by Anna King
Burying her face in her arms, Vi wept silently before whispering, ‘And I always loved you, Dad. Even when you showed me up, or took me down a peg or two. I deserved it, I know that now. I was a horrible person back then, but I only did it because I knew I could get away with it. Because I knew that no matter how badly I behaved you and Mum loved me. Thank you, Dad, and you too, Mum, for giving me such a loving childhood, and the security that allowed me to be such a horrible cow.’
Her conscience eased somewhat, she fell into an exhausted sleep.
* * *
She was awoken by a rough hand shaking her none too gently by the arm.
‘Come on, Vi, wake up. We’ve gotta leave in half an hour.’
Shrugging off the persistent hand, Vi sat up, angry at being awoken so roughly.
‘All right, all right, keep your hair on, I’m coming. I can go to the bathroom first, can’t I? That’s if you don’t mind waiting another few minutes.’
The sarcastic tone was wasted on Beryl, who was in a fever of excitement to be away from the house before anyone woke up – especially that old bag Aggie.
After she had washed her face and hands, Vi took one last look in the bathroom mirror before going quietly into Grace’s room.
But Grace was already up and at the door. Placing a finger to her lips, she whispered, ‘Have you carried your suitcases downstairs yet?’
Vi gave a tremulous smile. ‘Beryl’s already done it. It must be the first bit of hard work she’s done since she moved in.’
Beryl was standing impatiently by the open door, her foot tapping anxiously, terrified that something might happen to prevent their departure.
Then Grace and Vi were clinging together as if they never wanted to let go of one another.
‘You’ll explain to Nan, won’t you, Grace? And Polly. I’ll write as soon as I’m settled, I promise.’
‘Fer Gawd’s sake, get a move on, Vi,’ Beryl said harshly, her eyes flickering down the dimly lit hall, fearful of seeing the awesome sight of Aggie descending the stairs.
They were out on the porch in the dark November morning when Grace suddenly exclaimed, ‘Just a minute. What about Patrick? Aren’t you taking him with you?’
Expecting just such a question Beryl answered, ‘It’ll be too dangerous fer him. Besides, he’d be better off with you lot. Like you’re always telling me, I’m a rotten mother, so he’ll be better off without me.’
Dumbstruck, Grace could only stare at the hard, painted face. She had imagined Beryl capable of many things, but abandoning her child wasn’t one of them.
But before she could say any more Aggie’s voice floated down the stairs, ‘That you down there, Grace. You all right, love?’
The dreaded voice spurred both women on.
Vi gave Grace one last hug, saying tearfully, ‘Bye, Gracie, I love you.’
Grace stood on the porch, watching the departing figures for as long as possible, but the darkness of the morning soon swallowed them up. She closed the door and turned to find Aggie facing her, her eyes questioning.
Grace took a deep breath, gently took hold of Aggie’s arm and led her towards the kitchen, saying softly, ‘We’d better go and make a cup of tea. You’re going to need it, Nan.’
* * *
‘Look, Vi, there’s a taxi, quick… Oy! Oy! Hold up there!’ Beryl screeched.
The black cab, barely visible in the dark, with its headlights covered, slowed to a halt.
The cab had barely pulled away from the kerb when the deadly drone of the familiar V2 rockets sounded.
‘Oh, shit!’ The taxi driver, an elderly man, put his foot down, not knowing if he was driving into or away from the doodlebug. Then its engine cut out, and in those few seconds of deadly silence the three occupants of the cab froze. The explosion came almost immediately, followed by another engine close by, then another.
The taxi driver pulled over shouting, ‘I’m staying put. There’s no telling where those bastards will come down. I’ll take me chances here. It’s up ter you what yer do.’ With that he hunched down on the front of the cab covering his head with his arms.
Thinking quickly, Beryl swiftly followed suit. The man was right, if she tried to run, she could be running straight into its path. She didn’t hear the door opening at first, then, peering up from her hunched position she saw Vi running down the street.
‘Come back, yer silly bitch. Yer’ll get yourself killed.’
But Vi paid no heed. That blast had come from the direction they had just left, and there were at least another two ready to drop their deadly missiles. Gasping for breath she rounded the corner into her street, her legs going weak as she saw her house still standing. Then one of the engines above ceased, and Vi flung herself to the ground, covering her head with her arms. The explosion rocked the ground she was lying on, and when she gingerly opened her eyes she saw that the two houses next to Benji’s had been directly hit. Screwing up her eyes against the flying debris and dust she tried to look further down the street, then the other engine cut out. It seemed a long way off, but as Vi got shakily to her feet, she looked up and screamed as the other rocket’s load came down, directly over the end house – her home.
‘No! No!’ Her legs barely able to keep her standing, she stumbled on. She was barely a few feet from the house when the next bomb found its mark. The explosion lifted Vi off her feet and flung her high in the air, her body landing with a sickening thud, face down on the debris-covered ground.
Back in the taxi, Beryl waited, her body tense with each explosion. Then, after all was quiet for ten minutes, the cabbie lifted his head and asked, ‘D’yer wanna go back to see if yer mate’s all right, love?’
Beryl looked at her watch. The train to Portsmouth was due to leave in just under an hour. If she missed that… Her lips set in a grim line, she said tersely, ‘No! I’ve a train ter catch. She’ll have ter get a later one. Drive on.’
The contemptuous look in the cabbie’s eyes wasn’t lost on Beryl, but she no longer cared. This was her last chance for a bit of happiness and she wasn’t going to blow it for anyone. As the taxi headed off towards the station she had a fleeting stab of guilt about Patrick, wondering if he was all right. Then she hardened her heart. Whether he was or not, there was nothing she could do about it now. Leaning back in the seat she stared fixedly out of the window until they reached the train station.
* * *
‘They’ve bleeding well what?’ Aggie, her face stretched in disbelief, stared accusingly at Grace, as if she herself had betrayed her. Grace kept her head down, not able to look her nan in the face.
‘Hello, you’re up early, I heard the front door banging, then you two talking down here. Nothing’s wrong, is it? Oh, by the way, Grace, I noticed this letter sticking out from under the hall mat. I don’t know how it got there.’
Grateful for the distraction, Grace took the letter, her heart skipping a beat as she recognised the official letterhead.
While her nan ranted on to a sleepy-eyed Polly about what had transpired, Grace read the letter, her hands beginning to tremble as the words sunk into her brain.
‘…the ungrateful pair of cows. And she’s left her baby here. The bloody cheek of it. Well, I ain’t gonna look after it, not at my age, I—’ She broke off her tirade as she saw the whiteness of Grace’s face, and the letter held between her trembling fingers.
‘What is it, love? Not more bad news, I hope. I think I’ve had me fair share of shocks fer one day, and it ain’t even light outside yet.’
Through dry lips, slack with relief, Grace murmured, ‘No, Nan, not bad news. Stanley’s in a military hospital, it doesn’t say where. There’s not much detail, just enough to let me know he’s alive and will be moved to England as soon as it’s safe.’
Her voice softer now, Aggie asked tentatively, ‘Does it say how badly injured he is?’
Grace shook her head.
‘No. Just what I’ve told you. I expect I’ll hear more at a later date.’ Rea
ching out she grabbed Aggie’s hand. ‘Thank God he’s all right, Nan… Oh, thank God! I’d never have forgiven myself if…’
Aggie squeezed the cold hand, knowing exactly how Grace was feeling. She too was experiencing a great sense of relief at the news. It was as if a giant weight had been lifted from her shoulders, the weight of guilt. For, like Grace, she too at times had thought how much simpler life would be if Stanley didn’t make it home, and those secret thoughts had weighed heavily on both women’s minds. Now their consciences were clear, for if Stanley had died, neither of them would have known a moment’s peace for the rest of their lives.
Polly, who was reading over Grace’s shoulder, suddenly threw her arms tightly around Grace’s neck.
‘Oh, Grace, I’m so relieved he’s all right. I was so sure he must be dead by now, but he’s alive, and he’s coming home. Stanley’s coming home.’
Grace turned to look up into the beaming freckled face, but before she could say anything they heard the sound of the V2 rockets overhead.
Quickly now, the women rose to their feet with Grace shouting, ‘You get down the cellar, I’ll get Patrick. Hurry!’
Racing up the stairs Grace grabbed the sleeping baby from its cot and hurried back downstairs. She had just reached the cellar when the first bomb dropped. Then the second. They never heard the third one.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Lester Road, that once ordinary East End backstreet had been turned into a raging bomb-site. Out of the twenty-eight houses only eleven remained intact. Out in the road, sheets covered the dead, while firefighters fought to contain the blaze that was spreading from one house to another. The street was choked with fire engines, ambulances and dozens of people, some neighbours, some strangers, all fighting desperately to find and rescue any survivors in the piles of dust and rubble that had only hours ago been homes. The early hour of the attack had caught almost everyone unaware. The residents of Lester Street had still been in their beds when the rockets had been launched, and even though some had been awoken by the terrifying noise, most had been too late to get to the shelters in time.
At the site of Paddy’s Castle, Nobby Clark, his face black with grime and smoke, tore frantically at the rubble with his bleeding hands, praying like he’d never prayed before, knowing that if the Donnellys were dead, a part of him would die with them. He knew himself to be of strong character, but everyone had their breaking point and this would be his. The death of his beloved parents had almost been the undoing of him, then he had met the Donnellys, and from that first meeting he had felt as if he had found a second family. Not that anyone could ever take the place of his parents, but the warmth and genuine hospitality of the Donnelly family had helped ease his pain. Now it was happening all over again, but this time there would be no kind-hearted, good-natured family to help him through his grief. If he lost the women of this house, especially his darling Grace, then life wouldn’t be worth living. The bomb had landed on the top of the house, demolishing the attic rooms, which in turn had collapsed on to the second floor. Every window had been blown out by the blast, but by some stoke of luck the majority of the main building was still intact, even though the inside of the house was a mass of choking rubble.
‘’Ere, lad, slow down. You’ll do more harm than good by going at it like a bull at a gate.’ Reg Watson, the local warden pulled at Nobby’s arm. ‘It’s got to be done right, lad. Now come away and let those of us who’s trained get on with it.’
Nobby shook his head, almost demented with worry.
‘I’ll help then. Show me what to do, and I’ll help, but I ain’t leaving. That’s my… my family in there.’
Reg took Nobby’s arm gently and led him to one side, signalling to the other rescuers to carry on. Slowly and carefully they moved the wreckage brick by brick, then they proceeded to do the same with the timber. Nobby, standing alongside, watched then joined the rescue party, carrying out instructions without question. By his side, Reg Watson tried to give the frantic man some hope.
‘They might have made it to the cellar, Nobby. If they did then there’s a good chance they’re all right. Old Paddy Donnelly built that place well underground. It’s the safest place in the house.’
Nobby gasped for breath as he lifted a large piece of timber with care from the wreckage.
‘They wouldn’t have had time to get there, Reg, not at that time of the morning. They were probably still in bed like those other poor bastards lying in the road.’
Reg glanced sorrowfully over at the pile of covered bodies and wondered why he wasn’t crying. Those people lying out there were his friends, people he had grown up with, people he had loved. Like Jeannie Butcher and her bunch of lively kids, and Rene Castle and her children – all dead. God! He couldn’t believe it. And what about Bert and Tom away fighting for their country. How in God’s name would they react when they heard their entire families had been killed? Poor old Benji had copped it as well; not from the bombing, but from the shock. His heart had given out when he had seen the mass destruction in the street in which he had lived for over thirty years, and the covered bodies lying so pathetically on the ground. Then there was was poor Violet Donnelly, so smashed up he, Reg, had hardly recognised her at first. She had been one of the first to be ferried to the hospital, but whether she was alive or dead, Reg had no idea. But the state her face had been in, Reg doubted if the once-beautiful young woman would thank the doctors for saving her.
Reg glanced at the young man by his side; he would be destroyed if the Donnellys were dead. For a brief moment Reg closed his eyes in utter desolation, then his training took over and he carried on with his job.
Nobby, his eyes reddened by smoke and dust, was passing a long beam to another man along the line. After a few minutes Reg held up his hand for silence, and the men and women lining the street held their breath. But no sound came from the pile of rubble that had once stood so proudly at the top of the street, dominating all the terraced houses adjoining it. Reg nodded, and the men resumed their work, passing pieces of debris and wooden floorboards and window-frames from one to the other. On Reg’s orders the men were concentrating on the lower part of the house, praying the Donnellys had made it to the cellar before the bomb had dropped. Because if they had been still asleep then there was no hope for any of them.
One of the men at the top of the line held up his hand for silence, and once again the crowd fell quiet. Then a cheer went up as the frail sound of a baby’s cry reached them. With renewed effort the men bent their backs, heedless of their bleeding hands and aching bodies. Reg held up his hand once again, and the crowd responded instantly. After a few agonising moments the sound came again, stronger this time, and with renewed effort the line of men concentrated on the area from which the sound could be heard.
Then three of the men were inside the house and looking down into the large crater that had once been the cellar. The lead man, his blackened face lighting up to reveal white teeth that stood out in startled contrast to the blackness of his face, called out, ‘I can see them.’
Someone else shouted, ‘Are they alive, mate?’
But here the man couldn’t give a reply. That the baby was alive was obvious from its now frantic wailing, but as for the others…
Nobby, covered from head to foot in sooty dust and dirt, was almost unrecognisable, as, heedless of the hands that came out to grab him, he stepped carefully over the rubble, coming to a heart-stopping halt as he stared down into the vast hole. A hole that was filled with large, broken beams criss-crossing the opening, and large chunks of the ceiling that had fallen down on the occupants of the cellar.
Then Reg was by his side, saying quietly, ‘Steady, Nobby, steady. I’ve seen worse than this, and got people out alive. Now, just do as I tell you. Don’t try shifting or moving anything on your own, or you could make matters worse. OK, mate?’
Nobby nodded dumbly, too dazed to argue.
The professional rescuers resumed their work, and after twenty mi
nutes, one cried out, ‘I can see them. Three women and a baby.’
‘Can you get to them, Norman?’ replied another voice.
‘Yeah, but it’s gonna be difficult. There’s beams everywhere. Some of ’em are holding up what’s left of the ceiling. If we move the wrong ones, the whole lot could come crashing down.’
Reg Watson, his face grim, caught the man by the arm.
‘Well, that’s what you’re trained fer, ain’t it, Norman? To do the job properly. So let’s get on with it.’
The man Norman took no offence at Reg’s harsh words. He knew the strain the elderly man was under. The women trapped below were friends of his, and the poor bastard had already lost enough of those today.
It was twenty minutes before the baby was handed up through the hole, alive and well and screaming its head off. The cheer that went up as a woman rushed forward to take the squirming, filthy bundle was deafening. The woman, who was lucky enough to have a home to return to, quickly took little Patrick into the safety of her house, followed by other women, eager to help in any way they could.
Ten minutes later another body was lifted out.
Nobby, standing at the edge of the entrance, was almost afraid to look. It was only when one of the men shouted, ‘She’s still breathing, get her into the ambulance quick!’ that he opened his eyes and put out his arms to take the unconscious figure. Stumbling over the debris, he laid his face against the deathly white cheek of Polly before handing her over to the doctor waiting by the ambulance.
He had barely delivered Polly into the safe hands of the doctor when another shout rent the air. Turning swiftly, Nobby saw Reg and another man carrying Grace carefully over the mound of debris. As if new life had been injected into him, Nobby bounded forward, his eyes wide and questioning.