‘But someone did?’ she said.
‘What if they did? How do you think I get hold of all these presents for you? They don’t just fall out of the sky with the bombs, y’know.’
Jennifer stared at him, dazed. Even now, she wanted him to deny it, to tell her she was being silly. But they were past lying, she realised.
‘You don’t need to look so shocked,’ Johnny mocked her. ‘You ain’t that naïve.’
‘Perhaps I am,’ Jennifer said sadly. She’d thought she was so sophisticated, sipping champagne and hobnobbing with rich people. And if she was honest, she had known about Johnny’s shady business dealings, and even found them a little thrilling.
But now she realised that all this time she had been swimming hopelessly out of her depth. And she was starting to drown.
‘I thought it was just black-market stuff,’ she said.
‘Shh! Keep your voice down!’ Johnny hissed, glancing around. ‘I told you, I’m a businessman. I see an opportunity, and I grab it.’
‘Even if it means robbing people who’ve lost their homes, their families?’
‘I dunno what you’re talking about,’ he muttered.
‘I’m talking about this.’ Jennifer slid the bracelet off her wrist and put it on the table between them. ‘A girl at work recognised it, Johnny. It belonged to her aunt. It was stolen when their house was blown up. This, and a few other bits and pieces, which I’m sure you know about.’
She went to move but his hand flashed out, encircling her wrist painfully where the bracelet had been, pinning it to the table. ‘Have you told anyone else about this?’ he snapped.
‘No, of course not.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I told you, didn’t I?’ Jennifer tried to twist free from his grasp, wincing at the pain. ‘Let go, Johnny. You’re hurting me.’
He released her, then snatched up the bracelet and slid it smoothly into his pocket. ‘You’d better not say anything either,’ he warned.
‘Why would I go round telling people my boyfriend is a thief?’ She rubbed the tender skin where his fingers had dug into her flesh.
She must have pricked his conscience because he looked away. ‘Everyone’s doing it,’ he muttered. ‘The police and the ARP wardens, they’re the worst. They’re the real villains, making out they’re helping people, when all the time they’re just helping themselves.’
‘And that makes you better than them, does it?’ Jennifer said. ‘Because you’re an honest thief?’
He glared at her, his eyes hostile. ‘I dunno what you’re looking so high and mighty about. You were happy enough to drink my champagne and take my presents. Showed off to your friends about them, too, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Only because I didn’t know where they came from.’
‘Do me a favour! You’re worse than my customers, pretending they haven’t got the faintest idea that they’re buying ill-gotten gains. At least I admit what I do.’
He was right, Jennifer thought. Supply and demand, he’d called it. She’d demanded, and he’d supplied. She was as guilty as he was, in her way.
But not any more. Jennifer squared her shoulders and looked at him. ‘I want you to stop,’ she said.
He stared at her for a moment, then laughed. ‘You’re joking, ain’t you?’
‘You could find another job,’ she urged him. ‘Something legal.’
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I could give up my business, everything I’ve worked for, and become – I don’t know – a bus conductor. Or maybe I could get myself a nice job at that hospital of yours, shifting bodies about?’
Jennifer flushed. ‘I’m not saying you have to do anything like that. You could make money some other way. You’re clever,’ she urged him. ‘And you know lots of people. I’m sure you could find something.’
He set his jaw. ‘I’m happy as I am, thanks.’
‘But those people you steal from – they’ve lost everything.’
‘They won’t miss a bit more then, will they?’
She stared at him across the table, gazing intently into that rugged face and trying to remember what it was that had ever attracted her to him. How had she ever felt a thrill, looking into those stone-cold eyes?
‘If you don’t give it up I’m leaving you,’ she said.
A slow, insulting smile spread over his face. ‘You really do think a lot of yourself, don’t you? Do you seriously imagine I’d give up the chance to make good money, just for a little tart like you?’ He took out his cigarettes and lit one with deliberate slowness. ‘If you want to leave, you know where the door is.’
For a moment, she sat rooted to the spot with humiliation. People were starting to look at them, glancing up from their own business.
She rose to her feet with as much dignity as she could muster. ‘Right, I’m going,’ she said. ‘But I think you should know I’m going to tell my dad about you.’
She’d lashed out to upset him, but the minute she saw his smile disappear Jennifer knew it was a foolish move to threaten him.
‘You what?’ he said.
‘You heard.’ She lifted her chin and forced herself to meet his gaze, even though her heart was fluttering against her ribs.
She’d backed away from him and was nearly at the door by the time he reached her. Before Jennifer knew what had happened, he’d pinned her to the wall. ‘Now you listen to me,’ he said. ‘You ain’t going to say a word to anyone. Not if you know what’s good for you.’
‘And what are you going to do about it?’
‘You’ll find out. I don’t like people crossing me.’
All around, the walls seemed to be closing in on her. She could hear the rumble of bombs overhead, like the rumble of thunder.
‘Oh, Johnny . . .’ She gave him the sweetest smile she could muster. Then, in the swift movement her father had taught her, she brought her knee up sharply between his legs.
For a second his hard eyes registered shock and pain. Then he doubled over, giving her enough time to reach the door.
‘Jen! Come back here!’ His voice seemed a long way behind her as she ran up the flight of steep stone steps back to the street.
‘Catch me!’ she called over her shoulder, pushing open the wooden door. The cold, bright November day seemed to hurt her eyes and she paused for a second to catch her breath.
And then, suddenly, she heard someone cry out. Jennifer turned to look in their direction – and she knew no more.
Chapter Forty-One
JENNIFER HAD A dream. She was floating on a cloud with a bright light all around her, and far below her she could hear her parents’ voices. Her mother was crying and her father was trying to comfort her. Except he didn’t sound like her father. His voice was low and shaking, as if he was trying to stop himself crying, too. Jennifer wanted to call out to them, but she was too far away, and she couldn’t make them hear her.
She felt something tugging at her, pulling her out of her dream. But she resisted. She didn’t want to leave the floating warmth of her cloud behind and drift back to the cold, hard earth.
And then she opened her eyes and she was still dreaming, still floating. Only this time they weren’t just voices – she could see her mother sitting beside her, and her father. Just as in her dream, he had his arm around her mum’s shoulders, comforting her.
Jennifer tried to speak, but her face was stiff and painful, as if she was wearing a tight mask. The pain made her cry out, and her mother looked up.
‘She’s awake! Alec, she’s awake! Oh, thank God!’ Elsie was smiling, but tears streamed down her face.
‘I’ll fetch someone,’ her father said.
Fetch someone? Who? Jennifer tried to look around, but everything seemed blurred, shrouded in a strange mist. She could just make out dim pools of lamplight, white-painted brickwork, and a smell that seemed very familiar to her. Disinfectant, mingled with the slightest tang of damp . . .
Her father returned with a tall figure in a grey d
ress. As the woman drew closer, Jennifer recognised Sister Dawson.
But it made no sense. If she was in hospital, why was she lying down and not tending to the patients?
Suddenly it all came back to her, a torrent of memories flowing into her head at the same time, overwhelming her. The club, Johnny, their argument . . . the images came too thick and fast for her to see them properly.
Sister Dawson was checking Jennifer’s pulse and breathing, calm and professional as ever. All the while Jennifer’s mind was racing, trying to piece together what had happened. But everything was like a jigsaw puzzle, fragments of a picture that didn’t seem to fit together.
She remembered running up the steps, into the street. Then someone had called out to her, a warning . . .
And then nothing.
‘Johnny?’ She tried to say his name, but her tongue refused to move in her mouth.
‘Jen?’ Her mother’s face loomed anxiously in front of her. Poor Elsie Caldwell looked as if she’d aged ten years. ‘What did you say, love?’
‘Johnny . . .’ Tears of frustration pricked her eyes, stinging her face as she struggled to speak.
Sister Dawson laid a calming hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t try to move, my dear,’ she said. ‘Dr McKay has given you some morphia for the pain. It’ll wear off in a while.’ Sister Dawson lifted one of Jennifer’s eyelids to check her pupils. ‘But I’m afraid you’ll be rather sore when it does.’
‘She’s lucky to be alive,’ her father said. ‘When I first saw her in that ambulance . . .’ He shuddered. ‘I’ve got used to seeing casualties, I can tell you. I’ve seen a lot worse than our Jen, too. But when you turn up to something like that and find your own daughter covered in blood—’ His shoulders heaved, and it took a moment for Jennifer to realise that he was crying. She tried to reach out for him, but her limbs didn’t seem to belong to her.
‘She’s luckier than most,’ her mother said. ‘It would have been a different story if she’d been in that club with those other poor souls. Buried alive, they were. Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?’
Johnny . . .
‘What happened – to Johnny?’ she managed to ask. She saw the quick look that flashed between her mother and father and immediately knew the answer. ‘Is – is he dead?’
Elsie Caldwell leaned over and patted her hand. Jennifer felt the weight of her fingers, but no warmth. It was as if her skin was dead. ‘I’m so sorry, love.’
Johnny was dead. Before Jennifer could take in the information she felt herself being pulled backwards into the numbing fog of sleep, until she was flying, floating, drifting again on her cloud, with her mother and father and Sister Dawson and the troubles of the world far below her.
But this time her dream was more vivid. She was on the street outside the club, and someone was calling to her, trying to warn her. Everyone was running, and she tried to run too. But then came the sound of shattering glass, and suddenly she was being thrown through the air.
She woke up, flailing and gasping for breath. It felt as if a thousand wasps were crawling over her skin, stinging her all at once with white-hot shards of pain.
‘Jen?’ There was no sign of her parents, but Cissy was at her bedside, in her uniform. She was smiling, but her white, worried face and red-rimmed eyes gave her away. ‘You’re awake at last.’
‘My – face . . .’ Jennifer could make a sound, but still struggled to shape her swollen lips around the words. She could feel the skin splitting as she tried to speak, blood oozing from painful wounds. Her head felt as if it had been filled with hot, molten metal.
Oh,God, what was happening to her?
She tried to touch her face, but Cissy took hold of her hand.
‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘Wait until I’ve finished.’
It was then Jennifer saw the forceps in her friend’s hand. In her lap, tiny fragments of bloodied glass glittered like ghastly rubies in a receiver dish.
A wave of sickness welled up inside her. ‘Bad?’ she asked.
‘Not too bad.’ But Cissy’s hand was trembling as she leaned in to remove another piece of glass. She was a terrible liar, Jennifer thought.
She pulled out the glass, and Jennifer flinched in pain. ‘Does it hurt?’ Cissy asked, immediately anxious. ‘Shall I fetch the doctor, see if he can give you any more morphia?’
Jennifer shook her head. ‘Not morphia . . . mirror.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ Cissy started to say, but Jennifer grabbed her hand.
‘Mirror,’ she repeated, forcing her painful mouth to say the word clearly. She stared at Cissy, trying to signal with her eyes what she couldn’t manage with her voice, imploring her friend to help her.
Cissy’s round blue eyes filled with tears. ‘Honestly, Jen, I think it’s for the best if you don’t see,’ she said.
‘Want – to.’ She tightened her grasp on her friend’s hand. ‘Please?’
Cissy glanced around, then set down the dish and forceps and hurried off.
She returned a moment later with a small hand mirror. ‘I really shouldn’t be doing this, you know,’ she said, looking around. ‘I expect Sister will have a fit.’ She went to show Jennifer her reflection, then hesitated. ‘Are you sure about this? Perhaps I should fetch the doctor first, see what he says?’
‘Please, Cis.’
Cissy sighed, and angled the mirror above Jen’s head for her to see her reflection. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks, really,’ she said lamely.
But one glance told Jennifer that it was worse. Much worse.
Chapter Forty-Two
‘CUP OF TEA, love?’
Dora pressed a cup of strong brew into the cold hands of the woman in front of her. She and her family had arrived before dawn, the latest to be bombed out of their home.
There had scarcely been any raids in the month since early November. But the previous night Hitler had sent a handful of bombers over to remind them all they still weren’t safe in their beds.
And Mrs Gibbons and her family had caught the worst of it. Dora recognised the shock on the poor woman’s face as she struggled to come to terms with what had happened to her.
‘Cheers, ducks.’ Mrs Gibbons gave her a tired smile and took a slurp of tea. ‘Ah, that’s better.’ She smacked her lips appreciatively. ‘Although I must say, it’ll take more than a cuppa to sort out my problems,’ she sighed.
‘I know it’s hard at the moment,’ Dora sympathised. ‘But I’m sure you’ll find somewhere else to live soon.’
‘I hope so, love. This place is nice enough, but I wouldn’t want to spend Christmas here.’
Dora and the other WVS volunteers had tried hard to make the rest centre look a bit more festive as Christmas approached. Someone had unearthed a box of old decorations, and now the school hall was strung with tinsel and paper garlands. It was an incongruous sight next to the exhausted faces of families who had lost everything.
At least Dora and her family had started to get back on their feet. The Corporation had found them a couple of nice rooms at the top of a tenement house in Roman Road. It wasn’t the same as Griffin Street – her mum missed her backyard and Nanna didn’t like all the stairs – but they had a place to call their own.
Dora had tried to do as Nick said and persuade them to leave London, but Nanna wouldn’t budge.
‘I don’t care how many bombs he drops, Hitler ain’t chasing me out of the East End,’ she declared defiantly. ‘You lot can go if you like, but I’m staying put.’
After that, there was no question of Dora leaving her family. She couldn’t imagine being separated from her mum, and knew she would only worry herself to death if she and the twins left them behind in London.
But at the same time she worried that she hadn’t taken Nick’s advice. What if something happened to the babies because they’d stayed in the city? It was that fear that haunted her, robbing her of sleep. Sometimes she would sit at the window all night, staring out at the dark sky, watching
for danger.
And when she did sleep, she always dreamed about Danny.
Even though she tried to smile and make the best of things for the sake of her family, Danny’s death still hung over her like a dark shadow. Sometimes she would wake in the early hours after a vivid dream, convinced he was in the room with her. Or she would be sitting up in bed, keeping watch, and she would hear him singing.
‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine . . .’
She missed him desperately, but the twins missed him even more. They would call out for him, holding out their arms, waiting to be picked up. Then they would cry when Dora appeared instead.
‘He ain’t here, sweetheart,’ she would say, tears pricking her eyes. ‘I only wish he was.’
She couldn’t blame Danny for haunting her. She had let him down so badly, no wonder he hadn’t forgiven her. She wasn’t sure she would ever forgive herself.
Her mother came to join her as she washed up. Rose Doyle worked alongside her at the rest centre for a couple of hours a day. Dora insisted on bringing the twins with her. She had scarcely let them out of her sight since the night of the bombing.
‘I’m worried about the Trewell boy,’ said Rose. ‘He’s got an awful cough. Been up all night, so his mum says.’
‘She needs to take him to a doctor, in that case.’
‘She doesn’t want to send for one. Between you and me, I think she’s a bit frightened of doctors since her husband died.’ Her mother paused, and Dora knew what was coming next. ‘Couldn’t you take a look at him?’
Dora shook her head. ‘I can’t, Mum.’
‘But why not?’
‘Because I don’t do that any more. I look after my own family, I don’t care for other people’s.’
‘You don’t mean that. I’ve never known you turn your back on anyone in need.’
Dora looked into her mother’s face, and knew she was right. Try as she might, she couldn’t ignore a plea for help.
‘Where is he?’ she sighed.
Paddy Trewell was seven years old, and usually a lively boy. Dora often saw him running around the rest centre, playing with his toy train. But now he lay listless on a mattress, racked with a cough that shook his skinny little body.
Nightingales at War Page 27