Always in My Heart (9 page)

Harvey was quite happy to wait out the raid now the sirens had fallen silent, and he sat with his nose on his paws next to Ron, his eyebrows twitching as they watched the bombers head west of Cliffehaven and out of reach of the guns on the cliffs.

From his shelter high above the town, Ron could see Cliffehaven spread out beneath him. The horseshoe bay was guarded to the east by chalk cliffs, and to the west by steep hills that tumbled down right to the shingle beach. The town sprawled back from the sea and up the lower slopes of the hills. It had grown since the war had begun, with factories and warehouses to the north, and hastily built emergency housing beginning to take over the bombsite behind the station. Although he couldn’t see much in the dark, he knew there were gaps now where whole streets of houses had once been, that some of the big hotels on the seafront had been turned to rubble, and that the station buildings were little more than shattered shells.

Ron puffed contentedly on his pipe and waited for the all-clear to sound as he looked down on the town he’d lived in most of his life. Like his father before him, he’d been a fisherman, and when his sons were
old enough, he’d continued the tradition by teaching them the trade. But Jim hadn’t liked the life, and he’d turned his back on fishing to become a projectionist at the local cinema – which to Ron’s mind was eminently sensible. Fishing was a tough, ill-paid occupation that was hostage to the weather and sea conditions – and given half the chance, Ron would have found something else to do. But fishing was all he knew, and when he’d retired several years ago, he’d passed on the small fleet of boats to Frank, his eldest, who, in turn, would pass it on to his only surviving son.

Ron felt the usual pang of sorrow as he thought about Frank’s other two boys who’d been killed on a minesweeper. The First World War had been bad enough, killing almost an entire generation of young men, and here they were less than thirty years later, fighting another one. Now, with the Japs and Americans involved, the whole world was once again teetering on the very edge of disaster.

He was snapped from these dark thoughts as the sirens began to wail another warning and Harvey joined in. From his vantage point Ron could see three of the bombers heading out to sea – but as he watched, he stiffened and got to his feet. The fourth bomber was flying low over Cliffehaven, its intentions all too clear.

The three Reilly men had seen enough death and destruction in the first war to last them a lifetime, so Jim and his brother Frank were relieved that age and Frank’s reserve occupation as a trawler-man meant
they didn’t have to take up soldiering again in this one. Like their father, Ron, they’d signed up for the Home Guard and ARP, which added more responsibility to their daily lives, but on the whole, they felt they were at least doing their bit in the effort to beat back the Hun.

However, things were changing, and Jim knew that he and his brother might find themselves in the thick of it again. The age of conscription had suddenly been raised to fifty-one, and reserve occupations such as fishing were no longer a guarantee against call-up. The British fishing fleets had dwindled almost to nothing as the RNR commandeered the trawlers and their crews to assist the minesweepers in clearing the seaways. The few that remained fished off Iceland, the Irish Sea and the west coast of Scotland, but they had to contend with U-boat attacks, mines and ever-decreasing fishing waters, which meant their catches were small.

Frank was barely making a living off Cliffehaven with his two small boats and elderly crew, and had had to resort to working in the new armament factory to make ends meet. He’d confessed to Jim that he knew this couldn’t last, and was simply marking time until his call-up papers came in the post.

Ever the optimist, Jim wasn’t worrying about being called up. He was the only professional projectionist in Cliffehaven and the cinema was one of the few sources of entertainment to keep up morale, and he reckoned he had a pretty good case to argue should anyone try to get him back into uniform.

As he sat in the warm fug of the Odeon Cinema
projection room and kept an eye on the film running through the reels, he thought he was probably one of the luckiest men alive. Daisy was a perfect baby, Peggy was the best wife any man could wish for, and so far this war had proved to be quite an adventure. Like his father, he enjoyed a challenge, and getting round the strictures of rationing and shortages had provided a bit of excitement between the long and rather tedious hours of fire-watching and warden’s duties. It was almost like the old days when he and Ron used to go across the Channel in the fishing boat and do a bit of smuggling.

The sound of the wailing sirens snapped him out of these pleasant thoughts, and he peered through the narrow window into the auditorium. The manager was off this afternoon but his second-in-command, Gertrude Raynor, had fastened back the doors and was beginning to turn on all the lights.

There was the usual chorus of boos and hisses as the sirens reached their ear-splitting screech, and Jim brought the film to a halt. As the curtains closed across the screen and the elderly usherettes herded the audience out of the cinema, he switched off the lights in the projection room, grabbed his coat, checked the padlock on the cupboard where he kept his stash of illicit whisky and cigarettes, and hurried down the back stairs. He was quite glad of the break, for he’d been on his own all afternoon, and needed the lavatory.

He had hoped to work his way through the hurrying audience to the Gents without being seen – but as he
reached the foyer, he saw that most of them had already left. About to sneak towards the back of the cinema, he was brought to a sudden halt by an imperious voice.

‘And where do you think you’re going? Don’t you know there’s a raid on?’

Jim spun round to face Gertrude Raynor, who wielded her power as under-manager with a singular lack of humour and a bark like a sergeant major. ‘To be sure, I’d have to be deaf not to hear that racket,’ he shouted over the wailing sirens. ‘But the call of nature is rather more urgent.’

Gertrude sniffed her disapproval and folded her arms beneath the pendulous bosom that strained the buttons on her dark blue jacket. ‘It’s against the rules to be in the cinema during a raid,’ she retorted. ‘There are lavatories in the public shelter.’

Jim doubted he’d make it that far. ‘I’ll be over there in a minute,’ he said, backing away from her towards the Gents.

‘See that you are,’ she boomed, rattling the large bunch of keys. ‘I’m locking up, so you’ll have to use the back door.’

Jim didn’t waste time answering her and, as he rushed into the Gents, he heard the slam of the front door. The old witch probably enjoyed locking him in. No wonder her poor husband had been one of the first men in Cliffehaven to enlist – probably couldn’t wait to escape that harrowing voice.

Having seen to his needs, he remained seated in the stall, trousers round his ankles, overcoat hanging on
the back of the door, relishing the peace and quiet as the sirens stopped their wailing. It didn’t sound as if it was a big raid, and he suspected they were heading further down the coast anyway – so he’d take advantage of this short break to read his paper and have a cigarette.

He unfolded his newspaper and settled down to scan the sports pages. This was far more pleasant than sitting in that overcrowded shelter where one had to use a bucket behind a hessian screen if caught short – and it smelled nicer too.

Jim became vaguely aware that the sirens were going off again, but he was more concerned with the football results, for it looked as if Tottenham were already in trouble and the season had only just got going.

And then it was as if a mighty fist had punched him in the back and sent him flying in a whirlwind of dust and brick and bits of pipe. The air was sucked from his lungs as he was flung through this maelstrom, spinning and weightless, unable to breathe. Then he hit something hard and unforgiving, and knew no more.

Ron and Harvey were already running as the bomber tipped the last of its load on Cliffehaven High Street and streaked across the Channel with a Spitfire on its tail. The resulting explosions made the earth tremble beneath them, and Ron could see a red glow already blossoming against the dark sky as he raced down the hill.

His mouth was dry and his lungs were wheezing like an old set of organ pipes as he tried to ignore the stitch in his side. Harvey seemed to know they weren’t heading for home, for he was running ahead as Ron thudded along the twitten, past the house and the Anderson shelter where, no doubt, everyone was waiting for the all-clear. Ron could barely breathe now, but he didn’t dare stop – not until he’d reached the High Street and seen for himself that Jim was all right.

The clamour of fire-engine and ambulance bells almost muffled the sound of the all-clear as Ron staggered along Camden Road, past the deserted row of little shops and the equally deserted Anchor. He didn’t spare a glance for the bomb site where the school and a block of flats used to be, or for the large, ugly clothing factory that took up a whole block just
down from Cliffehaven hospital. But he did notice that the fire-station doors had been flung open and the engines were gone.

His heart thudded painfully, the dread growing as he dredged up the last of his energy and pushed on. Reaching the end of Camden Road, he finally stumbled to a halt, rested his hands on his knees and fought for breath as he looked up the High Street.

His worst fears had been realised, and he felt sick, for the Odeon Cinema and the shops on either side had been reduced to blazing rubble. Noxious black smoke swirled and roiled as flames belched from severed gas pipes and feasted on the upholstered seats that lay scattered across the street. Above the shouts of the fire crews and the ARP wardens could be heard the steady roar of the fire, the crackling of burning timbers, the groans of shifting beams and the splintering of glass.

Ron slowly climbed the hill, dread weighing heavy round his heart as he came to a standstill and, with Harvey quietly sitting at heel, he watched the emergency crews set to work. The heat from the flames was intense, the remains of the roof were shifting dangerously and the upper circle balcony was poised to crash down at any moment. The danger of a secondary explosion meant that no one could do anything much until the gas was turned off from the mains. It would be a while before Harvey could be sent to search for survivors.

Ron caught sight of John Hicks, the Fire Chief, who was shouting orders and directing his crews to aim the jets of water where they were most needed. John was
a young man in his thirties who’d lost a leg during the rescue mission to get the Allied soldiers off the Dunkirk beaches, but that hadn’t stopped him from continuing the job he was so good at.

As John turned towards him and paused for a moment to lean on his walking stick and clear the smoke and soot from his eyes, Ron approached him. ‘Is there anyone in there?’ he shouted above the noise.

‘We don’t think so,’ John replied, wincing as he changed his stance, his tin leg clearly giving him trouble. ‘I’ve sent young Rita down to the shelter to check against our list of cinema and shop staff, and to ask if anyone has noticed someone is missing. Public places are always difficult, as we simply can’t know the numbers involved.’

Ron felt a little easier in his mind. Jim wasn’t a fool and would be down the shelter. He thanked John and stood back as the gas engineers arrived to turn off the mains.

It was a highly organised routine which had been perfected during the many raids they’d suffered over the last three years. Ambulances stood by as water jets were aimed at the flames; wardens began to close off the road, and the gasmen struggled to open the heavy manholes to turn off the gas. The civilian fire-watch teams were already making a start on clearing the rubble from the road as the heavy-lifting crews arrived with their bolt-cutters, lorries and winches.

Bit by bit they had the flames under control, and
now the gas was off, the heavy-lifting crews brought down the balcony and shored up the roof so the firemen could clamber over the rubble and reach the flames at the heart of the buildings.

Ron rolled up his sleeves and was about to get stuck in to help clear away the debris that was hampering the firemen when he heard Harvey give a sharp bark.

Harvey’s ears were up, his eyes alert as he sniffed the air.

Ron held onto his collar. ‘What is it?’

Harvey began to whine and dance on his front feet. And then, with one mighty thrust, he’d torn from Ron’s grip and was bounding over the still-smouldering rubble to become lost in the thick smoke.

‘Harvey’s scented something,’ he shouted at John as he pointed towards the blinding smoke and began to clamber over the charred velvet curtains, seared plush seats and bits of ornate plaster mouldings.

Ignoring the yells to stop, Ron pulled his woolly hat down almost to the bridge of his nose, and yanked up the neck of his sweater to cover his mouth. The smoke was choking him and making his eyes water, and he was almost knocked off his feet as a jet of water from a fireman’s hose drenched him.

Stumbling, half-blinded and soaked, Ron followed the sound of Harvey’s insistent barking. He circumnavigated the shattered lavatories and urinals and clambered over the doors and the cast-iron cisterns that lay scattered amid the debris. The yard at the back
of the cinema was awash with water pouring from the broken pipes in the lavatories. Ron looked around, but he couldn’t see Harvey.

‘Where are you, you eejit beast?’ he managed through a hacking cough.

Harvey’s front paws and great head appeared over the low wall that ran along the back of the yard. He barked once as if to tell Ron to get a move on, then he was gone again.

Ron sloshed through the cold, filthy water and swallowed the fear of what he might find when he looked over the wall. Then dread and anxiety fled and the relief burst from him in a great roar of laughter.

‘To be sure ’tis no laughing matter, Da,’ said Jim furiously. ‘Fer God’s sake don’t let the others see me like this.’