Fur Coat, No Knickers

by Anna King

  ‘Is ’e bovering yer, girls? The little sod’s always running off. I need eyes in the back of me bleeding ’ead with ’im.’ As she spoke she gently cuffed the curly head with the back of her hand. The blow was light and without malice. ‘Got yer with ’is ball, did ’e? Sorry about that. Give it ’ere, I’ll take care of it. In fact I think I’ll chuck it in the lake where it won’t do no more damage.’

  Immediately the child let out a wail. ‘No, Mum, don’t. I’ll be careful wiv it, honest. Don’t chuck it in the lake, please, Mum…!’

  Grinning broadly, the woman scooped up the child into her arms and held out brightly painted red fingernails to Grace for the ball.

  ‘Ta, love. Sorry ter ’ave disturbed yer.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right, think nothing of it.’ Grace smiled back.

  Polly stared after the mother and child, her mouth slightly open.

  ‘Did you see those nails? And those shoes, phew. I’d love a pair like that, not that I’d have the nerve to wear them. Even if I did, I’d probably break my neck trying to walk in them. They must have had four-inch heels.’

  Grace had lain back down on the grass, her eyes closed against the glare of the sun.

  ‘You had a good look. Did you notice what underwear she was wearing as well?’

  Polly’s head drooped in mock shame.

  ‘All right, point taken. There’s no need to be sarcastic… Oh, Grace, Grace, sit up – quickly.’ A note of excited urgency had crept into Polly’s voice.

  Startled and a little annoyed at being disturbed once again, Grace raised herself up on to one elbow, the other hand shading her eyes.

  ‘What?’

  For an answer, Polly flicked her eyes over Grace’s shoulder, murmuring nervously, ‘There’s a couple of soldiers heading our way. What shall we do, Grace?’

  Swinging her long legs round and up under her buttocks, Grace sat back on her heels and said scathingly, ‘Well, unless they try and abduct us at gunpoint, I’m staying right where I am.’ Squinting against the sun’s glare, Grace saw the approaching soldiers, and with a mischievous glance at her sister murmured, ‘I don’t fancy your one, Poll!’

  Blushing painfully, Polly stared down at the grass with studied concentration as the uniformed men drew nearer. And when they both dropped down in front of them saying cheerfully, ‘Wotch’yer, girls. Fancy some company?’ Polly reached for her hat and began playing with the wide brim.

  Grace eyed the soldiers warily then laughed.

  ‘Not really, but I suppose we can’t stop you from sitting here. It is a public park, after all.’

  The men exchanged hopeful glances. It looked as though they had just struck lucky.

  Grinning broadly, the two men sprawled down on the grass and appraised the young women openly. They were both in their mid-twenties, their army uniforms giving them more confidence than either of them had ever possessed in civvy street.

  But before they could launch into their newly acquired patter for chatting up the girls, the tranquillity of the afternoon was broken by the all-too-familiar sound of the air-raid siren, its tummy-tightening wail filling the air. There had been many such alerts, especially during the past few months as the RAF had battled the Luftwaffe in the skies above London, but despite the fighting in the air, no bombs had fallen in the East End.

  ‘Oh, bother!’ Grace, not unduly concerned, looked to her sister, careful to keep her voice steady. Poor Polly always got herself into a panic when the sirens went off. Yet as Grace got to her feet she saw with some surprise that Polly was valiantly trying to hide her anxiety, afraid of looking a fool in front of the two grinning soldiers.

  ‘Don’t worry, girls. We’ll look after yer, won’t we, Lou?’

  Grace was now on her feet, smoothing the front of her dress, while keeping a watchful eye on her sister, who was now busying herself putting on her straw hat and the shoes she had kicked off earlier.

  ‘Are you ready, Poll?’ Grace asked nonchalantly, her words instantly stirring the two young soldiers, who saw with dismay their prospective companions for the much-prized Saturday-night leave slipping away.

  ‘’Ere, hang on, girls. No need ter rush off, there’s nothing ter be frightened about. Look! No one else’s taking a blind bit of notice.’

  And it was true. Apart from a few picnickers who had also risen to their feet, most of the people lazing in the sun seemed to be in no hurry to move. There had been so many false alarms of late, and those that were genuine had resulted in only a few short bursts of fire, that few people bothered to take cover as the authorities insisted.

  ‘Sorry, boys, no offence, but we’re meeting someone, aren’t we, Poll?’ Grace looked directly at Polly, who looked back blankly, her mind still clearly occupied by the siren.

  But then the ack-ack guns started up further off in the park and people began to sit up and take notice.

  Stirring uneasily, Grace said sharply, ‘Come on, Poll, let’s get—’

  Her words were cut violently short as the sky overhead darkened as if night had suddenly fallen, then came the deadly drone of aircraft. But this was no lone Luftwaffe pilot out to do as much damage as possible before heading back across the Channel before running out of fuel.

  Suddenly, there they were. Silhouetted starkly against the warm, blue September sky, the German aeroplanes, their drone becoming a terrifying roar, flew menacingly overhead, the awesome sight temporarily paralysing those below.

  Their faces blanched, the girls clutched at each other for support, both looking around wildly, undecided what to do next.

  All about them, men, women and children were looking dazed, stunned by the enormity of what was happening.

  Then the bombs started to fall!

  ‘Oh shit!’ Grace, her eyes wide with fear and disbelief, looked over the road to where fire and smoke were pouring. The sunny day had turned into a nightmare from hell. Chaos erupted as women frantically rounded up their terrified children, while from all sides of the park they could hear the increasingly urgent whistles and shouts of the ARP wardens and the ever-closer noise of bombs falling.

  The soldiers, finding themselves the only authority available other than the wardens – who already had their hands full – whirled quickly into action, their fear quickly squashed by their military training.

  ‘Head fer the shelters, girls. Go on, leg it.’ Then they raced off across the park in an attempt to maintain some kind of order among the panicking public.

  Clutching at Polly’s arm, Grace shouted, ‘Quick, Poll, we’ll have to get to the nearest shelter. We haven’t time to get home… Poll. POLL! POLLY, move, for Christ’s sake… MOVE!’

  But Polly was transfixed, her white face stricken, her eyes wide and unmoving. Driven by fear, Grace raised her hand and delivered a hard slap to her sister’s face. Polly fell back, then, her eyes stretching, she began to scream hysterically.

  Grabbing her sister’s hand, Grace yelled, ‘Come on, Poll, run… run…!’

  Polly needed no second prompting. Their long, healthy legs flying, the two girls tore across the grass, stopping only to help up those who had fallen.

  Following the crowd of fleeing people, Grace and Polly raced across to the nearby shelter, where grim-faced air-raid wardens were desperately trying to maintain some kind of discipline among the terrified mob. The elderly men, who for some had been a figure of ridicule during the past year, now came into their own. With great calm and dignity they organised the crowd into the underground shelters, while managing to sustain a steady line of quips to calm the terrified children.

  Scrambling for a space on the cold concrete floor, Grace and Polly sat hunched together against the rough surface of the wall, holding on to each other for dear life in the cramped space available. And still people were pouring in, until it seemed as if the very walls would be rent apart. Mercifully the stampede ceased, and with a crisp ‘Get yer ’eads down!’ the air-raid warden closed the shelter door.

  Outside, the engines of
the bombers could be heard terrifyingly close-by, as the air outside was literally torn asunder by their deadly cargo, which whistled and crashed to the ground in a deafening rushing noise.

  Inside the shelter children were crying and screaming in terror as their mothers tried valiantly to comfort them. With each exploding bomb, everyone crouched instinctively.

  ‘Grace, what about Mum and Dad and the others? Grace, what are we going to do…?’

  The shelter rocked as a bomb landed perilously close, setting the terrified children off again.

  Grabbing Polly, Grace shouted, ‘There’s nothing we can do. They’re probably in another shelter somewhere, just like us…’

  A small hand touched Grace’s. Startled, Grace peered through the dimly lit space and saw the tear-stained dirty face of the child she had seen earlier in the park.

  ‘Ooh, come here, poppet. Come and sit with us. There, there, you’re all right now, I’ve got you,’ Grace crooned softly as the small body nestled against her own. Stroking his head, she mouthed to Polly, ‘He must have gotten separated from his mum, poor little mite.’ Another loud crash reverberated outside and the plump little body seemed to burrow further into Grace, desperately trying to escape the nightmare. Voices called out in the dimly lit shelter, some prayed while others remained frighteningly silent, as if fearful of drawing the attention of the overhead bombers.

  Packed to capacity with terrified people, the noise, both inside and out, was overwhelming.

  Then, in a brief lull in the bombing, one wag shouted, ‘Fer Gawd’s sake, don’t nobody fart.’

  Despite herself, Grace found herself laughing. Then the shelter shook once more, and, bowing her head, she hugged the child fiercely to her breast with one arm, and held her youngest sister tight with the other.

  Beside her, Polly whimpered, ‘What about Mum and Dad and Vi and Nan, Gracie… I’m scared, Gracie, I’m so scared…’

  And Grace, her eyes tightly closed in silent prayer, could offer no more comfort.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Come on, Vi, be a sport. I’ll be off tomorrow, fighting fer King and Country, an’ all that old cobblers, so this might be me last chance fer… you know what…’

  Scrunched up in the corner of a battered settee, Violet Donnelly pushed off the roving hands of her soldier companion and hastily rearranged her dress, saying coolly, ‘Leave off, Brian, you’re not getting me with that old chestnut. And if that’s all you’re after, then there’s plenty of girls willing to do their bit for the war effort, but I’m not one of them.’

  Violet reached for her handbag, from which she produced an enamel compact. Flicking it open she scrutinised her features in the tiny vanity mirror, patting and stroking the blond tresses that reached halfway down her back. Satisfied she looked her best, she snapped shut the compact and, turning to the man she had spent the afternoon with, said loftily, ‘Well, I’d better be off. My parents like us all to be home for tea. We’re a very close family. And besides, I want to get changed for the dance tonight.’ Spreading her lips into a wide smile she giggled. ‘It’s a shame you’ve got to get back to your base, otherwise you could have taken me to the dance. Still, I’m sure I’ll find someone to see me home safely afterwards.’

  Brian looked at Vi coldly then lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke deliberately in the pretty face. He had spent his entire month’s pay in two days on this woman, and now she was chucking him aside like an oily rag. Tonight she would find another mug to take his place – women like her always did. All at once he felt sorry for the next man who crossed Vi’s path. Well, whoever the poor sod was, he was welcome to the teasing little bitch!

  Sensing her charms were no longer appreciated, Vi shrugged and rose languidly to her feet. She strolled casually over to the far side of the room, her hips wriggling as she walked, and gazed unseeingly out of the window. Despite her outward appearance, Vi was trembling inside, furious at the attitude her latest conquest was adopting. Bloody men! she thought viciously. They’re all the same, expecting you to fall all over them the minute they spent any money on you, and then turning nasty when you wouldn’t jump into bed with them.

  Biting her bottom lip, Vi continued to stare out of the open window. The flat was on the top floor of the five-storey block and gave a clear view over Hackney Downs. What would Brian say now, she thought, if she was to tell him she was a virgin? Laugh probably. Her vision misted suddenly. It wasn’t fair. Just because she liked to have a laugh and flirt a bit, everyone thought she was a tramp. Even her own nan thought so. Oh, the old girl hadn’t actually said so, but it was what she thought. Well, sod them. Sod all of them! She didn’t care. But the truth was – she did, and it hurt. It hurt terribly, yet she couldn’t change the way she was made. And anyway, why should she?

  Lifting her chin defiantly, Vi was about to collect her handbag and leave when she heard the first sounds of aircraft approaching. For a brief moment she imagined it to be some of theirs and was reminded of the dogfights so recently witnessed in the skies. Oh, those days had been marvellous. She had climbed to the roofs of many blocks of flats like this to cheer on the Spitfire and Hurricane pilots as they battled the German Luftwaffe, shouting herself hoarse at the thrilling sight. She smiled at the memory. Then her smile froze, changing immediately to a look of horror as the ominous dark formation of German bombers appeared overhead.

  At first, too shocked to move, she stood rooted to the spot. Then, whirling round, she screamed wildly, ‘They’re here, they’re here!’

  Racing across the room Violet grabbed her handbag from the coffee table and headed for the door, heedless of the soldier in whose company she had spent the past two days, and who was now looking at her as if she’d gone mad. Then he too heard the steady drone of aeroplanes and with only a brief look out of the window he hurled himself after the fleeing figure.

  All through the flats, doors were opening and banging shut, neighbours calling out anxiously to each other, asking after loved ones who weren’t at home, hoping one of the neighbours might know of their whereabouts. But in essence it was every man for himself. Pushing people out of her way in her haste to get to the shelters in the courtyard, Violet didn’t stop to run down the stairs, instead she vaulted each flight in a single bound, her legs reverberating with each impact, until she reached the ground floor.

  Clambering over the stacked sandbags at the flats’ entrance, Vi stumbled and fell, grazing her knees. Instantly she was pulled roughly to her feet and given a hard shove in the small of her back.

  ‘Quick, Vi, get yerself in the shelter.’ Brian was at her side yelling into her shocked, frightened face. ‘Hurry up, yer silly cow, run fer it. I’m gonna go back an’ make sure everyone’s out.’

  Violet, her face stretched in disbelief, clawed wildly at his arm screaming, ‘Don’t be such a bloody fool, Brian. It’s every man for himself… Brian! Brian, come back, you’ll be killed—’

  But the khaki-clad figure took no notice, and Violet wasn’t going to wait around for his return.

  Violet raced off behind the fleeing crowd, reaching the shelter just as the first bombs began their deadly mission. She was the last one into the shelter, but before the warden closed the heavy corrugated door, she looked on in horror as a hail of stick-like missiles dropped directly on to the block of flats she had just left – and Brian had just ran back into. Then the whole building collapsed like a pack of cards, spewing out great clouds of smoke and rubble.

  Screaming hysterically, Vi called out, ‘Brian, Brian… Oh, my God, Brian!’

  The heavy hand of the warden pushed her inside the shelter and banged the door shut, saying tersely, ‘It’s no good, love. He’s copped it. Now, be a good girl and sit down quietly, we might be ’ere for a long time.’

  Numbed with shock, Violet, for the first time in many years, did as she was told without a murmur.

  * * *

  The cinema was packed with customers eager for some light-hearted entertainment to cheer them up after a hard w
eek’s work. What with rationing and daily warmongering in the papers, the British people were in dire need of a pick-me-up. And what better way to forget all your troubles than the cinema, where for half a crown you could get a few hours of escapism.

  Seated in the front row of the two and six stalls, Hetty settled herself more comfortably in the plush seat.

  ‘Have you got the chocolates, Sam? I’m that hungry I could eat the whole box.’

  Beside her, Sam grinned. ‘Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, would it? You’d better watch out, or you’ll end up as fat as your mum.’

  In the midst of taking off her hat, Hetty spun round, her eyes twinkling.

  ‘Are you saying I’m getting fat, Sam Donnelly, because if you are then—’

  Behind them a man cut in waspishly, ‘D’yer mind, missus. I’ve come ter see the film, not listen ter you nattering.’

  Looking over her shoulder Hetty replied tartly, ‘Well, sorry, I’m sure.’ And with a sharp dig in Sam’s ribs, she placed the opened box of chocolates in her lap, and settled back to enjoy the film.

  When the sirens sounded halfway through the main film, the film-goers let out a communal groan of irritation. Some began heading for the exit, while others, determined not to miss their weekend treat, remained in their seats.

  ‘We’d better go, love, just in case.’ Sam, already on his feet, was still watching the big screen.

  With a sigh of impatience Hetty said, ‘It’s probably just another false alarm. Let’s stay and see the end of the film, Sam.’

  When her husband raised his eyebrows in mild disapproval Hetty groaned.

  ‘I know what will happen. We’ll just get outside and the all-clear will go, then we’ll have to pay to get back in again.’

  Gently taking hold of his wife’s arm, Sam said gently, ‘Not if we keep our tickets. Now come on, you know—’

  Sam’s words were cut off as a gigantic thud exploded somewhere nearby, but it was when the entire screen fell out on to the first row that pandemonium broke out.