Keep Smiling Through (25 page)

Gladys clambered clumsily onto the bike, leaving Rita very little room on the seat. ‘You will take it easy, won’t you, dear?’ she said breathlessly. ‘The last time I sat on one of these things was when Bert and I were courting – and I didn’t like it much.’

Rita took off her old leather flying helmet and settled it over Gladys’s freshly permed hair, fastening the buckle beneath her many chins before topping it off with her tin helmet. ‘Just close your eyes and hold on,’ she said soothingly. ‘You’ll be fine.’

Gladys gripped her round the waist and tucked herself tightly to Rita’s back. They set off for the hills at a sedate pace and finally sped up as they began to climb the steep, uneven track across the windswept grass, the partially shielded headlight making little difference to the darkness. They passed the soldiers manning the Bofors guns and the volunteers manning the searchlights, waving back to them as they headed for the circle of sandbags which had been set on the southernmost tip of the chalk cliffs.

Mike Summers was having a crafty fag, leaning against the sandbags as if he was on holiday. Of average height and build, he was in his late forties and usually worked for the corporation as a dustman. He had very dark curly hair and a raffish moustache, which Rita suspected were dyed, and, like his best friend, Jim Reilly, usually had pockets filled with black-market goods which he tried to sell at every opportunity.

Rita cut the engine and helped a rather unsteady Gladys climb off.

Mike stamped on the cigarette and came towards them. ‘Ladies,’ he said, with a beaming smile. ‘It’s your lucky night. I’ve got packets of writing paper and envelopes which I can let you have at a very special price.’

‘Keep them in your pocket, Mike,’ said Gladys, who was still a bit flustered. ‘We’re not interested in your hooky gear.’

‘I’m cut to the quick, Gladys.’ He put his hand to his heart dramatically. ‘My merchandise is of the highest quality.’

‘I’m sure it is, Mike,’ said Rita, ‘but we’re not on a shopping trip, so let’s get prepared for the real job in hand.’ She led the way into the dubious shelter of the sandbags and dumped her gas mask box on one of the benches. ‘Have you checked the radio’s working, that there’s enough water in the buckets, and the stirrup pump doesn’t jam like it did the other night?’

He nodded, his good humour still firmly in place as usual. ‘All checked, and as you can see, I’ve even put the kettle on.’

Rita grinned at him. For all his nefarious ways he had a certain charm and reminded her a bit of Jim Reilly. ‘Good,’ she said, turning off the primus stove as the tin kettle began to whistle. ‘It’s freezing up here.’

‘I’ve got the answer to that,’ he said proudly, taking a small bottle of brandy from one of his voluminous pockets. ‘A drop of this in the tea will perk us up no end.’

They sat huddled round the old oil heater and sipped the doctored tea, glad of the meagre warmth and the companionship as the wind howled across the land and tossed giant waves onto the promenade far below them. It was a bitter night, with bright stars and a three-quarter moon not quite hidden by the scudding clouds, and although Rita could appreciate the grandeur of her surroundings, she found them daunting and was relieved not to be out here alone.

The radio crackled into life some half-hour later. ‘Alert. Alert. Enemy approaching across Channel. Large numbers fighters and bombers.’

Mike swiftly responded as Gladys and Rita turned off the heater, adjusted their tin hats and picked up their night-sight binoculars to scan the horizon. The sirens began their mournful, blood-chilling wails which built swiftly to a crescendo, and the searchlight beams grew from pale yellow fingers to blinding blue-white spears that pierced the darkness.

A few minutes later Rita saw the ominous dark cloud sprawling across the horizon – could make out the pinpricks of their wing lights and hear the distant thunder of their intimidating and determined approach. They were still beyond the reach of the guns which were no doubt primed and ready to blow them out of the air, but the Hawker Hurricanes and Spitfires were already racing to meet them – to harry and shoot them down before they could reach their target. She looked up, the pride swelling inside as wave upon wave of British fighters came from every nearby airfield to join in the battle.

They watched in awed and terrified silence as Heinkels, Dorniers and Junkers thundered purposefully on while their escort of Messerschmidts became entangled in deadly dogfights with the Spitfires and Hurricanes. The very air trembled with the noise as the big guns boomed in rapid succession, tracer bullets zipped and pom-poms burst brightly amongst the sweeping searchlight beams. The earth shook and the downdraught had them flattened against the wall of sandbags as they desperately tried to keep watch for incendiary bombs.

They gasped in horror as two fighter planes collided in a fiery explosion over the sea, and another spun out of control and crashed in a blaze of flame further down the coast. One of the enemy bombers had been so disabled it turned tail and headed ponderously for the other side of the Channel, harried on all sides by darting Spitfires. Moments before it disappeared in a bright, blinding flash, it dropped its lethal cargo harmlessly into the water, where it caused a giant fountain which threatened to swamp the fishing boats anchored on the beach.

Rita kept the binoculars firmly to her eyes, scanning the skies and all over the town for sight of Gerry’s deadliest weapon: the parachute mine. These acted as blast bombs, detonating at roof level rather than on impact, maximising the blast instead of the shock waves being cushioned by surrounding buildings. These shock waves could reach a wider area than those of a normal bomb, with the potential to destroy a whole street of houses, and blow in every window within a two-mile radius. She had seen pictures of the devastation they had caused in London and Coventry. So far, Cliffehaven had escaped, but it was vital to stay alert and not be distracted by the activity in the skies above her.

The angry swarm of enemy bombers droned relentlessly on, darkening the seaside town in its shadow. And then she saw them – hundreds of tiny parachutes dropping from the enemy planes at the rear of the swarm to drift, sway and spin almost lazily towards Cliffehaven.

‘Parachute mines,’ she yelled to Mike. ‘There’re too many to count, and a lot have gone in the sea, but it looks as if the majority will hit the industrial estate.’

She heard him talk urgently into the radio, but was helpless to do anything more than watch as one after the other the mines exploded – lighting up the town, blasting buildings to smithereens as their toxic flames spread in a flash-fire to consume everything in their path. She couldn’t make out much detail, there was too much smoke, but knew Cliffehaven well enough to realise the industrial estate and the railway lines were certainly tonight’s targets.

The mines continued to explode, even though the enemy was no longer overhead. And as Cliffehaven burned, they could hear the distant thunder and crump of heavy bombing behind them and knew what it must mean.

She and Gladys turned and saw the hazy red glow spreading into the sky. The airfield was under attack.

Mike had seen it too and was talking urgently into the radio as Gladys and Rita returned to their watching posts. They could now hear the clamour of fire engine and ambulance bells, could see the bright orange lick of flames pierce the shroud of acrid smoke and dust that rose above the town.

Rita’s hands were shaking and her heart hammered as she tried to focus in on the station and the houses behind it. But the pall of smoke was too thick, and the binoculars weren’t powerful enough to reach that far. ‘Please, God,’ she whispered, ‘don’t let anything bad happen to Louise.’

‘We’re all in God’s hands tonight,’ said Gladys as she put her arm around her. ‘You keep praying, Rita, but I’m sure Louise will be quite safe in the shelter. You’ll see.’

‘I just feel so helpless stuck up here.’

‘You’re doing a worthwhile job, lass, and those down there know what they’re about. They’ll be putting out the fires and tending to the injured, relying on us to warn them of any more attacks. Best to just sit tight and get this night over with.’

Rita knew she was right, but there were people down there in the burning town that she loved. Had Barrow Lane escaped the incendiaries? Was Beach View still standing? Had Louise kept her promise and gone to the shelter? As Gladys had said, they were in God’s hands, and she had to keep faith in Him and trust no harm had come to those she treasured.

‘Grandpa, there really isn’t enough room for Harvey in here, and he’s stinking the place out. He’ll have to be put in the shed.’

Ron gathered Harvey into his lap and held him tightly to his chest. ‘You refuse to let us go and help those poor benighted souls out there, and yet you deny this old hero the right to safety in here. What’s the matter with you, girl?’

Anne glared at him. ‘You’re not well enough to be out tonight, and Harvey’s been eating pickled onions again. The smell he’s making is turning my stomach.’

‘He’s just a bit on the nervous side, so he is,’ muttered Ron, wrapping the dog’s rear end in the folds of his large coat. ‘And anyway, this place doesn’t smell too pretty at the best of times. I don’t know what you’re complaining about.’

Anne fell silent as the enemy bombers flew in, wave upon wave, above them. They could all hear the fighter planes battling it out, the scream of their engines, the rattle of their guns so sharp against the throaty boom of the big guns. But to Anne those terrifying sounds held a deadly resonance, for Martin was up there somewhere, dicing with death to protect everything they held dear. Her father was out fire-watching on the roof of the cinema as well, doing his bit, becoming more exhausted by the day from lack of sleep as he tried to hold down his normal job and fulfil his duties with the Home Guard.

What a terrible war this is, she thought. It was heartbreaking to think of her mother and little brothers being so far away, and terrifying to be carrying a precious baby who would probably be born in the midst of it all. She folded her cold hands protectively over her bump, feeling the baby move and squirm as if it wanted to be free of her.

‘We can only pray they’ll all come home,’ said Sylvia, taking her hand and tucking it into the folds of her mink coat, which she’d put across their knees. ‘I do understand what you must be going through, Anne, but it must be doubly hard to be carrying that baby without your mother close to hand.’

‘I know you do,’ Anne replied, grateful that at least someone really knew what she went through every time there was a raid. ‘But I can’t help worrying over Martin. He’s so very tired, exhausted really, and it only takes a moment of inattention—’

‘I bet you’ve never had to sit out a raid in a place like this, Lady Sylvia,’ interrupted Ron. ‘Damned roof is sweating, there’s always a puddle on the floor, and every bang and boom makes it shudder and sing. It’s a wonder to me any of us can survive without catching our deaths with pneumonia.’

‘Thanks, Grandpa,’ said Anne dryly. ‘I know I can always rely on you to cheer us up.’

‘As a matter of fact, Ron,’ said Sylvia above the roar of enemy engines, ‘I’ve spent many a night in places like this. I work as a volunteer at the local cottage hospital, and their shelter is just as grim.’

Ron sniffed and shifted Harvey to a more comfortable position on his lap.

Anne checked on Mrs Finch, who had fallen asleep in her deckchair and would have slipped out of it if they hadn’t wedged her in with pillows and blankets. ‘There are times,’ she said with a sigh, ‘that I almost wish I was as deaf as her. At least she gets a good night’s sleep.’ She reached into the cardboard box and pulled out a packet of biscuits. ‘Anyone fancy one of these? They’re a bit stale, but they taste all right.’

They sat in the flickering light of the kerosene lamp and munched their rather soggy biscuits, trying not to flinch as a series of distant explosions made the ground tremble beneath them. ‘What about a game of I-spy?’ suggested Sylvia during a lull.

‘Not much to see in here,’ muttered Ron.

‘Ah, but there is if you let your imagination go to work and use your mind’s eye,’ replied Sylvia. ‘Think of all the things you like best and go from there. Shall I make a start?’

‘Sounds a bit daft to me,’ muttered Ron. ‘Are you sure you haven’t been at the cooking sherry?’

Sylvia laughed. ‘Quite sure. I absolutely hate sherry.’ She gripped Anne’s hand tightly as the scream of a stricken fighter plane ended in an explosive crash somewhere down on the seafront. ‘That was a Messerschmidt,’ she said calmly. ‘I’ve learned to recognise the sound of their engines.’

‘Start the game, Sylvia,’ urged Anne. ‘It would be good to take our mind off things.’

Sylvia smiled. ‘Very well. I spy with my mind’s little eye, something beginning with H,’ she said determinedly, ‘and it has nothing whatsoever to do with Harvey.’

The enemy bombers returned within the half-hour, but it seemed they had spent their deadly cargos and were in a hurry to get back to their bases on the other side of the Channel.

The Spitfires and Hurricanes were not prepared to give up the fight so easily and brought several of their fighters down and crippled quite a few of the bombers. But it had been at a high cost, for Rita and Gladys had counted at least three downed RAF planes, and there had been no sign of the pilots parachuting to safety.

It was almost dawn when the all-clear sounded, and Rita was wracked with impatience to get home and check on Louise. She fidgeted and paced as they waited to be stood down by the team that would take over from them, and when she saw the truck bouncing over the hills towards them, she told Gladys rather sharply to hurry up and get on the bike.

She was about to ride away when the driver of the truck swerved to cut her off. ‘Oy,’ he shouted through the window. ‘You Rita Smith?’

‘Yes,’ she managed, the fear for Louise making it hard to speak at all.

‘Got a message from John Hicks about your appointment up at the airfield this morning,’ he said cheerfully, clearly unaware of the fright he’d given her.