A Mother’s Sacrifice

by Kitty Neale

  Frank glanced out of the window at the ice and frost, thinking that their garden looked like a Christmas card. He loved this time of year with all the excitement of the big build-up to Christmas, with just two weeks to wait until they were opening their presents and then sitting round the dining-room table with bellies full of roast turkey. Frank clapped his hands together and gave a whoop, causing Glenda to jump.

  ‘You silly sod, what was that for?’

  ‘I am so looking forward to Christmas.’

  ‘You’re like a big kid and you nearly frightened the life out of me,’ Glenda said then smiled playfully as she whipped Frank with her gingham tea-towel that matched her red and white curtains.

  ‘Come here, woman,’ Frank said, putting his sandwich down to pull Glenda into his arms. ‘I can’t help myself, and I’m really looking forward to today too. Polly has never been to London. She hasn’t seen all the Christmas lights, or been on the tube, or seen a double-decker bus, let alone all the historic buildings. She’s going to love it!’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure she will.’ Glenda smiled back at Frank. ‘But she might find it all a bit overwhelming too. You know yourself, she’s only ever worked at that farm and she’s never really been outside the village apart from the odd school trip when she was younger. I’m worried today might be a bit of an eye-opener for her, you know, give her ideas.’

  ‘What sort of ideas?’ Frank asked, puzzled. He had thought their day trip to London to see the lights and do some shopping had been a great idea. After all, as Glenda had said, their daughter was nineteen years old, but she had never really been outside Ivyfield.

  ‘You know, ideas about fashion and boys and the bright lights of the city. What if she finds it all so exciting that she gets it in her head that she wants to move there? You know what these youngsters are like nowadays … all those mods and hippies, they’re different to how we were, Frank. We were like our parents, but this lot, well, look at them with their own music and fashions. And they haven’t got the morals we had. I mean, just look at the blinking length of their skirts, it’s obscene. I blame that bloody birth-control pill, ’cos nowadays young girls haven’t got to worry about getting in the family way. I don’t know, Frank, it just scares me that our Polly will have her head turned.’

  Frank was passionate that Polly’s experiences should be expanded and that the girl spread her wings, but he understood the reasons for Glenda being so over-protective of their child. She hid her feelings well, but Frank could see the pain behind Glenda’s cheery persona. Though so much time had passed, he would sometimes hold her in the night when she cried silent tears for Johnnie, and this time of year was always the hardest for her. Apart from a pile of letters from Helen and the odd photograph, it had been nearly nineteen years since Glenda had last seen her son, and it was clear to Frank that she would never truly get over leaving him.

  He often wondered if, somewhere deep down, she resented him for making her leave Johnnie, but if she did she never showed it. He had done his best to make her happy, working long hours to buy this house, and, though finding the mortgage had been a struggle at the time, it was all paid for now so they were a bit better off. He felt that her fear of losing Polly too was the reason why she wrapped their daughter up in cotton wool. ‘I think you’re worrying over nothing, love,’ he said. ‘Polly is sensible, and though she’s seen all the fashions on telly and heard the music, you know she’s happiest when she’s growing things and would rather be wearing a pair of wellies than winkle pickers. There’s no way she’s going to want to leave her garden behind in exchange for a dirty, loud, smelly city life.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, Frank Myers, I really hope you’re right …’

  Polly clipped a pair of small pearl earrings to her lobes and, hearing her mother call from the kitchen, dashed downstairs, taking the stairs two at a time.

  ‘Slow down, Polly. What have I told you about running down the stairs like that? You’ll break your neck one of these days!’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, Mum. What’s for breakfast?’ Polly asked as she pulled her long brown hair into a tight ponytail.

  ‘A bacon sarnie,’ Frank boomed as he tickled Polly’s ribs, ‘but you’ve taken too long to get ready so it’s probably stone-cold.’

  Polly hated it when her father tickled her. She was nineteen, not nine, but he was acting like a big kid himself this morning so she giggled along with him. He was always like this at Christmas time and if he had his way, Polly thought, he would still have me believing in Santa Claus.

  She ate her sandwich and drank a glass of milk and soon after they were on their way, trudging to the station. By the time they got there her feet were numb and she stood stamping them on the platform while her father bought a newspaper from a stand. She was relieved when the train came in, and sat next to her dad, who soon became engrossed in his early-morning edition of the Daily Mirror.

  Polly scanned the headline on the front but it looked boring, something to do with a government cabinet crisis between Wilson and Brown, nothing of any interest to her. Instead, she copied her mother and turned her head to look out of the window at the Kent countryside as the train sped through it. She was looking forward to seeing London. Growing up, she had once questioned why her parents spoke differently from other people in the village. Her father had told her it was because they were from working-class stock in South London, but she wasn’t sure if they’d be visiting that area. She hoped so.

  They passed grazing cattle in fields that stretched further than the eye could see. She helped her dad with his crossword and then they all played I-Spy, until at last the train pulled into St Pancras station. Frank was up and out of his seat first, with his hand on the door handle ready to jump off the train before it had fully stopped at the platform.

  ‘Frank, wait and calm down, will you,’ Glenda chastised her husband. She smiled at Polly, who grinned back, happy and excited to finally be in the city.

  Polly had never seen her dad so eager but then again, they had never been to London together before. This must be like a homecoming for her father, she thought, looking at the beam on his face. She didn’t know much about their young lives, just that they’d met when Glenda was in hospital after an accident with some stairs and that’s when her mum had broken her nose. Her mum had told her plenty of war stories and about how they had lost their parents during the Blitz. Apart from her aunty Anne, who was in a home and suffering with dementia, there were no other relatives. Maybe that was why their little family unit was so close, Polly thought. She liked the way Frank referred to them as ‘the three musketeers’ – it made her feel safe and secure.

  Polly had never seen so many people in one place before and suddenly felt a little apprehensive. Though she considered herself a grown woman, she reached out and grabbed her mother’s hand, just as a small child would, anxious not to be lost in the throng of people, all busy with their heads down, rushing to their destinations. The crowd seemed to increase as they approached the entrance to the Underground and as they made their way past the ticket booths and onto the escalator, Polly grabbed the moving handrail. Her legs felt a bit shaky as the escalator crept down towards the platforms and she nervously giggled.

  ‘Just mind out at the bottom,’ Glenda warned, ‘make sure you don’t trip.’

  Polly looked at the bottom step as it moved under the floor and thoughts flashed through her mind of tripping over, her fingers getting crushed. But just as the horrific thought came, so did a tube train, and a sudden gust of wind took Polly by surprise as it whooshed through the station.

  ‘Quick, run,’ her dad shouted as he raced towards the platform where a train was loading with passengers, but they were too late and before they all reached it the doors closed. ‘Not to worry, there’ll be another one along soon,’ he said, and then pointed to a map on the wall with lots of coloured lines and circles connecting them. ‘Look, Polly, this is where we are now, and this is where we’re going.’

  Polly looked a
t the map and, once her father had explained how it worked, she found it quite straightforward. While they waited for the next train, her mother told her that many of these underground stations had been used as air-raid shelters during the war. Polly was amazed. She tried to picture dozens of families cuddled up under blankets on the cold, paved platform. ‘Oh, Mum, it must have been horrible for you, being stuck down here,’ she said.

  ‘No, love, we didn’t have an underground station where we lived, but our area got bombarded and there were many nights we all crammed under the kitchen table. Your dad wasn’t so lucky. His house was flattened, along with two others. It left them with nothing other than the clothes they stood in. In those days, if you lost your home the community did what they could to help, but furniture was rationed so if you got bombed out or were newlyweds, you had to make do with utility furniture. It was basic but it did the job and I remember some homes still having the utility stuff for years after the war. Built to last, that’s how things used to be.’

  ‘Enough of all that “during the war” stuff,’ her father said. ‘Here comes our train and we’ll soon be in Oxford Street. If you haven’t got a “wow” to say, or if it ain’t about Christmas, then the rules are you aren’t allowed to say anything.’

  ‘Oh, Dad, you’re such a wally sometimes,’ Polly said with an affectionate laugh, ‘but thanks for today, I’m loving it already. Do I get to pick my Christmas present out if I see something I just have to have?’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ he answered with a wink while her mother just shook her head.

  The tube train was packed by the time they reached Oxford Street. Feeling like a tinned sardine, Polly was glad to get off. They went up the escalator to the street thronged with shoppers and she found herself more impressed with the extraordinary window displays than the goods on sale. She had never seen so many Christmas trees as at Selfridges, and the lights draping the street mesmerised her. Big red double-decker buses moved slowly up and down the street, and she lost count of the number of black taxi cabs that passed them. The buildings were so huge that Polly felt dwarfed by them. Street vendors were selling hot roasted chestnuts that made her nostrils twitch. Several ‘coloureds’ walked past her and Polly did her best not to stare. Though she had seen people of other races on the television, she had never seen one in real life before.

  Still walking with a tight grip on her mother’s hand, Polly felt herself being pulled around a corner and up a narrow side street. ‘Before we start shopping, I’m a bit peckish, and I know a lovely little café up here,’ said her father, leading the way, ‘I haven’t visited it for twenty-odd years. I wonder if old Nancy still runs it. She used to go to school with me and ended up marrying some Italian bloke.’

  ‘If she does, will she remember you, Frank?’ her mother asked.

  Polly wondered why she sounded a bit uneasy, but then her dad replied, ‘After all these years, I doubt it, but so what if she does.’

  Tucked around another corner, well off the beaten track, they found the small café and Polly heard her mum joyfully announce, ‘Oh, Frank, a proper Italian coffee shop. I haven’t been to one of these for years.’

  ‘A coffee shop?’ asked Polly. ‘You’ve brought us all the way to London to have coffee? And there’s me thinking we were going to have something fancy in one of those new arty-type places.’

  ‘Polly, trust your old dad, you’re going to love this. This will be the best coffee and ciabatta sandwich you have ever had in your life. Now come on, get inside and prepare yourself for a taste sensation.’

  Polly was astounded when she walked into the café to find that it was like stepping back in time. On one side there were long marble-topped tables with wooden benches that reminded her of church pews. The tiled walls were gleaming white and, from what Polly could tell from the customers already eating, the sandwiches were served up in bread that was long and stick-like, not like the square slices she was used to. Still, from what her dad said about it she was prepared to give it a go even though she had no idea what ciabatta was.

  She and her mum took a seat on one of the ‘pews’, which was partitioned off from the one behind it with frosted glass framed in dark oak, while her dad went up to the counter to place their order. ‘This vinegar looks a bit funny,’ Polly commented as she picked up the bottle.

  ‘It’s not vinegar, it’s olive oil,’ her mother told her. ‘It gives the bread a bit of extra flavour.’

  ‘What’s that green stuff on that bloke’s plate?’ Polly asked.

  ‘It’s called pesto. I think it’s made from basil, garlic and pine nuts.’

  ‘Sounds yummy,’ said Polly sarcastically. ‘Can’t wait to try it.’

  They both laughed and then her father returned with mugs of frothy coffee saying, ‘They’re getting fresh bread out of the oven so it won’t be long. Cor, I’m telling you, this place ain’t changed a bit. I thought that was old Nancy when I walked in but it turns out it’s her daughter, and she’s the spit of her mum. I’ll be back in a jiffy, just going to nip to the gents.’

  ‘Hang on, Frank, I’ll come that way with you and use the ladies. I’ve had my legs crossed since we got off the train,’ Glenda said.

  A few moments after her parents walked off, the woman who had been behind the counter walked towards Polly holding two white china plates. She stopped halfway up the aisle, frowned and then turned to call, ‘Bella, can you smell gas?’

  Polly suddenly became aware of a putrid smell, and as silence fell across the café a faint hissing noise could be heard.

  ‘Oh, my God, there’s a friggin’ gas leak!’ the woman shouted.

  Almost in slow motion, Polly watched as the woman turned to go back to the counter, but seconds later there was an enormous force of air pressure followed by an ear-piercing boom. Polly’s whole body shook from the vibrations of the explosion and the woman with the plates was blown off her feet, her body flashing past Polly. There was no time to collect her thoughts or to comprehend what was happening as the blast brought down the walls and an intense fireball raged through the café.

  Polly found herself instinctively diving under the marble table for cover, but all around her grey dust was falling along with bricks and timbers. She covered her face to protect it from the searing heat, her ears ringing and her head spinning. She tried to breathe, but the dust clogged her lungs and she coughed violently. She was unable to focus through her stinging eyes, but over the sound of the roaring fire she heard a deafening creaking noise: metal twisting and concrete crumbling as the roof of the café, along with the upper two floors, caved in on top of the marble table, rendering Polly unconscious and entombing her in a grave of rubble.

  Chapter 19

  Polly tried to open her eyes but they felt as though they were full of grit. She tried to wipe them but her arm wouldn’t move. Something seemed to be pinning it down. Her mouth was dry and she licked her lips, but they tasted of dirt. Though her head was pounding, Polly tried to think. She was lying in darkness and could feel something heavy on top of her. What had happened? In the distance she could hear the sound of emergency sirens, and faint voices calling out. A man was groaning in pain and a woman was screaming, yet Polly still couldn’t comprehend where she was or what was going on around her.

  Confused and disorientated, she felt everything go black again as she drifted in and out of consciousness, for how long she didn’t know. Gradually, she became vaguely aware of someone holding her hand. She couldn’t see who it was; there were bricks and rubble blocking her view, but there was a small glimmer of light shining through the tomb where she lay.

  As she came fully conscious again, Polly gasped and immediately began to cough. Oh, my God, she thought as her memory returned and she remembered the explosion in the café. Fear engulfed her injured body as she realised she was trapped under a fallen building. Where were her parents?

  ‘Mum … Dad …’ she called weakly.

  She heard a man’s voice through the debris, not
one she recognised. ‘It’s all right, love, I’ve got you,’ he said and Polly assumed it was the person who was holding her hand on the other side of the wreckage. ‘Over here,’ she then heard him call out, ‘I’ve got a live one.’

  A live one, thought Polly, did that mean that people had died? Her parents? Were they OK? Were they alive too? Panic shook her, but as she moved her head blackness overcame her and once again Polly sank into it.

  Bleep … bleep … bleep … Polly could hear the sound but wasn’t sure where it was coming from. Bleep … bleep … Her eyes were closed but she heard a soft voice, ‘Hello, dear. You’re back with us then. Try not to speak, you’re in the hospital.’

  Hospital? thought Polly, wondering why she was in hospital. What on earth was going on?

  Ever so slowly her eyes fluttered open, but the bright lights hurt her retinas and she flinched. As she did so, she felt a pain in her leg, her chest and her left arm. In fact, there wasn’t much of her body that wasn’t hurting.

  She managed to turn her head to see a chubby woman in a nurse’s uniform standing at the side of her bed and gently patting the back of her hand. ‘You’re in St Mary’s Hospital, dear. Don’t worry, you’re in the best place and will get the best possible care.’

  ‘Th–thirsty,’ she managed to croak.

  ‘Here, you can have a little water, but not too much at first,’ the nurse said, lifting Polly’s head. ‘We don’t want you to be sick.’

  Polly gratefully took a sip through a straw, then groaned as the nurse lowered her head again.

  ‘You’ve some nasty injuries, but nothing that won’t fix. Now try and rest. I’ll be back to check on you shortly.’