In addition to the yards, there were many other types of production plants clustered around the Clyde. Light and heavy engineering and armaments supplies, the Rolls-Royce works at Hillington and Beardmore’s heavy armour plate. When you looked across the central belt of Scotland then the amount of industry concentrated in this one area was immense: from the huge Singer factory and timber yards to smaller units making parts for engines and automobiles. The works ran on from Glasgow City, down the great river and all along the estuary.
One or two enemy spotter planes had flown over, keeping well out of range of the anti-aircraft guns. Everybody reckoned that they must be taking aerial photographs, surveying weather conditions and gathering information to report to their own intelligence units. Probably recording the position of the docks and the layout of the surrounding works, perhaps noting the big oil terminals at Kilmarnock. And no matter what precautions the Government took, such as removing all directional signs, or even the more complicated manoeuvres of installing street lights among the surrounding hills which were empty of people, they could never obliterate one feature: the Clyde. On the darkest nights it glittered like a thick silver cord, twisting, fat and slow, among the tenements and houses spread all around it. And all these ingenious schemes to divert and fool the enemy could not disguise the location of the sea to the river, and the river to the town.
Even young children knew the names of the aircraft. Spitfires and Hurricanes, Heinkels and Junkers. To them it was exciting and interesting to spot a plane and try to identify it. There were great arguments about the respective fire power and merits of each kind of machine. It was, of course, a huge game that adults were playing and not to be taken too seriously. Lucy would climb on top of the Anderson shelter in the garden at the back of the café and pretend to drop bombs on baby Alec sitting up in his pram, and he would shriek with laughter.
‘Play a nice game now, piccola,’ Signora Casella would plead with her. ‘Come, and I will cut some paper dolls for you to dress.’
Ricardo’s mother hated hearing the news bulletins. She would cover her ears with her fingers when the broadcasts began.
Peg had laughed. ‘You’re an ostrich, Signora,’ she said. ‘Pretending it isn’t happening won’t make the war go away.’
Was that what she was doing? thought Kezzie, as she lay with Lucy cuddled up beside her. Was she burying her head in the sand?
Lucy turned in the bed, and Kezzie adjusted her position so that there was more room. Her sister slept the sleep of the innocent child. Her body heavy, her breathing regular. What should she do? Kezzie tried to think through her problem logically. She had a complete conviction that if Lucy was sent away again it would have a dreadful impact on her.
And myself, thought Kezzie suddenly. I would hardly be able to bear it. And what of Grandad? The previous separation had torn the little family apart. Perhaps it was selfishness then. She lay considering this for several minutes and while she did so, her sister shifted yet again and, muttering something, stretched out her arm on the pillow. What was she dreaming of? Kezzie wondered. The room was so dark with the blackout blinds on the windows that she could not see Lucy’s face. What was she thinking of, her little sister, as she slept on through the night? Lucy’s trust in Kezzie was absolute, believing that she knew what was best for her. But now Kezzie was tormented. If she made a wrong decision it could mean the difference of life or death for Lucy.
Kezzie turned once more in the bed, leaning on her elbow as she thought about her own life. Her great inspiration to study medicine seemed almost a self-centred indulgence compared to the war being fought. Yet she knew that it was the right course for her, had known it since she was very young. Her missionary zeal had faded a little, the desire to travel to foreign lands and do good was something she now realised might not be fulfilled. But her determination to qualify as a doctor had not altered. She thought then of Michael. How he’d encouraged her ambitions. Their lives, so far apart at the moment, were joined by a fine link which was unbreakable. She wondered what he was doing at this very moment. Was he thinking of her? Kezzie slept at last, and smiled as she dreamed.
The Blitzkrieg continued. Almost nightly, bombs were dropping on London, and then other industrial cities and ports. Daily radio news bulletins and newspaper headlines told of great destruction and death. Docklands and industrial targets were pounded again and again. Then on the 14th of November over four hundred planes attacked the city of Coventry, dropping nearly a thousand incendiary bombs.
In the local shop, Kezzie stared at the pictures of the shell of Coventry Cathedral. Its centre had been annihilated in the space of a few hours. The remaining latticed windows and small elongated spires were etched in monochrome relief against the sky. People photographed in the streets were wandering about dazed and stupefied, clutching a few possessions, children sitting amongst the rubble.
Kezzie bought some newspapers and went back to their house. Her grandad was just in from night-firewatching and eating his breakfast. She spread the newspapers out on the table in front of him.
‘I’m taking Lucy to Aunt Bella’s today,’ she said.
He didn’t say anything at all. Only stared straight ahead and nodded. When Kezzie returned in the early afternoon he was still sitting at the table. The fire had gone out and he hadn’t rekindled it. The room was cold.
‘I had to get her away from here,’ said Kezzie as she took her coat off and hung it up on the hook at the back of the door.
Her grandfather looked up at her. ‘You did it for the best,’ he said.
Kezzie sat down at the table opposite him. She put her head in her hands. ‘But is it?’ she asked him. ‘Is it for the best? I don’t know.’
‘I’m surprised that she stayed,’ he said after a bit.
‘I tricked her,’ said Kezzie wearily. ‘I told her I was going to the shop, and then caught the bus back to Glasgow from the end of the road. I couldn’t even say goodbye properly in case she suspected something.’ She put her teacup down unsteadily. ‘Bella said she’d tell her after a few hours.’
‘Poor Bella,’ said Grandad.
About half-past four their letterbox rattled loudly and Grandad went to answer the door. Bella came rushing through to the kitchen.
‘It’s Lucy!’ she cried. ‘She’s run away!’
CHAPTER 14
Ricardo returns
BELLA’S COAT WAS flapping open, showing that she still had her apron on. Her face was without powder, her hair falling down.
‘Kezzie, John, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’ She looked wildly from one to the other. ‘Kezzie, she kept askin’ where you were, and what was keepin’ you. Ah kept puttin’ her off like, with wee stories an’ givin’ her things to dae. An’ then another wifie who’d gone down the road after you, came back up, an’ I saw Lucy speaking to her. An’ then the wean came over the road, an’ she said tae me, awful quiet-like, “Aunty Bella, Kezzie’s gone home without me, hasn’t she?”
‘I just nodded. Ah couldnae say the words. An’ what a look she gied me, Kezzie.’ Bella put her hands to her face. ‘I ken now how Judas felt. But she never complained, nor cried. Nothin’. Only asked me if she could play outside for a wee while.’ Bella sat down heavily. ‘An’ me bein’ that stupid, an’ that glad she was takin’ it so well, says, “Aye, on ye go, hen.” An’ then half an hour later when I went to fetch her in …’ Bella pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her eyes.
‘Have ye told the police?’ asked Kezzie’s grandad.
Bella shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I came straight here.’
‘Where d’ye think she’d go, Kezzie?’ her grandad asked.
Kezzie couldn’t think at all. She realised now that she should never have left her sister like that, in such a cowardly fashion. But it would have been too much for her to cope with if Lucy had cried or become hysterical when she told her that she was returning to Clydebank without her.
‘I don’t know,’ she said dully.
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br /> Grandad made some tea, and as they drank it they talked over what to do.
‘I’ll go to the police station,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll walk the road back to Stonevale.’
Kezzie looked at him. He seemed to have aged tremendously in the last few hours. It was as though his two grandchildren were the life force which sustained him. Now he was drained and barely able to function.
‘Yes,’ she said. She got up slowly. What should she do now? Her great dread was that Lucy would lapse into the almost catatonic state she’d been in when she had gone missing before. When she and Kezzie were separated previously the shock had been so great for Lucy that she had been unable to tell anyone her name, or where she lived.
Kezzie walked to the window. It was almost dark. Mindful of the blackout regulations, she started to draw the curtains before she lit the gaslight. She stood at the window for a moment and looked out into the night. Where was Lucy? If she was running away where would she go? Kezzie frowned. A memory returned to her, faint yet insistent, of herself standing at a window … watching, waiting …
Now she recalled what it was. In the McMaths’ house in Waterfoot, she’d stood looking out into the Canadian wilderness, anxious for news of Lucy’s friend, the boy Jack, who’d absconded from the orphanage where Lucy had been placed. ‘Where does a runaway child go?’ she had asked.
‘To where they would be welcome. To people who show love and kindness.’ Doctor McMath’s words slipped into Kezzie’s mind. She turned from the window.
‘I think I’ll take a walk along to the café,’ she said. ‘Bella, will you wait here?’
Kezzie hurried through the blacked-out streets, feeling along the brick walls, stumbling off kerbs and hesitantly seeking her way across the roads. She tried to block her mind from the fact that somewhere Lucy might be doing the same. By the time she arrived the café was closed, but Ricardo’s mother and his aunt sat with her, in the dark with the door left open, just in case …
They made coffee and drank it, and to pass the time they told Kezzie stories of their childhood in Italy. The little farm in the hills of Umbria where they played with the goats in the summer-time. Of how their father had walked all the way through France and England to Scotland, to find work. He had been helped by a Padrone, a man from the adjoining village who’d already established his business in Gourock and sent for young men and women from his community to work in his shops. Their father had worked hard, they told Kezzie, and when his elder daughter was married he was able to help her and her husband buy this café as a wedding gift.
Despite Signora Biagi’s protests they listened to the news bulletins. There had been another raid on London in the early evening.
Signora Casella shook her head. ‘The Londoners suffer so much,’ she murmured. ‘I hope we can bear it so well when it is our turn.’
Signora Biagi shuddered. ‘The very thought of that Anderson shelter makes my skin crawl,’ she said.
‘I don’t know if it is so awful,’ Kezzie said reassuringly. ‘Ricardo made it very cosy, with a rug and some cushions and a lamp. It is just like a little house. Lucy loves to play in it …’
Her eyes widened and she gripped Signora Biagi’s arm.
‘The Anderson shelter,’ she whispered.
It was Signora Biagi who restrained Kezzie when they opened the door. Lucy had the oil lamp lit, and was quietly reading a book with the rag doll propped beside her.
‘Lucy!’ Kezzie screamed and stepped forward. Signora Biagi held on to her arm. ‘Do you know the trouble and worry you have given everyone? You are a wicked child to do this.’ Kezzie found she was shaking with rage and fear.
‘No, I’m not,’ said Lucy. ‘You lied to me. It was you who caused the fuss. We agreed that I was to stay at home. You changed your mind, and you didn’t even tell me.’
‘What could I say?’ Kezzie asked Peg the next day. ‘She was speaking the truth, and was also rather proud of herself that she had found her way there without getting lost.’
‘Is your mind more settled now about her staying in the town?’ Peg asked Kezzie.
Kezzie laughed. ‘Well, I suppose it has to be. She has told me that she’ll just run away if I try to evacuate her, so I don’t really have any choice.’
But still Kezzie couldn’t help but worry. At the beginning of December three thousand incendiary bombs were dropped on the city of London in one night. It was the worst raid ever.
The Chief Fire Officer at Surrey Docks called desperately for help. ‘The whole bloody world’s on fire,’ his signal read.
And it seemed as if his words were true. A red flame-coloured cloud two miles high hung over London. The press referred to it as ‘Black Saturday’. The fires were out of control and burned for days. The picture of the outline of the dome of St Paul’s ascending through the pall of smoke disturbed Kezzie greatly.
Peg took the newspaper gently from her hand.
‘When there’s nothing you can do about something, then you must try to stop worrying about it,’ she said. She put her arm around her friend’s shoulder. ‘How do you think I cope with Ricardo being away? It’s awful. We don’t really know if he and his father are keeping well on the Isle of Man, but I force myself to stay cheerful, for his mother and aunt’s sake.’
And Bella also tried to cheer Kezzie up.
‘Listen tae me, hen,’ she’d said on Kezzie’s last visit. ‘Who kens what’s going tae happen? It’s all in the hands of the Almighty. I read the paper yesterday. There was a woman living right out in the country, in Fife, I think it was. Ah mean if yer going to be safe anywhere, it’s Fife. Nothin’ ever happens in Fife. Nothin’. Anyway, she’d just scrubbed her front step an’ whit happens? A stray plane goin’ home jettisons its bombs. Blew her tae kingdom come.’
Kezzie nodded. ‘I heard that story. If they can’t find their targets, the pilots have to unload their bombs or they don’t have enough fuel to get back. It was a tragedy.’
‘You’re tellin’ me,’ said Bella. ‘All that work tae get yer front step clean, an’ some bliddy wee Jerry comes along and messes it up, just like that.’
An appeal was sent out by the Red Cross for relief ambulance drivers. There were few women who could drive and most of the men who could had been called up or were in essential occupations. Kezzie volunteered at once. At last there was some war work which reflected her interest in medical care. She already had first-aid training but, due to the staff shortages, the drivers were often expected to know and do a bit more. Driving the ambulance was even more difficult than driving the delivery van. It was heavier and more awkward on the corners and Kezzie took a lot of teasing from the men at the depot. She was given a uniform and a cap, of which she was very proud. She had only bumped it three times, she told Peg proudly, and just once with a patient in it.
Just before Christmas the door of the café opened and a tall young man with a sallow complexion and a thin face stepped inside. He closed the door quietly behind him, and standing with his back against the glass he looked around him slowly.
Peg was refilling the biscuit tins with her back to the counter. She was managing mostly with one hand as she had Alec propped up on her shoulder, and was talking nonsense to him as she worked. The baby, facing the street, suddenly let out a crow of delight. Peg turned round, screamed and then burst into tears.
Kezzie came running from the kitchen. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
Ricardo was at the counter with tears running down his face, his arms around both Peg and Alec. The little boy looked from one to the other and then started howling.
‘For goodness’ sake,’ said Kezzie, half-crying herself. ‘You’re distressing that baby. Here, give him to me.’ And she pushed Peg and Ricardo ahead of her into the kitchen. Within minutes everyone was in tears. Kezzie ran through to the front and turned the ‘Closed’ notice to face out.
Ricardo was disinclined to talk about the camp. His passport had been cleared by the American Embassy and his father had
insisted that Ricardo return to Clydebank without him.
‘Father is well and sends his love,’ Ricardo told his mother. ‘He hopes to get out soon but perhaps he will not be allowed to return here immediately.’
His mother covered her face with her hands.
‘You must be brave,’ said Ricardo. ‘They are releasing those who will help with the war effort, working in some industry or perhaps taking part in bomb-damage clearance. Father does not mind this so much.’ Ricardo hesitated. ‘From the camp,’ he said sadly, ‘we could hear Liverpool and Birkenhead being bombed. We heard the noise. We could see the sky. It was red with fire.’
Kezzie thought of the firewatchers like her grandad who would have been on duty. What could they possibly do, confronted with hundreds and hundreds of incendiary bombs setting the trail for the main bombers to follow? What would he do when they started dropping on Clydebank? What could they do?
‘They will wait now until the winter is over,’ said Ricardo. ‘Then when the weather is better they will return.’
He was proved right. At the beginning of spring 1941 the bombing spread to other locations.
‘It seems to be the ports that they are targeting,’ said her grandad. ‘It’s up to our nightfighters. The RAF can keep them out of the skies by day but not in the dark.’
Kezzie’s work with the Red Cross increased to such an extent that most nights she returned home exhausted. Ricardo had to report each day to the police station and there were still some areas where he was not allowed to travel. So he worked mainly in the shop and Kezzie did the deliveries. Not that he or Peg minded at all. They took joy in each other’s company. With baby Alec they seemed to make a complete family and Kezzie was happy for them.
Each night as Grandad was leaving to firewatch Kezzie was usually returning from her duties and, as he was out most nights, she slept in his bed. Lucy was growing bigger. She was now nine years old and took up a great deal more room.
Kezzie at War Page 20