by Jan Casey
When Evelyn heard the gate click she flopped into a chair, pulled off her ring and placed it on top of the letter. Then she curled up and covered her face with her hands.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Sylvie said when she walked in.
Evelyn sniffled and pointed to the letter that Sylvie at once snatched up and read aloud. ‘This is rich.’ Sylvie read it again. ‘Ron giving you the elbow.’ She flung the letter aside and put her arms around Evelyn. ‘Oh, you poor thing. You poor little lamb. What will you do now?’
In a feeble, quavering voice, Evelyn said, ‘I have a couple of ideas, but I’m going to need your help.’
‘Anything,’ Sylvie said. ‘And I hope one of them is wringing his scrawny neck.’
Unable to keep up the pretence, Evelyn spread her hands, like shutters opening on a spring day and laughed aloud. ‘Visit the Labour Exchange in the morning,’ she said. ‘And how do you fancy a dance tonight?’
*
The waiting room was stuffy and crowded. Evelyn’s feet throbbed to the rhythm of one of last night’s dance numbers; her eyes felt dry, and she had to keep blinking to keep them open. She was sure she’d had, at most, two or three hours’ sleep. Sylvie, sitting next to her on a hard, wooden bench looked for all the world as if she’d gone to bed at nine with a boring book and a mug of Horlicks.
‘What time did we get home?’ she asked Sylvie.
‘Hmmm.’ Sylvie looked up from examining her nails. ‘About three. Quarter to, I think.’
The wall clock read ten-thirty. ‘That’s terrible,’ Evelyn said.
‘I know.’ Sylvie beamed with delight. ‘But we had a great time, didn’t we?’
Evelyn managed a smile. ‘Yes. I think so,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think I could make a habit of it.’
The signage above one row of windows at the counter read ‘Men’, the other ‘Women’. But the women in the Labour Exchange this morning far outnumbered the men. This is what it’s going to be like, Evelyn thought, most of the men away and women holding the fort. For a fleeting moment dread passed through her, like the aftershock of a bomb exploding somewhere close by. War was a ghastly way of making it possible for women to do something else besides the drudgery of housework, no matter how exciting that prospect seemed.
Posters on the walls depicted some of the things that women could sign up to do. They could replace postmen, farmers, bus conductors, ambulance drivers. There were women in smart suits carrying briefcases and walking towards offices, women in white coats doling out ladlesful of soup, women holding spanners, blowing whistles through a fog of steam on a train platform, measuring milk into churns. They were all smiling and looked the picture of health.
‘Someone told me that soon girls will be told where to work. A bit like conscripted men. But I think you can ask for what you want to do for now,’ Sylvie said. ‘Given it any thought?’
‘It would be a shame not to use what I learned when I was teaching. Do you suppose there’s any need for someone to instruct the armed forces in reading and writing?’
‘I suppose it’s possible,’ Sylvie said.
‘Although it might be interesting to try something completely different. Something I wouldn’t have a chance to do otherwise. Is that why you went for building work?’
‘No.’ Sylvie shook her head. ‘I thought I should do something that was considered war work rather than serving food in a restaurant, so I let them place me where the labour was most needed.’
‘Miss Evelyn Draper. Window 6, please.’
When Evelyn stood, the floor beneath her seemed to wobble. She made her way to the counter by pulling herself along unsteadily from one chair to another. When she sat down, she could feel the heat rising off the women at the windows next to her. From behind, she was certain she could feel the breath of others who were pressing forward. The interviewer was an older woman with a topknot and powder caked around her nose. She filled in a form on Evelyn’s behalf with a pencil she licked between each of her questions. The counter heaved one way then the other, tiny coloured stars sparked in front of her eyes, sweat pooled behind her knees.
‘Any preference for your war work, Miss Draper?’ the woman asked.
All Evelyn could think about was being outside in the fresh air. ‘The bridge,’ she managed at last. She pointed towards Sylvie for help. ‘My sister,’ she said.
Sylvie caught Evelyn under her arms and propped her up. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to the woman behind the counter. ‘My sister isn’t feeling herself today.’
‘Oh dear. Yes, I can see that. We’ve almost finished here. She said she would like to work on a bridge, then she mentioned her sister.’
‘Oh,’ Sylvie said. ‘That’s me.’ Evelyn could her tell by her tone of voice that Sylvie felt proud. ‘She wants to work with me. Construction work on Waterloo Bridge.’
2
December 1940
Gwen
The world was ending. Every night Gwen thought the same thing, but tonight she was certain. The first blast hit seconds after the siren began to wail and she was caught running with the kids to the shelter. The explosion that followed was so terrific it lit up the sky with an orange flash that stretched across the horizon and seeped in to every crack in the skyline. For a second she stood mesmerised, watching the colour spread like a vile spillage on a masterpiece.
‘Mum,’ Johnny shouted.
‘In you go,’ she ordered, pushing him and Will through the door. Setting Ruth down, she pressed her towards her brothers in the dark.
When she turned to pull the door closed there was a barrage to the left, or was it the right? Or left again? Fires blazed here, there, the flames licking out towards each other and flaring upwards when they met. Rubble fell, and through it all, she heard the rise and fall of muffled voices. She forced herself to bang the door shut, knowing that the muted, distorted noises would be harder to bear than being in the middle of the chaos outside.
She rested her head on her arms and willed it to stop. Just stop or let the whole world end now. Instead, the world shuddered and heaved sickeningly with what she was sure must be a direct hit to the house. Had she remembered to turn off the gas? She saw herself closing the tap after tea. Or was that the night before?
Another series of strikes ricocheted around the shelter, each more powerful than the last. She bit down hard on a healing whitlow to stifle the sobs that racked her chest. Her fingers fumbled backwards and forwards along the shelf above the door for the torch; it wasn’t there, where she always kept it. Pushing her spectacles closer to her eyes, she peered into the gloom. It must be indoors. She thought it needed a new battery and she’d meant to check. But there was a candle. Grasping it, she took a deep breath and steadied herself, desperate for the kids not to pick up on the state she was in.
‘It’s a candle for us tonight.’ She tried to sound jolly, to make it seem like a treat.
‘Ain’t we got the torch?’ Johnny asked. ‘What’s happened to it?’
‘It’s in the kitchen. Now, stay right where you are. Don’t move. Johnny, keep hold of Ruthie but let go of Will’s hand.’ In the darkness she sensed Will reaching out towards the candle then felt his hands around it. ‘Good work.’
Gwen groped again and found the matches, picking them up with care. She didn’t trust her nerves to hold out if she had to look for the spare box in the trunk with the other supplies against the back wall. What a ridiculous place to keep them, she thought; how could she find them there without slipping and knocking herself out on the way?
‘Have you got them, Mum?’ Ruth whispered.
‘Got them.’
‘Good work,’ said Johnny, lowering his voice and mimicking his mother’s turn of phrase.
Gwen and all three children giggled, the tension broken for a moment. ‘Let’s get some light. Ready, Will?’
‘Ready, Sergeant Major,’ Will said, eager to match Johnny’s witty success.
At the instant Gwen scratched the match along the str
iking edge, illuminating the three waiting faces as if caught in a harsh spotlight, another volley of fire hit from every direction. It felt as if the shelter would be rent apart, as fragile against the force as the wooden matchbox. Covering her ears with her hands, Gwen let loose a guttural sound she didn’t recognise. The match fell from her fingers and fizzed in the rainwater sloshing around their feet, the darkness swallowing them up again. Ruth started to cry and Will joined in.
One brutal round followed another, each more powerful than the last. Gwen reached out towards the children but lost her footing, landing with one leg beneath her and grazing her knee. The kids piled around and their trembling calmed her. Keeping them safe was her priority. George was scornful when she said that, quick to remind her that everyone felt the same but most people had more sense than to allow their kids to go through this every night.
Her arms around the children, she twisted a loose shard of cuticle she’d missed earlier and tore it off her fingernail. There couldn’t be any more scenes like this, she told herself firmly, no more blundering about and scaring the kids. What would George say when he came in if he found them all wet and shivering on the floor, no candle flickering and no blankets on the bunks? She knew what he would say: he’d drag up the same old argument about packing them off to the country, and finding them in this turmoil would only add fuel to his fire.
‘Have you still got that candle, Will?’
‘I’ve got it now, Mum,’ Johnny said.
Gwen ruffled his fine, floppy hair and Johnny squeezed his arms tighter around her middle.
‘Well, you’ve managed better than silly old me,’ Gwen said, flinching at another hit somewhere close by. ‘I’ve only gone and dropped the box of matches in this mucky old puddle.’
Will whimpered. ‘Now we’ll have to stay in the dark till Dad comes home.’
‘I don’t like the dark,’ Ruth said. ‘I can’t look at my book in the dark.’
Gwen began to nudge them up. They were shivering and she knew she would have to get them into dry things quickly. ‘We ain’t had a candle for such a long time I do believe I can see in the dark now, like an owl.’
Ruth began flapping her arms and hooting. Johnny and Will laughed and egged her on.
Gwen picked herself up and guided the kids to their bunks. It was easy; she should have done it ages ago and not given in to her nerves. She felt her way to the storage box and dug to the bottom to find more matches. Johnny held the candle out and when it was lit, they cheered. It was then she saw the torch, standing on the shelf above her mattress. She felt foolish and looked away, not wanting to draw the children’s attention to it but Johnny spotted it and grabbed it down.
‘It was here all along, Mum,’ he said. He played the beam across the wall.
‘Lots of silly things are happening tonight.’ She turned away from him. ‘Don’t waste the battery now you’ve found it. Come and get yourself into dry things.’
‘Silly Mum,’ Will said. ‘I’m very cold.’ Gwen threw a pile of clothes next to him and told him to start changing; she would be over to rub him with a towel when she’d taken care of Ruth. Minutes later they were in warm things, blankets wrapped around them, looking through their Christmas annuals. The resounding din jarred and jolted through her, but for now she was in tenuous control, the ragged skin around her nails the only sign of her earlier panic.
By half past eight the boys were head to foot in the top bunk, Ruth tucked up underneath. They were quiet but not asleep. When there was a lull – and surely there must be at some stage – they might drop off. Gwen swept the flooded rainwater towards the sump and watched it swirl away, then sat on the storage box and swapped her wet slippers for a dry pair.
‘When will Dad be home?’ Ruth asked. ‘I want to kiss him night-night.’
‘Yeah,’ Johnny said. ‘Where is Dad? It must be late.’
Gwen had been thinking the same thing. She picked up the clock and, turning away from them, shone the torch on its face. It was late for George; very late. But she said, ‘Oh, it ain’t as late as it seems.’
Will rolled over and leaned on one elbow. ‘Show it to us,’ he said.
She flicked off the torch. ‘No need. He’ll be home soon.’ Will groaned and flopped back on the pillow. ‘The best thing you can do is go to sleep. Dad will be tired when he gets in and he’ll want to go straight to bed himself. He won’t want to have you up adding to the commotion.’
‘Dad likes seeing us,’ Ruth said.
‘Of course he does, love. But close your eyes now and he’ll kiss you when he comes in. Then you can see him in the morning. Promise.’
Gwen listened to them fidgeting and making themselves comfortable.
‘Johnny,’ Will hissed, prodding his brother with his foot. ‘Johnny. There’ll be lots of shrapnel tomorrow, won’t there?’
Johnny replied with a sleepy grunt.
‘Probably some of it will still be warm. Hot maybe. Red hot. Will you help me find some? Please?’
‘I ain’t going to help you with anything ever again if you don’t leave off your kicking.’
‘That’s enough, boys. And we’ll see what things are like in the morning before anyone goes anywhere.’ When they seemed to have settled a bit, she carried the candle to the small table wedged next to her bunk and thumbed through a notebook, meaning to write her list for tomorrow. She listened hard to pick out the familiar sounds of George coming home. A couple of times she thought she heard his whistle or his boots on the path and she watched the door, willing it to open a crack and see him edge his bulk in around it.
She pushed her glasses up and peered again at the clock, shaking it to prove it wasn’t fast. George was on the day shift this week. He should have been home hours ago – and he watched last night, which meant he should have tonight off. Schedules and shifts were of no use now though, she knew that; they couldn’t be relied on and that made waiting worse. But George was good, and on the nights when he wasn’t going to be home as predicted, he tried to send word. She didn’t care if he started on about the kids again – she might even agree with him after tonight. She just wanted to know he was safe. She bit through the remedy varnish on her right thumbnail, and as it didn’t taste too ghastly, worked her way along the fingers, then started on the other hand.
A blast seemed to wrench the door open and Gwen flew towards it to make sure it was secure, petrified yet desperate at the same time to see what was happening outside. But there was George. He pulled the door closed and stood, his uniform torn and his head and face covered in a greasy film of sweat and grey dust. Gwen could see his hands were scratched and bleeding and there was a swollen bruise above his right eye. ‘Bloody, bloody hell,’ he said.
Gwen rushed towards him and for a second he held her. She could feel his arms and shoulders twitching beneath his coat, but when she started to rub at them he moved her to one side. ‘I’ve only come in to make sure you’re alright. Betty’s taken a packet, so have the Smiths.’
‘No. Not Betty.’
‘Shhh. She’s fine. But Len’s not so good. They’ve been taken to hospital.’ He rubbed hard at his face. ‘Is there a bowl of water?’
‘I’ll clean the worst off for you.’
She turned to pull the first-aid box out and saw all three kids awake and watching. George bent and murmured to them, tucking the blankets around the boys and rescuing Ruth’s doll from the floor. ‘Hurry.’ He sat next to her on the bed. ‘I can’t be long.’
‘The trains ain’t still running, are they?’
He shook his head and talked in a low voice. ‘We were told to leave the engines in a depot and get to our other posts. I left the train at Waterloo and made my way to the station. Bloody hell, Gwennie. It’s an inferno, the whole damn place.’
She made a small noise but kept her tears in check. ‘I know. Well, I can imagine although I don’t want to.’
‘There are hundreds of people out there and still there ain’t enough. Directly you start digg
ing through some wreckage or beating at a fire you turn and there’s something more urgent to see to. And the noise…’ He hung his head and his voice cracked. ‘The screaming and shouting…’
He snatched his hands away and stood up. ‘I’ll take the torch and some of these bits and pieces,’ he said, grabbing at bandages and cotton wool.
In amongst the supplies Gwen found a scarf and wrapped it around his neck. She didn’t plead with him to stay because she knew he wouldn’t. Besides, she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if he did. He kissed the top of her head and said he’d be back soon. He looked at the kids and mouthed, ‘They’ll have to go.’
She could feel the quiver in her lips. ‘I know,’ she whispered.
From the crack in the door Gwen followed the light of his low torch. He made his way across the garden and around what looked like a crater where the fence joining them to number fifty-one had been. To the right was Betty’s house, what was left of the kitchen and sitting room gaping and exposed. Above, like props on a stage, two German bombers were caught in the interweave of searchlight beams, a sentry line of barrage balloons floating beneath them. When she looked back for George’s light it was gone. She closed the door and blocked out the sight.
Sitting on the edge of his bunk, Johnny was searching amongst his things. He had one shoe on as well as his trousers and a thick jumper.
‘What do you think you’re doing, young man? You can use the pot. I’ll get it for you.’
‘I’m going with Dad,’ he said, tugging his other shoe out and pulling it on. Gwen was taken aback.
‘Oh, Johnny.’ She sat beside him. ‘You’re very brave but you can’t – you know that. You’re too young.’ She went to put an arm around him but he pulled away.
‘I’m ten. And big for my age – you’re always saying that.’
‘That’s right, love, you are. And that’s why I need you here, especially when Dad ain’t at home.’