‘Nor I you, lass,’ he said, taking his pipe from his mouth and laying it alongside his glass of beer on the scarred top of the piano. Alice placed him as a man in his late thirties, and a hardened regular.
‘Why are you called Old Horse?’ she asked.
His hands returning to the keyboard, he said, ‘Ask me another.’
‘Were you at Mons?’
‘Aye.’
‘And the Marne?’
‘Aye.’ He was playing the same light sonata.
‘That was where I first found what the war was all about,’ said Alice.
‘Time for you to call it a day, then, and to go home.’
‘Well, I can’t, can I?’ said Alice. ‘I’m in it till it’s over.’
‘You’re too young,’ he said. ‘Go home, lass.’
‘But you can’t go ’ome yourself till it’s over,’ said Alice.
‘Not even then,’ he said, his Northumbrian accent perceptible without being broad.
‘You’re a regular?’
‘Aye. Started as a drummer boy. What’re you doing here in France, lass, at your age?’
‘Pickin’ up the bits and pieces,’ said Alice. His hands were deft, the music lilting. ‘Who taught you to play the piano?’
‘Nobody. There were an old upright like this once. Somewhere. I thumped on it, like noisy boys do, and one day thumping pensioned itself off and playing began. Of a kind, after a fashion.’
‘Well, I suppose you’re a natural.’
‘So-so, lass.’
Alice felt drawn to him. There were men from time to time who touched one’s emotions more than others. There had been a few men like that for Polly, men with whom she’d made love before they were thrown into one more battle and perhaps to finally die in the mud. Other women had also had their giving moments, and Alice thought how emotional it must be, pleasuring a man who was a little more special than others in the knowledge that sooner or later he would be dead. But she could not do it herself, even if most of the women drivers considered virginity on the Western Front laughable. Alice wondered if any of the women had pleasured this man, for she thought most of them would see him as very special. He looked like so many veterans did, as if he would last for ever, but in this kind of war he was as vulnerable as they all were. They knew it, and one saw it in their eyes.
‘How long will your unit be here?’ she asked.
‘A few days, maybe,’ he said, playing a different melody, but still of a light character. ‘A few weeks, maybe. Depends on when the trumpets call.’
‘Some blinkin’ trumpets,’ said Alice, and he looked up at her, a little smile on his face.
‘Aye, they’re different in this war,’ he said, ‘and so are young women like you, though you’re still nobbut a girl when all’s said and done.’
‘That’s all you know,’ said Alice.
‘Shouldn’t be out here, lass.’
‘You’re an old Victorian,’ said Alice.
‘Aye, I’m that,’ he said, and stopped playing to finish what was left of his beer. Replacing the glass, he said, ‘I were born and brought up in the old Queen’s time, and sorry I was to see the end of her and her iron petticoats, never mind her widow’s sulks.’ He stood up. ‘Well, time to go, but a pleasure, meeting you.’
‘You can’t go yet, I want to talk to you,’ said Alice.
‘Another time, lass, another time. I’m duty sergeant tonight.’ He put his pipe back between his teeth, and off he went, through the haze of smoke to the door. Then he was gone. Alice rejoined Polly and the Northumbrians.
‘Like Old Horse, did you, lass?’ asked one man.
‘Wild about him,’ said Alice.
‘Made of iron filings, that one,’ said another man. ‘Saw him standing in the rain once, at Wipers. Watched him turning rusty.’
‘And then?’ said Alice.
‘Ah, well, he were all right when the sun came out.’
A Warwickshire private sat down at the piano. A local Frenchman with an accordion took up a position beside him, and music of the right kind began. The next moment the Tommies were singing ‘Mademoiselle From Armentières.’ Polly and Alice joined in, and so did other long-serving women drivers now present. Women new to France or Flanders might have found the Tommies’ own version somewhat blush-making. Polly and Alice, and other old hands, took it in their stride.
As the evening turned into a rousing round of music hall songs and wartime ditties, Alice and Polly shared fags with the Northumbrians and sang along with them. Polly, getting heady, bought several bottles of beer and wine as a treat for everyone at the table. Polly was never short of funds.
‘Tha doesn’t have to do that, lass.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, old love. Of course I have to, now and again.’
‘It’s not regular.’
‘I know that, but we all like to break the rules, don’t we?’
‘Mud in your eye, lass.’
‘Mud? Bloody hell,’ said Polly, thinking of Tommies who had drowned in it, ‘anything but that, old sport.’
‘Language, ducky,’ said Alice.
The singsong went on, the haze thickened to a fug, and eventually men began to leave. There was a time limit on their passes. And when Alice and Polly were finally on their way back to their billet, it had to be said in the parlance of the times that they were pretty squiffy.
‘Tell me something,’ murmured Polly, as they waveringly crossed a cobbled street, ‘is it night-time?’
‘Beg pardon?’ said Alice.
‘Is it night-time?’
‘Not ’alf,’ said Alice.
‘No wonder it’s dark,’ said Polly. It was. The sky was inky, the Somme sector blanketed by the night. The guns were silent. ‘Alice, where are you?’
‘Wish I knew,’ said Alice, and giggled.
‘Is this the time to see if Lady Banks is dining out?’ asked Polly.
‘What for?’ asked Alice.
‘Silk stockings,’ said Polly. ‘Look, hold me up, will you, sport?’
‘Can’t,’ said Alice, ‘me legs won’t let me.’
‘But you can get into Lady Banks’s quarters if she’s not there, can’t you, dearie, while I keep watch?’
‘Some ’opes,’ said Alice.
‘Alice, what’s wrong with you?’
‘I’ve ’ad one over the eight,’ said Alice.
‘That’s funny, so have I,’ said Polly.
But they made it to their billet, where their condition at least helped them to get quickly to sleep, and to put a rosy glow into their dreams. Tomorrow might bring an urgent summons from a sector that had suddenly erupted into fire and slaughter, and a sound night’s sleep was a good preparation for heart-breaking action.
Chapter Six
‘Crikey, the time,’ said Emily, finishing a late evening pot of tea with Lizzy, ‘we’d best go.’
They were at Lizzy’s home, having travelled there from the hospital after visiting Ned, who was making a slow but satisfactory recovery. Not only had he had his left leg amputated, he’d also had shrapnel dug out of his ribcage. He was happy to see Emily, who spent ten minutes talking to him with Lizzy before leaving them to themselves for the rest of the visit. Afterwards, on the way back to South London, Emily mentioned in an awkward way that it was going to be rotten for Ned only having one leg when he was finally home. Lizzy said not to be daft, he’d have an artificial one. She said she wasn’t going to let the army fit him up with some old wooden thing, that it had got to be a proper new artificial leg. She said that when Ned was home, they were going to walk out on Sunday afternoons, just like any normal married couple.
Having enjoyed a late tea in Lizzy’s marital home, they then attacked the weeds in the overgrown garden. Emily was always in her element whenever there was anything to do, and although she’d never worked in a garden before, she attacked the weeds with enthusiasm, using a little fork from the old shed. Enthusiasm counting for more than knowledge, it wasn’t s
urprising that Lizzy had to tell her she’d dug up some plants as well.
‘Still, never mind, Em, your heart’s in the right place, even if you are a bit cross-eyed.’
‘Lizzy, course I’m not, I’ve never been cross-eyed in me life. I ’ad mumps once, and the flu, but that’s all.’
‘Well, I’m happy for you, Em’ly,’ smiled Lizzy.
‘Oh, thanks,’ said Emily.
Now, as she and Lizzy began to make sure the kitchen was left looking nice and tidy, Lizzy said, ‘Yes, we’d best go in a couple of minutes, Em, it’s already dark.’
‘We’ll catch a tram by King’s College Hospital,’ said Emily.
The German zeppelin, which had left its base at twilight, slipped out of cloud cover and hovered north of London, a city enveloped by night. Painted black to render it a difficult target for searchlights, the invader was invisible against the clouds that had rolled in half an hour ago. As it hung, it slowly turned until its nose was pointing due south, and then began to glide. Hundreds of feet below, the maroons were going off, warning the people of London of the presence of a German night raider. On went searchlights to scour the dark sky.
There were a few people on the streets, and at the first sound of the maroons, some began to run. Others continued walking, not wanting to let any ruddy German sausage balloon get the better of them. Of course, there were one or two doubters as to the wisdom of this.
‘Alf, p’raps we ought to get a bit of a move on, seein’ what ’appened to me sister when she was caught out in the last raid.’
‘Well, I tell yer, Maggie, if you wet yer drawers like she did, I ain’t goin’ to ’old me ’ead up as yer ’usband.’
A few people here and there stopped to look up at the night sky, to watch the bright moving discs of searchlights. The zeppelin, still unseen, glided on.
Chinese Lady was sewing while she awaited the return of Lizzy and Emily. Tommy was reading a Sherlock Holmes story. Sammy was sitting at the kitchen table, a notebook in front of him, a pencil between his fingers, calculating Post Office Savings Bank interest at two and a half per cent. It was a question of whether or not he should part with his sockfuls of coins and trust them to the Post Office. Would they take the same care of his money as he did himself? What sort of safe did they have, and did anyone stand guard over it at night?
Chinese Lady looked up then.
‘There’s maroons goin’ off,’ she said.
‘I got objections to zeppelins comin’ over of a Sunday night,’ said Tommy.
‘Me too,’ said Sammy, hoping a bomb wouldn’t drop on his savings.
‘Lizzy’s not home yet,’ said Chinese Lady. At this precise moment, Lizzy and Emily were waiting for a tram by King’s College Hospital. They’d already been waiting twenty minutes. The war had reduced tram services, especially on Sunday nights, and omnibuses were even scarcer.
‘Oh, Lizzy’ll be ’ere any minute now, Mum,’ said Tommy.
‘It’s a problem, yer know,’ said Sammy, ruffling his hair with his pencil.
‘It will be if Lizzy and Em’ly can’t get a tram,’ said Chinese Lady. ‘They stop running in an air raid.’
‘They’ll get ’ome all right,’ said Sammy. ‘What’s worrying me is would the Post Office lose me savings if I ’anded them over?’
‘You implorable boy,’ said Chinese Lady, ‘worrying more about money than about your own sister. And I don’t know we shouldn’t get under the table in case a bomb drops.’
‘You get under, Mum,’ said Tommy. ‘Make yerself comfy, and I’ll pass you yer sewing.’
Mr Finch, their lodger, came down from his room and knocked on the kitchen door.
‘Come in,’ said Chinese Lady.
Mr Finch, a handsome man in his forties, was a river pilot, and hadn’t long returned from his Sunday stint. He worked all kinds of awkward hours, but that didn’t stop Chinese Lady regarding him as a very respectable gentleman lodger. He was on the friendliest terms with the family. Entering the kitchen, he smiled reassuringly.
‘You and the boys are all right, Mrs Adams? You wouldn’t like me to take you to some kind of shelter, such as the basement in the workingmen’s club on the corner of Browning Street?’
‘Kind of yer, Mr Finch,’ said Tommy, ‘but we went there durin’ one of the air raids. They play billiards in the basement, yer know, and we sat there with other people, watchin’. But Mum said if the roof and the basement ceilin’ and the billiards table as well, all fell on top of us, we’d be better off ’ere at ’ome.’
‘Yes, and we can keep our mince pies on things ’ere at home,’ said Sammy. ‘Valuable things.’
‘Understood, Sammy,’ smiled Mr Finch. ‘But where’s Lizzy?’ He had a very soft spot for Chinese Lady’s one and only daughter.
‘She went to see Ned in hospital this afternoon, with Em’ly,’ said Chinese Lady, listening for the dreaded sound of bombs falling. ‘They were goin’ to Lizzy’s house from there, to have some tea and do a bit of gardening. I must say they’ve left it disgraceful late to come home.’
‘If they can’t get a tram,’ said Mr Finch, ‘they’re probably walking. I think I’ll take a walk myself, and look for them along the Walworth Road.’
‘I daresay I might come with you,’ said Tommy, trying to sound casual.
‘I think I’ll come too,’ said Sammy.
‘Suppose you stay, Sammy, and look after your mother?’ suggested Mr Finch.
‘Oh, all right,’ said Sammy, ‘I’ll do that, I’ll look after Mum and ’er best ornaments. And other suchlike things.’
Chinese Lady, hiding her worst worries, said, ‘Well, I would be grateful if someone went and met Lizzy and Em’ly. I’m sure that if any bombs drop you’ll see that Tommy and the girls don’t stand about waitin’ for them, Mr Finch, that they take cover like they should.’
‘Leave it to me, Mrs Adams,’ said Mr Finch, and out he went with Tommy.
Searchlights by the dozen had blazed into being, their elongated fingers of dazzling white creating criss-cross patterns in the sky. They probed for the gliding airship, for its huge sausage-like shape. It passed directly above Dalston, heading for the river and the factories of East and South London. The searchlights darted and fidgeted, crossing, uncrossing and crossing again.
The first bomb dropped close to Liverpool Street railway station, the explosion a roar of sound combined with a blinding flash. Two adjoining office frontages fragmented, and a warehouse on the corner of Middlesex Street collapsed. Windows of adjacent buildings burst and shattered. In Liverpool Street itself, a man and a woman were blown off their feet, the blast tearing their clothing to shreds.
The zeppelin continued its planned flight. It passed over the river, a little east of London Bridge, and travelled above Bermondsey, Walworth and Camberwell, dropping its bombs at intervals. The searchlights sprayed their frantic white beams, while ack-ack gunners peppered the sky with shellfire. Miraculously, a searchlight caught the raider as it began a turn to the east over Herne Hill. The gunlayers homed in on it. Shells whistled upwards. At once the zeppelin jettisoned ballast and soared for the clouds. Zeppelins could reach incredible heights, and fast, making it impossible for RFC fighter planes to catch them.
The beams of light stabbed at the clouds, and the clouds flung their impenetrable blanket over the escaping airship. Ambulances were rushing through the streets north and south of the river, and the clang of fire engines could be heard.
Mr Finch and Tommy seemed to be the only people abroad in the Walworth Road. Shops were closed and shuttered, and there were neither trams nor omnibuses running. Street lamps were out, but searchlights were still probing the clouds. Mr Finch was hoping for Lizzy and Emily to appear. So was Tommy. They’d heard a bomb drop in the distance, not far from Camberwell Green.
‘Blimey,’ Tommy had said, ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’
‘Yes, a little too close for comfort, Tommy,’ said Mr Finch, ‘but at least it means you and I are saf
e now. The zeppelin’s travelling ahead of us.’
‘But ’ow safe are Lizzy and Em’ly?’ asked Tommy. ‘If they decided to stay in Lizzy’s house, the next bomb might cop Denmark Hill. I reckon that last one dropped near Albany Road.’
‘Chin up, old chap,’ said Mr Finch.
They reached Camberwell Road, keeping their ears and eyes open, and in a little while they approached Albany Road. At that moment a fire engine, coming from Camberwell Green at speed, braked hard and turned into Albany Road. It picked up speed again, clanging as it went.
‘There y’ar,’ said Tommy, when he was able to make himself heard, ‘didn’t I say Albany Road? I bet—’
‘Tommy, is that you?’ Tommy jumped at the sound of Lizzy’s voice issuing from the dark shelter of a deep doorway. ‘Tommy?’
‘Lizzy?’ said Mr Finch. A thinking man, he had brought an electric torch with him. He switched it on. A muffled yell greeted the little beam of light.
‘Oh, me gawd, don’t do that!’ Emily, sharing the shelter of the doorway with Lizzy, sounded as if panic had set in. ‘Put it out!’
‘Crikey, what’s up?’ asked Tommy in alarm. The torch having been switched off, he peered at the figures in the doorway of a shop. One shadowy figure hastily hid behind the other. ‘Lizzy, is that you and Em’ly? What’s ’appened?’
‘Oh, we’re all right,’ said Lizzy, ‘we’re not hurt or anything, but – oh, lor’, you’ll never believe it, Emi’ly’s lost the skirt of ’er frock, and ’er petticoat. And hat.’
‘Crikey Moses,’ breathed Tommy, ‘is that right, Em’ly? Where are yer?’
‘You Tommy, I’m in ’ere,’ gasped Emily, ‘don’t you come any nearer.’
‘But you’re safe and sound, Emily?’ said Mr Finch.
‘Lizzy is,’ said the distracted Emily, ‘but I ain’t. Oh, them zeppelins and their rotten bombs, it just ain’t right or decent, blowin’ a girl’s clothes off ’er, and ’er best Sunday ’at as well.’
‘Emily, that’s very unfortunate,’ said Mr Finch. An ambulance raced up and turned into Albany Road. ‘But are you sure you’re not hurt?’
‘Well, I’m not wounded, Mr Finch, but me modesty’s taken an awful ’iding.’
Echoes of Yesterday Page 6