Into The Unknown

by Lorna Peel

  “Is the baby you?”

  “No, it’s Clive. If you really want to see me, there’s one over there.” He gestured to a similar portrait on a table in front of the window.

  “Oh, you were so fat.” She squealed with laughter. “Mind you, I had rolls of fat, too.”

  “Well, they’ve gone now,” he murmured, putting his arms around her and, together, they sank onto the sofa.

  “My drink.” She held her glass aloft to stop the brandy spilling. “Wait.” She put it down on the floor, then turned and clambered over him to kiss him. “Oh, I missed you. When Christmas and New Year came and went, I began to wonder if they were going to give me any leave at all.”

  “It worked out perfectly.” He licked his lips, kissed her gently, then more and more passionately until he began to fumble with the buttons on her trousers. He couldn’t undo them and swore. There was a lot to be said for skirts. “Bloody hell.” He was becoming painful with desire for her. “Kate,” he gasped. “Help?”

  “In here?” She looked and sounded astounded. “Your parents could come back at any minute.”

  “But—” he began but was cut off when the air-raid siren began to wail and he swore again.

  “The air-raid shelter?” Her eyebrows rose and he nodded and groaned as they slowly got up off the sofa. “Something in the way?” she giggled.

  “You could say that,” he replied wryly, standing the spark guard in front of the hearth.

  Taking her hand, they ran through the house, out the back door and down the garden path to the shelter. He closed the door while she lit the oil lamp then he turned and grinned as she helpfully undid her trouser buttons, then his.

  They made love on the narrow bottom bunk. The bunk beds rattled and squeaked with each of his thrusts, Kate giving the metal frame a couple of anxious glances and he marvelled it didn’t collapse like the chair in the barn had. He held Kate as the bombers passed overhead but as they faded away into the distance his grip on her didn’t lessen. Whenever he held her he never wanted to let her go. A few minutes later he felt her move.

  “Charlie?” she murmured.

  “Mmm.”

  “Charlie, you’re a bit heavy.”

  “Oh.” He rolled off her. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” She smiled and smoothed a hand down his cheek. “Oh, it’s so cold. You were a great but heavy blanket.”

  He laughed. “I’ve been called a few things in my time but that beats the lot.”

  They dressed quickly. It was freezing and they huddled together on the bed with a blanket around them.

  “It seems like I’ve known you for years,” she told him.

  “A year since Christmas Day. I love you so much, Kate.” They both jumped as they heard a bomb fall some way off and more planes approach. “Bastards,” he whispered. “Leave us alone.”

  “I wonder if there are people like us in Germany, sitting in shelters like this – frightened – not knowing when it’s going to end. They can’t all support Hitler.”

  He’d never thought of that. “I suppose not,” he conceded. “But Hitler has brought it upon them all. Kate.” He turned her face towards his. “Your father wants you home, doesn’t he?”

  She nodded. “He wanted me to go to America. It was Mummy who persuaded him that I come here. Now he hates Bob because he thinks Bob put me under pressure to join up.”

  “Is your father…” Charlie began. How could he put this delicately? “A bit anti-British?”

  “He doesn’t like the British, Charlie; there’s no point in me denying it. He conveniently forgets that Mummy is British. The censor has had a field day with his letters. Mr Churchill isn’t his favourite politician in all the world.”

  “So he does hate me?” Charlie asked. “Like you said he would?”

  She sighed. “He’s never mentioned you, even though I write about you in all my letters. It’s his loss.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, Charlie, don’t be silly.” She kissed him. “Mummy likes the sound of you, though. Even Granny Norah does. If anyone should be able to persuade Daddy otherwise it’s her. He’s a bit of a mammy’s boy at heart.”

  But an idiot apart from that, Charlie thought angrily but smiled to placate her. Bloody hell, the man could support the IRA or be in it for all he knew.

  “You don’t know much about my family, do you?” She frowned. “I’ll tell you, seeing as we’re stuck here for the time being. My father is a solicitor in Galway but he met Mummy at a wedding here in London. They live a few miles outside Galway now, beside the sea. Granny Barbara can’t stand him and makes no secret of the fact that she thinks Mummy married beneath her. Daddy and Granny Norah are Catholic but Mummy is Church of England, and when Mummy announced she wanted to marry Daddy there was uproar. Granny Barbara and Granddad Thomas were completely against it, but Mummy and Daddy were completely for it.”

  “So what happened?” Charlie asked.

  “Granddad Thomas and Daddy came to an arrangement. Mummy could marry Daddy, but any children they had who were born in Ireland would be brought up Church of England, not Catholic. It’s always amazed me that Daddy agreed, but Granddad Thomas was quite frightening, from what very little I remember of him. He died when I was five, a few months after Mummy, Daddy and I were here on a visit.”

  “He was,” Charlie smiled, “very Victorian in his outlook. He used to frighten the life out of me. He caught me smoking in the garden once. I was about fifteen and I can remember him bellowing at me, ‘Are you smoking a cigarette, boy? A gentleman smokes a cigar.’ He gave me a cigar and the thing almost gave me bronchitis, so I stayed with cigarettes. So were you brought up Church of England?”

  “I was baptised Church of Ireland, which is Anglican, too. Apparently, Daddy stood outside the church and refused to go in.” She sighed. “They needn’t have bothered because I’ve no time for religion. Poor Mummy, she tries so hard. She’s on every committee there is, but means well, even if the locals do still call her the ‘blow-in’ after twenty-two years.”

  “Why?”

  “She sounds exactly like Helen and Granny Barbara – that very posh English accent – and it rubs some people up the wrong way because they think she’s putting it on. Poor Mummy; she’ll never fit in, no matter how hard she tries. Daddy’s only brother, Michael, fought in the Irish War of Independence against the British. He got shot shortly before the Truce in 1921 but didn’t die for a long, long time. Daddy paid for him to be looked after in a nursing home. I was about four when he died. That’s why Daddy is a bit, you know, about Britain. There’s no reasoning with him. Everything is all Britain’s fault, according to him, but he’s not involved in anything. I know you were wondering, Charlie,” she finished softly and he flushed.

  “From what you said about him, I couldn’t help but wonder. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. Oh, listen.” She grabbed his hands. “They’re back.”

  They tensed as the bombers returned, offloading their cargo dangerously near.

  “Christ, that sounds so near it could be only a street or two away.”

  “Do you know what I read in the paper the other day?” she asked as brightly as she could while squeezing his hands. “They were discussing the use of lipstick by women in the services. It seems to have become a parliamentary matter. They don’t object to lipstick or nail varnish, but only when it’s used in moderation. So.” She began to smile. “If we lay it on thick they will lay it on thick, too.”

  They both laughed. Hadn’t the politicians got enough to do?

  “Well, how are you enjoying your leave so far?” he joked and she rolled her eyes.

  “I think we’re here for the night.”

  “Are you tired?”

  “A bit,” she murmured, leaning against him and closing her eyes, only to be jerked into a sitting position again by another – this time very near – explosion. “I’m sorry,” she gasped and he felt her shaking, “but this is awful. The S
ector Station was bombed a lot but we were in underground shelters. This is like sitting in a biscuit tin.”

  “I know,” he whispered, putting his arms around her as he heard more planes approach and pass directly overhead. “The floor,” he yelled, pulling her down. Falling to the ground, they rolled under the bunk bed as the bomb exploded.

  Chapter Nine

  Kate was too frightened to scream as she and Charlie lay under the bunk bed. He was so still she began to panic.

  “Charlie?” she demanded, shaking him. “Charlie?”

  “Are you all right?” he shouted back at her as debris landed on the roof of the shelter with varying thuds.

  “Yes, are you?” she cried back.

  “Yes. Bloody hell, that was close.”

  He rolled out from under the bed, reached back for her, and helped her up. The lamp was swinging on its hook and he steadied it before sitting down on the bunk. She sank onto his lap, shaking uncontrollably and he held her, kissing her face again and again.

  “I’m all right, Charlie,” she insisted, but he shook his head and peered around the shelter.

  “There must be whisky or brandy in here somewhere,” he said and they got to their feet.

  He sat her down on the bunk, kissed her again, and began to search the shelter. Near the door, she saw him kick against something.

  “At your feet.”

  “Good old Father.” He picked up the hip flask, unscrewed it and held it out to her. “Take a good swig at this.”

  She did as she was told and the shaking began to subside. She handed the hip flask back to him and he took a long drink.

  “Oh, listen.” She froze as the all clear sounded then broke down in tears of relief.

  “You’re all right.” Charlie sat down and smoothed hair away from her face. He kissed her gently and she clung to him, surprised at just how frightened she was. “Let’s get out of here and see how they all are across the street.”

  Not knowing what to expect, they emerged from the shelter smelling a mixture of smoke and sewage and heard voices a short distance away.

  “That sounds like the Jones’ from next door. Are you all right, there?” Charlie shouted.

  “Yes,” a male voice replied. “Is that you, Charlie?”

  “Yes. Are you hurt, Mr Jones? Your wife?”

  “No, we’re fine, thank you. The bomb landed only two gardens up from us. It’ll have ruined Mrs Brett’s roses.”

  Charlie chuckled and Kate took his hand. They made their way through the garden and across the road to number 26. Everyone there was emerging from the shelter.

  “Kate? Charlie?” Bob’s voice hailed them sharply. “Are you all right?”

  “We’re fine,” she replied. “You?”

  “All fine. Do you know where it landed?”

  “Right on top of Mrs Brett’s roses,” Charlie replied, taking Granny Barbara’s arm. “Are you all right? Mother? Father?”

  “We’re fine, Charlie, thank you,” Dr Butler nodded.

  Kate went to Cook and Millie. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “A bit shaken, my dear,” Cook told her. “Shall we all go into the drawing room?”

  Everyone gathered in the large room, taking it in turns to warm him or herself in front of the fire Millie had managed to resurrect. Bob and Charlie handed out glasses of brandy and whisky, then they all sat down.

  “That was a close one,” Bob commented, appearing quite unnerved.

  “I hope the Bretts are all right,” Dr Butler said. “I must go over there.”

  Feeling exhausted, Kate leant her head against Charlie’s shoulder and he squeezed her knee.

  When she opened her eyes, the blackout and floral curtains had been pulled back and daylight was flooding into the room. She wondered what the time was, but didn’t move to look at her watch as she could still feel Charlie beside her. Her grandmother, Mrs Butler and Helen were still asleep, but Bob, Dr Butler, Millie and Cook were gone.

  Bob looked in from the hall, saw she was awake and smiled. “It’s half ten. Cook’s got some breakfast on. Everyone’s invited.” He nodded to the sleepers and withdrew.

  She touched Charlie’s cheek, rough with stubble. “It’s half ten, Charlie,” she whispered.

  He opened his eyes and stretched. “Did you sleep?” he asked and she nodded.

  “I think we all did. Breakfast’s on.”

  “Great, I’m starving.”

  She and Charlie went out to the hall, the aroma of frying bacon wafting towards them from the kitchen and Bob put the telephone receiver down.

  “No dial tone,” he told them.

  “Did my father go to the Bretts?” Charlie asked.

  “Yes, we both went. They were away visiting their son in Wales, thank God. Their shelter is now a ten-foot deep crater.”

  Kate quickly reached for Charlie’s hand, knowing it could well have been theirs.

  The doorbell rang, and Bob went to answer it. An Air Raid Patrol warden asked for Dr Butler and she watched as he came running down the stairs and hurried outside.

  After breakfast, they freshened up, then went to look at the crater. Bob hadn’t been exaggerating about its size. Not surprisingly, the windows and slates of the Brett’s house and the houses on either side had been broken and disturbed. Boards were being nailed up over the windows to prevent looting.

  For the rest of her leave Kate didn’t spend a single night in her bed. The raids were fierce but concentrated on other areas of London. On the morning she had to return to the Sector Station she searched for Charlie. The all clear had sounded and he and his parents were emerging from their shelter.

  “I want to go, but I don’t want to go,” she told him as they walked around the front garden. “You’ve another week of this, but your poor parents…”

  “I know. You will write, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” she replied with a smile. He asked every time.

  “Before you go, Kate?” Dr Butler came out of the house with a camera. “A photograph of you and Charlie with my new camera? I should have done it before this but, well, we were distracted.”

  Charlie and Kate stood on the steps, an arm around each other’s waists, and Dr Butler took the photograph. “Good. I’ll get this film developed and send you both a copy. You make a lovely couple.”

  “Thank you, Dr Butler.” Kate kissed his cheek, he went inside and she turned back to Charlie. “I have to go. I love you, Charlie.”

  “I love you.” He kissed her lips. “Look after yourself.”

  “You, too.”

  At the Sector Station, Kate sank onto her bed and groaned. Jean had followed her into their hut and stared.

  “You look awful, Kate,” she commented.

  Kate rubbed her eyes. “So would you if you had on average only three hours sleep per night in a week.”

  Jean nodded. “I heard it was bad.”

  “It was awful. The first night, Charlie and I were nearly killed. A bomb landed only a couple of gardens away.”

  Jean winced. “How is Charlie? Still as handsome as ever?”

  “Yes.” Kate smiled, remembering that night in the shelter. “But he’s so tired now. Any gossip here?”

  “Daniel ‘Paddy’ Connelly’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Posted away. He tried it on with Wilma, Rachel and Teresa. He’s in bombers now, somewhere in Group Twelve, but away from here, thank God.”

  “Yes.” Kate closed her eyes for a moment in relief. “I thought he was dead.”

  “I thought you hated him?”

  “I do, but I wouldn’t wish him dead. Oh.” She groaned again. “What time is it?”

  “Half past seven.”

  “Right, I’m going straight to bed,” she told Jean. “I need a good night’s sleep, I’m all in.”

  “All right, we’re going to need all the sleep we can get. I think we’re going to be put on nights.”

  Kate stared at her friend in dismay before flopp
ing back onto the bed, too tired to even swear.

  Unfortunately, Jean was right. They were put on the night shift. Reports flooded in on the teleprinters, and Kate found herself too busy to be tired.

  “We’ll be on the go tonight.” Squadron Leader Brown reached over, taking a bundle of reports from her, and hurried into the Operations Room.

  Inside the room, she could see the map of her sector, then a couple of rows of raised seating where messages were passed down to the map plotters. Behind those seats sat the officers who made the decisions. Where was Charlie, she wondered as another report began to come through. The report was from Fighter Command HQ.

  “Here, sir,” she called to Brown as he came out again and handed him the report.

  He scanned it, then frowned. “Damn,” he muttered but smiled at her anxious face. “Take a break, Sheridan.”

  She nodded and gave her seat to Wilma Pinner. She went outside, taking a breath of fresh air, and glanced to the horizon. She stared, her heart leaping into her mouth. The horizon was lit up by an orange glow. It was as if all of London was on fire, and somewhere in the middle of it all was Charlie.

  The night was long and demanding. By six in the morning, Kate and Jean were exhausted, but they concluded there had been worse nights, before falling into bed.

  Night after night at the teleprinter followed before Kate and Jean were put on day shifts and told, to their delight, that they had leave due.

  Kate wrote to Charlie, but the chances of him being on leave at the same time as her again were very slim. She hadn’t heard from him and hoped he was safe and that she would be home for Granny Barbara’s birthday. Barbara would be seventy-five but was insisting on ten years younger. It is so typical of her, wrote Helen in one of her letters. She tells me not to make a fuss, but I know if I don’t she’ll be very annoyed.

  Kate and Jean were granted two weeks leave in late April. Jean was going home to Scotland, and Kate went with her to Euston Station to see her off. Both arrived at the station not knowing if any trains were running, or if the station was still standing.

  Their bus had wound its way through a devastated London, avoiding closed streets, unsafe buildings and unexploded bombs. The two young women stared silently at the destruction – mound upon mound of rubble which had once been houses and shops – some still smouldering. Getting off the bus outside the station, there was no mistaking the stench of dust, smoke and dampness.