War Orphans

by Lizzie Lane

  The last thing she wanted was to scare him off, but she knew how to pace herself. She was using all the tactics she had used to snare Joanna’s father. The old tricks never failed and once they were married it would be too late for him to change his mind.

  ‘About a month,’ he said to her. ‘If that’s all right with you? We can get a special licence tomorrow and be married by then.’

  Elspeth kissed him, not minding sucking in pie crumbs that had stuck to his mouth.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Thomas! I can’t wait,’ she squealed, resting her chin on his shoulder and hugging him tightly.

  ‘Neither can I,’ he answered, his voice husky with desire. There was just one thing holding him back.

  ‘Your stepdaughter. Is she here?’

  Elspeth was taken aback. ‘Joanna?’

  ‘Her teacher mentioned her. Joanna Ryan. That’s your stepdaughter’s name, isn’t it?’

  Elspeth’s mind worked quickly. Damn that bloody Miss Hadley.

  ‘Oh yes. But she’s not here. Didn’t I tell you? Joanna was very upset when her father died. I did arrange to have her evacuated, but then a relative offered to take her in. Joanna was given the option to stay with me or live with her favourite aunt. She decided to go with her aunt. I can’t say I blame her. After all, blood is thicker than water. The child has to go with family and where she’s happiest.’

  ‘And you don’t mind?’

  Elspeth pouted and adopted a doleful look. ‘A little. But she isn’t my true daughter and, anyway, I’ve got a future with a new husband to consider.’

  When he smiled his breath covered her face.

  ‘So,’ she said seductively, eyes shining, lips smiling. ‘What would you like for dessert?’

  The stairs above Joanna’s head, which formed the roof of the coalhouse, creaked with the weight of footsteps before the house fell to silence.

  Joanna felt very alone and very afraid. It was as though the world had disappeared. Not a sound did she hear and not a single chink of light found its way into the coalhouse.

  Was being dead like this? Joanna shivered at the thought.

  For a while she dozed and in her dream she was running along the railway embankment with Harry, who was chasing rabbits. One of the rabbits was very big and turned round to face them. To Joanna’s horror its face resembled her stepmother. Sensing her disquiet Harry barked at the rabbit, causing it to turn tail and run across the railway line into the path of a goods train. The noise was tremendous and everything was shaking as the train left the rails and thundered over her.

  At least she thought it was a goods train, but when she found herself flung backwards and covered in coal dust, she knew it was not.

  The coal had moved, flinging great clouds of dust into the air. She could feel its grittiness covering her skin, its taste on her tongue.

  When she’d fallen asleep she’d been at the higher end of the coalhouse close to the door. She was now wedged into the narrowest part, where the stairs were at their lowest point at the hallway end.

  Curling into a ball, she covered her head with her arms, coughing as she inhaled the coal dust that presently surrounded her in a dense cloud of grit and choking dust.

  No heavy breathing steam locomotive could have done this. Reality replaced the dream and even though she was only a child she thought she knew what it was. The worst of the war had finally arrived. A bomb had fallen on her house.

  As the coal dust settled she rubbed the dirt from her eyes and peered through the darkness. A slit of light showed at the very top of the coalhouse door. Although it was no more than a sliver, to her it was like the beam of a lighthouse.

  Struggling onto her hands and knees, she made her way out of the lowest part of the coalhouse, the ceiling height increasing as she crawled over the heaped coal. Although it scraped at her knees and her hands, she gritted her teeth and kept her eyes focused on the sliver of light.

  Pieces of coal rolled and tumbled beneath her hands and knees. Climbing up over a mountain of coal was far from easy, but Joanna was determined to reach that chink of light.

  She coughed as she climbed, swiping at her gritty eyes and wiping her runny nose on her sleeve. Some of the coal had shifted against the door rather than away from it.

  Joanna scrabbled up as far as she could, stretching in an effort to reach the top of the door. Time and again she stretched her arms, her fingers barely failing to fold over the top of the door.

  Her calf muscles ached with the effort of standing on tiptoe, but still she couldn’t reach.

  A little more height. That was all she needed. And some air to breathe.

  More coal would help.

  With that in mind she felt for pieces of coal – big pieces that she could pile one on top of another so she could climb higher.

  Despite the thin beam of light, it was still too dark to see. All she could do was feel her way and judge when the pile of coal was high enough.

  She was tired, thirsty and dirty, but she kept going, piling pieces of coal higher and higher.

  At last she judged that it was as high as she could make it. Carefully, so as not to disturb any of the underlying base of her coal mountain, she struggled to the top of the heap and almost cried out with joy when her fingertips folded over the top of the door.

  A little more effort and . . .

  Suddenly the coal gave way and her feet were sliding behind her until she was face down, blood trickling from a wound above her eye.

  The bombing, the fear and the effort of trying to get out lay heavy on her small body. For the first time since her father died she began to cry and softly, very softly, she began to count.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven . . .

  * * *

  Before the bombing raid, Sally Hadley and her father had just finished supper when Harry suddenly sat bolt upright. Raising his long floppy ears he began to whine, low at first then louder and louder.

  Seb was concerned. ‘What is it, boy? What is it?’

  His whine intensified and was accompanied by a series of high-pitched barks. The hair around his neck formed a stiff ruff. Suddenly his fragile whines were joined by the thin wail of the air-raid siren, its whine intensifying to a high-pitched screech.

  Seb exchanged a worried look with his daughter. ‘It’s for real. It’s an air raid.’

  The house shook as the droning of aircraft sounded from overhead.

  Harry’s ears, far better than that of a human, had heard the enemy aircraft before they’d heard the sirens.

  Father and daughter grabbed what they could and headed for the shelter. Harry went with them. The shelter was hardly the most comfortable place in the world, though they’d done their best with camp beds, blankets, a flask of tea and sandwiches.

  ‘It’s going to be a long night,’ said Sally’s father.

  He was right. The raid went on until the early hours of the morning when the all clear finally sounded. When her father ordered her to stay put, Sally was adamant she would do no such thing. ‘If our house is still standing, I’m going to bed even if it’s only an hour of sleep before I head for school.’

  Seb didn’t argue. Sally and the dog followed him out.

  Gratefully he pushed open the shelter door, noting that it wasn’t stiff so hadn’t suffered any blast damage that might have wedged it in place.

  The air outside had a particular smell about it. As Seb lifted his head and sniffed the air, old memories resurfaced. A bomb had fallen somewhere, though not on their house. Seb patted the old walls and muttered, ‘Thank God.’

  Outside in the street a number of people were running up and down blowing whistles.

  ‘Please evacuate your houses. We have an unexploded bomb.’

  After each warning those shouting resumed blowing on whistles.

  Seb hailed one of them and asked where the bomb had landed.

  The man pointed over to where figures barely distinguishable in the early morning light, were moving around in the park.
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  ‘There’s an unexploded bomb at the bottom of a bloody big crater. We need to get everyone out in case it goes off before the sappers get here.’

  Seb knew he was referring to the bomb disposal section of the Royal Engineers who were always called sappers.

  ‘If you’ve nowhere else to go, everyone’s gathering at the Methodist Hall.’

  ‘Any other damage?’ asked Seb.

  ‘Not here, thank God. A house up in The Vale scored a direct hit though. Poor buggers in it didn’t stand a chance.’

  At mention of the direct hit being halfway up The Vale, something curled in Seb’s stomach.

  ‘The Vale you say. Any idea what number?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Not sure. You got relatives up there?’

  ‘A friend. About halfway up.’

  Even though there was no streetlight by which to see Seb’s expression, the air-raid warden could tell he was worried.

  ‘Hang on. I’ll see if I can find out more.’ He shouted to somebody further down the street. ‘Ted. There’s a chap here with friends up in The Vale. Any idea what number got hit?’

  ‘Not sure of the number. Lower hundreds I think,’ the man named Ted shouted back.

  Nodding his thanks, Seb went back to where Sally was waiting for him, an enquiring expression on her face. ‘We have to get out?’

  Seb nodded. Being evacuated until the bomb was made safe didn’t concern him so much as Joanna’s safety.

  ‘I heard him mention the Methodist Hall.’

  Seb nodded again. ‘Unless you’ve got somewhere else to go.’

  Sally frowned. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘The Vale. A house halfway up was bombed. The warden doesn’t know the number, only that it was in the lower hundreds.’

  Sally passed him Harry’s lead. ‘Hold this. I’ll get my coat and bring yours out too. It’s chilly and we might need it where we’re going.’

  ‘I’m not going to no Methodist Hall,’ he shouted after her as she disappeared back into the house.

  ‘Neither am I,’ she said breathlessly on reappearing and shrugging herself into her coat. ‘I’m going with you. We have to check on Joanna.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The news of number 116 The Vale being bombed spread like wildfire. Neighbours began shifting debris before the rescue services arrived.

  An ambulance, its bell jangling all the way, pulled up outside the pile of debris that had once been a house. The police and other people in assorted uniforms arrived to offer their help.

  ‘The whole of the upper floor fell in,’ said Mrs Allen in a shaky voice. Her nightdress was shredded, bits flying around her like so many ribbons. Her body was barely covered. She had however thought to put on her hat.

  ‘What number did you live in?’ asked a policeman, who was attempting to guide her towards an ambulance.

  ‘Number?’

  ‘What number was your house,’ he repeated, more loudly this time.

  She looked at him in a daze. ‘One hundred and fourteen. Everyone knows I live there, especially the rent man.’

  The policeman recognised she was in shock. ‘Can you tell us what happened,’ he said gently.

  ‘What happened? A bomb fell. I heard the noise. Didn’t you heard the noise?’

  The policeman tried again. ‘Where were you when you heard the bomb fall?’

  Suddenly she seemed to come to, a more knowing look brightening her eyes. ‘I was out in the Anderson. I only had it put in a few days ago. Just a few days,’ she said, her expression one of total bewilderment. ‘Then I found I’d left my knitting behind and went back in the house to look for it. Couldn’t find it though. I reckon somebody pinched it – after he’d dropped the bomb.’

  The rescue workers helping her exchanged rueful smiles.

  ‘Don’t think old Hitler likes to knit,’ one of them said.

  ‘But Goering might,’ returned Mrs Allen.

  An ambulance man passed the policeman a blanket, which they placed around Mrs Allen’s shoulders before leading her to the ambulance.

  ‘What about next door, love?’ asked the policeman. ‘Do you know who lives there?’

  ‘Joanna and that old cow her dad married,’ Mrs Allen answered. She sounded tired out.

  The ambulance driver got her to lie down. ‘You have a bit of a rest love. It’ll do you good.’

  He didn’t add that there was little chance her next-door neighbours had survived. Mrs Allen’s house, 114, had been badly damaged. But 116 had been totally destroyed except for that single wall and the length of staircase rising above the rubble.

  The policeman passed the information on to the rescuers. ‘Apparently a mother and daughter lived in this one.’

  The men who’d been clearing debris from where they estimated the bedrooms had been suddenly shouted.

  ‘Over here!’

  A group of rescuers picked their way swiftly over the mounds of brick and roof timbers, shattered doors and furniture. A kitchen tap suspended on its lead pipe dripped water and a gas pipe hissed before a man folded the lead piping over and hammered it flat.

  ‘It’s dark down here,’ shouted the air-raid warden as he shone his torch into a black hole amidst the devastation. The beam from his torch picked out a figure.

  ‘Looks as though she’s dead. I reckon the first floor collapsed onto the ground floor. Whoever was in bed up there didn’t stand a chance.’

  A doctor approached and climbed down into the hole, though not before attaching a rope around his waist.

  ‘The whole lot’s a bit unsafe,’ quoted the air-raid warden.

  The doctor went down anyway. After making a quick assessment of the situation, he signalled to be pulled back up.

  ‘Crushed to death I take it,’ said the air-raid warden, his face sombre as he heaved the doctor out of the hole.

  The doctor shook his head. ‘The man died instantly. The woman was still alive. It looks as though she suffocated. Further examination will confirm that.’

  He walked away, his face smeared with dirt, his eyes smarting from the dust that hung in the air. ‘Damn this war,’ he muttered to himself.

  He wondered how long it would take to get used to this kind of thing. The woman lying in the double bed beside the man had indeed suffocated. Judging by her bleeding hands and broken fingernails, she’d beat and scratched at what imprisoned her until her last breath. A horrible way to go, suffocated and buried in darkness.

  The rescuers discussed the information neighbours had given. Nobody knew the identity of the man but there were hints that Mrs Ryan was not stingy in her affections.

  ‘And the child?’

  ‘Somebody said she was evacuated, but we don’t know for sure.’

  ‘Hopefully she was. Just a minute while I check.’

  Mrs Allen was still sitting in the back of the ambulance being tended by a nurse. The policeman sat down beside her. ‘What about the little girl? Was she in the house?’

  Mrs Allen was confused. Her memory had been knocked sideways by the shock but her mind was steadily clearing. ‘Joanna. Mrs Ryan arranged for her to be evacuated a few days ago.’

  Breathing a sigh of relief, the policeman thanked her for her help.

  ‘It seems the little girl’s been evacuated,’ he said to one of the other rescue workers, a soldier home on leave.

  The soldier, a member of the Royal Engineers, straightened and rubbed at the small of his back. ‘Good for her. So we can go ahead and clear the site, though carefully. Everything’s going to fall inwards so we all need to stand well back. For a start, that wall there will fall down.’

  He pointed to the upper half of a set of stairs still clinging to a single standing wall.

  ‘You see? Only half the staircase is visible and the fact that the bottom half is buried in rubble is probably the only reason it’s still standing. It’ll come down all at once, though we’ll do our best to get it to fall in on itself rather than outwards. No damage done that way.’


  The policeman and air-raid warden both agreed. ‘There is only a coalhouse under the stairs. All these houses were built the same.’

  Immersed in a thick fog of dirt and coal dust, Joanna swiped at the stinging in her eyes. Her chest felt tight. She needed air.

  Balancing on the heaped coal got her nearer to the gap at the top of the door. Her head tilted back so her mouth was next to the gap, she took deep breaths.

  Outside was almost as black as inside the coalhouse. Although there was nothing to see, she could hear people shouting. There were people out there. Perhaps her stepmother was out there too and would tell them where she was.

  When she tried to shout, she found she couldn’t. Thanks to the dust her throat was dry so her voice was small and squeaky. Worse still, when she did manage to emit a slightly louder sound, the jangling bell of an ambulance drowned her out. Everybody outside was shouting. Nobody could hear her.

  By the time Seb, Sally and the dog arrived at 116 The Vale, a bulldozer had been brought in to help clear the site and make it safe. Roof timbers were piled to the back of the house, mainly where they had fallen.

  ‘I think our next task is to get them stairs down before they fall down. We can’t clear anything else from the site until they’re out of the way. Start clearing a path through to it if you can,’ the engineer ordered the driver of the machine.

  Black smoke rose from the bulldozer’s exhaust pipe as it shuffled forward, its shovel biting into the piles of brick, plaster and wood. With each load it turned round to load it onto a lorry that would take it to be dumped, possibly into the crater made by the bomb that had fallen in the park.

  ‘Keep going like this and the stairs will fall in on themselves,’ said the sapper. He looked as though he couldn’t wait for it to happen. There was something very satisfying about demolishing buildings. If the bombing increased there was bound to be a call for that sort of work. He was seriously considering making a business of it once the war was over.

  Joanna was terrified. The sound of the machine rumbled through the air. Dust cascaded over her, blocking her nostrils and sending her into a choking cough. There seemed now to be more dust in her chest than there was air.