The Pearl Locket (14 page)

‘What was that? There was no air-raid warning, was there? What’s happening?’ Mags screamed.

‘Bomb. Must be close. Come on.’ Joan stuffed Jack’s letters, which she was still holding, into her pocket, grabbed Mags’s hand and pulled her out of the room, and down the stairs. Mags screamed again when she saw the window on the half landing—it had been blown inwards and glass was everywhere. Joan was thankful they were both wearing shoes. ‘We have to get to the cellar. Come on!’

Downstairs Mother, Father and Elizabeth were also rushing down to the cellar that the family used as an air-raid shelter. Joan and Mags were right behind them. Father grabbed the torch he kept beside the cellar door, and flicked it on to light the way down the steep cellar steps. Once the door was closed he lit a paraffin lantern and they all collapsed onto the scraps of carpet and piles of old blankets he’d put down there at the start of the war.

‘Why was there no warning, Father?’ asked Mags. ‘There should have been a warning. That bomb was close.’

‘There haven’t been any bombers over here since last summer. Maybe they’ve stopped watching out for planes,’ said Joan.

‘Rubbish, the war’s still on, so they’ll still be watching out. I don’t know why there was no warning. Now sit quietly, girls.’

‘Where do you think the bomb landed, Father? It did sound close.’ Joan ignored her father’s instructions to stay quiet.

‘I think it may have been on this street,’ he said.

‘I do hope our neighbours are all safe,’ said Mother, wringing her hands.

It was only fifteen minutes until the all clear sounded. Father went up first, and ushered the women out. He opened the front door to survey the damage in the street. Joan and Mags went out with him, while Mother and Elizabeth went to make tea.

‘Goodness, it was Mrs Johnson’s house that was hit!’

Joan looked where Father was pointing and saw their next-door neighbour’s house had a gaping hole in its roof, and half the front blown off. Flames flickered from the remains of the first floor.

‘Oh my goodness! So close! Where’s Mrs Johnson? There was no warning…’ Joan had a horrible feeling about this. With no air-raid warning Mrs Johnson could have been inside. ‘We must look for her. Father, come on, please help!’

She ran towards the wrecked house, clambering over the piles of rubble that filled the front garden and pavement.

‘Joan, get back here this instant. It’s not safe! Come back. I order you to come back.’

Joan ignored him. If Mrs Johnson was inside she could be trapped somewhere. ‘Mrs Johnson? Can you hear me? Are you in there?’ She climbed over the remains of the front wall of the house, into what had been the sitting room. The door to the hallway was still in place, and she tugged it open, showering herself with ceiling plaster. Coughing, she went through to the hallway. She could hear the fire crackling upstairs, and smoke was beginning to billow downwards into the hallway. She yelled up the stairs. ‘Mrs Johnson? Are you there? Shout out if you can. I’m coming to help.’ She listened hard, and over the sound of the fire she could just make out a pitiful whine, coming from under the stairs. She pulled aside a wrecked sideboard and wrenched open the under-stairs cupboard. Mrs Johnson’s terrier, Kimmy, was cowering inside on his dog-basket.

‘Oh, Kimmy, you poor dear. Come here. I’ll get you out.’ She grabbed the dog by his scruff and pulled him into her arms. She glanced up the stairs—they were now impassable. Mrs Johnson only put Kimmy in his under-stairs bed when she left the house, as she didn’t trust him not to chew the furniture. Joan prayed that meant she’d been away from the house when the bomb fell.

She tried to go out the same way she’d come in—via the living room—but one look told her more of the front of the house had fallen and the way was blocked. Instead she went through the kitchen, which was relatively undamaged, and to the back door. It was locked but a key hung on a peg. Tucking a struggling Kimmy under one arm she managed to unlock the door, and went out to the side passage. There was no way back to the street from here—too much rubble from a fallen chimney blocked the way.

Remembering the loose fence panel at the end of the garden between her own house and Mrs Johnson’s, she ran down the garden, wanting to get away from the ruined house before more of it fell. Thankfully her father had still not fixed the panel. The last fence post had rotted, and the panel hung loose, not attached at one end. With Kimmy still in her arms Joan heaved her shoulder against it and easily pushed through. She ran across her own garden and out to the street along the side passage.

As she approached the street she could hear Mrs Johnson screaming. ‘Kimmy, my darling Kimmy, he’s inside! Someone, oh please, my darling boy, someone get him!’ She was safe, then. Thank goodness. Joan could see the fire brigade had arrived, and were setting up their hoses, attaching them to a nearby fire hydrant. Joan’s family stood across the road, her father in front of her mother and sisters.

‘I’ve got Kimmy; he’s all right,’ she called as she picked her way through the gathering crowds towards Mrs Johnson, who was being restrained by an air-raid warden.

‘Kimmy! My darling!’ Mrs Johnson took the dog from Joan and buried her face in his fur. ‘Thank you, my dear. But look at the state of you!’

Joan looked down at herself. She was filthy—covered in dust and grime, her skirt was torn, her jumper matted with plaster dust, and somewhere along the way she’d lost a shoe without noticing it.

Father was striding across the road towards her. ‘You stupid girl. I forbade you from going in there but you disobeyed me. You will be punished for this. Severely.’

Joan looked towards Mrs Johnson for support, but the old woman turned away, still snuggling her face into Kimmy’s matted coat.

‘Father, I went in because I thought perhaps Mrs Johnson was still in there, and someone needed to do something.’

‘There are professionals to go into bombed houses to rescue people. Not disobedient girls.’

‘The authorities weren’t here when I went in, and surely every minute counts?’

‘That’s enough. You put yourself in danger and what for? A mangy dog? What would your mother have done if the house had collapsed on you?’

‘Well it didn’t, did it? I’m glad I went inside. You didn’t know Mrs Johnson wasn’t in there. And I rescued her dog. Kimmy means the world to her. She’s got no one else.’ Joan turned her back on her father and strode across the street towards her sisters and mother.

‘You’re for it now,’ Mags muttered to her.

Father was a step behind. He grabbed Joan roughly by her upper arm. ‘Inside, girl. Now. And you are confined to your room until I decide how to punish you.’

She tried to shake him off but his grip was too firm. She was frogmarched inside, and pushed towards the stairs.

‘There’s glass, Father, on the half landing. And I’ve no shoe on…’

‘Get up those stairs now, girl!’

She had no choice but to obey, tiptoeing carefully over the shattered window glass. In her room she pulled off her ruined clothes and threw herself onto the bed, tugging the eiderdown over her and cuddling her battered old teddy bear. The shock of the evening’s events was catching up with her. It was so unfair. She’d done what she thought was right. Maybe she’d been a little reckless but she’d really thought Mrs Johnson might be in there, cowering terrified in a corner, waiting for rescue. More of the house had collapsed and if she’d not gone in when she did, it would have been impossible to get anyone out. And she’d rescued Kimmy—that was worth it, wasn’t it? Mrs Johnson was scared of Father. That much was obvious, so Joan didn’t blame her for not backing her up. But she knew the old lady was grateful. That little dog was all she had—her husband had died in the Great War and her son, a fighter pilot, had died during the Battle of Britain. She didn’t deserve to lose anyone else. No, Joan was glad she’d gone inside. No matter how Father decided to punish her, she was glad of what she’d done. It was the right thing.

If only she could see Jack, and tell him all about it. But he was miles away in his training camp and it would be weeks before she could see him again. He’d be worried, she supposed, that she’d risked herself going into the bombed house, but he’d understand and he’d praise her for her courage. He’d hold her, kiss her hair and stop her shaking. Everything would be all right if only Jack were here now.

Joan lifted her head and regarded her pillow. It was stained—her tears had mixed with the dust and grime on her face and been smeared across the cotton. So now she’d be in trouble with Mother as well. She heaved herself out of bed and went into the bathroom, where she ran herself a shallow bath. Father would probably complain about the use of hot water when it wasn’t bath night, but too bad. She didn’t care what he might say.

As she eased herself into the comforting water she felt as though a switch had flicked across in her head. She no longer cared what Father said or thought of her. As long as
she
herself
knew she’d done the right thing, the best thing, she was happy. She realised it mattered too what Jack thought, but she knew that he would side with her, in everything that she did. That idea gave her a warm glow, and she felt her shaking begin to subside. Oh, if only he was here now!

She washed her hair in the bath water, giving it a final rinse with clean water from the tap. The bath was filthy when she drained it, and she had to wipe it round with a rag. Wrapping herself in her candlewick dressing gown she went back to her room. Jack couldn’t be with her, but she could look at his photo, reread his letters and write one back to him, to tell him what had happened. She’d play down the danger to herself—no sense in worrying him, but it felt essential that he should know. How many more weeks until he came home on leave? She counted off on her fingers and sighed. Too many.

Chapter Thirteen

October 2014

‘Coffee?’ Ali asked Jason. It was Sunday morning and he’d called round for a chat. It was becoming a regular occurrence—he was often popping round. Ali enjoyed his company. He was easy to chat to.

‘Lovely, thanks,’ he said, taking a seat at the kitchen table. Pete was outside chopping up some firewood—now that the days were becoming colder Ali wanted to start making use of their open fireplaces during the long dark evenings. Ryan was playing some computer game or other, and Kelly was upstairs, still pottering around in her dressing gown. Despite Ali and Pete’s misgivings, she’d got herself a job at the nursery, started immediately on a trial basis and had worked a full week during half-term. Ali felt she deserved a rest. Whether or not she returned to college after half-term was still being debated.

She put on a jug of filter coffee, found a packet of biscuits and sat opposite Jason at the table. ‘So, how are things? Is there much more of your mum’s old stuff to clear out?’

Jason had been making regular weekend trips to the charity shops or recycling centre as he cleared out his mother’s stuff. ‘I’m getting there. I’ve still got all her old china to do, and then there’s the loft to explore. I’ve dealt with her clothes and books though. Then I need to decide about the furniture—I’ll keep some of it but it’s not all to my taste.’

Ali poured him his coffee, adding milk and one sugar as she knew he liked. ‘It must be hard, doing all this. Your mum wasn’t that old, was she?’

‘No. Just sixty-eight. She was born in January 1945. But cancer doesn’t care what age a person is, does it?’ He sipped his coffee.

Ali felt a pang of guilt at upsetting him. ‘Sorry, Jason. Tell me to shut up if you don’t want to talk about it.’

‘No, it’s fine. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about her a bit anyway. There is something you should know about me, and Mum.’ He picked up a biscuit and ate it thoughtfully.

‘What? You’re sounding all mysterious!’

‘I suppose I should have said something when you told me you’d inherited your house from Betty Perkins. But somehow I couldn’t seem to find the words then. It was a bit unexpected, finding out you were Betty’s great-niece. Lovely biscuits, Ali.’

‘Unexpected? How so?’ Would he please get on with it!

‘Yes, well, the thing is, Ali, we’re actually related, you and I.’

‘What? What do you mean?’

‘My mum was adopted. When she was in her forties, after my dad died, she went through the process of tracing her birth parents. She’d been given up for adoption as a baby, during the war. So many were, of course, war babies whose mothers had got pregnant by soldiers on leave, who perhaps never came home. Mum was one of those. Dad was German, hence my surname—Bergmann.’

‘So how does that make us related?’

‘It turned out Mum’s mother was Joan Perkins, Betty’s sister. And your grandmother’s sister, too, of course.’

Ali gasped. ‘Joan was your grandmother?’

‘Yes, which makes us, Ali, second cousins. Pleased to meet you, cousin!’ He stood and held out his hand.

She shook it and laughed. ‘Wow. I have no brothers or sisters, or first cousins. Thought I had no second cousins either. The weird thing is, Jason, we only heard a week or so ago of Joan’s existence. We’d always thought there was only the two sisters, Betty and my gran, Margaret. Gran had never once mentioned Joan. But I don’t understand. How did your mum end up living next door to Betty?’

Jason sat down again and took a sip of his coffee before answering. ‘When she traced her birth mother Mum found Joan had died years before, but she couldn’t believe it when she found out Betty was still living in the family home, here. She came to visit one day, on a pretext of doing some charity work for the Red Cross. Mum didn’t let on who she was, but every time she tried to gently question Betty about her sisters, Betty would talk about Margaret only. She never mentioned Joan. She hinted that Margaret might be senile, which is why Mum never tried to meet her, after finding Betty. Anyway, she befriended Betty and came to visit quite often. At the time she lived thirty miles away. Then number seven came up for sale, and Mum had always fancied living by the coast, so she bought it. As Betty aged, Mum did more and more for her—all her shopping, some cooking—and saw her every day. But in all those years Betty never acknowledged she’d had another sister, and Mum never admitted she was Betty’s niece. She didn’t want to upset her, or stir things up. Betty was very frail.’