Octavia's War (14 page)

‘We've come without our pillows,' Barbara told her.

‘'Ave yer, duck?' Mrs Holdsworthy said. ‘Well, never mind. You can have a lend a' mine if you like. You'll 'ave ter keep your 'ead still or I shall spike you with me curlers.'

‘You wouldn't,' Barbara said, much impressed. ‘Would you?'

‘Oh, I'm a devil with me curlers.'

‘I'll make a pillow of my coat,' Edie said, and did. ‘Now let's have you settled.'

‘We don't have to go to sleep yet,' Maggie said. ‘We've only just got here. It's not time.'

‘It's past time,' Edie said firmly, ‘as well you know, so yes, you do.' It was chilly without her coat and she was beginning to wonder whether she ought to have risked it and gone home for the things they needed. The girls were warm enough all bundled up in their coats and scarves but it would be hard sleeping on the platform without the sleeping bags and blankets to protect them.

It was a long difficult night. Edie turned and fidgeted and couldn't get comfortable no matter what position she tried and the children were as restless as she was. All three of them woke one after the other and had to be escorted into the tunnel so that they could have a wee and then took ages to settle again. Their immediate neighbour was snoring and so deeply asleep that even when Edie gave her a good hard poke she
didn't stir, and there seemed to be people coming and going all night long. It's because we're not sleeping, Edie thought. They probably do this every night only we sleep through it and don't notice it.

She was really glad when the first train came through and people began to stir and make ready for the day. ‘Come on you lot,' she said to her three girls. Now that the night was over, they were fast asleep rolled together in her coat and they looked really comfortable. It seemed a pity to wake them but they couldn't stay there now that the trains were running. ‘Six o'clock. Wake up. Let's get home and have a nice wash. You look like gypsies.'

‘I'll follow you down,' Mrs Holdsworthy said. ‘Must do me hair. See you later gels.'

It had been a bad raid. Edie could tell that the minute she stepped out into the morning darkness. The air was full of the smell of bombed houses, that horrible combination of brick dust and gas and shit that she knew so well and found so appalling. And there was shrapnel all over the place and shards of broken glass glinting on the pavement.

‘Mind where you're putting your feet,' she warned. ‘There's a lot of glass. Hold onto my hand, Joanie, there's a good girl. I don't want you running off. And you two hold on tight to one another.'

‘That's Mr Perkins' paper shop,' Maggie said, and stopped to take a closer look. Only half the shop was still standing and there was a great pile of rubble where the rest of it ought to have been and lots of men digging and a very strong smell of gas. ‘Look, Mum, Mr Perkins been bombed.'

‘Yes,' Edie said shortly. ‘Come on. They won't want us in the way if they've got all this to clear up. I thought you wanted to get home.'

They trailed along beside her looking back at the wreckage, wide-eyed and serious. She gave their hands a tug to get them to walk more quickly because she didn't want them to see someone being dug out. That wouldn't do at all. ‘Cup of tea,' she said, ‘and then a nice wash.' And she turned the corner into Wycliffe Road.

Even in the poor light of a bombed dawn, she could see that there was rubble all over the road. Oh my God, she thought, it must be one of the neighbours. As they got closer to it, she saw that it was actually a long trail of broken bricks that led to a great jagged pile of bricks and planks and rubble. It looked as if it had just spilt out onto the pavement and it had obviously come from somewhere very near her house. Very, very near. Almost… Then she was stopped by a moment of disbelief and horror, too shocked to move on. Oh dear God, it was right where their house was. No, she corrected herself, not where their house was, where their house had been. She stood quite still holding her two youngest children firmly by the hand, stunned and staring. There was nothing left if it. Not a single brick. It was just a great gaping hole. Their home, where they were going to have a nice cup of tea and a nice wash. Oh my dear, good God! What am I going to do?

The girls were stunned too. They didn't cry and they didn't move and they didn't speak. They just stood where they were, holding her hand and staring. She knew she ought to say something to comfort them, poor little things, but her mind was stuck and she couldn't think of anything. This was my home, she thought. My lovely home. And there's nothing left of it.

She was aware that there was somebody standing beside her and looked round to see Mr Topham. At first she thought he looked like a ghost in that dreadful darkness but then she
realised that he was covered in dust, his dark suit smeared all down the front, and his shoes so white it looked as though he'd been walking through flour. Even his moustache was dusty, poor man, and he looked so drawn that for a moment she barely recognised him.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘Direct hit, I'm afraid. We've had a right night of it. What a blessing you was in the Tube. Was Mrs Holdsworthy with you?'

‘Yes,' she said, looking back at the hole that had been her home. Where had everything gone? It couldn't just have disappeared, all the sheets and the pillow cases and the cooker and her nice clock and everything. Then she saw that half of Arthur's chair was sticking out of the pile, covered in dust, and that two of her best cups were lying next to the legs all chipped and filthy. Bloody Hitler, she thought, doing this to me.

‘I'll just make my report,' Mr Topham said, ‘and let them know you're OK. Be back in a jiffy.'

Barbara was pulling at her mother's sleeve and whispering urgently. ‘Mummy, mummy. What are we going to do?'

She gave herself a shake and took a decision. ‘We're going to catch a train and go to your Aunt Tavy's,' she said.

Octavia and Emmeline had overslept that morning and were sitting by the kitchen fire swathed in their dressing gowns gathering their thoughts before they began the day. It was Sunday so there was no rush.

‘The nice thing about Sunday,' Emmeline said, ‘is having time for an extra cup of tea with your feet on the fender.' And then, just as she settled her cup into its saucer, the doorbell rang.

‘I'll go,' Octavia said. ‘It's bound to be for me.' Janet was
upstairs cleaning the bathroom and there was no point in calling her down just to answer the door. ‘I'll get it, Janet,' she called from the hall.

The surprise of seeing Edie and her children on the doorstep quickly turned to shock when she realised what a dishevelled state they were in, their hair unbrushed, their faces filthy dirty, with no luggage.

‘We've been bombed out, Aunt,' Edie said. Her voice was totally without emotion, as though she was speaking in a dream. ‘It's all gone.'

Octavia was mentally checking them over, looking for signs of blood or injury and relieved not to find any. ‘Never mind,' she said, comforting at once and by instinct. ‘You're here now.' And she took the nearest child by the arm and led her into the house, calling over her shoulder for Emmeline. ‘Em! It's Edie.'

Emmeline came out of the kitchen in a rush, took one look and ran towards them. ‘Oh my dear, good God!' she said. ‘What's happened to you? Are you all right?'

‘They've been bombed out,' Octavia told her calmly, ‘but they're all right. They haven't been hurt. Have you? No, I thought not. And I'll bet you haven't had any breakfast either.'

‘We came straight here,' Edie said, still stony-faced.

‘Quite right,' Octavia said, and turned to the girls. ‘Let's get you into the kitchen and see what you could fancy,' she said. ‘And then we must get you into a bath, mustn't we, Em?'

To her considerable relief, Em took her cue and led the children into the kitchen. ‘Nice pot of tea,' she said. ‘And then I'll rustle up some nice boiled eggs and soldiers. How would that be? Would you like a boiled egg, Joanie?'

And at that Edie began to cry, her whole body shaken by tearing sobs, on and on and on. Emmeline let go of Barbara's
hand and turned her full attention to her daughter. She put her arms round her, kissed her and held her, murmuring to her as though she was a child. ‘Never mind my little lovely. I've got you. You're all right now. Never you mind. We'll look after you.'

Octavia left them to it. There were other things that had to be attended to and she was already thinking about them. People who'd been bombed out got special ration cards and allowances to help them with the things they needed, like food and clothes. They couldn't live in the same clothes for long so the sooner she saw about that the better. Now who would know? The WVS probably. What was the name of that nice woman who helped us when we first arrived? We must have a record of it somewhere. Maggie would have it. And she took the phone off the hook.

Maggie was having a bit of a lie-in too that morning. It had been a difficult week. But she got up at once when the phone rang and walked quickly across the room to answer it.

‘You don't happen to have the name and address of that nice WVS woman, do you?' Octavia said. ‘The one who gave us the list of all the billets when we first got down'

‘I can't remember it off hand,' Maggie said, ‘but I know where it is. Hold on a tick and I'll get it for you.'

Thank God for our Maggie, Octavia thought. Now what else has got to be done? She reached for a pencil and began to make notes on the telephone pad. Clothes. Make list. Where to buy? Primary schools. London or local? Beds and bedding. Chertsey Road? What a good job we've got those two rooms in the attic. Inform ARP at Colliers Wood. Register ration books. Library tickets.

After the shock of their arrival, Edie and the girls settled in extremely quickly. By the time the children had all been put in a warm bath and made presentable, Janet had given the attic rooms a quick brush and polish and made up the double bed for them. ‘Now you have a nice little rest,' Emmeline said, tucking them under the clean sheets, ‘and when you wake up you shall have dinner with us and then you've all feel much better.' Privately, she was worrying about how little food she'd got in the cupboard and thinking what a nuisance it was that it was Sunday and she couldn't go shopping, but it was a minor worry, she would soon work something out. The great thing was that they hadn't been hurt.

‘Sleep tight, my ducks,' she said as she left the room. ‘You're with me now.'

Lizzie Meriton was looking forward to Christmas that year. She knew she couldn't go back to London and spend it with her family. The bombing had put paid to that. But her brothers were coming down to see her, they'd promised faithfully, and so had her mother and Pa, and there was the sixth-form play to look forward to and the music festival and the Downview party. It was going to be a good time, Smithie said so. And if Smithie said so, you could depend on it.

The weather was foul, damp and cold and miserably dark, but inside their two school buildings the walls were sun-bright with paper chains and lanterns and there were boldly coloured pictures all along the corridors, thanks to Miss Bertram and her art classes, and they sang their favourite carols at every assembly. It was normal, like it had been in Roehampton, when there weren't bombs and people getting killed and injured, or dog-fights and people getting shot down and having to worry about your brothers, when it was peaceful and you could get on with your life in your own home and sleep in your own bed and see your Pa every day. What a long time ago Roehampton seemed! A lifetime. But Christmas was coming and it was going to be lovely. Smithie said so.

Edie was looking forward to the holiday too, which quite
surprised her, because when her house had been bombed she'd thought she would never be able to enjoy anything ever again. But there you are, she told herself, you get over things somehow or other and Aunt Tavy's making such an effort with this Christmas it would be unkind not to enjoy it. They were going to have a family party and Dora was going to try and get down and had promised that, if she did, she would bring David with her, and John too if he could get home, and Johnnie had written to Ma to say that he would do ‘his darndest' to join them ‘and he couldn't say better than that'. Of course, she kept thinking of poor Arthur, all on his own in that horrible prison camp, but she and the girls had sent him the best parcel they could put together, with a pair of
hand-knitted
socks to keep him warm and the writing paper and envelopes he'd asked for and even a bar of Nestle's chocolate she'd bought with her sweet ration, and she'd written him a long letter telling him how much she loved him and wanted to see him again, and the girls had painted special Christmas cards for him. Even Joanie had made a card of sorts scribbled all over with her coloured crayons and with her name written inside, with a bit of help from Maggie. And now everyone in the house was getting ready for Christmas Day.

Janet seemed to be everywhere all the time and always hard at work, making up camp beds and giving all the rooms a thorough good clean, answering the phone and the door, up and about long before everyone else, making the breakfast. She said she wanted to get everything good and ready before she went to Gateshead. Ma was in her element with all the family coming. She'd made a huge Christmas pudding. The house had smelt of it for days. There was a cake too, not iced of course because the sugar ration wouldn't run to that and in any case you weren't allowed to ice cakes, but a nice cake
just the same. Aunt Tavy had made a wreath of holly and hung it over the door knocker; and the house was decorated with paper chains; and there were carols on the wireless; and the Christmas cards were beginning to arrive, even though it was only the 10
^th
of December. We're eager for it, she thought, because it's the season of peace and goodwill. But thinking the words upset her because there was no peace, the bombing was still going on and Arthur was still a prisoner of war, and not much goodwill either. The papers kept saying that Hitler's U-boats were sinking our merchant ships every single day and hinting that the rations were going to be reduced again when the holiday was over. But for the moment it was Christmas and candles were lit behind the blackout. And the war couldn't go on forever. It had to end sooner or later.

Octavia felt she was carrying a heavy burden that season. It was important for everything to go well and for her family and her pupils to have the best possible time of it, but the closer it came the more she foresaw the possibility of failure, particularly at home. The rations were so tight now and there was so little extra food in the local shops that there were days when she wondered whether she ought to go to London and see if she could get a few extras on the black market. It was against her socialist principles but something had to be done.

In the end it was Tommy Meriton who solved her problem for her. He and Elizabeth arrived to visit Lizzie one dank afternoon at the end of December, asking for permission to take her to Guildford for tea, and when the school day was over and his daughter had been safely returned to Downview, he turned up on Octavia's doorstep carrying a hamper. It was obviously very heavy and he and Elizabeth were grinning widely.

‘There you are, my dear,' he said to Tavy, when he'd carried it into the house. ‘To add to the feast.'

It was a mouthwatering collection of Christmas food, an enormous turkey – how on earth did he get that? – a ham, tinned peaches, tinned pears, a box of marrons glacés, sugared almonds in a transparent paper cone tied with a trailing ribbon, shortbread biscuits in a tartan tin, three bottles of wine, a vintage port and a huge box of chocolates.

‘Good God!' she said. ‘However did you manage to get all this?'

‘Trips to America, old thing,' he explained. ‘I gather you like it?'

‘I'm overwhelmed,' she said and it was true. ‘Thank you so much.'

‘Happy Christmas,' he said and kissed her.

So it was a luxurious Christmas after all and Emmeline's children and grandchildren all managed to get to Woking to enjoy it. The two Johns couldn't join them until Boxing Day but they were given such a rapturous welcome that it soon felt as if they'd been there all the time, and there was plenty of cold ham and turkey to feed them on and Emmeline was so happy she couldn't stop smiling.

‘I don't know when I've had such a good Christmas,' she said when the meal was over and they were clearing the dishes.

‘And there's still the evening to come,' Octavia said. She'd got a surprise for them and she couldn't wait to reveal it.

That afternoon as they digested their meal, they played Pit by the drawing room fire and pushed the chairs into a circle so that they could play charades and decided they really didn't want to listen to the news. ‘It's bound to be bad,' Emmeline said. ‘And we've had enough bad news. Who's for a cup of tea?'

Tea and a slice of her cake and then a pause, while she made up the fire.

‘Don't put the chairs back round the fire,' Octavia said. ‘Push them up against the wall.'

‘Why?' the children asked. ‘Why, Aunty Tavy?'

‘Because we're going to dance,' Octavia told them.

‘In here?' Dora said. ‘But there's no piano. What'll we dance to?'

‘There's a gramophone,' she told them, standing beside its unobtrusive cabinet. ‘Look!' And she lifted the lid to show them the turntable and opened the fancy double doors to reveal a stash of records, all standing together neat and upright in their brown paper sleeves. ‘What do you fancy? There's Roger de Coverley and The Dashing White Sergeant, or a quickstep or a waltz, or you could have a polka. Your choice.'

Barbara chose a polka, even though she didn't know what it was, and the record was pulled from its sleeve and put on the turntable, while they all stood round to hear what it would be like. ‘Come on,' Tavy said, holding out her arms to the nearest child. ‘One, two, three, hop. One, two, three, hop. See?'

Soon they were all squealing and hopping together, Dora and John, David and Barbara, Edie and Joan, Maggie and her Uncle Johnnie. The room was hot and grew hotter as they spun and giggled. And when the record stopped and Joanie said, ‘Do it again!' they laughed and clapped and said, ‘Yes, do!' until Tavy put it on again.

‘Change partners,' she ordered. ‘Johnnie to dance with his mother.'

‘I can't dance,' Emmeline protested. ‘You know that. I'm too fat.'

‘Rot!' Johnnie said. ‘You're just a good armful.' And he seized her round the waist and spun her away, still protesting
but hopping with the rest of them. It was, as she said, when the dancing was finally done and the children were taken off to bed, ‘the best Christmas I've ever had.'

But Octavia was wondering how people were getting on in London and whether there'd been a raid. It would be too dreadful to be bombed out on Christmas Day.

There were no raids reported in the papers next morning which pleased her even though she knew that the lack of news could have been because the editor had censored it. But there were more raids planned, nobody had any doubt about that, and the Blitz certainly wasn't over. On the 29
^th
of December when there was a low tide on the Thames and a full moon – which Londoners were learning to call a bombers' moon – there was a massive and terrifyingly destructive raid on the City. Goering knew what he was about, for the first bombs to be dropped were thousands of incendiaries, so many, that when the AFS arrived to deal with them, the water in the hydrants ran dry. On every other occasion when this had happened, they'd taken the water they needed from the river, but on that night the tide was so low it couldn't be done and without water to fight them the fires raged out of control. St Paul's was ringed by a roaring inferno and the flames were so high and so fierce they could be seen in the suburbs. It was a terrible night. And Elizabeth Meriton was in the middle of it.

Tommy had been none too pleased when she'd told him she was going to a night club. ‘Tonight?' he'd said.

‘I did tell you, my dear,' she said, brushing her hair. ‘It's Annabella's fiftieth birthday.'

‘I'd rather you didn't.'

‘I've promised her.'

‘Put it off,' he said. ‘It's my last night at home.' He was off to the States again the next morning, as she knew very well.

‘I can't do that,' she said. ‘You know I can't. I'll see you when you get back.'

‘But that'll be weeks.'

‘Eight days,' she corrected, smiling at him.

‘You're a hard-hearted woman,' he said, pretending to complain. ‘I was going to take you out to dinner, make a fuss of you, soft lights, champagne, sweet music and all that sort of thing. Now I suppose I've got to stay here all on my own and finish off the goose.'

‘Afraid so,' she said, putting on her lipstick.

‘What time will you get back?'

‘Not till the early hours I shouldn't think. You know what Annabella's like.'

She looked quite delectably pretty sitting at her dressing table with her hair brushed and shining, her lips reddened and the pearl necklace he'd given her glowing against her throat. As he watched her, she leant forward towards the mirror so that he saw three images of her, with her left and right profile flanking the full beauty of her face and he was filled with the oddest yearning, almost as if he was seeing her for the last time. ‘Please don't go,' he said.

She stood up, slipped out of her negligee and stepped into her dress, arranging it carefully. It was her red silk, the one he'd always liked the most. ‘Zip me up, my darling,' she said, turning her back on him. He obeyed her, as he always did, and she turned to the mirror to check that everything was as it should be, saying, ‘How do I look?' the way she always did.

‘Beautiful,' he told her.

She took his face between her hands and kissed him, very gently so as not to smudge her lipstick. ‘Darling Tommy,' she said. ‘I shall be back before you know it.'

It was lonely in the house without her, so he went to his club, where he had a lively night with several old friends. They spent most of it in the cellars because the sirens went almost as soon as they'd arrived but that was no hardship because most cellars were pretty comfortably furnished by then, and there were cards to play and plenty to drink.

Just after midnight, Tubby Ponsonby arrived to tell them that all hell was breaking loose in the City and he and Tommy went upstairs to the third floor lounge to have a look. The long room was completely empty and the blackout tightly drawn so they had some difficulty edging their way past too many easy chairs in the smoky darkness, but eventually, after some cussing, they reached the window, opened the curtains and looked out into the night. Pall Mall was so clearly lit they could see every stone in the building opposite shining whitely in the moonlight. Above their heads, the black sky was patterned with the long white beams of the searchlights, swinging and searching. There was no doubt that there was a big raid going on. They could smell the smoke of the fires even behind their unopened window and hear the throb of the bombers, and when they craned their necks they could see a terrifying forest of flames, rising and writhing as thick as tree trunks amid sudden showers of red sparks.

‘I wouldn't like to be in the fire service tonight,' Tubby said. ‘And that's a fact.'

‘I wouldn't like to be in the fire service any night,' Tommy told him, watching the flames. ‘They're bloody heroes.' But he was thinking of Elizabeth and feeling relieved that the
Germans were attacking the City instead of going for the West End. She'll probably see all this too, he thought, if she can drag herself away from her friends, but she won't be at risk. It pleased him to think that they would be sitting at their breakfast table in an hour or so talking it all over. How callous you get in wartime, he thought. There are men out there risking their lives, people getting killed and injured, and all I'm thinking about is whether my wife is safe.

The night went noisily on. They played cards, drank whisky, dozed. At half past two Tommy decided he'd had enough of club life and ought to go home. ‘Good idea, old fruit,' Tubby said. ‘I shall follow you.' But he was too squiffy to stand up so he stayed where he was.