Doodlebug Summer (5 page)

I've hardly helped at all, really.

‘Go on,' says Pauline, shooing me like a chicken. ‘See you tomorrow.'

Houses and their back gardens are slipping past the train window in the autumn
sunshine. I'm sorry for Pauline's gran, she's old and ill and she can't cope, but I'm glad to be out of that cramped, stuffy house. I realise how lucky I am. I think of our kitchen that's big enough for the four of us to sit round a table and the garden with fruit trees and a swing, and feel a fresh rush of love for my home. Our dining room looks a bit of a mess just now because of the Morrison in it, but we've still got the front room with the sofa and chairs and the fawncoloured carpet and Dad's piano.

The train slides into my station. I pull the catch of the door back – and gasp. The glass has been blown out of the roof. It's lying in jagged heaps on the platform, together with the twisted and broken remains of the bars that held it up. There's been a rocket, terribly near.

I can't run on the sliding layers of broken glass, but I'm hurrying on wobbly legs towards the barrier where the ticket man is standing. I show him my season ticket and ask, ‘Where did it fall?'

He jerks his thumb. ‘Round the corner past the garage. Half-way up the lane.'

That's where we live
.

I'm running now, out of the station entrance and down the road. People are outside their shops, sweeping up glass. It gets worse towards the corner; there's debris scattered everywhere. A bus is driving through it, very slowly. I'm out of breath, my school bag is heavy with books, but I keep running. The garage on the corner is just about standing, but it's a roofless wreck. A van is lying on its side in what used to be the workshop.

I can't see my house yet, but something terrible may be waiting. These are the last moments before I know. I slow down, but the dread makes me feel so sick that I start hurrying again. Round the corner – I don't want to look. But I have to.

Mrs Potter's house is standing, though most of its roof has gone, but ours, that was joined onto it, isn't there any more. Neither are the ones beyond it, the Thomsons', the Blacks', the Midgeleys'. The empty space seems immense. Fire engines and rescue trucks are standing in the road, and an ambulance as well. A sliced-off bit of our house's front
wall still stands, with the brown velvet curtains hanging at the shattered windows, but behind it there's just emptiness.

Where is Mum? Where is Ian?

I'm making a wailing noise though I don't mean to, and coughing because of the sharpness of dust and rubble in my throat. I'm blundering across fire hoses, tripping over lumps of the stuff that was our house. The perfume of lavender comes up from the crushed bushes where the path was. I stumble round the pile of rubble where men are moving lengths of timber and heaving lumps of masonry aside. I can see part of the kitchen floor under my feet, its zig-zag-patterned lino covered with wreckage. The sink is leaning sideways on its bent pipes. The trees in the garden are shattered and broken, the swing dangles from one rope. There's a crowd of people but I can't see who they are. I'm blinded with tears and I can't think of anything, only that Mum and Ian are somewhere under the pile of rubble that was our house.

‘Katie!' someone says. ‘Oh, come here, pet, thank God you're all right.' I'm being
clutched against Mrs Potter's apron. ‘Ian's here,' she's saying, ‘look, he's fine.'

He's standing beside her, and I hug him like I'll never let him go again. There's a cut on his head that's dribbling blood over his eyebrow and down the side of his face, but he's alive, he's alive. He leans close against me with his head pressed against my school mac. His hair is matted with blood.

‘It needs to be seen to,' Mrs Potter says, ‘there might be glass in it or something. They tried to get him in the ambulance, but he wasn't having it.'

‘I was waiting for you,' Ian says, his voice muffled by the navy gabardine of my mac. ‘You were late.'

‘I know. I'm sorry.'

‘Just as well,' says Mrs Potter. ‘You wouldn't have wanted to be on that platform when the thing fell.'

Ian's clutching Mum's blue cardigan. The sight of it makes my heart jump with sudden hope.

‘Did Mum give you that to look after?' I ask him.

He hugs it tighter. ‘Yes. We were picking
beans and she took them in the kitchen. Then there was the bang. It threw me into the fence. Look.'

He shows me his grazed arm.

Mum would have dabbed it with iodine. It stings dreadfully, but things always heal up. She hasn't done it this time. There's no sign of its yellow-brown colour.

‘Where's Mum gone?' Ian wails. ‘Where is she?'

Mrs Potter looks at me with a kind of warning, then glances sideways to where the Rescue men are carefully shifting spars and lumps of masonry from the wreckage. Her message is plain. My mother is under there. The men are trying to find her.

I cram my hand over my mouth and nose and manage to push the tears away somewhere, swallow them down. I have to be tough. It may be that from now on, I'll be the only mum Ian's got. But I don't know how to be like Mum, I'm not her.

There's a firm hand on my shoulder. I turn in stupid hope, but it isn't Mum, of course. It's Hedge, with his dog at his heels. He's staring at me from his grooved brown
face that never looks clean. His eyes are the colour of iodine.

‘Don't you give up hope, girl,' he says to me. ‘Don't you fret. We'll find her.' He turns to Ian and nods at the blue cardigan. ‘That belong to your mum, son?'

‘Yes.'

Hedge seems pleased.

‘Kelly, here,' he says, and the dog comes to sit beside him, looking up expectantly. ‘Show him the woolly, there's a good boy,' Hedge tells Ian. ‘Let him get the scent of it.'

Ian doesn't argue. He holds Mum's cardigan out to Kelly, who stands up and sniffs at it carefully. He moves the tip of his tail from side to side, just a little bit.

‘Come, Kelly,' says Hedge. ‘
Find
.' He sets off to where the men are working, with the dog loping at his heels.

He speaks to the foreman, who nods and picks up a loud-hailer. His amplified voice rings out.

‘Quiet, everyone, please. We're going to put a dog in, we need to hear. Everyone quiet.'

Kelly starts to explore the wreckage, moving across it carefully. His nose is down,
very close to the broken timbers and lumps of plaster and brickwork. He's holding his tail in a straight line, absolutely still. We're all watching. We can see he's working hard, but he seems terribly slow.

People are starting to mutter.

‘Waste of time,' a man behind me says. ‘Never find her that way. They want to keep on digging.'

The noise of people talking starts to get louder.

‘QUIET!' shouts the foreman, and there is silence again. I can hear the rasp and scrabble of Kelly's claws – he's suddenly started to burrow. His tail is wagging frantically now, and he's yelping sharply.

‘That's where she is,' I hear Hedge say. He moves towards the dog. ‘Here, Kelly. Leave it now. Good dog.'

He bends and pats him, and the pair of them move away through the crowd.

The men are lifting away bits of wreckage from the place the dog had been digging at. I'm gripping Ian's hand so hard that he wriggles it a bit.

‘Sorry,' I tell him.

‘It's all right,' he says. But he's still frowning, and he rubs with his sleeve at the blood that's drying on his face, as though it itches.

‘Quiet again, please!' the foreman shouts. In the silence, there's the sound of a thin cry, almost as if someone has woken up in a state of surprise.

Ian's face clears. ‘It's Mum!' he says.

Mrs Potter smiles at him and puts her finger to her lips. There's been a buzz from the watching people, but we're all quiet again now. We can hear the clatter of every plank and spar tossed aside, the thud and thump of bricks and hunks of cement.

The foreman says, ‘Hold it a minute.' He's stooping down. ‘Keep talking to us,' we hear him say. ‘We can see you, we're almost there. Stick with it, we'll have you out in a minute.'

I can't hear Mum's answer, just the faint sound of her voice.

‘Perhaps she's in the Morrison,' says Ian. He's trying to be brave. ‘It's safe in there, isn't it.'

‘Yes,' I say. But the place where the men are digging is not where the dining room
used to be. I think it was the kitchen. Or maybe she was upstairs. That's a horrible thought.

‘So she'll be all right,' Ian goes on.

‘She'll be fine,' I tell him. And secretly cross the fingers of the hand that isn't holding his, praying that it's true.

We're in the ambulance. Ian and I are sitting close beside each other on the bunk seat with a red blanket over our knees. Ian's counting the stitches along its edge. He's still got Mum's cardigan, but he's put it down beside him. An ambulance lady sits on the seat at the end. She smiles whenever I look at her. Mum is lying on the stretcher they slid into the ambulance after they'd got her out of the wreckage. She's under a red blanket, too. Her face is filthy and one of her eyes is blackened and swollen, but she's all right, she's talked to us. She said she thought she had a broken leg, but we weren't to worry because she was going to be fine.
Then they gave her an injection to make her feel more comfortable. She hasn't said much since then.

Scary thoughts keep darting through my head. I try not to notice them, but they're hard to get rid of.
We don't have a home any more. I don't know where we'll go
. There are supposed to be Reception Centres for people who have been bombed out, but I don't know where they are or what they're like. Perhaps they'll take us to a church hall or something.

I mustn't be upset. I'm the lucky one. I'm not hurt. If I hadn't gone with Pauline to see her gran, I might have been at the station when the rocket fell.

There's netting stuck on the inside of the ambulance windows to stop the glass from blowing in if there's an explosion. It's the same on the buses, only they have a small oblong cut in the middle of each window so you can see where to get out. There isn't a clear oblong on these windows, but they're made of dark glass, so I wouldn't see much anyway. I suppose it's to stop people looking in.

I don't know what the time is. Perhaps Dad's home by now. No.
Our home
isn't there
. Back from the office, I mean. He'll have walked down Station Approach like I did, knowing there's been a rocket. I don't suppose he ran – he's grown-up, he doesn't let things upset him so much. Or perhaps he does, but he'd never say. Someone might have phoned him at the bank, to tell him what had happened. I hope they did. I hope he knows we're safe.

There isn't a piano any more
.

I wish I hadn't thought of that, but I can't un-think it now. All its music gone, its dark wood and ivory keys smashed and under the rubble.

My throat aches suddenly and tears are swimming in my eyes, I can't stop them. I'm trying not to make any noise, but Mum has heard me. She reaches out from her bunk. Her hand feels very cold, but her grip is strong and comforting. She's still my mum.

I'm OK again, I'm not crying.
There are more pianos
, Dad will say. Only the other day, he was telling me how the very best ones, the great, glossy concert grand pianos, are made in Germany, the country we are fighting. There must be people there who
are like us, sick of the war. After a minute, I tuck Mum's hand back under her blanket. She murmurs, ‘Thank you, darling.' And the ambulance lady smiles at me again.

I'm in a corridor with chairs along the wall. They've given me a cup of tea and a magazine. They said Ian would be back quite soon, but Mum will have to stay in hospital. She has to have an operation. It's not just her leg, the nurse said – she's got a broken hip as well, and broken ribs.

The magazine is an old
National Geographic
, with pictures of African men paddling canoes and dancing with spears and pointy shields. There aren't any stories. But I couldn't concentrate on a story, so it doesn't matter. I'm holding Mum's blue cardigan. They told Ian to let me look after it while they saw to the wound on his head, and he handed it over without any arguing.

There are double doors with round windows in them almost opposite where I'm sitting. That's the room where Ian is. The nurse said he'd probably need stitches. It's stupid to go on staring at the doors,
it won't make the waiting time any shorter. I take another look at the magazine, but it's truly boring.

I keep thinking about Hedge. I wanted to run after him when Kelly had found where Mum was, but I was holding Ian's hand and I couldn't. I feel so guilty. It's not long since I actually wished Hedge had died instead of Mr Freeman. I know why I wished it – I was angry, and I hated Hedge because he scared me. In a way, he still does. But Mr Freeman didn't have a dog. He wouldn't have come to the wreckage of our house and put a hand on my shoulder, telling me not to fret. It was Hedge who did that, and Hedge who went over to the men who were digging. And after his dog had found where Mum was, Hedge turned quietly aside and disappeared into the crowd without waiting for any thanks.

I'll say a big thank you when I see him, of course I will – but I wish I could tell him I'm sorry for what I thought about him. I can't, though. It would sound stupid.

I wish there was some way of knowing when you're being stupid.

The doors are opening again. Ian's coming out with a nurse who's holding his hand. His head is covered by a turban of white bandage that goes from his eyebrows to a tuft of hair that sticks out at the top, and underneath it his face is almost as white. He sits down beside me and picks up Mum's cardigan, holding it to his cheek while he starts to suck his thumb. He doesn't often do that now. I expect he wants Bun and his blanket, but he doesn't ask for them.