeks. She excused herself at the hatch and came out to greet him, though concern darkened her features once she was up close.

  ‘Heavens – you look awful! What’s this blood all down your face?’ she said, peering at his cheek.

  ‘A lucky escape, actually. Do I look as bad as all that?’

  ‘You look exhausted. Let me get you some tea –’

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ he cut in, catching her sleeve as she was turning. He wanted to get his apology out straight away. ‘Bella, I’m sorry I haven’t called you –’

  But she interrupted him. ‘Did Richard not telephone you?’

  Baines shook his head, though now he did recall hearing the telephone ring as he left the flat the previous evening. Bella was smiling, and gripping both his arms fiercely.

  ‘He’s alive! David – he’s alive. We heard it yesterday, the Swiss Red Cross finally found him. He’s in a prison camp in Germany, near Leipzig – but he’s unharmed.’ She told him how they had kept telephoning the Air Ministry, and how the weeks had felt like months – years – as they waited for news. ‘You know, I think I went slightly mad for a while. I couldn’t do anything, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t read a book. Anything! Poor Richard got the worst of it. I went down to London to stay with Nancy, and then she had to listen to me crying the whole time. I just imagined him lying dead in a French cornfield, and our never knowing … God, I feel awful about it now. I mean, David’s her brother too.’

  She had been talking excitedly – he had never seen her face so animated – and now she turned the full beam of her attention on to him. ‘I’m so happy to see you again!’ she exclaimed girlishly, and threw her arms about him.

  He felt his heart skip a beat – this was more affection than he felt able to handle. He said, by way of diversion, ‘I ought to tell you, you’ve won some admirers round the corner. One of them reckons you’re a “smashing-looking bird”.’

  ‘Really?’ she said, with an abrupt laugh. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Just fellers I work with in rescue. How’s Richard getting on?’

  ‘He’s working with a squad down in the Dingle. They say there’ve been dreadful raids there last night.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard that.’

  She was examining his face again. ‘That’s a nasty cut you’ve got under your eye.’

  He shrugged, feigning nonchalance, and then noticed that her gaze had shifted somewhere beyond his shoulder.

  ‘I think your friends …’ she said, and he turned round to see Mavers and Farrell ambling towards them. Farrell’s expression mingled curiosity, admiration and faint disbelief. This was not an encounter Baines had planned for, and he felt a potential awkwardness in the air.

  ‘Bella, these are my – colleagues, Liam and Terry.’

  His apprehension dissolved as soon as she turned her smile on them and shook their hands. Her forthrightness, her way of meeting a person’s eye, was of a kind that had a disarming effect on men, even men who habitually imposed themselves on company. She had an irresistible geniality, he thought, the way she communicated a vivid interest in whoever happened to be standing in front of her. She was asking Mavers and Farrell something about rescue work, he wasn’t exactly listening, but he registered how they responded to her attention – how they became eager to please. He remembered it now from the first time he saw her at the gallery and she had joked with the two young officers. He felt once again how lucky he was to know her.

  His reverie was broken by Mavers. ‘Tommy? We’re knocken off for a few hours. Might be an idea to get some kip.’

  Baines nodded. ‘I’ll see you at the depot, then.’

  ‘Nice to meet yer,’ Mavers said to Bella, who smiled back: ‘Likewise.’

  Baines expected Farrell to make some saucy remark, but Bella’s charm seemed to have left him – unprecedentedly – at a loss. He said only, ‘Ta-ra,’ and glanced at Baines, who felt briefly lit in the reflected glamour of the woman standing next to him. When they had gone, she looked round at him and said in an amused tone, ‘“Tommy”?’

  ‘Yeah. Suits me, don’t you think?’

  ‘Mm, I suppose it does … in a boyish kind of way.’

  ‘What did you think of those two?’

  ‘I liked them! The older one – Terry? – seemed a little shy.’

  Baines allowed himself an incredulous laugh. ‘If only you knew.’

  Bella glanced at her watch. ‘Look, my shift finishes in about half an hour. If you can wait I’ll walk back into town with you.’

  An hour later they had almost reached Gambier Terrace when the bruised, slate-coloured clouds that had been amassing finally closed over them, and the rain, spitting at first, was suddenly crackling over the cobblestones. They began to run, but the drowning curtain swept over them obliviously; by the time they reached the shelter of the terrace’s colonnade Baines could feel the drops of moisture leaking down his collar and the bottoms of his trousers were clinging damply around his ankles.

  ‘That was quite … unpleasant,’ he said, wiping his face with a handkerchief which, he now saw, was streaked with dirt and blood from the night before. Bella was giggling as she glanced at him.

  ‘You look like you’ve just swum here! Sorry – I’m in such a PollyAnna-ish mood even the rain seems funny.’

  They stood watching the downpour for a few moments longer; there was something about its headlong intensity that you couldn’t tear your gaze from. Let it come down, he thought, remembering Macbeth.

  ‘Cup of tea?�
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  While Baines busied himself in the kitchen, Bella looked around his flat in an unabashed display of interest.

  ‘I always wondered what your rooms would look like,’ she called. He watched through the door as she studied the prints and photographs that hung on the living-room walls.

  ‘It seems strange that you’ve never been here before,’ he mused.

  ‘Well, maybe I was waiting to be asked!’ He thought he heard a sharp note beneath the playful tone. She continued her wandering examination of the room as he laid down the tea tray. ‘I like this,’ she said, peering at a William Herdman pencil-and-sepia sketch.

  ‘Mm. St George’s Hall, about 1867. Dickens did a few readings there – said it was the finest concert room he’d ever known. Eames saw him read from Nicholas Nickleby.’

  ‘Ah, your architect. Still interested in him?’

  ‘I’ve just finished the second volume of his journals. Things have started to go wrong for him – seems his alcoholic brother burgled his parents’ house, and his great friend Rawlins is leaving him to return to America.’

  ‘John Rawlins – the Chicago architect?’ she asked, and Baines nodded.

  ‘Isn’t he quite famous?’

  ‘Yeah. Rawlins did most of his architectural apprenticeship under Eames, then went to Chicago and designed office buildings that were self-confessed tributes to his teacher. He became a great success – unlike poor Eames.’

  Bella returned to scouring the assorted photographs of Victorian Liverpool that lined the mantelpiece. ‘This room, it’s like … a little museum to the city.’