Sweet Memories of You (Beach View Boarding House) (12 page)

Doreen watched in growing disbelief and dread as the numbers of the dead increased and women screamed and sobbed over the pathetic remains of their children while men searched desperately for their loved ones, or simply slumped to the ground in shock, their faces blank and ashen with the sheer horror of it all. And through all this grim chaos, there was still no sign of Archie.

Still trembling with shock and sick with fear, she managed to get to her feet and stagger closer to the team of men working at the entrance to the tube. She stood aside while people emerged white-faced and shaken and children were handed up the line of willing rescuers to be scooped up by sobbing parents or the ladies from the WVS, who gave them tea and swaddled them in blankets.

Archie had to be helping the rescuers, she thought, otherwise she would have seen him by now. He was standing right next to her when she fell, so why wasn’t he up here yet?

‘Archie!’ she yelled. ‘Archie, are you down there?’

‘Stand aside, miss,’ said a grim-faced ARP warden. ‘There ain’t no one alive down there to hear you.’

She froze, unable to accept what he was saying. ‘But he must be there,’ she breathed. ‘He’s big and strong and probably helping get people out.’

A policeman came and took her arm. ‘Now, now, miss, you come with me and have a nice cuppa. I’m sure you’ll find him soon.’

She wrested her arm from his grip, wincing as the movement jarred her painful ribs. ‘I don’t want tea,’ she retorted. ‘I want Archie, and I’m not leaving here until I …’

Her eyes widened as two men emerged from the blackness carrying a stretcher. There was a blanket over the body, but the arm that hung down from beneath it was covered in Navy issue blue, there were gold bands at the cuff, and Archie’s signet ring gleamed on his finger. ‘No,’ she breathed. ‘No, no, no.’

As if wading through the morass of a hampering, clinging nightmare, she found she was following the stretcher bearers, and as he was gently lowered to the pavement she fell to her knees beside him. Numbed by pain and shock, her hand trembled as she drew back the blanket that covered his face.

And there was Archie, his blue eyes staring through her to some far-off place, the laughter and life that had once shone from them now dulled and blank in death.

‘Archie?’ Doreen gently cradled his large head in her arms, her tears washing away the grime from his face – a face turned puce as he was smothered and crushed by the weight of all those who’d fallen on him. ‘Archie,’ she sobbed as she rocked back and forth, her fingers running through his thick black hair before cupping his face and covering it with kisses as if by sheer will she could breathe life back into him.

He lay heavy and still in her arms and she lifted her face to the skies and howled her anguish at the scudding clouds. How could he be dead when only minutes before they’d been talking about their future together? How could he be dead when he was so strong and sturdy – such a giant of a man who’d survived almost three years on the deadly Atlantic?

She bowed her head, resting her cheek against his, already feeling the first chill of death on his skin as her hot tears fell. How could fate have been so savage as to take this gentle, sweet man from her when all they’d wanted was to be together? And yet fate had shown no mercy, for it had snatched away their future in a moment, leaving her bereft and heartbroken.

Unaware of the turmoil around her, Doreen sat on the cold, damp pavement with Archie cradled to her heart as the unrelenting rain fell from an uncaring sky.

‘Come on, love. We need to take him now.’

She looked up at the policeman and the warden, her thoughts shifting sluggishly as she tightened her grip on Archie and shook her head.

‘Come on, miss,’ the policeman coaxed softly. ‘We can’t leave him here in the rain.’

‘Where will you take him?’ she asked as she continued to hold Archie to her heart.

‘To the local morgue, miss. I’m sorry.’

She looked up at the men and a small part of her realised how difficult all this must be for them – and yet how could she let them take Archie from her? A morgue was cold and impersonal, and the final proof that Archie was gone. She tightened her grip on him, her thoughts in turmoil at all that she’d lost on this terrible night. Archie had been so full of life and energy; now she would never hear his laughter again or share an East End supper of eels and pies – or make love and see out their old age together surrounded by their children.

‘Come on, love. I understand you don’t want to let him go, but it’s time. Really it is.’

She stared up at the policeman and saw from his expression that he really did understand the anguish she was going through – and that she had no option but to let them take Archie from her. She kissed his unresponsive lips for the last time and gently closed his eyes before allowing the warden to help her to her feet.

Once Archie’s identification papers had been drawn from his pocket and placed on his chest, the blanket was drawn back over his face and two ARP wardens carried the stretcher to a large army truck and deposited it in the flatbed alongside the other bodies.

‘I want to go with him.’

‘I’m sorry, miss, that won’t be possible.’ The policeman’s face was lined and grey from the horrors he’d witnessed. ‘But take this card. It’s the address of the undertaker so you can make arrangements.’

Doreen took the card without reading it, her whole attention focused on the still figures beneath the blankets that would accompany her Archie to the morgue. As the truck’s engine rumbled and the wheels began to turn she stood there in the rain unable to move – and as it disappeared around the corner and the sound of the engine faded, it was as if the living, breathing part of her had been carried away with it.

She slowly became aware of other trucks being loaded with the same tragic cargo – and as the sounds of sorrow finally penetrated her numbed senses, she realised she was not alone in her grief. ‘How many lost their lives tonight?’ she managed.

‘We estimated there were about three hundred people trapped on those steps,’ the warden said grimly. ‘Sixty have been sent to hospital, and so far we’ve counted 173 dead.’ He cleared his throat, his eyes bright with unshed tears. ‘That includes sixty-two children.’

Doreen’s tears fell down her cheeks to mingle with the rain. ‘Something must be done to prevent this ever happening again,’ she said fiercely.

‘You can rely on that, miss.’

She looked up at him. ‘It was a false alarm, wasn’t it? There was no raid?’

‘It looks that way, miss,’ he agreed with great reluctance. ‘But I would advise you not to talk about what happened here this evening. Such a thing could be used as propaganda by the Nazis, and would be a terrible blow to British morale.’

Doreen nodded, mute with grief and still trembling with shock. The last thing she wanted to do was talk about it, for the horror of what had happened here would live with her for the rest of her life.

Peggy heard the pips going off and continued to prepare the evening meal in the hope that it was just a precaution and wouldn’t turn into an all-out raid. They’d been going off half the damned day, and she was sick and tired of always being on edge.

Bertie Double-Barrelled had telephoned to say that he and Cordelia were staying on at the Conservative Club to play bridge and have a light supper before they joined the party at the Anchor. It was clear that someone was having a good time, and Peggy was just glad for Cordelia – although she’d have given almost anything for a slap-up lunch and supper there herself. Now it was very late and already quite dark outside, and the others would be home soon, as hungry as hunters to find that, because of all the day’s delays, Peggy was well behind her usual schedule.

She had just placed the casserole dish into the slow oven of her Kitchener range when the sirens began to wail. She gave a groan of frustration and closed the door on the range fire, then scooped Daisy off the floor, plonked her in the pram which she’d left in the basement and hurried down the garden path. The pram just fitted through the entrance to the Anderson shelter, and she wheeled it in and firmly strapped a wriggling, protesting Daisy into it.

Running back to the house, she fetched her overcoat and the emergency box, then dashed back to the shelter where Daisy was now yelling fit to bust. Peggy got her out, shoved the pram into the garden and shut the door. Sinking onto the bench, she held on to Daisy as she fiddled in the darkness to light the lantern which swung from the roof, and once she could see what she was doing, she unfurled the small rug and placed it on the floor.

Daisy was all smiles now she was free, and Peggy gave her some toys to play with on the rug while the planes from Cliffe roared overhead towards the Channel.

Peggy watched her little daughter happily chewing on the ear of a teddy. Daisy had been born on the terrible night the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor and invaded Malaya. There had been no enemy raid on Cliffehaven that night, but within the first weeks of Daisy’s life she’d become inured to the sound of sirens, bombs and planes – in fact, she’d even survived the blast that had taken out the cellar’s back wall and put Peggy and Cordelia in hospital.

Peggy’s smile was rueful. It wasn’t the sort of life she’d wished for any of her children, and she could only thank God that Daisy didn’t seem at all frightened by all the noise. Children were tough little beings, she mused. Those still living in Cliffehaven had learnt to recognise the planes and name them all, as well as make a game out of collecting bits of shrapnel and pretending to be Spitfire pilots engaged in dogfights.

To earn pocket money, some of them even scoured the bomb sites for scraps of metal and paper which they sold to the council to be made into something else, and there were a couple of very enterprising boys who came once a week with a wheelbarrow to collect old newspapers so they could be pulped and used again.

Peggy had little doubt that these budding entrepreneurs would one day run their own successful businesses – if the war ever came to an end. She sighed and put the kettle on the primus stove. At least she’d managed to get through most of her long list of things to do today despite the constant interruptions of the pips and the sirens – and the session in the Town Hall had been quite pleasant, as Doris hadn’t shown up to stick her oar in and play the bossy WVS committee member. The only thing she hadn’t achieved was a quiet word with Ivy, for the security surrounding the factories was strict, and she hadn’t been allowed into the vast estate. Still, she mused, there was always tomorrow.

She gave Daisy a drink of her special orange juice from her bottle, then poured the boiling water over the much-used tea leaves, added milk and a few grains of precious sugar and gave it a good stir. There would be ructions with Doris over Ivy coming to live here, for it would mean she’d have to take in a replacement to fulfil the demands of the billeting people, who were already questioning her about the second spare room now that Anthony had moved out permanently.

Her smile was mischievous as she bent down to rescue Daisy’s bottle from rolling across the dirty floor. ‘Your Auntie Doris is not going to be best pleased with your mummy, Daisy,’ she murmured, ‘but I’m sure Caroline hoity-toity must have a friend in need of a billet, and then the three of them can swan about feeling very pleased with themselves.’

Daisy clapped her hands and blew a raspberry.

‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ said Peggy on a laugh as she gathered up her small daughter and gave her a cuddle.

Doreen remained standing there long after the trucks had disappeared, slowly becoming dimly aware of others around her who wandered lost and dazed, reluctant to leave in case a miracle happened and someone was brought out alive.

But no miracle was forthcoming, and as those who’d been on the platforms of the tube station began to emerge into the night, it was clear they’d been completely unaware of the tragedy that had happened only feet above them.

‘Come on, ducks. Let’s get you out of the rain.’

She regarded the woman in the WVS uniform, her mind slow to react. She hadn’t realised it was still raining.

The woman’s expression was kindly, but her hand was firm as she steered Doreen across the road and up the steps into what looked like a drill hall. ‘Let’s get them wet things off yer, and then you can warm up with a nice cup of tea.’

Her words seemed to be coming from a long way off and as her coat, hat and scarf were eased from her, Doreen could only stare at her in confusion. ‘Archie’s gone,’ she mumbled. ‘They took him away.’

There was a deep sigh and the grey eyes were sorrowful. ‘There’s a lot gorn this night, ducks, so you ain’t alone – not that that will bring you no comfort.’ She drew Doreen to some chairs that had been set close to a paraffin heater and gently pressed her down. ‘I’ll put these on the radiator to dry off a bit while I get you a blanket and some tea,’ she said before bustling off.

Doreen sat as still as stone and watched the activity around her with glazed eyes. The ladies of the WVS had set up a canteen and were providing food, tea, blankets and towels to those who, like her, sat around in silence, too numb to cry or even talk. Even the children were silent, their wan, tear-streaked faces telling of the awful loss they’d endured on this tragic night. They looked so lost and bewildered as they waited for someone to come and claim them – and somewhere deep beneath the numbness of her own pain, her heart went out to them.

‘There we are, ducks. Now you drink that tea.’

Doreen wasn’t usually so biddable, but the soft, coaxing voice and the awful inertia that had taken her over made her do as she was told. She took a sip of the scalding stewed tea and as the sour taste hit the back of her throat, she burst into tears. ‘Real East End tea,’ she sobbed. ‘Archie said it would … would put …’

‘Put hairs on yer chest, I expect,’ said the woman as she rescued the cup and saucer from Doreen’s shaking hands. ‘From around ’ere, was he?’

‘Shoreditch. But he joined the Navy as a boy, and he was trying to find his family – but they got bombed out – and he asked me to marry him – and …’ Gentle arms pulled her close and held her against a soft bosom as she sobbed.