Gunner Girls and Fighter Boys (7 page)

‘Well, you might just do that,’ Emmy said, stopping beneath the poster to light a cigarette, ‘if a bomb’s got your name on it…’

The other girls lit up too and May drew on her cigarette. Looking up at the glamorous woman in the ATS peaked cap and brass-buttoned jacket, she shook her head.

‘Don’t be taken in by that! Jack’s fiancée, Joycie, has joined up and she told me they give you these massive khaki knickers – they call ’em passion killers – and pink, boned corsets just like Mum wears! Apparently, it’s all designed to ruin your love life.’

‘What would you know about a love life?’ Dolly nudged her. ‘Never had a chap in your life!’

‘Leave her alone, Dolly,’ said Emmy, frowning at her friend. ‘And anyway, knickers or not, I think it’d be a lot better in the ATS than hanging about here, with no work nor nothing, just waiting to be blown up!’

‘No, not me,’ May insisted, shaking her head determinedly. ‘If I have to do war work, I’d rather go in a factory in Bermondsey. Atkinson’s are starting war work soon, plane parts, I heard. I’ll do that if I have to, take my chances with the raids. At least I’ll die with my family round me!’ She stubbed out the cigarette with finality and walked on.

***

By December, a bitter winter had begun to bite. Pinched faces in the streets and short tempers in the home told the tale of the past three months, when German planes had dropped their bombs on Bermondsey most days and every night. Flights of enemy aircraft blackened the sky, following the silver ribbon of the Thames, targeting Surrey Docks and the main railway line up to London Bridge, and all the factories along the way.

May was making paper chains for Christmas, pasting together odd links of coloured paper, with a strong mix of flour paste and determined cheerfulness. Her mother was adamant that there
would
be a Christmas this year, even if they had to eat their Christmas dinner in the shelter. When the sirens interrupted them, May managed to gather up the handicrafts, along with the book she’d been reading. She was nearing the end of
Gone with the Wind
and couldn’t be parted from it. Though she and Peggy had seen the film earlier that year, May found she liked the book more. Losing herself in the story of another war, in another place, made her feel less beleaguered and alone, Scarlett’s lot seeming so much worse than her own.

With only two of them stuffed snugly into the shelter, they had plenty of room for a change. Her father was out on ARP duties and her brother, home on leave, had gone for a night out with Norman. At least tonight they’d have a bunk each, and May stretched out, angling the torch over her book. But her mother couldn’t settle. She fidgeted and fussed, checking the time every ten minutes.

‘Don’t worry, Mum, Jack’s not stupid. He’ll go under one of the arches if they’re caught out.’

But they both knew that wasn’t true and that he would walk through the bombs, especially if the evening had been a boozy one. It wouldn’t be the first occasion Jack had got caught out in an air raid and ignored the sirens. Their whole lives had been hijacked by the daily bombings, and her brother had quickly dropped his early cautiousness where raids were concerned, deciding that a party definitely took precedence over an air raid. In any case, this was his embarkation leave, the last before he left to go overseas, and he’d been hell bent on enjoying every minute of it. He’d visited Joycie at her ATS camp in Hull and now was making the most of his two precious days at home, before leaving for Southampton.

There was little sleep to be had that night for May, for her mother’s fretting over Jack hadn’t abated. Since he’d joined up her worries centred less around Jack becoming a crook and more about him staying alive, not just for tonight, but once he was overseas. When her mother finally dropped off to sleep, May lay awake listening to the deafening screams of bombs passing over the shelter. Every nerve was shredded as each explosion rocked the little structure like a boat in a storm.

*

‘Come on, Norm, hurry up. Drinks are on Wide’oh tonight!’ Jack tugged at his friend’s arm and swayed a little as the cool night air hit him.

They’d started their round of farewell drinks early, in the John Bull pub, but the whiskey had run out and Jack was determined not to curtail the celebrations on his last night before going overseas. Earlier that day George had invited him to the illegal drinking club he ran out of his lock-up. Jack knew the way like the back of his hand. He led his friend through pitch-black streets, weaving their way down to the river. They were both in civvies and the night was cold, so Jack hurried his friend along, even though Norman wanted to stop at every pub on the way. ‘No! We’re going to Wide’ohs!’ Jack protested. ‘He’ll never run out of booze, believe me. I’ve unloaded enough of the stuff for him… endless supply!’

They came to an alleyway leading off Bermondsey Wall, just wide enough for a lorry. At the end of it was a cobbled courtyard where they found the back entrance to a warehouse. George had the lower floor. It served as a stockroom for contraband, his office, bolt-hole and a lucrative outlet for the black-market booze he acquired. With no licensing laws to interfere with trading and no middle man to cream off his profits, the place was a goldmine.

George came up to them and laid a heavy arm on Jack’s shoulder. ‘What y’avin’, son, you can’t go off to war dry!’

Jack looked proudly at Norman, aware his connection to Wide’oh gave him some kudos. Norman grinned.

They found their way to a barrel table in the corner of the warehouse that served as a bar. It was packed with servicemen and businessmen in suits, as well as working men, all rubbing shoulders in the dense smoke-filled cavern. The search for alcohol in an increasingly sober world was the only common denominator and George was doing good business tonight.

‘How’s your Joycie?’ George asked, pushing a bottle of Scotch towards Jack.

‘She’s lovely,’ Jack replied, smiling vacantly and digging into his pocket for a photo. The drink and the cold had somehow turned his fingers to blunt instruments, but eventually he pushed the photo over to George.

‘ATS. Still looks smashing, even in uniform.’ Jack looked proudly at the image of his fiancée.

‘You got time to do a little job for me tonight, Jack?’ George bent down to fill up Jack’s glass.

Jack waved his hand vaguely. ‘Noooo! Sorry, Wide’oh, can’t. Joycie made me promise when I went in the army – no more bent jobs for me.’

‘Promised Joycie?’ George gave a wheezy laugh. ‘You shouldn’t put up with that. Nip it in the bud, son, let her know who’s boss!’ He straightened up stiffly. ‘Anyway, if you change your mind just let me know.’ With that George went off to speak to another customer.

‘Joycie got you under the thumb then?’ Norman asked.

‘Not likely!’ Jack protested and then looked sharply at his friend. ‘Did you ever ask my little sis out?’

‘I reckon she’s seeing someone on the quiet,’ Norman said, sucking whiskey through his crooked teeth.

‘You mean she said no!’ Jack tipped back on his chair and roared with laughter.

Norman dropped his long chin to his chest and pushed the chair back. Stumbling forward, he mumbled, ‘Going for a jimmy riddle.’

Jack was left alone and George wandered back over.

‘Need a top-up?’ He poured more Scotch for Jack and leaned in to whisper. ‘Can you do me that favour? It’s nothing much, just delivering a packet to a mate of mine, needs to get there tonight, but I can’t do it – me breathing’s playing up.’ And he thumped his chest with a balled fist. ‘It’s on your way home…’

‘Oh, all right, can’t do no harm.’ Jack shrugged.

George produced a small flat parcel and a handprinted address from his pocket.

‘Any time tonight. But don’t get too pissed and lose it!’ George slipped a ten bob note into Jack’s top pocket. ‘Get yerself some fags on the boat. Good luck, son,’ he said, walking off.

Jack looked down at the photo of Joycie. ‘Sorry, darl,’ he said, ‘just one more job.’ When Norman came back Jack topped his glass up and toasted Joycie and May and whoever else came to mind, and when the bottle was empty, suddenly mindful of his early train the next day, pulled Norman to his feet. ‘Better go, mate.’

Norman slammed down his glass, covering the photo of Joycie still sitting on the barrel top. They pushed their way through the noisy crowd and didn’t hear George calling out. ‘Jack, you’ve forgotten Joycie!’ He was waving the photo at their retreating figures.

When they neared Norman’s home in Longley Street Jack stopped.

‘I think I’m going the wrong way,’ he said, twisting round in a full circle.

‘Well, I’m going this way,’ Norman said. He grabbed Jack’s hand and shook it vigorously. ‘Good luck, mate.’

‘You too, Norm.’

As Jack walked away from his friend, he squinted at the address George had given him. He couldn’t see it in the pitch-dark of the blackout. Luckily, he’d read it at the lock-up: Bombay Street, a side turning off the Blue, not too far from their house in Southwark Park Road. Jack made his zigzag way along the Blue until he came to Bombay Street. It ran along the railway arches, which housed the usual lock-ups and garages. The blackness was even more intense here; no reflected light penetrated the shadow of the brick viaduct. He walked the length of it, inspecting each arch, but was unable to find the right one.

Suddenly a rising wail split the night.

‘Shut up, moaning Minnie!’ he shouted at the siren. The part of his brain that wasn’t drunk urged him to take care – after all he had a fiancée to think about now. But he’d promised George and if he didn’t deliver the packet tonight he’d have no time in the morning. He shrugged up his coat collar and carried on, ignoring the siren’s warning. It didn’t help that he couldn’t walk in a straight line, and he collided with a carelessly placed tin dustbin halfway along the street. The bin clattered to the ground and, stumbling forward, Jack fell heavily to his knees.

‘Shit!’ he hissed as George’s packet flew out of his hand. He swept his hands in blind arcs over the slick road.

‘Sod it, where’s the packet? Where’s the bloody packet?’ he asked the impenetrable blackness. ‘George’ll kill me!’

Jack was still on his knees when he looked up to the sky, almost as if for help. He saw the German bomber, clearly caught in one of the dancing searchlight beams, tilted his head back for a better view and the whole world exploded around him.

*

When the all-clear sounded in a bleak dawn, May found she’d been gripping the wooden bunk-edge so tightly that her hands had fixed into rigid claws. Her mother was first out of the shelter.

‘Let me get out of here and see if me boy’s all right. If he’s slept in that house all night, he’ll get the sharp end of my tongue!’

‘Careful, Mum!’ May caught her as she stumbled over a huge lump of shrapnel. But she shrugged May off in her eagerness to get into the house.

As she emerged from the shelter, May saw how lucky they’d been. The blackened shell of the house opposite showed how close the bombs had come to them, but the only damage to her home was an incendiary bomb through the roof.

‘It’s still burning!’ Her father poked his head out of an upstairs window. He’d obviously returned from dealing with other people’s fires all night, only to be confronted with one in his own bedroom.

‘Is Jack up there?’ her mother called in a voice tight with anxiety.

‘No. Get the stirrup pump, May!’

Her father had made sure they all knew the drill. She carted the pump and bucket of water upstairs, coughing and choking as phosphorous invaded her lungs. May’s father began pumping the stirrup, while she crept across the floor, spraying a jet of water into the burning bedroom. They were congratulating each other on a job well done, when they heard someone shouting outside. ‘John Bull Arch has been hit!’

The John Bull Arch was the eleven-track railway viaduct which was their nearest public shelter. An iron gridwork of girders spanning Southwark Park Road, the pedestrian walkways beneath the brick arches were long enough to hold rows of bunks with room for more than a hundred people. May prayed that it hadn’t been a direct hit.

Hastily dousing their own fire, she and her father hurried down to the end of the street to see if there was anything they could do to help. But already the area around the bombed arch was swarming with tin-hatted volunteers. Besides, the road was blocked off. Flo and her husband were already there.

‘Not many got out alive,’ Flo said, in a hushed tone. ‘Pitiful, pitiful, what they’re bringing out.’ And the woman bent her head, blowing her nose with a soot-stained handkerchief.

‘Oh gawd forgive ’em, May.’

She shook her head, and the heavy-set woman’s shoulders heaved as her husband took her hand. ‘Come away, love, there’s nothing we can do here.’

May and her father accompanied them in silence, back to their own damaged houses. The ack-ack guns in the park, which May glimpsed through the trees, were silent as well and she found herself wishing they’d been more effective. If only that one plane, whose bomb had hit the arch, hadn’t got through. She didn’t wish any German mother’s son dead – though the prevailing mood prevented her from ever voicing such a heresy – yet today, she would have traded one German boy for all those innocents crushed beneath the arch. That’s what war did to you. She was learning.

May and her mother busied themselves cleaning up the fire-damaged bedroom and then helped Flo, whose house had come off worse than theirs. But as the day progressed and still Jack didn’t come home, her mother’s strength began to falter. Later, as the details of the bombing of the arch emerged and they found out that the bomb had gone straight through the railway line into the shelter below, killing almost everyone, she saw her mother quail. May had once seen a wall sucked out by a bomb blast. It bent, buckled, then sprang back into place. Now her mother’s whole body did the same. Outwardly she appeared steady and solid, but May had seen her dissolve.

When Jack didn’t return home that day May began to fear the worst. Either he’d been caught in the raid or thought better of going overseas and deserted, though she couldn’t see Jack ever going AWOL. Her father called May aside; his ashen face filled her with fear.