Blitz Next Door (10 page)

“Where’s my girl?”

A woman was speaking.

“Where’s my lovely girl?”

A thought forced itself into Pete’s head. Thinking the thought hurt. Behind his eyes. It was a throbbing thought. And a horrible thought.

That’s Beth’s mum. Looking for her in the Blitz. If I stop her now, maybe she’ll be alright
…

But it was hurting Pete too much to think. And he didn’t even know how to lift up his head. When he tried to move it, a hammer beat inside his skull, chipping against his bones. The pain was so sharp it drew a wave of sickness up from Pete’s stomach and he vomited.

Pete could hear himself groan as he tried to shift his face from the foul puddle at his cheek. No use.

But the woman was singing again: “Who’s my girl? Who’s the best girl in the world?”

The voice was clearer now. And close. And Pete knew it.

“Mum?” Pete’s voice didn’t sound like Pete’s voice. Too weak. Too sick. Too small. He tried to clear his throat: “MUM!”

“
Pete?
”

Relief at being discovered lent Pete just enough energy to drag himself towards the silhouette of Mum
holding Jenny in the cupboard doorway. He was so woozy that when he bumped against Beth’s box he ignored it. His injured leg, sticky and tight, felt as if it had been pumped up like a tyre.

“Pete? Are you in there?”

Mum was trying the light switch, using a string of words Pete would be grounded for when it didn’t work, and then she was down on her knees at Pete’s side, shouting for Dad.

Jenny was crying, but Mum wasn’t paying her any attention, her hand cradling Pete’s head. Asking him why he was covered in blood. His clothes torn. Why he was sick. What the hell had happened to him? And then Dad was there, not asking any questions. Just scooping Pete in his arms.

“Everything’s fine now, soldier.”

And Pete knew it would be, and let himself drift off again.

Pete really didn’t feel like opening his eyes. But a large hand kept slapping at his face and someone’s knuckles kept digging into his solar plexus.

“Ouch!” Pete winced. He tried to flail the pain away but whoever was dishing it out wasn’t giving up.

“Open those peepers for me. C’mon, fella. Then I can have a proper look at this leg.”

Pete tried to oblige, though he would much rather have gone on sleeping. Through the flutter of his lids he saw a man in a dark suit leaning over him, Mum and Dad hovering by his shoulder. Mr Milligan stood a little behind, rocking Jenny.

The effort of taking all this in was too much for Pete’s fuzzy head. He knew he was safe, laid out in his front room on the bumpy velvet sofa from London. All he wanted to do was sleep there for a long, long time…

“Oh, no, you don’t close those eyes on me, fella,” said the man leaning over Pete. Then the face-slapping business started again.

“You need to stay awake, Pete.” This was Dad. Urging Pete in his no-nonsense voice. “You hear me, son? If you don’t, you’ll be going into hospital.”

“And they won’t bally let you out till they know what happened.”

It was these words from Mr Milligan that pinged
Pete’s eyes open wide. When he pushed the slapping hand away, he found it was attached to Dad.

“Oi! You don’t even smack me when I’m naughty.” Pete tried to slap back.

“He’s come round.” Pete heard the relief in Mum’s voice. She sounded miles away though, underwater. When she crouched down and kissed Pete, he noticed her eyes were red and swollen. “Oh, what happened to you, pet?”

This was so weird; every word Mum said took a few seconds to sink in. Even weirder, when Pete tried to speak himself, his mouth felt as though it was thick with jelly.

“Beth came last night for her box. I got it for her.”

“Shhhh.” Mum’s face was the picture of worry. “Don’t talk. Just rest.” She stroked Pete’s hair. As she did she looked round the others in the room. “Away with the fairies. Shouldn’t we just take him into A and E?”

“I’m happy to stitch the fella here, save the NHS time and money,” said the man Pete didn’t know. With a funny accent, Pete noticed despite his woozy head. He also noticed the man had Mum’s big kitchen scissors and was cutting Pete’s jeans off his legs. And no one was stopping him. “There’s enough responsible adults to keep an eye on his concussion without rushing him into a ward,” added the man playing with the scissors.

“You’re in the hands of a top paediatric surgeon, Pete.” This was Mr Milligan.

“Stitched up so many weans I can do it blindfold. Don’t worry, fella, not today.” The man looked over his glasses and winked at Pete. “Hugh Winters-Smith
at your service. Actually, at your calf. Sharp scratch, and I’ll begin my embroidery,” he warned as a needle jabbed Pete’s knee.

Pete was too surprised at what he’d just heard and seen to react to the needle, although Mum flinched and turned away.

Pete did gasp though. At seeing a glimpse of the surgeon’s blue eyes. At hearing his name:
Hugh? Winters? Never mind the last bit
… He stared at the side of the man’s face. “Is he…? Is that…?” Pete muttered in a voice that must have sounded a bit too woolly for Mum, who sobbed into Dad’s shoulder. But this time, Pete’s behaviour had nothing to do with his health, and this time Mr Milligan came to the rescue.

“Our Beth’s big boy.” He nodded at Pete. “Called me last night after I came home with Mother. Out the bally blue.”

“Flying visit to give a paper at Glasgow Uni. Any excuse to come home to Scotland, especially this week.” Hugh Winters-Smith turned his blue eyes on Pete again.
Beth’s eyes
.

“Hugh and I are chumming along to the Blitz memorial service later; that’s why we stopped in here. Mother thought you’d like to join us.”

“Not this year,” Mum, Dad and Hugh Winters-Smith chimed in perfect unison.

“And where’s it held anyway, this service?’ Mum asked. Although her chin was up and her tone suspicious, her hand reached to clasp Pete’s.

“Dalnottar Cemetery,” said Mr Milligan.

“To remember the folk we lost in the Clydebank Blitz. And where my poor granny…” Hugh Winters-Smith
bent a little lower over Pete’s leg.

Through the silence that fell in the room, Jenny, who must have been asleep in Mr Milligan’s arms, made the softest gurgle. All the adults turned to look at her and coo, including the surgeon, his suture needle in the air.

“Aye, to remember the folk we lost,” he sighed, “and say goodbye on behalf of the ones who left their hearts behind, but can’t be here themselves.”

The doctor patted Pete’s knee and returned to his stitching. “Like my mum.”

“I told Hugh you met her,” Mr Milligan leaned over Pete to whisper.

“Beth.” Pete and Mr Milligan chorused.

“The girl next door,” Pete added, eyeballing Dad. “The one you said I couldn’t hear. Well, I went to help her last night, and that’s how I hurt my—”

“Oh, come on,” interrupted Dad. “You telling us these are war wounds?” He waggled his finger at Pete. “We’ll need to be getting to the bottom of what you’ve been up to as soon as you’re—”

“
Steve
.” Mum knelt and stroked Pete’s head. “Whatever happened, the main thing is he’s going to be alright.” Mum was looking at Hugh Winters-Smith.

“Brand new, with a few interesting scars to show for his capers.” The surgeon nodded without looking up from Pete’s leg.

What capers?
Pete couldn’t help himself; he had to blurt, “I was in the Blitz with Beth. She wanted me to find a box, and I nearly gave up because everything was collapsing on top of us. Bricks, chimneys, glass…” Pete was grinning into Mum and Dad’s bewildered faces, trying to reassure them. “The whole house next door was coming down. But I’m fine.”

“So you were playing in the ruin?” Dad jabbed the same finger he’d been wagging towards the bomb site. “Was this your new pal’s idea? War games in the dark?”

“Is this true, Pete?” Unlike Dad, Mum didn’t sound cross, just puzzled. “You went out to play in the middle of the night with Dunny? Why would you want to do that? And
war
games. Ugh.” She was shaking her head, her eyes sad.

“I wasn’t.” Pete tried to wriggle up on his elbow.

“Easy, fella.” Hugh Winters-Smith settled him down.

“But I wasn’t playing games,” Pete insisted. He looked at Dad. “These
are
war wounds. And the friend I was with was Beth. Helping her find—”

“And did you?” Hugh Winters-Smith interrupted. He turned his attention from Pete’s leg to his face, eyebrows raised over his specs, blue eyes very wide.

The box. Did I find the box?
Pete was just trying to scroll back through the strange events of last night. But then, from the hall, came the booming voice of Mr Milligan: “Fan-bally-tastic and bee-bop-a-lula! Bally excellent job, sir!”

It was a plain brown shoebox, bound with string. A bit battered. Hugh Winters-Smith finished winding a bandage round Pete’s leg before he took it from Mr Milligan.

Upstairs, Pete could just about hear Mum singing to Jenny while she changed her. Through in the kitchen, Dad was whistling while he rustled up refreshments for the visitors.

From where he lay on the sofa, Pete held his breath as he watched Beth Winters’ son rub his finger across the label on the side of her box.

“
Gentleman’s brogue. Col: black. Size: 10½
.” Hugh Winters-Smith chuckled. “Mum used to tell us how her father always moaned about having to buy shoes by the pair when he’d only the one foot. Used to stuff rags in the left one to hold his peg.” Hugh Winters-Smith held the shoebox in front of his face and stared at the lid.

“Can’t believe this has turned up,” he said at last. “She always promised us kids she’d show us the treasures she lost in the Blitz.”

“
Kids?
”

Pete had an image of a girl in a kilt. Plaits. Blue eyes. Same age as himself.

“And grandkids.” Hugh Winters-Smith was patting
about his pockets for his phone. “Seven and counting.” He opened a photograph and handed the mobile to Pete, pinching the image on the screen first.

“That’s Mum in the middle of the whole clan.”

And there she was. Smiling out at him. Pete almost dropped the phone. He was looking at the old lady in the floaty bluebell blue clothes. The lady he’d seen yesterday. In the garden. By the crater. In the street. Face to face. Lost-looking. In this picture she was surrounded by adults and children. There was a little blonde girl kneeling on Beth’s lap, arms wound round the old lady’s neck, their cheeks pressed together.

“That’s Beth?” Pete exhaled. “Is she here?”

“In spirit, for sure. But not in person. This was her yesterday.” The old lady’s son flicked to a new image of Beth staring out from the screen. She lay in bed flanked by two women who were kissing her cheeks. “She’s in a hospice in Auckland. Going downhill pretty fast. I just hope,” Hugh Winters-Smith patted the box, “we manage to see her opening… See her face when she…”

“Tell Pete who’s who, Hugh,” Mr Milligan coaxed, patting the doctor’s arm.

The other man obeyed, zooming the image wide on one of the women. “That’s Jean. Another doctor. She’s my twin. And that one…” He moved the image along to the second woman. “She’s Carly. An artist like her mum.”

“Beth became an artist?” asked Pete.

“A bally big one in New Zealand,” said Mr Milligan. “Too expensive for me to collect, I’m afraid.”

Wow
. Pete was thinking of the cartoons on the
shelter wall, the one on Wee Stookie’s arm. Then he remembered Beth’s notebook, lying on his bed. Dozens and dozens of clever drawings in it.
Beth needs to have that back too
, he decided, though he knew he’d have to check with Dunny first. Once he was allowed up and about.

“When are you going to see Beth… I mean, your mum?” Pete asked her son.

“Soon as I can get a flight. After the memorial service.” Hugh Winters-Smith’s fingers were busy, tugging at the knotted string on the shoebox.

“Speaking of which…” Mr Milligan tapped his wristwatch, “Mother’ll be standing at the Last Chance Saloon reception in her Sunday hat calling me for every name under the sun if we’re late, so we should maybe saddle up the…” His voice drifted into silence. The doctor was using the scissors that had cut open Pete’s jeans to snip the shoebox string.

Should you be doing that here?
Pete was sure, from the way Mr Milligan was gawping, that they were both thinking the same thing as the lid was removed from the box.

It’s Beth’s. It’s private
.

But her son parted the inner shroud of tissue paper that protected the contents of the box. To one side he laid a red napkin edged in gold thread, then a tiny white elephant. He barely glanced at the bundle of postcards he placed at Pete’s feet.

“Where is it?” he muttered, lifting object after object from the box. A brass bell. A book of illustrated fairy tales, all the pages loose. A Christmas-tree bauble… The first object that gave Hugh Winters-Smith
pause was an empty perfume bottle with a glittery crystal stopper. He prised it open and closed his eyes, filling his chest with air before drinking in whatever fragrance lingered.

“Mum always talked about the smell of this. How she never found another rose scent like it.” He kept the bottle in his hand when he went back to the box, passing it under his nostrils, sniffing in draughts from the top of it. And then, almost at the bottom of the shoebox, he found a photograph.

“Aha! It’s here, Mum. Mission accomplished!” Hugh Winters-Smith brandished a tarnished brass frame above his head, then clutched it to his chest. “This is the only surviving picture of my grandparents.” There were tears in his eyes. “Mum says her father always said his Jean was so beautiful on their wedding day, he couldn’t trust himself to look at her in case he made a fool of himself. Mum said he talked about losing this picture to the Blitz the rest of his life, especially at the end. Now Mum’s doing the same, desperate to see her own mum and dad one more time. And now she’s going to…”

“God willing, Hugh,” Mr Milligan laid his hand to the other man’s back, “and we really need to be heading to Dalnottar.”

“Of course.” Hugh Winters-Smith handed the photograph to Pete. “Look after this for me,” he smiled, “and we’ll get off to pay our respects.”