The Blitz (4 page)

 

 

And here's something else from the paper. Every week there's a sort of court called a tribunal where conscientious objectors have to go to explain why they don't want to fight. This time it was someone who said he was a Christian pacifist, and he was about to go to Bible College.

From what I can see they let him get away with it. They've put him on “non-combatant duties only”, and I reckon he was just spinning a yarn. Mum agrees and says in the Great War the girls used to hand out white feathers to men who wouldn't fight to show them they thought they were cowards. But Mum said she thought “non-combatant” only meant he wouldn't have to fire a gun. He might still end up in the front line carrying stretchers.

Then later I started thinking about what it would feel like to be “called up”, and how frightened I'd be if it was me.

But they've still got to do their duty, haven't they? Frank and Maureen are! I just wish they didn't have to.

Meanwhile Shirl is having a high old time. She was out with Alec again last night. Up at the Palais, dancing till gone 10.30. I saw the looks Mum and Dad exchanged when she went out done up to the nines – lipstick, stockings and all.

“Is that our daughter, Beat?” said my father. “Pretty as a picture, isn't she?”

“If you say so,” Mum answered, lips pursed and hand on hip. “I hope she knows what she's doing!”

Interesting!

 

 

There I was queuing for bananas at the greengrocer's, when suddenly there was a tremendous kerfuffle on the other side of the road, and everyone in the queue turned to look. Two men were holding another one in an armlock. They seemed to be trying to frog-march him down towards the clock tower, till a copper came up and stopped them. Then there was a lot of shouting and fingerpointing, and the one man kept trying to throw punches at the other two. The policeman's helmet went on the skew over his eyes, and people started sniggering.

Rosa Jacobsen, who used to go to my school, was trailing down the pavement watching what was going on.

“Watch'er Rosa,” I said. “What's that all about?”

“They think he's a fifth columnist or something,” Rosa answered.

That was a new one on me. “And what's that when it's at home?”

“Like a German spy who's been living here and doing sabotage. Blowing things up and that!”

“So how come they're so sure?” I asked Rosa.

She shrugged her shoulders. “I dunno,” she said, disappointed now no one was hitting anyone else. “Spoke with an accent, I expect.”

That rang bells. The
third
thing I'd read in the
Kentish Mercury
was about a priest called Schwabacher (or something like that). Till last week he'd been working up at a church in Blackheath for years, but now he's been sent off to an internment camp, like a prison, just because his dad was German.

Surely a priest wouldn't be a spy, would he? The world's getting more confusing every day.

I expect you're wondering about the bananas. It's funny, but no one in our house would touch a banana before the war. Now a rumour goes around that Harrold's had a few boxes of them come in, and we all queue like mad to get our share. Strike while the iron's hot, Mum says, but war or no war, they still taste yucky to me!

I asked Shirl about her night out with Alec, but she won't tell.

 

 

Last night was very still and clear. As Dad went out for the evening shift, he looked up and said grimly, “If they're ever going to come, it'll be on a night like this.”

And sure enough, the first air-raid warning came at a few minutes past nine. Mum was out at the ARP post, and Shirl, Tom and I were huddled together in the shelter with Chamberlain. Because it was clear, it was chilly too, and we needed the blankets and coats we'd taken down the garden with us.

Shirl's teeth were chattering already. “Cor blimey!” she said. “What's it going to be like in the middle of winter? I've got no feeling in my toes at all.”

I could see Tom about to open his mouth to say something clever when we heard the first explosion, and then two more following close on the first one. The sound was heavy and sharp at the same time. Chamberlain's ears were pricked. He gave a long growl, and started towards the door of the Anderson. I held him back.

“Gawd, what was that?” gasped Shirl.

Tom's face was white in the candlelight, his eyes big and scared.

“It's started,” I found myself saying.

We'd heard the bombs drop before we picked up the rumbling sound of the aircraft, but they weren't overhead and I selfishly said thank you to God because they weren't coming any nearer. Then we heard our gun batteries open up, rattling bullets towards the bombers.

“How close are they?” asked Tom shakily.

“Miles away,” said Shirl, recovering herself and trying to sound confident. But as soon as she spoke, as if to put her in her place, there were two more explosions, this time much nearer. Chamberlain barked loudly. Now we could hear the bells of the fire engines too, and more frantic gunfire.

Then the drone of the aircraft faded, and we held our breath wondering if the planes were going to come back and what would happen if they did. But though the gun batteries kept chattering away, in a quarter of an hour or so the single long wail of the all-clear sounded, and we went inside to make ourselves a cup of tea and get warm.

“I hope Mum and Dad are all right,” I croaked.

Shirl drummed her fingers on the kitchen table and looked at me. “Yeah. I hope so too,” she said.

 

 

Dad told us at tea-time that the bombs had landed by a housing estate over near Downham. That really is miles away! The Lewisham Station had been called down there, but there was nothing to do. No one hurt, he said, and just a few big holes in the playing fields. Hitler'll have to do better than that, he laughed. But I could see he was putting a brave face on it for Mum, and she was wondering if she'd done the right thing taking on a job, and leaving us to cope.

“It's all right, Mum,” I said, and I put my hand on hers across the table.

 

 

One of the good things about my paper rounds is that if I get a quiet moment in the shop I can sneak a quick look at all the papers and magazines we don't get at home. I have to be careful not to put any creases or tears in them, mind, or I'd catch an earful from Mr Lineham.

Anyway, I can't remember where I read it, but apparently it's awful in the public shelters because of all the snoring. Stands to reason, I suppose.

In our family, Mum whistles a bit through her false teeth and Shirl makes a sort of piggy snorting sound. It's her adenoids, Mum says. But Dad takes the biscuit. He sounds like the band of the Royal Marines all on his own. So there's not much chance of sleep in
our
dugout, if we're all at home.

Can you imagine what it'd be like in an underground station full of people you didn't know, and trying to get some sleep? And if you wanted to go to the toilet, having to nip behind some piece of canvas on the platform and go in a bucket? Well, there's hundreds doing it every night. As Mum says, there's always someone worse off than yourself.

 

 

I'm trying to write this in the Anderson. There isn't much light and I'm all scrunched up in a corner so who knows whether I'll be able to make sense of it later on. It's half past six in the evening, but we've been here an hour or so already.

I feel small and scared, and dog-tired. None of us got much sleep last night. In fact, I think yesterday was the worst day of my life.

Everything was fine until the afternoon. The weather's been brilliant the whole of last week – not too hot, but clear and fresh. Dad had been given a day's leave so he went off, whistling a happy tune, to play cricket with his mates at Crofton Park. He doesn't get much chance these days.

In the morning, Mum had organized some games for the little kids over at the Hengist Road school, so I went along to give her a hand. Then Tom and me went down the market in the afternoon. Even if you don't buy anything, it's fun to listen to the traders. Each one's got his own patter, just like the comedians you get at the Hippodrome. One of them tells jokes about his mother-in-law all day long. The more you listen, the funnier it gets. Sometimes there's 50 standing around, laughing their heads off. Mind you, I wouldn't trust any of the stall-holders further than I could throw 'em.

It took everyone completely by surprise when the siren went. It must have been just after half past four.

There've been so many false alarms, people were getting fed up with it, so all you could hear was a sort of annoyed muttering in the crowd and among the traders. Of course, there's always some people who panic and rush for cover straight away, but this time because it was so close to the end of the afternoon and the weather was so nice, most people were reluctant to pack up and go home.

I'd just said to Tom, “Come on then. We'd better go. . .” when a couple of people pointed up into the eastern sky over Eltham.

Glinting in the sun was a V-formation of silver crosses. There must have been twenty planes flying steadily over London.

“Where's the blinking RAF when you need them?” shouted someone.

People were running for cover now, and the market traders began to shove plates and pans into boxes and suitcases, then ripping the metal poles of the stands apart and throwing them on to the ground with a clatter.

We ran all the way back to Summerfield Road, and even before we reached number 47, we could faintly hear the distant sound of the first explosions. Mum was waiting at the door to scold us down the garden and into the Anderson, where for the next hour and a half we worried about Dad and Shirley.

At half past six, the all-clear sounded and we crawled outside, rubbing our eyes against the light.

Across the gardens beside the railway, the land lies fairly flat to the River Thames between Blackheath on one side and Lewisham Hill on the other. Rising into the sky from the direction of the river was a huge tower of evil, sinister, billowing smoke, slowly rolling over on itself, black at the bottom and turning grey at its height.

“Oh my word,” Mum exclaimed. “It's the docks! Must be.” And then, as if personally he could have done something about the massive fire, she said crossly, “Wherever's your dad got to? Blow the blooming cricket. . .”

In fact, as we trooped into the house one way, he was coming in at the front door, red-faced and breathing heavily, throwing off his cricket whites as he came.

“Better . . . go into . . . work. . .” he said between gulps of air. “They're going to need . . . all hands . . . on deck.”

But even before he'd got out of the front door, the siren was screaming at us again and, carrying books, crossword puzzles, toys and blankets, we scurried back down to the Anderson.

We were there until
five o'clock in the morning
, more or less, and not a moment's sleep. There was a break in the middle of the evening just after it had got dark. Shirl had joined us by then, having scampered out of the public shelter down by Chiesman's.

“It don't half pong in there,” she said, shaking the smell out of her hair, her nose shrivelling up in disgust. “I don't think half of Lewisham ever has a wash.” She drew in a sharp breath. “Would you just look at that!”

We were standing in the garden, looking towards the river again. The evening was still now, and though we could hear the occasional car and the bells of fire engines ringing their way across to Deptford, it was quiet enough to hear an animal rustle through the bushes on the railway embankment to our left. You get foxes up there sometimes.

But now where the smoke had been, the whole sky was an angry wound of red. We might be three or four miles away from the flames but with the amount of light they were making I could have easily read the paper Mum held.

“It's like the end of the world,” Mum said slowly.

“Poor beggars,” said Shirl.

“Is Dad over there?” asked Tom in a small voice.

“Him and every fireman in London, I shouldn't wonder,” Mum answered, giving Tom a reassuring cuddle. “But then the whole city might be up in flames, for all we know. What a waste!”

Later in the evening, when Mum had gone off on duty, we could hear the drone of planes overhead more or less all the time. It's horrible. You feel the butterflies building up in your stomach till it almost becomes painful. I could see Shirl's fingers. The nails were bitten back hard, and her two hands were gripped together, the fingers sliding backwards and forwards over each other. It was about three o'clock when a stick of three bombs dropped closer than we'd ever heard before. They came through the air with a sound like the tearing of a curtain, and the explosions shook the ground. Chamberlain was beside himself with fear, past barking now, just trembling uncontrollably and whining pitifully.

We were all still white and shaking at breakfast. Mum wouldn't talk about the previous night. She fidgeted about the house, making a stew, dusting things that didn't need dusting, worrying about Dad.

Outside it was weird. If you looked down the street one way, it was a normal sunny Sunday morning, except everyone was more talkative than usual, leaning over fences and gates. Just over the road I could see Mrs Maclennan and Mrs Nott chatting to each other like they were old friends. This was strange, because everyone knew they hadn't got on for years. If you glanced the other way the pall of smoke hanging over the river reminded you of the nightmare you'd just been through.

Dad arrived home at noon, exhausted. He shook his head in despair. “I ain't ever seen anything remotely like it, Beattie,” he said clasping a cup of tea in his hands. “It's a regular blinking inferno. All that oil, you see. I don't think we'll ever put it out.”