by Pam Weaver
From what they’d read in the papers, they’d all guessed that he was still in the North African desert with the Eighth Army. He had been part of the relief of the besieged city of Tobruk at the end of 1941, but in February, Rommel’s Panzers had regrouped and the Eighth Army had been pushed back. By May, according to the BBC, fighting had broken out again, and in the middle of June, the whole country had been devastated to hear that Tobruk was in German hands once more. The Daily Telegraph had reported that Rommel had taken twenty-five thousand prisoners, and since that time, they had heard nothing much from Johnny. Judith wept at night, and Desmond did his best to comfort and console her. Stella had tried to cope with her worries on her own, but in the end, she had biked up to Broadwater and told her own mother. Phyllis had helped her through the difficult first few days, but then all they could do was wait.
Stella suddenly felt embarrassed that she hadn’t told them about the telegram in her handbag as soon as she’d arrived. She’d been looking for the right moment, but so far she hadn’t breathed a word.
‘You look worried, my dear,’ said Desmond.
Stella sighed but couldn’t bring herself to meet his eye. ‘I’ve got something to show you both,’ she said. Desmond stared at her blankly. ‘Shall we go into the sitting room?’
He nodded, and it was obvious from the expression on his face that his heart was already sinking. Desmond was a man who kept his dark thoughts at bay by staying busy in the garden. Stella’s in-laws employed a full-time gardener, but the grounds of their home, the Knowle, in Chesswood Avenue, Worthing, were large and there was plenty to keep them both occupied. Most of the flowers were gone now. Every square inch was devoted to the production of food, and even the area round the rhododendron bushes had been fenced off and given over to two allotments.
Judith spent most of her time doing her WVS work, and she was also on various committees. Stella, who had trained as a teacher, had returned to work and was now at Christchurch School on Portland Road. She had begun her career in St George’s School at the High Street end of Lyndhurst Road, but when she had married Johnny, in 1937, she had stopped work. The marriage bar meant that the day they became Mr and Mrs Bell, Stella was no longer allowed to be a teacher. It was a bittersweet blow, but shortly afterwards, St George’s was earmarked for closure. It felt like the end of a chapter, and before long, the pupils were dispersed to other schools. As things turned out, when a bomb was dropped onto a shop and two houses directly opposite the school in October 1940, everyone agreed that it had been a good job that the school was closed. Had Jerry hit his target (the gasworks next door) during term-time, the consequences didn’t bear thinking about.
By 1941, the town had a shortage of teachers and Stella, who had no children of her own, was invited back. Glad to be busy again, she had been in the infants class for a whole year. Now, in August, the children were having their summer break.
‘Tea’s getting cold,’ Judith called.
Stella and Desmond padded into the sitting room in their stockinged feet.
‘Stella has something important to tell us, my dear,’ Desmond said as he threw himself into his armchair. He looked weary, Stella thought. The war was clearly taking its toll. Judith looked up anxiously.
‘I’ve had a telegram,’ said Stella.
Desmond leaned forward in his chair and stared at the floor.
Judith pulled a handkerchief from under her watch strap and pressed it to her lips. ‘Oh, Desmond . . .’
‘No, no,’ Stella said quickly. ‘He’s not dead, but he has been taken prisoner.’
Her in-laws’ relief was palpable. Stella handed the yellow paper to her father-in-law, who read it aloud.
‘Based on information received, records of the War Office have been amended to show Lieutenant Edmund John Bell is a prisoner of war of the Italian Government. Further information to follow.’
‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’ said Judith. ‘I mean, he’s not dead, and Italy is a nice place.’
Desmond smiled. ‘Yes, my dear. I’m sure it’s better than being a German prisoner of war.’
‘Can we write to him?’ Judith asked. ‘I mean, where exactly is he?’
‘Apparently, we send everything to the usual BFPO address,’ said Stella, ‘and they will forward it on.’
Judith stood to her feet, and walking over to Stella, gave her an awkward hug. ‘Thank you for coming over to tell us straight away,’ she said. ‘If ever you feel you need someone to talk to, you know where we are.’
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Stella managed to choke out a ‘Thank you.’
They drank their tea, and shortly afterwards, they said their goodbyes. Stella gave them a wave and set off, her bicycle basket weighed down with goodies. She was tired now. During the afternoon, she had taken herself off for a ride over to the villages of Ferring and East Preston, and now she was finding it hard to keep her weary legs going. She had planned to relax with a good book for the evening, but when she got back home and discovered the telegram, she had pushed all tiredness aside. She knew at once that she couldn’t leave Johnny’s parents in ignorance.
Despite the lateness of the hour, the sun was still warm. High above the town, she could hear the drone of aircraft, but the terrible night raids of previous years were long gone. Back in 1940, the skies had been black as wave after wave of German bombers headed for London. The RAF boys stationed all around at Ford, Tangmere and Westhampnett had done their best, but for a while, it was hell on earth. The pattern of the war had changed and now they were experiencing daylight raids. Of course, the cities suffered the most, but not even Worthing was without its tragedies.
As Stella turned into Cranworth Road, the familiar wail of the air-raid siren began. What should she do? There were no shelters nearby, the closest being Beach House Gardens, on the seafront, or Stoke Abbott Road, north of the town. Perhaps she should turn back to Chesswood Road. She had slowed for a moment to gather her thoughts when the low moan of an aircraft engine filled the air. It sounded very near to the ground, and Stella was aware of people opening their front doors to look out. The engine cut out for a second or two and then restarted. Looking towards the town, she saw a German plane coming from the direction of Madeira Avenue, travelling diagonally from the area of the pier. Smoke was pouring from the rear end. It was clear that it had been hit and was damaged in some way. It clipped a couple of chimneypots but kept going. Stella, frozen to the spot, stared in horror as it headed towards her.
‘Get in!’ a voice behind her bellowed. ‘For God’s sake, get inside!’
Dropping the bike, Stella ran up the short path to the front door. A woman, a complete stranger, grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly towards her house. At the same time, she heard a whining screech and the sound of falling masonry as the plane’s wing hit the wall of the Home Guard HQ on the corner of Lyndhurst Road and Farncombe Road, about a hundred and fifty yards away. The wreckage ricocheted across the street and ploughed into a house on the opposite corner. As Stella fell inside the woman’s house, she caught sight of a burning ring of fire spinning along the road. It was followed by an almighty explosion and a rush of hot air propelled both herself and the woman towards the stairs, taking their breath away. The sky above the crash was suddenly filled with dense white smoke. The woman staggered against the hallstand as the front door was snatched away from her hand and banged against the wall. Stella was flung against the banister with such force she lost her footing and tumbled onto the mat. The whole house shook, and all around the street, they could hear the sound of breaking glass. Inside the house, though, although the windows rattled, the glass didn’t break, probably because the front door was still wide open.
There was a moment of stunned silence, which was suddenly broken by the terrified screams of two little children.
CHAPTER 2
White as a sheet, Stella’s rescuer pulled herself upright and wobbled to the bottom of the stairs as the two terrified children raced down and flun
g themselves into her arms. ‘It’s all right,’ she said in a cool, calm voice that belied the shock she’d just experienced. ‘Mummy’s here. Shh, shh. You’re quite safe.’
Stella, still trembling, felt the tears in her own eyes as she pulled herself to her feet. Feeling a bit dizzy, she leaned against the balustrade and tried to calm herself. She gradually became aware that her head hurt where she’d hit the banister, and her left ear was stinging.
Her rescuer was about her own age, slim with slightly reddish-brown hair. She had a pretty face and hazel eyes. Her children – Stella presumed they were hers – a boy aged about five or six and a little girl, slightly younger, with soft curls, were both in their nightwear, he in pyjamas and she in a short, white nightie.
Once the children were comforted, the woman looked up. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Stella said, conscious that her voice was wobbly. ‘Pulling me in like that, I feel sure that you saved my life.’
The woman shrugged her shoulders. ‘That’s what the card is for.’ And it was only then that Stella noticed the blue card in the window next to the front door. First started as an indication of a ‘safe house’ for children caught out in an air raid, the council and local voluntary services had encouraged people to maintain the use of the card for the sake of any passer-by caught outside during a bombing raid with no protection. Everyone suffered from the constant, lingering, unspoken fear of a massive attack and wholesale slaughter on the streets. As it was, the people of Worthing were all too often caught out by German pilots machine-gunning at random as they made for home after a bombing raid further up the country.
‘You’re very pale,’ the woman said, ‘and look – you’re bleeding.’
Stella put her hand to her ear and her fingers came away bloodied. She swayed slightly.
‘Mummy has to help this lady,’ said the woman, standing up. ‘She’s been hurt.’
The little girl clung to her mother’s skirts as she took Stella into the kitchen of the house and sat her at the table. The back door was wide open. The children stared wide-eyed as their mother reached for a tin on top of a cupboard and brought it down. Inside, there were bandages, cotton wool and other paraphernalia used to tend to minor cuts and bruises. The woman poured some Dettol into a pudding basin and topped it up with warm water from the kettle. She then set about dabbing Stella’s ear.
‘It’s not too bad, but I think your earring must have caused some damage,’ she said. ‘The hole is certainly a lot bigger. Shall I take it out for you?’
Stella nodded. ‘Thank you.’
‘My name is Philippa,’ the woman went on as she handed Stella her earring, which she’d rinsed in the Dettol. ‘Philippa Sinclair, but everybody calls me Pip, and this is Georgie – he’s six – and Hazel. Say, “How do you do?” children.’
The children dutifully did as they were told.
‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Georgie and Hazel,’ said Stella, at last beginning to feel more like herself. ‘And how old are you, Hazel?’
‘Six,’ said Hazel.
‘Four,’ her brother corrected.
Stella smiled.
The front door was still open and sounds drifted in from outside. People were calling anxiously to each other, asking if they were all right or if they needed help. Somewhere very close, a fire was raging.
‘I think I should go out there to lend a hand,’ said Stella as Pip cleared away the mess, but as they rose to their feet, the two women were distracted by someone in obvious distress calling a name. It was coming from the rear of the houses, not the street. Stella and Pip went to the back door and looked out. A woman was running along the alleyway behind the house hysterically calling for someone called Flora.
‘That’s Auntie Lillian,’ said Pip, more to her children than Stella. ‘Georgie, you stay here and look after your sister. I won’t be a minute.’
The two women hurried to the back gate, and Pip called out, ‘Lillian, what’s happened?’
Lillian was completely distraught. Turning her tear-stained face in their direction, she wailed, ‘I can’t find Flora. Have you seen her? My little girl is missing.’
‘Where did you last see her?’ said Stella, straining her neck to look over the fences. She didn’t have a clue what the child looked like, but somehow that didn’t register for the moment.
‘She was in the garden,’ said Lillian hopelessly. ‘When the explosion happened, all the glass in the windows of the house next door blew out, and when I went outside to look for her, she wasn’t there!’
Lillian was clearly a lot younger than either Pip or herself. She was an attractive girl with curly fair hair swept back from her elfin face with a kirby grip.
The air was thick with the smell of aviation fuel and burning. Here and there, the trees were festooned with ribbons of flame. They could still hear people shouting out as they ran from their houses with buckets of water or blankets to beat out the flames, and somewhere on Lyndhurst Road, the bell of a fire engine rang out.
‘How old is she?’ Stella asked.
‘Three.’
Stella did some quick thinking. A three-year-old wouldn’t venture very far from home, no matter how scared they were. Could she have doubled back indoors without her mother seeing? ‘When she heard that big crash, she must have panicked,’ Stella said. ‘Are you absolutely sure she didn’t dodge back inside the house?’
‘I’ve already looked,’ wailed Lillian. ‘I’ve . . . Well, no . . . Oh, I don’t know . . .’ She threw her arms up in despair. ‘Oh, where is she? Flora . . . Flora.’
‘Why don’t we go back into your place and double-check that she’s not there?’ Stella said gently.
The three of them retraced Lillian’s steps, Georgie and Hazel joining them as they passed by their gate. Stella stayed with the child’s mother, doing her best to reassure her that they would find the little girl, but a quick search of Lillian’s home and garden by Pip and her children yielded nothing.
Georgie tugged at his mother’s sleeve. ‘She’s in the pirate den.’
‘Surely she wouldn’t have gone out this way,’ said Stella, walking to the end of the back alley and towards the carnage on Lyndhurst Road. Everyone followed her, and when they got there, they had to agree. It was obvious that the plane had broken apart on impact. The road was covered with burning debris, hot and dangerous. The ring of fire Stella had seen out of the corner of her eye as Pip pulled her indoors turned out to be a landing wheel that had detached itself from the plane and rolled half a mile down the road before coming to a stop. Judging by the number of people helping in the carnage, there had been some serious injuries, and perhaps even loss of life.
Fierce flames surrounded the house on the corner. Two fire engines were in attendance, together with several men in uniform. Candia, which stood behind the wall struck by the aircraft wing, was the headquarters of the Home Guard, and the Canadian soldiers were billeted in the area. They had turned out in force to lend a hand. Neighbours were running around with buckets and bowls of water trying to douse the flames, but it was a bit like throwing a thimbleful of water at a volcano. A man on the edge of the pavement was yelling at a group of boys scavenging for plane debris in the wreckage to get back. At the rear of the house the plane had crashed into, the men had spotted two women at an upstairs window. It didn’t take much thought to realize that their escape was cut off by the flames. Pip pulled her children away, anxious that they shouldn’t see something horrible. When the women opened the window to shout for help, the Canadians told them to jump. Their skirts fanned out as they fell, but happily, the men broke their fall and the women were able to walk away practically unscathed.
Pip, Lillian and Stella still hadn’t found Flora, though.
‘Mummy,’ Georgie insisted. ‘Mummy, I told you where she is.’
‘Oh, Georgie, don’t be silly.’ His mother sounded a little exasperated. ‘You were in bed. How can you possibly know where Flora is?’
Georgie gave his mother a self-satisfied grin. ‘She’s hiding in the pirate den.’
‘Georgie, dear,’ said Pip, ‘this isn’t a game.’
‘But, Mummy, she is. I know she is.’
‘That’s enough!’ said Pip crossly.
But the urgency of his voice stirred something in Stella. In her experience, children like Georgie had a wonderful imagination and what might seem unbelievable to an adult could have a grain of truth. It was certainly worth exploring. ‘Excuse me, Pip, but may I?’ she began. ‘I don’t wish to contradict you, but perhaps Georgie could show us this pirate den?’
‘There is no den,’ said Pip. ‘He’s making it up.’
‘I’m not, Mummy. Really I’m not.’
The three women looked at each other. Stella got down on her haunches and smiled at him. ‘Can you take us there, Georgie?’
Georgie made to set off, but his mother said, ‘He’s got no shoes on.’
His wellingtons were by the back door, so he made do with them. Georgie hurried down the back alley away from Lyndhurst Road. Pip swung her barefooted daughter onto her hip and they quickly reached the end of the alley. Georgie turned left, hugging the wall.
Stella could tell by the look on Pip’s face that she was still unconvinced. ‘He’s not allowed to come this far,’ she said. ‘This is a waste of time. There’s nothing down there.’
‘How do you know about this place, Georgie?’ Stella asked.
‘The big boys showed me,’ said Georgie.
‘I’ve told you not to hang around with the big boys,’ Pip said crossly. ‘They get up to all sorts of mischief. There’s no telling what they might get you and Hazel to do.’
Georgie eyed his sister. ‘It’s all right, Mummy. Girls aren’t allowed.’
If the female sex were not allowed in the den, it appeared to be lost on him that all the adults present were female.
They found themselves in a derelict garden. The house was all boarded up and looked rather forbidding.