The Night Raid

by Clare Harvey

  ‘But it feels like they don’t care. I mean, look at that, looks like a bomb’s hit it down there.’

  ‘Working with these girls is like herding ruddy cats,’ Bill said, giving him a pat on the shoulder. ‘I’ll sort it, though. Go home and rest, man.’

  George nodded his thanks and turned away. He went into the office and closed the door. A sheaf of papers slewed across the desk. It looked like Bill had just emptied a whole file and immediately lost interest. He was a good man, but administration was hardly his strong point. Sharing an office, sharing a job, could be barely tolerable at times. Today felt like one of those days, George thought, staring at the muddled mess of paperwork.

  And there, holding down the edge of an order form, was the motor housing he’d hauled Miss Fitzlord in about, that night. He picked it up, remembering her face when he asked her to go to the flicks with him. Which he should never have done. He’d take the ruined housing with him and toss it in salvage on his way out.

  A thud, then, and a sudden concussion that shook the piece of worked aluminium from his hand and back onto the desk. They must have started the gun testing already. The windows of all the terraced houses in the Meadows would be shuddering in response.

  He paused and drew breath.

  No, he couldn’t go home. Bill said he needed rest, but how could he sleep in this state, not with this spark-fizz of humiliation inside, white-hot as an oxyacetylene jet. Why did he feel like this? He clenched his fist and banged it down onto the mess of papers. The housing jumped. Sheets of paper shifted off like blown leaves and landed on the floor. His fist hurt, but not badly enough. He should have hit the wall instead – a rush of pain to slake his embarrassment.

  He wiped a palm over his face and let out a sigh. ‘There’s no fool like an old fool,’ he said aloud. He thought of the new shell-filling factory that was being set up in Ruddington. He had an extra petrol coupon allocation to enable him to liaise with the contractors and advise on the work. That’s what he should do this morning. The drive, at least, might help clear his head. Ignoring the scattered papers, he picked up his briefcase from beside the filing cabinet, pulled open a drawer, plucked out a file, and stashed it inside.

  He was just about to leave when he remembered Dame Laura Knight. He put down his briefcase, found the memo pad and scrawled a note: Bill, please phone Matron at the hostel and advise her of Dame Laura’s arrival, etc. Thank you, George. Let Bill phone the hostel. George certainly wouldn’t be making the call himself. And he’d be damned if he went to any more of their dance evenings either, no matter what the Board said. He used the faulty housing to hold the memo next to the telephone, where Bill would see it.

  He picked up his briefcase and headed towards the door. Through the window he could see Miss Ridley, the pay clerk, waddling along, carrying a box of envelopes. He paused. If he left the office now he’d be forced to pass the time of day with her; he couldn’t face it, not today. There was another thud of a gun being tested. Miss Ridley faltered and her stack of envelopes wobbled, then she carried on. George cast a final eye round the office. He’d apologise to Bill later, give the place a good tidy up. But not now. After he’d calmed down.

  He was halfway through the door when he heard the telephone. He was in no mood to talk to anyone. In any case, it would be a call for Bill, not him, at this time in the morning. The phone continued its shrill nag. But – but what if it were Dame Laura? He should really answer it. He walked back over to the desk, leaving the door ajar.

  ‘ROF Nottingham, manager’s office, who’s speaking please?’

  ‘Oh, hello, I was wondering if I could leave a message for the night-shift manager?’ It was a woman’s voice, but it didn’t sound like an old woman’s voice. Not Dame Laura, then. Damn, he could have ignored it, after all. The line was terrible. Between the hissing phone and the racket coming through the open door he could barely hear.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘This is the night-shift manager. How can I help?’

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  An unravelling feeling, like watching the coils of metal uncurl from a spinning drill-bit. ‘Miss Fitzlord?’

  ‘I just wanted to say sorry.’ Her voice was scratchy and distant. He put the phone back to his ear. ‘I tried to get away in time, but there was an emergency at the hostel and by the time I made it to the Ritz you’d already gone. I’m so sorry.’

  Hot-forged metal plunged into the cooling tank. The hiss of steam. Frustration evaporated in an instant.

  ‘Not at all. I’m sorry, too. Perhaps I should have waited longer.’

  ‘No, no, you weren’t to know. I mean, how could you have?’ There was a pause. ‘Well, that’s all I wanted to say. Goodbye, George.’

  She was going to hang up. No. Wait.

  ‘Zelah.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I was wondering if – if you’d consider a “re-calibration” of our friendship, as it were?’

  She laughed, then, sounding like the notes of a glockenspiel down the muzzy telephone line. ‘Re-calibrate? George, a re-calibration sounds like an excellent plan. I wouldn’t want our friendship to end up in the salvage bin.’

  Zelah

  She sloshed bleach into the sink and wiped the cool ceramic with the cloth, then rinsed it out and ran it over the windowsill. Next, she began to strip the bed, disembowelling the warm cocoon that looked so inviting. Not yet. She had to get this room ready for Dame Laura, and check with Matron that there were no urgent welfare issues this morning. Then she had to move all her things. Only then would there be time for sleep. She heaved the feather pillow out of its case, and thought about George Handford. What would he be doing now? Did he go straight to bed after his shift, or did he like to pause a while, wind down first? She thought about him in just his shirtsleeves, turning on the wireless, waiting for the kettle’s whistle. She imagined herself next to him, spooning tea into the pot, him coming round behind her, lifting up her hair and kissing the nape of her neck . . .

  ‘Glad I caught you.’

  Zelah started. The pillow slipped from her fingers and slumped on the lino.

  ‘I assumed, as your door was ajar?’

  ‘Matron. Good morning. How can I help?’

  ‘There’s just been a call from Mr Simmons.’

  ‘Really?’ Zelah’s face felt hot. She bent down to pick up the pillow.

  ‘He says Dame Laura Knight is arriving today! She’s coming to paint the night-shift girls, apparently. Do you know anything of this?’

  ‘Mr Handford mentioned it, yes. I’m just moving my things so she can have this room.’

  ‘He’s making you move out? Honestly, that man.’ Matron shook her head and pursed her lips. ‘I’m not a judgemental woman, but the things I hear!’

  ‘I offered. There’s no other space – I’ll just move into 179 whilst Laura Knight is here.’

  ‘With that Smith girl? Well, good luck with that, dear.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. I’m sure that incident with the bathroom was just a one-off. Talking of which, is there anything urgent for me to deal with this morning? Have we heard anything more about Maureen White’s fiancé?’

  ‘He’s been patched up and sent back on a troop ship. She won’t need leave for weeks, whatever she claims. And there’s nothing else that can’t wait. Now then, I’ll sort the bedding out. You just get your stuff moved and get your head down for a couple of hours. I’ll hold the fort.’ Matron leant over and began to tug at the bed covers.

  ‘Thank you. It’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Well, you must be shattered, what with working the night shift and your welfare duties. I can’t imagine what that Mr Handford was thinking, making you take on all that extra work.’

  ‘He didn’t make me. In point of fact, he tried to stop me.’

  ‘What on earth did you do it for, then?’

  ‘Mary McLaughlin said she wanted to come back, and it was the only way to keep her job
open for her.’ Zelah went to the wardrobe and began to take out her clothes, such as they were: the cream blouse, the black suit, and the red crepe dress she’d saved all her spare wages and coupons to buy, even though it had meant going without new shoes for a year.

  Matron tutted, ripping the sheets from the mattress. ‘If Mary McLaughlin comes back – and it’s a big if, mind – it’ll only be a matter of weeks before she gets herself into the same situation, and skips off for another skive, offloading another little bastard as she goes.’ She kicked the sheets into a lumpen mess on the floor.

  Zelah turned with her armful of clothes, waiting as Matron shook out the blanket and folded it into a neat block. ‘I know Mary might not come back,’ she began.

  ‘I’ll eat my hat if she does,’ Matron interrupted, dumping the folded blanket on top of the chest of drawers with a soft thud. ‘I’ve come across her sort before.’

  ‘But if she does come back,’ Zelah carried on, opening the top drawer with her free hand and pulling out stockings and vests, ‘well, don’t you think she should have a second chance?’

  ‘No,’ Matron said, fixing Zelah with her gimlet gaze. ‘No, I’m sorry, but I don’t. Girls like that, spreading diseases, not caring that they’re bringing bad blood into the world with their ways. It’s unchristian and it’s wrong, and I’m surprised at you, Miss Fitzlord, for taking the side of immorality, really I am, you being such a decent young lady.’ Matron shook her head, and the wattle of skin on her neck wobbled in outrage.

  Zelah blinked. ‘Well, I’ll just be getting along with my things,’ she said. ‘Thank you again for doing the bed for me.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Miss Fitzlord,’ Matron said, bending down to an armful of dirty laundry.

  Zelah knocked on the door of room 179 and waited. When there was no answer, she tried the handle. It was unlocked. She pushed open the door. Inside, the room was warm and dark. She could hear the slow breathing of someone asleep, and make out a hump in the covers on the top bunk. She closed the door as softly as she could. It clicked shut. She put her bundle of clothes on the end of the bed. Later, once Violet was awake, she’d put away her things – there was no need to disturb her now. Zelah pulled off her shoes and fell into the lower bunk, not even bothering to undress, and her mind slipped back to the last time she’d been forced out of her own space and into the lives of strangers:

  Zelah pushes the door open and steps inside. ‘You wanted to see me, Miss Orton?’

  The older woman blots the paper she’s been writing on and takes off her horn-rimmed spectacles before looking up. ‘Miss Fitzlord. Good of you to pop up. I know evenings are busy for you, but there’s something—’ The telephone interrupts with its shrill ring. Miss Orton picks up the receiver, motioning with her free hand for Zelah to come in and sit down. ‘Yes, this is the headmistress . . .’ She speaks into the mouthpiece and smiles an apology at Zelah.

  Zelah closes the door behind her and walks across the dark red rug with its complicated patterns, and sits down on one of the leather-seated chairs in front of the headmistress’s desk. She hears the buzzing squiggle of the voice in the phone, sees Miss Orton frown and rub at the point on her temple where a grey streak snakes into her mid-brown bun. ‘Indeed, but it is rather late in the day, Major . . .’ she says.

  Zelah folds her hands in her lap and waits, taking in the familiar shelves of books, and the timetables tacked to the wood panelling. She can still taste sugar on her lips from the top of the glazed bun Cook saved for her. Zelah always has her supper whilst the girls are in prep, and they often have a natter, down in the warm kitchen, whilst Cook is giving the work surfaces a final wipe. There were rumours, Cook said – an open secret, really – that the army was on the brink of requisitioning the school buildings. In which case the whole school would have to move. Cook said she’d heard Miss Orton was ‘very pally’ with the headmistress of The Mount School in Crediton. (Cook somehow hears many things, from cleaners and delivery boys, and the plump school secretary who has a weakness for shortbread.) She said odds were on The Grange joining The Mount for the duration of the war. Zelah thinks about this as she waits for Miss Orton to finish her phone call.

  ‘I daresay, but I would rather not, at this late hour,’ Miss Orton continues into the phone. There are more muffled tinny voices from the other end of the line, and Zelah sees the headmistress shake her head. ‘Well, if that’s your tone, I’m afraid I’m going to have to bid you good evening, Major.’ She pushes the receiver hard onto its cradle. It makes a small chiming sound. Miss Orton sucks in a breath. ‘I’m so sorry, Miss Fitzlord, where were we?’

  ‘You wanted to see me?’ Zelah says.

  ‘Yes.’ Miss Orton clasps her hands together on top of the blotter. ‘You have been such a wonderful housemistress to the girls over these past few years since your mother passed . . .’ The phone rings again. ‘Dash it – sorry.’ Miss Orton’s liver-spotted jowls quiver as she picks up.

  ‘Yes, speaking. How can I help? Oh, hello, Colonel.’ She listens with her head on one side. ‘I believe I already discussed this with a Major Bottomly-Finch, just a few moments ago, so perhaps if you have a word with him?’ She shoots Zelah a bear-with-me expression as the voice at the other end of the line carries on. Zelah fiddles with a loose thread on the button of her cuff, resolving to fix it straight after she’s done lights out and locked the front doors.

  ‘I’m afraid it will have to wait, Colonel,’ Miss Orton says, hanging the phone up with a chiming thump. She leans forward over the desk. ‘The thing is, Miss Fitzlord,’ she begins, but before continuing she takes the phone off the hook. It lies buzzing on the desk between them like a dying bee.

  ‘If this is about the move?’ Zelah says.

  ‘You know about the move?’

  Zelah looks down at the phone. Miss Orton gives a small smile. ‘Yes, I suppose I haven’t been terribly hush-hush about it. These army chaps are so very insistent. They want everything doing yesterday, and there’s no appreciation of the time it takes to relocate an entire girls’ school halfway across the county. But anyway, that’s not important. What’s important is you, Miss Fitzlord.’

  ‘I’m fine with it,’ Zelah says, knowing that all the practical details of the move will be left to her, as Miss Orton will be busy liaising with parents and army officers. She wonders what amount of bedding, towels, cutlery, etc. they’ll have to take with them to the new place. She will need to hire a van.

  ‘Well, I have to say, you seem to be taking this very well.’

  ‘I think I’ll be fine organising the move,’ Zelah says. ‘If you can hold off the army until the next exeat weekend it should be a piece of cake. We’re joining The Mount in Crediton, I take it?’

  ‘We?’ says Miss Orton, opening her eyes wide and pushing her face forward towards Zelah. She reaches out a hand and touches Zelah’s shirtsleeve. ‘There is no “we”, dear. I don’t know what you’ve heard from elsewhere, but I think your source might be mistaken. There’s no easy way to say this. You see, The Mount already has two live-in housemistresses. So I’m afraid there’s no longer a position for you with us, Miss Fitzlord.’

  Zelah looks down at the short, clean nails and feels the headmistress’s fingertips on her arm as the older woman speaks of providing excellent references, two months’ severance pay, and a friend of hers who has a room to rent in Plymouth. Zelah nods, swallowing the musty office air, feeling like a fish that’s just been hooked and hauled out of water: drowning. Finally Miss Orton lifts her hand from Zelah’s sleeve.

  ‘Shall I go and pack my things?’ Zelah says.

  ‘Jump into my grave as quick, would you?’ Awake. Eyes open. A pair of stockinged feet hanging down by her face.

  Zelah sat up and the world shifted into focus. She wasn’t sure how long she’d slept for. Her mouth was dry, and she was hot from going to bed fully clothed. ‘Sorry. Sorry. You were on the top bunk, though.’

  ‘Top bunk’s Mary’s. I just fancied a change.’ Vi
olet jumped down, feet slipping a little on the lino as she landed.

  ‘So which bunk do you want me to take?’

  ‘Stay where you are, makes no odds to me. I was only pulling your leg.’ Violet’s dimpled face appeared where her feet had been.

  Zelah pushed back the covers, watching Violet go over to the mirror and slick her lips with pink lipstick. The sun slanted low through the window, and she heard footsteps running along the corridor, a shriek of laughter, a door banging shut. The air smelled different from her old room. ‘What time is it?’ Zelah said.

  ‘Time you got yourself a watch, sweetheart,’ Vi said, smacking her lips at her reflection. She turned. ‘Don’t worry, you haven’t overslept. I’m up early, is all. Got somewhere I need to be.’

  ‘Sorry to have to foist myself on you,’ Zelah said. ‘I’ll go back to my own room as soon as Dame Laura has finished her painting.’

  ‘Stay as long as you like. Mary McLaughlin’s not going to be coming back any time soon.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. She seemed very keen to return to work.’

  Vi turned, then. ‘My big sister went into the ATS after she had her little one. Ma told us to pretend the baby was our sister, so’s nobody would know. The shame, see? But it was the worst thing she could have done. Giving up your baby never works out, even if it is a bastard. Here . . .’ Vi had taken her packet of Player’s from the top of the chest of drawers. She took out two, and flicked her lighter, lighting them both at once, and handing one to Zelah. ‘Don’t tell anyone, will you?’

  ‘Of course I won’t.’

  ‘I know you won’t.’ A smile passed quickly across Violet’s face. ‘You’re not like the others, are you, Miss Fitzlord?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, I—’ Zelah began.

  ‘Trust me, you’re not,’ Violet said. ‘You’re the only one who hasn’t given me a hard time over the bathroom thing. Matron was a right cow about it.’ She tapped ash into the sink, then walked back to the bunk beds. ‘Hang on to this a sec, will you?’ She passed her cigarette to Zelah, sat on the edge of Zelah’s bunk and put her shoes on. ‘Thanks, sweetheart.’ She took back her fag, took a drag, and stood up. ‘Right then.’ She grabbed her coat off the hook behind the door. ‘Better get going. Make yourself at home and I’ll see you at work.’