‘We seem to have a bit of an audience,’ Chalky said, indicating the large crowd of people on the other side of the ARP cordon.
‘Aye,’ said Archie, studying the anxious-looking men and women huddled together. ‘And to my way of thinking they’re a mite too close.’
‘My very thoughts,’ said Chalky.
Archie turned to the men gathered behind him.
‘Arthur, set up the safe place around yon corner,’ he said, pointing to a side passage fifty yards away.
‘Right you are, Sarge,’ the lance corporal replied.
As the men set about the task, Archie turned back to Chalky. ‘Let’s go and see what the Luftwaffe have sent us this time.’
With glass crunching under his boots, Archie strolled across to the half a dozen ARP wardens milling about by a damaged wall.
‘Sergeant McIntosh,’ said Archie, addressing the grey-haired warden sporting a sky-blue badge with two broad yellow stripes on his chest. ‘What have you got for us?’
‘Captain Cox, Royal Transport and Chief Warden,’ he replied, giving Archie the usual curious look through his metal-rimmed spectacles. ‘And I’d rather wait for an officer before proceeding.’
‘He’s on his way,’ Archie replied.
He was hoping that was true. Despite being rotated on duty since o-seven hundred hours, there’d been no sign of Monkman when they left the depot at seven thirty-five.
‘So if you wouldn’t mind showing what we’re dealing with I—’
‘I served in the last war, Sergeant,’ interrupted Cox, puffing out his chest. ‘Although I’m now civilian defence, technically, as chief warden of the Shadwell and Wapping area, I outrank you so—’
‘For Gawd’s sake, Dick,’ snapped a matronly woman in the same ARP uniform and wearing a tin hat with a white ‘W’ on it. ‘Unless you want to go down and sort the bugger out yourself, show the sergeant where the bomb is.’
Through the lenses of his glasses, the warden’s eyes bulged. ‘Mavis, I was just pointing out—’
‘Well, don’t,’ said Mavis.
‘All right, all right,’ said Cox, giving her a testy look. ‘This way, Sergeant.’
Archie looked at Mavis.
‘Do you think you and your warden pals could disperse the crowd?’ he asked. ‘I’m not planning to end up at the Pearly Gates today, but if I do, I’d rather be there alone.’
‘We’ve tried,’ she replied. ‘But their kids are in there.’
‘In where?’ asked Archie.
‘The hospital,’ the youthful warden alongside Mavis said.
‘But the chit I was given said it was located near a gas pipe,’ said Archie.
‘It is,’ said the young warden. ‘It runs under the bottom of the street.’
‘But the bomb lodged itself in the stairwell of the East London Children’s hospital,’ said Mavis, ‘trapping a dozen children and nurses on the top floor.’
‘Can’t you evacuate them down the fire escape?’ Archie asked, as images of Kirsty and Peter flickered through his mind.
The wardens exchanged an uneasy look and then Cox spoke.
‘We would have, but . . .’ The chief warden cleared his throat. ‘Well, it’s like this. It’s an old building and the wrought-iron fire stairs at the back collapsed a month or so back in an air raid. The hospital board were supposed to have replaced them but—’
‘I hope you’re nae going to point out that there’s a war on,’ cut in Archie.
The chief warden lowered his eyes.
Stepping forward, Mavis put her hand on Archie’s arm.
‘You will be able to stop the bomb going off, won’t you?’ she asked, looking anxiously up at him.
‘I’ll do my best,’ Archie replied. His attention shifted back to Cox. ‘After you, Chief Warden.’
After climbing over the bricks and mortar of the gutted north-west corner of the hospital, Archie and Chalky stood in what had been the hospital’s main corridor. They looked down into the basement.
‘It’s a big bugger, ain’t it?’ said Chalky.
‘They don’t come much bigger,’ Archie replied, studying the 1,000-kilogram Hermann lying among the shattered storage shelves and displaced medical equipment.
The corporal pointed to the narrow concrete stairs at the side. ‘At least they look sound enough.’
‘Aye.’ Archie looked up. ‘Which is more than can be said for that lot.’
Chalky followed his gaze up to the shattered beams and twisted girders above them.
‘Shall I get the Heavy boys to put some props in before we start?’ Chalky asked.
Archie shook his head. ‘Not until I’ve seen what we’re dealing with.’
Chalky raised an eyebrow. ‘We? Shouldn’t that be Lieutenant Monkman?’
‘It should but as he’s not here and we have a dozen women and children above us about to be blown to kingdom come, I’ll make a start,’ Archie replied. ‘You go back and tell Colonel Blimp to move those civilians back and to make sure all the children on the upper floors move to the east end of the building and to barricade themselves with mattresses.’
Chalky hurried off.
Stepping back from the edge, Archie navigated through the wreckage wrought by the bomb crashing through three floors of concrete, wood and steel, and made his way to the corridor running off the main entrance.
Most of the office doors had burst open, scattering paper everywhere. However, the first door on the right was shut.
Trying the handle, Archie found it was locked. Stepping back he launched himself, shoulder first, at the doorway. It gave way, revealing the stairs to the basement.
Taking them two at a time to the bottom, he stepped through to the basement. To avoid a soaking, he gave the jet of water gushing from a burst water pipe a wide berth and looked up.
Relieved to see that there was no overhanging debris that could drop and trigger the bomb, Archie made his way over. Mercifully, the black metal cylinder, which would have topped him by twelve inches standing upright, was lying on its side in a nest of splintered wood and brick dust, with its circular fuse clearly visible.
Staring at it, Archie knew. He just knew.
Taking a deep breath to steady his pounding heart, he took the torch from his pocket. Creeping within inches of the inanimate object of death and destruction, he hunkered down.
He switched on the torch and shone the light on the metal disc sitting slightly proud of the bomb’s casing. Taking out the handkerchief Cathy had given him that morning, Archie wiped off the dust to reveal the letters and numbers beneath.
He studied them for a moment then straightened up and took a step back.
The sound of feet above told him Chalky had returned.
‘Is it?’ his corporal shouted, his voice echoing.
‘Aye,’ Archie replied, his eyes fixed to the bomb. ‘It’s a Y.’
As the announcer introduced the ten-fifteen Morning Service on the wireless, Violet’s eyes narrowed.
‘I shall check, you know,’ she said, sipping her tea. ‘And if you take anything that belongs to me or Stanley, I’ll call the police.’
‘Don’t you worry,’ her daughter-in-law replied, buttoning little Peter’s coat, ‘other than the furniture in the front room, the only thing I’ll be taking with me when I go next week is a suitcase with our clothes in it.’
Turning her back on Violet, her daughter-in-law, who was dressed in her WVS uniform, took her own coat from the back of the door.
It had been just over a week since the telegram had arrived confirming what Violet had known all along: that her dearest and most precious son was alive.
And she wished Stanley had been there to see the look on his pretty wife and her fancy man’s faces when they’d heard the news. However, her pleasure was short lived because now their secret was out: they’d been carrying on shamelessly. She’d even come face to face with Cathy walking out of the front room in just her dressing gown the day before, while behind her sto
od her bit of fancy knotting his tie in front of the wardrobe mirror while little Stanley played on the bed.
‘It’s disgusting,’ continued Violet, as the memory of the guttural sounds she’d heard through the door flashed through her mind. ‘I don’t know how you can bear his hands all over you let alone . . . his thing inside you.’
Slipping on her coat, Cathy didn’t reply.
‘You know what women like you are called, don’t you?’ Violet continued. ‘Women married to one man and living with another? A tart, that’s what.’ She answered her own question. ‘A tart!’
Completely ignoring her, Cathy lifted her son from the floor.
‘Up we go, Peter,’ she said, sitting him in the pushchair and fastening his harness. ‘Let’s visit Nanny and Gran for a while, then we’ll go to nursery.’
‘That’s what you are, Cathy Brogan, a tart!’ Violet hissed. ‘And I’m sure Stanley will be pleased to hear you’ve got yourself up the duff with his sprog while he’s been fighting for King and Country.’
‘Do what you like, because in four days’ time I’ll be gone. Oh, but in case I forget,’ grabbing her left hand with her right, Cathy twisted the ring off her third finger, ‘you can have this now.’
Slamming it on the table in front of Violet, she opened the back door and, pushing Peter in front of her, walked out.
Violet leapt to her feet.
‘Tart!’ she screamed. ‘And I ’ope you bloody well lose it.’
Pacing to the door, she glared at the door for a moment. Spotting Cathy’s cup on the table, she grabbed it and hurled it across the room, sending a dozen fragments of broken china skidding across the lino.
A roar filled her mind and loathing surged through her so violently that a pain shot across the back of her eyes and a red mist crowded into her peripheral vision.
Violet took a deep breath and the pain subsided a little.
She picked up the ring and hurried upstairs to her bedroom.
Pulling open the top drawer of her dressing table, she dropped it in. Fumbling around among the handkerchiefs, hairnets and rollers, she pulled out a key attached to a Devon pixie keyring.
Gripping it tightly, she hurried back down and stopped by the front-parlour door.
Jamming in the key, she turned it and walked in.
The faint aroma trickled into Violet’s nose, and her top lip curled into a sneer.
Revolting!
Looking around, she spotted the pictures stacked by the window next to the easel. She walked over. Violet flipped through the paintings for a moment and then moved on to the half-finished painting on the tripod stand. Toying with either punching a hole through the canvases or dousing the whole lot with a bucket of water, she studied the image of men doing something with a bomb. She went to walk away but as she turned, her elbow knocked over the brushes pot.
Bending down to gather up the scattered brushes, she spotted what looked like a corner of a book poking out from under the bed.
Returning the brushes to the pot, she set it back on the table and walked across the room.
Resting her hand on the bed, she reached under and pulled out a drawing pad. Holding it in one hand, she flipped over a couple of pages. After various sketches of men with bombs she found something very different.
A smile spread wide across Violet’s face.
Closing the pad, she hurried back into the hall. Propping it against the hallstand, she grabbed her coat and put it on while stepping into her shoes. Securing her second-best hat in place, she tucked the sketchpad under her arm then walked out of the house and turned in the direction of St Philip and St Augustine’s vicarage.
‘I think we’re just about done, Sarge,’ said Ron Marchant, as he tightened the wingnut on the tripod lamp.
‘I think you are,’ Archie replied, glancing around the basement where he and the men had spent the past three hours clearing rubble and setting up the equipment, including a thick canister of liquid oxygen and a chunk of modelling clay.
As the brainboxes at the BD experimental section in Woolwich had discovered by studying a Y fuse recovered from the intact Bakerloo Line bomb, the one weakness of the ingenious fuse was that if you froze the battery to -30c then it was as dead as a dodo. Unfortunately, the only way to achieve this was by dripping liquid oxygen on the fuse. Which meant that not only were the bomb disposal crew trying to keep thousands of kilos of TNT from blowing up, but they were also trying to ensure they didn’t create a spark that would ignite the gas.
‘Right, you lot, get yourself back outside and head to the safety point while I fetch the lieutenant,’ said Archie.
Picking up their tools and battle jackets, the six-strong squad headed for the stairs, relieved, no doubt, to put some distance between themselves and 1,000 kilograms of TNT.
‘And make sure you can hear the call-rope bell from the safety point, Chalky,’ Archie called after them.
Wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, Archie stood up and followed his men back to the hallway.
Walking out of the building, he was pleased to see that the crowd had remained at the end of the street. They’d agreed to move back but only after Archie had gone and talked to the worried parents himself. The ARP, too, were now at a safe distance and, as always, bless them, a mobile WVS canteen had turned up and was supplying those waiting with hot sweet tea to help their nerves.
Archie looked around and, seeing no sign of Monkman, walked over to where Mogg was helping the men load the last of the equipment into the back of the lorry.
‘Where’s the lieutenant?’ Archie asked, as the squad’s driver coiled a rope around his arm and hand.
‘Last I saw of him, he was going towards the park,’ Mogg replied, indicating the bottom end of the street.
Picking up his pace, Archie headed towards the river. Reaching Cable Street, he spotted Monkman sitting on one of the park benches taking a swig from a hip flask and staring aimlessly at the ack-ack guns on the lawn of the Edward VII Memorial Gardens.
Archie’s mouth pulled into a hard line.
Ordinarily, and although it was only officers who were supposed to tackle a bomb, Archie would have just got on with it, as he had before, but as this was the first Y they’d encountered, he thought for once he’d let Monkman take the lead.
Waiting for a couple of trucks to pass, Archie marched over and through the stone portals on either side of the park gate.
Seeing Archie crunching over the gravel path towards him, Monkman shoved the silver flask into his pocket.
‘We’re ready for you now, sir,’ said Archie, standing to attention.
Monkman stood up. ‘About damn time.’
Swinging his swagger stick as he went, the officer strode off. Thankful that at least his senior officer wasn’t unsteady on his feet, Archie followed.
A few minutes later Archie stood alongside the lieutenant as he studied the bomb.
‘Are you sure you’ve got all the equipment, Sergeant?’ asked Monkman, taking off his hat.
‘Aye, sir,’ Archie replied. ‘And I’ve checked it, twice.’
‘Well then, let’s get on,’ Monkman replied, stripping off his brown gloves.
Dropping them in his cap, he handed it and his stick to Archie.
Putting his senior officer’s possessions on a block of concrete, Archie unwrapped the grey block of clay and handed it to him.
Monkman’s hands shook as he took it.
Giving Archie a jaundiced look, Monkman started softening the clay between his palms but after a moment or two a bit broke off.
‘Where did you get this from?’ he barked, pummelling the piece back into the lump.
‘The storeroom at HQ,’ Archie replied.
‘Well, it’s no bally good,’ Monkman said, as another bit broke off. ‘How am I supposed to mould the bloody stuff into a cup?’
Archie said nothing as the officer, his hands shaking, grappled with the clay until finally, after a minute or so, he ma
naged to make it into something resembling the illustration in the training manual.
Crouching down, Monkman placed the misshapen container over the fuse but as he pressed it on to the bomb case it fell apart.
‘For God’s sake,’ said Monkman, staggering back as he stood up.
‘Would you like me to have a go?’ asked Archie.
‘If you must,’ said Monkman.
Archie hunkered down and, after rolling the clay between his hands, fashioned it into a bottomless bowl. Laying it over and around the fuse, he gently but firmly pressed the reservoir on to the metal casing of the bomb.
Satisfied that it was tightly sealed, he straightened up.
‘I think that’s done it, sir,’ he said.
Giving him a resentful look, Monkman squatted down to inspect it.
‘Cotton,’ he said.
Archie reached into the tool case to retrieve the reel of thick white buttoning thread.
‘Come on, come on,’ barked Monkman, clicking his fingers. ‘We haven’t got all day. This bloody thing could go up at any minute.’
Archie handed him the cotton and Monkman bit off two strips. Pulling the threads through his mouth to wet them, he laid them on either side of the fuse.
‘That’s not an inch,’ said Archie.
‘Of course it is,’ the lieutenant replied.
‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ said Archie, trying to keep an even tone, ‘but the frost ring has to be a foot wide on either side of the fuse before the battery is inert. As it says in the instruction manual, and Captain Newitt took great pains to point out, the most effective way of monitoring the effects of the liquid oxygen on the fuse is to make sure the cotton is laid at intervals an inch apart.’
Delving into his top pocket, Archie pulled out a six-inch ruler and offered it to the other man.
Monkman snatched it from him. Then, measuring the space, he adjusted the cotton a little further along. Biting off another length of cotton, he continued until there were twelve evenly spaced lengths of cotton on either side of the fuse head.
Picking up the two pairs of goggles and heavy-duty welders’ gloves from the metal toolbox, Archie handed Monkman his equipment then put on his own.
A Ration Book Daughter Page 33