by Anne Baker
He was appalled when he turned the corner into Nelson Street. Rescue work was being carried out with dimmed hurricane lamps and torches. It was still too dark to see clearly but the sky was getting lighter in the east, and reaching up against it were outlined bare black spars of roof timbers. Of the row of eight shops along Nelson Street stretching from Connaught Street to Jubilee Street, six had been reduced to a bank of rubble. The two nearest him had walls still standing but had lost most of their roofs and windows.
Numerous civil defence workers were gathered here, as well as police officers and a lot of civilians who were desperately digging in the rubble, some using their bare hands. He felt so sorry for the people who’d lived here, they had lost both their homes and their businesses.
‘Round here we all use our cellars as air-raid shelters,’ an old man standing next to him volunteered. ‘They’ve got ten people out alive so far, but also fourteen dead.’
Milo recoiled with horror. ‘There could be more?’
‘Probably will be. They’re working along the row, trying to be methodical, but they had to stop because they came across an unexploded bomb and had to wait for the bomb disposal team to come and make it safe. You should see Jubilee Street, a lot of houses have gone there but they’ve got everybody out now.’
An ambulance was standing by and a WVS van was dispensing hot drinks. A mug was put into Milo’s hand. It was a comfort to sip hot tea.
‘Here, have some chocolate to go with that.’ The old man picked up a twopenny bar with its wrapper soiled but still complete. ‘They won’t be able to sell it now, will they?’ There was broken glass and sweets strewn everywhere, and those that were wrapped were being picked up and eaten. Milo knew the end shop had been a newsagent and tobacconist’s and the one next to it a greengrocers. He was crunching potatoes and carrots under his feet.
Milo had seen the notice many times, If found guilty, the penalty for looting is death. It seemed very harsh, particularly now when it was beginning to rain and if these scarce sweets were soaked they’d be wasted. Milo bit into the chocolate bar, he was hungry.
The old man next to him was doing the same. ‘They tell us that a cellar is the safest place, but are they right? The residents here won’t believe that in future, not now they’ve had their whole building collapse on top of them.’ A few more slates slid to the ground and shattered. ‘It’s not safe now.’
Milo suddenly remembered that his mother had spent the night alone in their cellar, unless Pa had been relieved and sent home earlier. ‘I’ll have to go . . .’
A small cheer went up from the crowd digging into the greengrocer’s cellar on the other side of the road. ‘Good, they’ve found somebody else alive,’ the old man said.
An ambulance man was running back to his vehicle to bring out a stretcher but there was a cry of warning from the diggers as one wall of the cellar began to collapse and they had to leap out of the way.
‘Nothing’s safe here,’ Milo gasped. His eye was caught by a couple of police officers cordoning off the sweet and tobacconist’s shop on the corner, and he found himself staring at his father.
It had to be Pa. Even in this half-light he’d recognise his uneven gait. He was leaning on his walking stick and listening to a woman nursing a baby on one arm. She was imploring Pa to do something and struggling to control a toddler with her free hand. Milo crossed the road, pushing through the crowd towards him.
‘You can’t go inside,’ the police officer was telling Pa when he reached him. ‘This building is likely to collapse at any moment.’
The woman screamed, ‘My lads are inside.’
‘Madam, there’s nobody inside,’ the policeman told her. ‘We’ve spoken to the owners, they’re safe and say there was nobody else in these premises.’
‘I’ve just seen our Billy dodge inside.’
‘Our Roddy’s gone with him,’ said a young girl swinging on the woman’s skirts. ‘It’s true.’
‘Get them out, please,’ the woman screamed, panic-stricken. ‘Get them out before they’re hurt.’
‘Nobody can go inside,’ the constable said. ‘It isn’t safe.’
‘You’d better let me take a look,’ Milo heard his father say, and he began to limp determinedly towards what had been the shop door. He pulled himself inside and disappeared from view.
Milo went to follow him but the policeman caught his arm. ‘No, my orders are to stop people putting themselves in danger, I can’t allow it. There was nobody inside, I tell you.’
The next moment Pa was back, half dragging a lad of about twelve. ‘Billy,’ his mother shouted with relief. ‘You stupid fool, what did you go in there for?’
‘They sell model Spitfires in there,’ his sister said, ‘and ciggies. They wanted to get some.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ The woman was hugging her son and reaching out to Pa. ‘Thank God our Billy’s safe.’
‘But what about our Roddy?’ his sister was jumping up and down. ‘They both went in, I saw them.’
‘Sir, I cannot allow—’
Pa pushed past him. His eyes glittered with fatigue. ‘Let me in, there’s no time to waste,’ he said firmly.
Milo could hardly believe it. He waited, holding his breath; he could feel the crowd round him doing the same. He heard a rumble and then, in the growing light, he saw the wall actually move. Beside him, the woman screamed and so did her children.
Suddenly, there was a thundering crash, the ground beneath Milo’s feet seemed to shudder and what had remained of the row of shops collapsed into a pile of bricks, mortar and shattered woodwork. A cloud of thick cloying dust rose from it.
Like everybody else in the crowd, Milo was stunned.
‘My Roddy,’ the woman’s cried. ‘Save my little Roddy. Oh my God.’
Within moments Milo was heaving the bricks away from the mound where the doorway had been. Soon he had many willing helpers. They all had an opinion about Pa. Milo heard many say he was a brave man, a hero, but a few thought he’d been a fool to take such a risk with his life for feral street children like the Lewises. The odds had been against him from the start. Several said Billy Lewis had no business to lead his younger brother into bombed premises to loot toys, sweets and cigarettes. He was to blame for what had happened. He owed his life to Mr Dransfield, his mother had absolutely no control over him.
Mrs Lewis stood weeping, watching and hearing most of this with her baby crying and her remaining children huddling close, until a police officer suggested she took her children home.
‘We’re bombed out,’ Billy shouted back defiantly. ‘We haven’t got a home. We’ve lost everything, even our dog Spot.’
Only then did someone mention that his father, Alfred Lewis, was away at sea, defying German U-boats to bring essential food and war supplies into British ports. The WVS was summoned to take charge of the family, find emergency accommodation for them and milk for the baby. Milo could have wept for their plight.
It took an hour and a half to get both the bodies out. Roddy Lewis aged ten and Steven Dransfield aged fifty-eight.
Milo felt absolutely drained as he identified his father’s body and watched the police officer label it. ‘He was a very brave man,’ he said, ‘he deserves a medal for going back into that building.’
He went on to ask question after question about him, his address, his date of birth, his next of kin. Milo struggled with the answers and watched the policeman fill in the form. He was too tired to think. He ached with fatigue.
‘He will be taken to lie in the church,’ the officer told him. ‘Do you need help to find and inform relatives?
‘No,’ Milo said, and tried to tell him how he’d spent the night. A list of local funeral directors was put in his hand, together with several other documents.
‘Your father will be released for burial tomorrow. It would be a help if you can make arrangements as soon as possible. Where do you live?’
Milo knew at this time of the morning his mother would be
at work in her shop and he was put in the back of a police car and told he’d be dropped off there. His head was in turmoil. Pa had been killed and the nature of his death shocked him to the core.
Never in a month of Sundays would he have believed Pa capable of saving a child’s life. Pa didn’t even like children. Milo was afraid he’d misjudged his father. He’d resented him. And now it was too late.
It was a relief to find his mother’s shop undamaged and to see it open and her head bent over her sewing machine. After such a night, he’d been worried that something might have happened to her. Her face lit up when she saw him.
‘It was a dreadful night. I was afraid . . .’
‘I’m all right, Mum.’ His lip trembled. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’ He locked the shop door and turned the sign to read Closed. ‘I’ve something to tell you.’
He saw the colour drain from her face. ‘Is it about Pa?’ she asked.
Leonie wept for her husband, but Milo couldn’t stay awake any longer. He curled up in the corner of the sofa and his eyes were closing. ‘Go to sleep,’ she said and covered him with the car rug she kept under the cushion for that purpose. ‘You’re exhausted.’
‘Just for an hour. Wake me.’
‘No, you need longer than that.’
‘I have things to . . .’ His voice was drifting away on his breath.
Leonie went back to the shop but it was a very quiet morning, with few people out and about. Like Milo, they needed to catch up on their sleep. The noise in the night had not only kept Leonie awake but rigid with fear. After a bad night, June usually phoned to make sure she was all right, but this morning the phones were not working.
Steve was dead. She’d been on edge every hour of every night in a fever of terror that one or more members of her family might be killed. The hospital where June was training was very close to the Birkenhead docks.
Poor Steve! His life ended like that. Leonie felt totally drained; she hadn’t expected to be overflowing with grief like this, but recently Steve had been making a huge effort. He’d been less selfish, he’d been thinking of her needs and the needs of others. He’d taken a greater part in the life of the family and she had found herself relying on him more and more. She was able to relax and enjoy her evenings spent in his company.
For a long time, she’d thought their marriage was dead, but somehow after all these years it had fluttered into life again. They’d talked about it, laughed about it and had agreed they felt happier. Miraculously, they both felt they’d turned over a new leaf and their marriage had been revived. Leonie no longer thought of it as a duty to stay with him, it was what she wanted to do. She’d had real hope for the future.
It seemed a very long morning. The customers stayed away, even the two who had arranged to come for fittings. She’d brought a sandwich for her lunch but she couldn’t eat. Elaine came in and Leonie poured out all her agony on her shoulder. An hour later June came down on the bus to see if they were all right. Leonie pulled her into her arms and started to explain what had happened to her father.
‘Pa’s been killed? Oh no! It was such an awful night, I’ve been dreading . . . I felt so afraid for you all. And Milo? Is he . . .?’
‘He’s asleep upstairs. He’s all right.’
It was terrible for Leonie seeing June’s distress. For her, it was the second death of a loved one that the war had dealt her. They wept together. ‘How did it happen?’ June sniffed.
‘You can be proud of Pa,’ Leonie told her. June’s eyes opened in astonishment as she heard the details of what he had done.
Later, Elaine crept upstairs to make a pot of tea for them and reported that Milo was still fast asleep on the sofa. There was an air-raid warning in the middle of the afternoon, but the siren didn’t wake him and no bombs fell nearby.
Leonie slipped out to the shops to buy a loaf but there was no fish or offal to be had so late in the day. When it was time to close the shop, she woke Milo and they walked home together. Leonie used her key to let them in and the first thing she saw was a letter from Amy lying on the mat. Leonie left Milo to pick it up and worried about how she was going to tell her daughter that Pa had been killed.
The house seemed cold and unwelcoming. The living room grate was full of ash and cinders. Steve had always been here; only very rarely had she been in this house without him.
She retreated to the kitchen where Milo was sitting at the table staring at the envelope. ‘It won’t be easy,’ he said, ‘to tell Amy about Pa on the phone. She’ll feel nothing will ever be the same, and she’s not with us. Poor kid.’
Leonie sighed. ‘Quite apart from any grief she feels, it’ll bring home to her that it could happen to the rest of us and she could end up an orphan.’
‘That’s not very likely,’ Milo told her drily.
‘But that’s how Amy will see it. You know what she’s like.’ Leonie tore open the letter and sat down to read it. ‘Auntie Bessie’s got a broody hen she thinks would suit us. Amy wants to know if we can come soon to collect it.’
‘We could do both,’ Milo said. ‘It would be better to tell her face to face than by letter or phone. Is it this Sunday the coach goes?’
‘We’ve got to bury Pa.’ Leonie couldn’t see beyond that.
‘I’ll try and make arrangements tomorrow,’ Milo said. ‘Don’t worry about that now.’
‘What are we going to eat? It won’t be much of a dinner tonight,’ she said. ‘I have potatoes and there’s cabbage in the garden but not much else.’
She got up to look in the larder. ‘The choice is between a tin of Spam or I have a large tin of mackerel here. I suppose that would be all right.’
‘Spam,’ Milo decided, ‘and I can see a tin of baked beans there too. Could we have that instead of the cabbage? It would make a change.’
Wearily, Leonie lifted both tins out. It would save her having to go out to look for a cabbage. They ate at the kitchen table and as soon as they’d finished they put all the lights out and went down to the cellar and went to bed down there.
Milo slept all through the night but Leonie lay awake listening to the frightening sounds of yet another raid.
CHAPTER THIRTY
WITHIN THE NEXT FEW days, accounts of Steven Dransfield’s courageous death appeared in the Echo, the Liverpool Post and the Birkenhead News. There were photos of the Lewis brothers, Billy whose life he’d saved and little Roddy who had died. Leonie felt proud of her husband and wished he was here with her to see all this. It would have given him back his self-esteem. Elaine said he deserved a medal.
Leonie had felt in a mental fog since Steve’s death, though she did write to Auntie Bessie to tell her what had happened, saying she and Milo would like to visit so they could tell Amy personally. She worried she was leaving Milo to handle most of the funeral arrangements and do all the other tasks associated with death, and was afraid she was pushing too much on him.
‘I want to help where I can, Mum,’ he told her.
‘I want Pa to lie in the Dransfield family grave. Well, it’s what he’d want.’
‘Yes, that’s in hand. All coffins are being made of cardboard at the moment, so there are no decisions to be made there.’
Leonie was not surprised to find all the local undertakers were very busy and it would be nearly two weeks before Steve could be buried. She booked the coach trip for her and Milo on what turned out to be a dark, wet Sunday. Rain hurled against the coach windows for most of the way. Leonie was wearing her galoshes – rubber over-shoes as protection against the wet grass – but the rain had stopped before they got there.
‘Amy will run down to meet us on her own,’ she told Milo. ‘Bessie will be seeing to the dinner.’
‘So we’ll tell her straight away?’
‘Yes, if we can. Better to get it over with at the beginning of the visit. It’ll give us time to comfort her.’
When their taxi pulled up at the bottom of the cwm, Amy snatched the door open. She was bubbling with exciteme
nt as she kissed Leonie and flung herself at Milo and tried to hug them both at the same time. She couldn’t bear to walk in single file on the narrow path and almost towed Leonie up the incline. She chatted nineteen to the dozen about the broody hen they were to take home with them.
‘I’ve called her Hetty,’ Amy announced. ‘She’s speckled black and white. I hope you like her.’
‘We will,’ they told her. Leonie couldn’t bring herself to dampen such exuberance. ‘Later,’ she mouthed to Milo.
Uncle Jack and Auntie Bessie met them at the door and gave her knowing looks. Leonie shook her head as they were invited indoors and then they were sitting down to eat Sunday lunch. Amy was in such high spirits that it was quite a jolly meal. She dragged Milo out to see Hetty while Leonie helped Bessie clear away and wash up.
‘Go after them,’ Bessie urged. ‘That’s more important now. This won’t take me and Jack five minutes.’
Leonie had to put on her mac as it was drizzling again. She heard Amy laugh as she crossed the farmyard and that guided her to the building where the hens were kept.
‘Hetty isn’t a very big hen,’ Amy was saying. ‘This is Hetty, Mum.’ The speckled hen she was pointing to was stalking around making strange clucking sounds. ‘Jack says that means she wants chicks to look after and she’ll sit on a nest to hatch them out. He thinks ten eggs will be as many as she can manage. He’s picked out the eggs he thinks most likely to hatch out but she hasn’t started to sit on them yet.’
Leonie couldn’t stem her tide of enthusiasm.
‘Bessie thought it better if you took the eggs with you and settled her on them as soon as you get home.’
‘I’ve got everything ready for her.’ Milo told her how he’d turned the shed against the house where she used to keep her tricycle and doll’s pram into a henhouse, and how Pat’s sister Alison had helped him build a pen for them.
Leonie had a moment of panic, at this rate it would be time to go before she’d got the bad news out. She had to do it now.