Chocolate Girls (16 page)

‘But I had to leave, Dad,’ Florrie said. ‘I were that frightened. You’ve never seen anything like it. There was so many dead they ’ad to pile them up in the swimming-pool.’

Dennis frowned. ‘What – with the water in?’

‘Oh, don’t be so dense, Dennis!’ Nellie snapped. ‘Of course not with flaming the water in.’

Edie could see how much her mother resented having the mess and noise of young children in the house again. So that’s why she’d been invited. Nellie wanted another pair of hands to do the work! She was soon slaving away, helping feed the children, washing up, do this Edie, do that. Dennis had his Home Guard uniform on and was hurrying his meal to get out in time. Once tea was over Edie sat in the corner with Rodney. He’d given Eric, the older boy, a couple of old comics,
Boys’ Own
and the
Hotspur
, and was being unusually cooperative in helping him look through them. Edie watched his freckly profile. He was getting big now as well – he’d be out to work next year. She felt sorry for him being left on his own at home, but Mom and Dad had more time for him than their daughters. They should’ve only had him, she thought bitterly.

‘You awright, Rodney?’ she asked softly, trying to establish contact with at least someone in her family.

He looked round, briefly. ‘Yeah.’

‘That’s good.’

By the time she had to leave Edie felt more cast down than she would’ve done going home on her own. Talk about lonely in a crowd, she thought.

‘Bye, Mom, Florrie,’ she said, going to the door with her coat on.

‘T’ra Ede, see yer soon,’ Florrie called.

Nellie, who had Florrie’s youngest on her lap, barely looked up.

She didn’t even remember I was going on duty, Edie thought, on the bus. Even with this garb on. Mrs Hatton wouldn’t have been like that, she’d’ve been worried, shown a bit of interest. Of course, comparing her mother with anyone else’s had always been a waste of time. She wasn’t going to change now.

The thought of Janet’s mom warmed her. Janet had asked her and Ruby round for tea on several Sunday afternoons, to their cosy house owned by the Bournville Village Trust. Edie thought Frances Hatton was the most wonderful person she’d ever met. She’d baked scones and little cakes and they’d sat in the parlour with Marie Falla, the shy girl from Guernsey, and been made as welcome and comfortable as anything. Edie was impressed by the graceful room with its chintzy chairs and the piano open and ready to play. And what was it about Mrs Hatton? Edie thought, as the bus crawled along in the darkness. She had lovely clothes, not fancy, but beautiful. Some of them looked quite old and worn, but the soft skirts, stylish blouses and woollens of soft autumn colours captivated Edie. Her mom was very particular and clean, of course, but she always dressed her tiny frame in hard colours: navy, black, and royal blue, stiff shirtwaisters and tight pleats. There was no
give
in her clothes: they all looked starched. Whereas last time she’d seen Janet’s mom, she’d been wearing a dark green velvet skirt and a lovely thick cardigan in a warm rust colour, a little silk scarf patterned with leaves at the neck. Everything she wore was simple, but it looked so nice on her, and add to that Frances’s thick hair, those lovely dark eyes and her – what was it? Edie thought. Her
interest
in everything, that was it. The way her eyes lingered on your face, drinking you in. Everything they told her seemed to be of great concern to her, the way it was with Janet. Edie had never experienced anything quite like it before.

Both she and Ruby had found themselves telling Frances Hatton all about their lives, especially Ruby. When she talked about her father’s death and how her mom had been, Frances nodded with great understanding.

‘Poor dear,’ she said. ‘It is the most terrible thing. I lost my husband in the last war and I felt as if I’d lost half of myself for a long time afterwards. Your mother has had a terrible amount to contend with, and of course,’ gently she touched Edie’s shoulder, ‘dear Edie as well.’ Edie flushed, gratefully. ‘What a lot of sadness. But you know, all we can do when things are sad is gather together and help each other through. And your husband sounds marvellous, Ruby dear.’ She held out a plate. ‘Another scone?’

Mrs Hatton was so kind and just accepted everyone as they were. Edie imagined what her mom’d be like if she had a refugee living in the house. She found her own family enough of a trial.

A wail cut through her thoughts. The air-raid siren. A groan passed through the bus and people started cursing.

‘’Ere we go again. ’Ow’re we ever s’posed to get to work on time in this bloody lot?’

The driver braked. ‘Anyone want to gerrof ’ere? I’m gunna keep going, see if we can crawl through to Navigation Street, or as near as I can get.’

Several people got off and they moved carefully on. By the time Edie reached St Matthew’s, the raid had still not begun.

Back in the Selly Oak depot, Janet was also reporting for duty as the sirens began to howl out their warning. She met Joyce on her way in. They’d gone and volunteered together in the beginning but usually worked different nights.

‘Oh – you’re on tonight as well, are you?’ Joyce said thankfully. ‘Jolly good. Feels to me as if it’s going to be a bad one.’

‘Well, let’s see if we can get a cuppa inside us before all hell breaks loose,’ Janet said, pushing the door open. She glanced round as they waited at the counter, pretending to herself that she was just generally seeing who was on duty. Of course Martin Ferris may or may not have been among them, but she wasn’t looking
especially
to see if he was there. Since the night they had been sent out together they had coincided three or four times, but had not worked together again. Janet had tried to make sure she worked with other people, had kept away from him. She knew it didn’t matter: he was obviously a happy family man and she ought to have been able to relax with him as a friend. But she could not be near him without his presence affecting her. While they waited in the depot for the call-out she always had a prickly, restless sensation of being aware just where he was and who he was talking to. Now and then she caught him looking her way and sometimes he smiled. For politeness’ sake she’d give a faint smile back, then look away. The effect he had on her annoyed her hugely but she couldn’t seem to prevent it.

He’s not here tonight, she thought, beginning to relax. No risk of being teamed up with him. She sipped the weak, sugary tea and tried to pay attention to what Joyce was saying, wondering why she felt suddenly rather irritable. Nerves, she thought. We’re all living on our nerves. She glanced at her watch, seven fifteen, then, looking up, saw the tall, compelling figure of Martin Ferris checking in for duty.

A few minutes later, the raid began.

Inside the blacked-out church, all the volunteers had hurried to finish readying the place. There were a few camp beds and mattresses and a pile of donated blankets and rugs. The WVS women got the urn going next door in the school, and wheeled the rickety trolley through with its cups and bowls of sugar lumps. Edie had found herself in the company of Miss Hansome once more (though to her relief there was no appearance by Mrs Lordly), and two other kindly women, a Mrs Duke and Mrs Carruthers, both in their mid-forties. Mrs Duke, from Harborne, was very small and round, like a bun, and Mrs Carruthers was very homely in a tweed skirt, with cropped brown hair. She had driven her husband’s motor car in from Bartley Green without asking him and was now in a state of great agitation in case it got hit.

‘Ronald will never forgive me,’ she complained. ‘I really should have come on the bus . . .’ She’d brought a bag of knitting ‘in case it’s a quiet night’.

It wasn’t going to be a quiet night.

As things began to hot up, Edie found herself, in a brief moment of quiet, beside Miss Hansome and the tea trolley, in one of the side aisles. She liked Miss Hansome, Edie decided. She had gradually found out what a hard life the woman had had – a genteel beginning with both parents dying early, struggling on alone, never really wanted by anyone. Away from Mrs Lordly she was less befuddled by nerves, and it was easier to see her sweet, vulnerable nature.

‘Here they come,’ Edie murmured.

Miss Hansome nodded. ‘You know,’ she whispered a moment later. ‘I went to the service for Mr Chamberlain. It was most affecting.’

‘Did you?’ Edie nodded encouragingly.

‘He was a good man,’ Miss Hansome wiped her pink-tipped nose with her hanky. ‘Whatever they say about him now.’

She expanded into detail about Neville Chamberlain’s memorial service, which had been at St Martin’s Church in the Bull Ring. Edie tried to keep her mind on what the woman was telling her, but within seconds there came a massive bang from outside and the floor snatched so hard they both almost fell over. Miss Hansome screamed and gripped Edie’s hand as bits fell from the ceiling and the lights swayed.

Mrs Carruthers gave a yelp of terror. ‘Oh my stars, the car!’

It had begun.

By eight o’clock the first trickle of the shocked and homeless began to arrive and turned into a heavy flow, usually guided to the centre by the local ARP wardens, who then plunged back into the inferno outside. Families arrived, dazed and covered in dust, clinging to anything they had been able to salvage, needing tea and kindness and wanting nothing more than to huddle together and wait for it all to end outside so that they could venture back and see what remained of their houses. Some were distraught, knowing that members of their family were missing. The volunteers handed out blankets and assigned spaces in the church, until so many people came that they had to leave them to fight it out among themselves. And fight sometimes they did, over blankets and sleeping spaces, the right to a camp bed. Mostly, though, people tried to pull together and be considerate, especially to mothers with little ones in their care.

Edie and the others handed out cup after cup of tea and arrowroot biscuits, trying to listen to confused accounts stammered out to them by the shocked bomb victims, over the sound of screaming babies and grizzling children. They were a very mixed bag of folk – the roads within walking distance of the church included some of the more respectable, villa-lined streets of Edgbaston and some of the poorest swathes of jerry-built back-to-back housing, squeezed in round the factories and workshops. Edie handed a cup of tea to one lady who thanked her tremulously with well-spoken vowels. She was wearing a dark coat with an astrakhan collar and had a dashing feather in her hat. The next woman in line had a baby in her arms and two other young ones at her side. Her clothes were full of holes and she opened her mouth to reveal a sprinkling of rotten teeth. The smell of the family preceded them in the queue.

‘Give us some milk for the babbies, will yer?’ the mother demanded brusquely. ‘Them’s ’ad nowt tonight.’

Edie handed the older children a cup of milk and some biscuits and their eyes widened. They grabbed the food and crammed it into their mouths. The woman moved dully away. Behind her came a stooped, silent old lady in black with a deeply lined face and such gnarled, stiff hands she could barely grasp her cup of tea.

By nine o’clock the raid was still in full swing, spreading a ring of fire round the city.

At intervals there was an attack on the area round the church and the building shook. Everyone cowered, and there’d be a fresh round of crying from the children who had not surrendered to exhaustion. Only the very little ones were able to sleep. Mrs Carruthers kept saying, ‘Oh dear,’ in a tragic way. Everyone else tried to keep their spirits up by huddling together, making jokes if they were up to it, and sing-songs kept breaking out. Edie was grateful that she was kept too busy for fear.

They’d boiled up yet another urn full of water at about eleven o’clock, and a small group had started singing, when there was a cry from along the church.

‘Fire! We can smell smoke. There’s a fire down here!’

The ragged rendition of ‘South of the Border’ from the front left aisle fizzled out immediately. One of the male volunteers rushed to the vestry to investigate.

‘Get the bucket!’ he yelled back along the side aisle. ‘There’s an incendiary come throught the roof in ’ere!’

‘Oh dear,’ Mrs Carruthers murmured. ‘Ronald’ll never forgive me if they ruin the car.’

‘Oh, sod Ronald!’ Edie snapped, running for the buckets. ‘Get the flaming stirrup pump, will you!’

Moments later they were all busy dousing the fire with a mixture of sand and water. It had not taken hold very far, but had begun to lick at the hems of of the vestments that were hanging in the vestry. It was soon dealt with.

‘Oh, thank heavens,’ Mrs Duke said. ‘Oh – I could do with something a bit stronger than this tea, I can tell you!’

Edie went, contrite, to Mrs Carruthers. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Carruthers, for what I said.’

‘No . . . no dear, you’re quite right,’ the woman said. ‘It’s really too ridiculous . . . It’s just that, well – you don’t know Ronald.’

Edie went for a wander round between the pews. She came upon the woman whose children had wanted milk, sitting impassively on a mattress at the entrance to the Lady chapel. The filthy, unwashed stench of them hung round like an aura and the boys were constantly scratching their heads.

‘Yer gorrany more o’ them biscuits?’ the oldest boy piped up. ‘Gorra piece we can ’ave?’

His mother nudged him hard with her elbow and brandished her fist. ‘Shurrup will yer or yer’ll get this down yer ’odge!’