Blitz Next Door

by Cathy Forde

  “Watch it.” Pete hovered the pen over Wee Stookie’s arm, his mind not really on the task in hand.

  “She did that too,” Wee Stookie tutted. “Like she forgot how to write.”

  “I’m thinking,” Pete said.

  “She said that too. You going to say you’ve never seen one of these before next?” Wee Stookie stared at his biro, eyes wide and his mouth wider. “She’s weird her. So you and her not speaking?” Wee Stookie was pointing towards the bomb crater. He giggled. “She took one look in the den and stormed off. Anyway,” Wee Stookie lifted his arm up to Pete as high as he could manage, “write!”

  Pete scribbled on the plaster. “There.” He handed back the pen.

  “What’s that even say? I can’t read yet, you know.” Wee Stookie huffed.

  “BREAK A LEG. L.O.L.” Pete traced the letters with his finger.

  “Break a leg? How’s that rude? It’s not even funny!” Wee Stookie, with a long puff of disappointment, had stomped out of the shelter and was squeezing backwards through a bush into his own garden, so only his head was visible as he spoke. It was disappearing too, like the Cheshire Cat.

  “I wrote L.O.L.” Pete was feeling a bit pathetic. “You know what that means.”

  “‘Lots of love’,” Wee Stookie said, in a very high voice from the other side of the hedge. “So your sister thinks. She’s the silly, not knowing it means ‘Laugh Out Loud’ like even I know. And why does she wear a big kilt like a man?”

  “How should I know? She’s not my sister,” Pete shouted after him.

  “Who’s not?” The older, larger version of Wee Stookie was appearing through the same bush, face first. Without answering, Pete tugged Dunny into the shelter.

  “She’s been back.”

  “Hmmm…” Dunny examined the new lines Beth had written. “Bit soppy syrup: Think me back… Fancy a bounce?”

  Hearing Dunny’s reaction, Pete was glad he hadn’t admitted the lines had brought the smallest of lumps to his throat.

  He let Dunny push through the hedge first. “D’you not think it’s spooky,” Pete said, “how she keeps appearing? When we know her house was bombed and she might have been—?”

  “Nah, millions of weird things happened round here cos of the Blitz,” Dunny interrupted before Pete could mention the voices from the room that wasn’t there. He started to bounce, his voice choppy. “My Granny’s twin brothers ran back into their close to look for her teddy the first night of the bombing. Their mum had to stand and watch with my granny in her arms screaming for them to come back.”

  Dunny brought his bouncing to a stop with a knee bend.

  “‘The bairn needs her teddy, Ma. We’ll be two tics.’ That’s what one of them said.” Dunny had turned his head from Pete. “My granny always said she felt the twins watching over her, like guardian angels. And see last year, just before she died, and she was really sick?” Dunny sounded as if something was stuck in his throat. “Granny told my mum they were sitting on either side of her bed waiting for her. Michael and Patrick, my great uncles. It’s their anniversary too.”

  Dunny began to bounce again, deep and slow. “See us Bankies? We’ve hundreds of stories like that –” he shrugged, “– specially round this time of year.” He beckoned Pete up on the trampoline. “And you thought the Blitz was just London…”

  Dunny’s bounce shot Pete up into the air.

  “London.”

  The next one shot him higher.

  “Landon town.”

  Pete could see all the way into his garden, from the boundary hedge to his house.

  “Wheeeee!”

  And there was that old woman. On the edge of the crater again.

  “Whoa, Dunny!”

  “Whassup, Nigel, getting a nosebleed?”

  “No, bounce me higher! That woman’s there.”

  “Dunny obliged, then bounced himself up to the same height as Pete.

  “Aye, so she is, Nigel. And I’m a spaceman on a mission to Mars.”

  Ten, twelve mighty leaps later Pete had to admit his mind might have been playing tricks.

  “New Bankie-boy spooks, that’s all,” Dunny said. They were lying on the trampoline now, catching their breath, watching the clouds, the birds.

  “Can’t imagine what it must have been like, this place, right here, being bombed.” So peaceful now, Pete was thinking.

  “Or kids our age being evacuated,” Dunny said. “Sent to families who didn’t want you. Starved you. That happened, by the way. For real. We did a project. My teacher said some of the poorer kids were so filthy, they hoached out the houses they went to stay in. Scabies. Nits. Pee-the-beds. My mum couldn’t hack that. She’d stick you in the garage on a bin bag to sleep. Spray you with disinfectant first.”

  Dunny was chuckling, beginning to bounce again on his back, picking up enough momentum to throw himself upright.

  Pete didn’t feel like bouncing any more.

  “See ya.”

  He jumped off the trampoline, thinking about Beth Winters and the voices he’d heard. The girl he’d heard crying had said something about not wanting to leave her mum. Wasn’t there a mention of leaving on the shelter wall too?

  When you are here and I am far away…

  Could the voice he’d heard have been Beth Winters? Could she have been an evacuee? Pete was deep in thought as he made his way back through his own garden. Or was she another victim of the Clydebank Blitz?

  Pete knew he had to find out, and he realised that he knew where to begin.

  With Dad’s El Honcho, Mr Milligan: a living link to the story of Beth Winters.

  Chapter 14

  Mum and Dad didn’t even notice Pete slipping into the sitting room. They were squared up to each other across a coffee table they were shifting, hissing into each other’s faces.

  “No, Steve.” Mum dumped her end down. “You just tell him straight: ‘Jamie, I’m not working overtime.’”

  “It’s not as simple as that, Jo. I’ve been out of work so long, needing the money…”

  “It is that simple. You tell smoothie boss: ‘My wife’s stuck at home knowing nobody with a baby that’s driving her doolally.’ Better idea: I’ll tell him. Minute he purrs round.”

  “So is Mr Milligan coming over?” As soon as Pete interrupted he knew he shouldn’t have bothered. The look Mum shot Dad, and the unspoken reproach it held – He’d better not be; there’s curtains to hang – sent Pete slinking out the room.

  “Won’t be long, champ,” Dad called after him. “Mum and I just having a chat.”

  “More like ding-ding: Round One,” Pete whispered under his breath.

  He sank down on his bed, put his hands over his face, sliding them round to his ears when he realised he could still hear Mum’s voice. Shrill. Close to tears: “Have you any idea how it feels to be so tired, Steve? Day in, day out. Don’t answer that: you don’t.”

  Pete could hear the low rumble of Dad’s voice too. Pete knew he would be trying to say the right thing, and wished he could interrupt his parents with something so interesting or funny that they would both forget their argument. Maybe even start laughing. But he knew if he tried to catch their attention right now, he’d only wind them up. Make things worse. Better to keep out the way.

  Pete was just reaching for his guitar when the wall connecting his bedroom to fresh air next door shuddered as though someone had kicked it or shoved something hard against it.

  “Mummy!” yelled a girl’s voice, clear and impatient. “The trunk’s not in the wardrobe. I’ll try the cubby hole.”

  Through the wall, Pete heard the squeak of a door opening. Footsteps passed into the corridor that wasn’t there in the house that wasn’t there. Beth Winters’ footsteps, Pete presumed. Scuffy. Light.

  Where’s she going? Pete left his own room, ran along his own corridor and downstairs. He could hear Beth – it had to be Beth – humming a tune as she descended. When her hand brushed the wall, Pete shivered as though her fingertips
had tripped along the hairs on his arm. He felt sure that only a thin layer of lathe and plaster separated them.

  But it’s impossible. Pete was at the bottom of the stairs now. What am I doing? He paused, almost relieved he couldn’t hear Beth any more. No more footsteps. No more humming. Only Dad.

  “Jo, we’re going round in circles. You’d rather be broke in London? Moved back in with your mother and her bloody cats? Away you go.”

  Underneath Pete’s staircase he felt the vibration of a faint thud followed by the clatter and graze of objects being flung around.

  Beth must have gone into her cupboard under the stairs. On balance Pete decided he’d prefer to track a girl who shouldn’t be there to hearing the misery of his parents slugging out Round Two.

  When Pete had gone exploring the house with Jenny, he hadn’t taken more than a peek inside the cupboard under his own stairs. Now he was surprised how large and deep it was. Almost as deep as the shelter, though it was only ceiling height at the entrance. Once Pete was a couple of strides further inside, and before he let the door swing shut, he could see the headroom shrank a stair-size at a time until there was only crawling space at the back.

  Apart from a few candle stumps and old paint tins near the entrance, it was empty. The bulb swinging over the door didn’t work when Pete tried the switch, so he could barely see to the far end. It was pitch black in there; nothing but the bumpings and scrapings from the cupboard through the wall echoing through it.

  Halfway inside his own cupboard, Pete was already stooping, no more borrowed light from the hall to help him see what lay ahead. There was a chill draught blowing up the legs of his jeans through the floorboards. In case he bumped his head on the low ceiling Pete dropped to his knees, groping his way forward. He could still hear objects being flung and dragged and pushed about through the wall parallel to where he was crawling. What’s she doing? Pete turned on all fours to face the adjoining wall, thinking he would put his head against his side to hear more clearly.

  But Pete hadn’t reckoned on cobwebs – Arghhhh! – or things that felt like cobwebs catching his face. Pete yelped. He thrashed in the dark, swiping his hands through his hair, clawing at his eyes.

  “Geroff. Go away!”

  His voice sounded like someone else’s: hollow and muffled as the notes of his panic sang from the dense dark stone and the thick wooden stair treads around him.

  “Horrible. Yug. In my mouth.” Pete was too busy flailing and spluttering to notice that the noises through the wall had paused, until he heard a voice break through his own rapid breathing.

  A girl’s voice: “Jamie? Is that you?”

  Chapter 15

  Pete managed to stop writhing. He was squatting at the very back of the cupboard. His breath rose so ragged in the empty space, whoever was on the other side must have heard it too.

  “Jamie?”

  The girl sounded anxious. “Did you crawl? Does your mummy know you’re in there? Are you stuck? Jamie?”

  “I’m not…” Pete stayed in a squat and tried to walk himself closer to the girl’s voice, but with his legs wobbly from the thought of invisible cobwebs, his upper body pitched forward before he could prevent it.

  Going to thump my head on that wall, Pete thought as he lurched towards it in the dark, his hand coming out just in time to try and break his fall…

  Except there was no wall.

  Pete’s hand struck a door that yielded with a stiff groan. He tumbled forward, not onto stone, but into a short brick tunnel.

  He could see to the end of it; there was a door the same size as the one he’d just fallen through at the far end. Some light leaked round its edges. And then more light. Because the door was opening, a head appearing through it.

  “Jamie, how in the name of the wee man did you get in there all by yourself? Don’t greet now. I’m coming,” said the girl who had stung Pete’s cheek with her plait. And before Pete could scramble up from where he was lying flat out on the tunnel floor, she was blinking into his face with her blue eyes.

  “What you doing in Aunty Mary’s house? You’re not Jamie.”

  The girl took one look at Pete and crawled back the way she had come. At speed. Scared, Pete decided, even if she was trying not to show it. He was a bit frightened himself. But now he’d gone to all this trouble, he couldn’t let her disappear.

  “Hiya.” Pete hoped he sounded friendly. “Are you Beth?”

  “What if I am?” The girl’s eyes narrowed.

  “Saw your drawings down the shelter. They’re ace.”

  Pete noticed Beth trying to control the wobble of a smile. She flicked her plait. “Going to be an artist when I grow up,” she said, “or a doctor, same as Mummy.”

  “I’m going to be in a rock band. Or an architect doing renewable energy projects like my dad…” Pete hoped this chat was distracting Beth while he wiggled towards her along the tunnel. But she blocked his advance, the flat of her hand up to his face.

  “Hold it. Don’t know who you are or what you’re even talking about. What the sherbet Dip Dab’s a rock band?” She scrunched her nose. “What you doing in Aunty Mary’s house anyway? And where’s wee Jamie?”

  Since the chat wasn’t working, Pete propped himself on his elbows, and gave Beth the smile his Scottish granny said would melt a frozen Highland toffee.

  “I’m Pete Smeaton and I’ve just moved up here. My dad’s got a new job.”

  “Ahhhh. That explains your funny wee accent.” Beth was nodding as if everything suddenly made sense. “You’re an evacuee then.”

  “No,” Pete said, “but I’m from London. And I don’t have a funny wee accent.”

  “No, you do, and you are an evacuee, silly. They just haven’t told you.” Beth was looking puzzled. “Anyway, why would they send you up here? They’re sending me away. And your daddy’s with you?”

  “And my mum.”

  “And your mummy?” Beth pulled her plait round to her mouth and stroked her lips with the end of it. She stared at Pete, her eyes troubled. Then – to his total embarrassment – she put her hands over her face and broke down.

  Well, now I know for sure she’s the one crying through the wall, Pete thought, though he didn’t have one clue what to do to comfort her. It wasn’t like he could scoop Beth up and sing, “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog, cryin’ all the time,” into her face, pecking her forehead with kisses, which always turned Jenny’s tears into gurgles. Or hug her, like he’d done once or twice to Mum when she was at the end of her tether. No chance. They’d only just met. And anyway, these tears Beth was sobbing were different from anything he’d seen before. Beth was trying to speak too.

  “I don’t want to leave my mummy and daddy. What if Hitler blows them up?”

  When Beth swiped at her tears, her cheeks were left streaked with dirt from the floor of the tunnel.

  Pete edged a little closer.

  “Please don’t cry,” he said, reaching out to pat her shoulder.

  “Easy for you to say.” Beth winced away before Pete could touch.

  “You’re going to make me cry too,” Pete said, only half joking. After all, he knew what if felt like to leave a place when you didn’t want to, and he had his family with him to take the edge off the sadness of it. He decided to change the subject. “If you stop crying I’ll tell you something amazing.”

  “Like what? You’ve killed Adolf? We’re all going to get free chocolate? And there’s going to be bananas in the greengrocer’s again?”

  Pete ignored the sarcasm. “You know I’ve moved into the Milligan’s house?”

  “Is that your something amazing?” Beth’s face crumpled. “With your mummy and daddy. You-you-you told me that.” Beth was rocking back and forward on her knees, hands to her face. Pete took a deep breath.

  “Well, I’m not an evacuee at all. I’ve moved in years and years after the war.” Beth stopped rocking, held her breath. “I’m from the 21st century.”

  Pete knew Beth hear
d that last bit alright because she was spreading the fingers covering her face to peek through at him. It did sound impressive, Pete was thinking himself: I’m from the 21st century. Like he was Captain Pete, teleported from the Starship Enterprise. Or the Tardis. Or the Millenium Falcon. No wonder Beth was studying him with new eyes. Taking in his jeans. Sweatshirt. Trainers.

  “Hang on, if that’s true, then that means I come from the past.”

  Beth’s voice was still shuddery, but at least she’d stopped crying. She was looking down at herself now: big woolly jumper, tartan kilt, thick knitted socks.

  “So, does that mean I’m…” She blinked at Pete, then at her own hands, turning them over. Pete knew what she was thinking.

  “…a ghost?” they both whispered together.

  “Wonder if I died in an air raid?” Beth’s voice was tiny. She shrugged. “Suppose that means I didn’t go away after all. Hurray!” Beth managed a watery smile. “So I’m a ghost. BOO!” She flung her arms up at Pete, but he didn’t flinch.

  “You’re too real,” he said, “and look –” Pete poked Beth’s arm, “– my hand doesn’t pass through you. And I bet you can feel this.” Pete poked again, harder.

  “Ouch, you!”

  “See? A real ghost wouldn’t feel that. And you’re not even scary.”

  “Know a lot of scarier ghosts down in London, do you?” Beth flicked her plait.

  “Seen hundreds on TV actually,” said Pete.

  “On what?” Beth’s mouth was down-turned.

  “Television? Telly? It’s this big flat electronic—”

  Beth flapped her hand at Pete to interrupt. “Wait; I’ve heard of that! I have. You switch it on and it heats up so you can watch the pictures in your house instead of going to the Pictures. It’s coming to Scotland one day.”

  “It has. Was invented here. John Logie Baird.”

  “Who?” Beth scoffed. “I think you just like making things up, silly.”

  Pete shook his head. “You can watch all the films you want, play games…” Pete stopped talking. Where to start with the technology he could tell Beth about? She’d definitely accuse him of making things up if he went down that road!