CHARLES ENDICOTT LIKED TO RUN WHAT HE CALLED a tight ship, and his employees had learned to be punctual. However, when the workers on the afternoon shift, Danger Sections A and B, arrived, they were held up for a good fifteen minutes. The women’s change room was unaccountably locked. The first shift had already cleared out, but the precious transition time allocated to the incoming group was used up while Mrs. Castleford, the supervisor, went off to find a key. The twelve women stood waiting in the drafty entrance hall where the clocking-in machine was located.
“I wish she’d hurry up. I need to go to the toilet,” murmured Sylvia Sumner to the girl standing beside her. Sylvia was the youngest of the group, shy and sweet, new to factory work. She still retained the fresh complexion of a country girl.
“Why don’t you go through and use the men’s,” said the other girl. “Apparently, it’s open.”
“Ooh, I couldn’t do that, Tess.”
“Don’t be such a silly goose. A loo is a loo. What’s the difference?”
“No good asking her,” said another girl.
Tess grinned. “You’d better take her under your wing, Prue, before it’s too late.”
Of all of them, Prue McDermott, with her lush lips and perfectly applied makeup, came closest to being a “woman of the world.” She was also funny and good-hearted, so nobody was overly judgemental about her way of life.
Sylvia ducked her head. She was always being ribbed about being an innocent.
Unexpectedly, Irma Dimble, who rarely laughed these days, joined in the teasing. “She’ll know soon enough.” But she patted Sylvia’s arm affectionately to take away any sting from her words. She knew Sylvia was counting the days until her fiancé would come home and they could get married.
“Speaking of which, you’ll never guess what happened to me on the way here,” said Audrey Sandilands. But before she could tell her story, a flustered Mrs. Castleford reappeared.
“Situation resolved. You can come in. No shoving now, we’re not on a bus.”
The girls surged through the double doors separating the cloakrooms from the main floor. There were already women working at the lathes, and some of them broke into cheers and hoots when they saw them.
“Make sure you don’t claim that on your overtime, McDermott,” one woman called out.
“Shut it,” Prue yelled back.
“What happened, Mrs. Castleford?” asked Sylvia. “What was the delay?”
“I really don’t know. Fortunately Mr. Riley has located another key.”
The magazine-keeper was standing at the change-room door. He threw up his hands. “Don’t ask me,” he said. “I know it’s not supposed to be locked. I’ll look into it.”
He opened the door and stood aside to let them in. Prue positioned herself at the threshold as they jostled past. “Tickets, please. Have your tickets ready. Next stop, Hell.”
Mrs. Castleford frowned at her. “Miss McDermott, please!”
Audrey nudged Tess and whispered, “Mr. Riley, indeed. No wonder it took so bleeding long to find a key. They had to search everywhere.”
They both burst out laughing, drawing another frown of disapproval from the supervisor.
The girls went to the lockers and began to disrobe. The factory provided white cotton turbans, blue overalls, and the special soft leather shoes they had to wear.
“Ooh, those are posh,” remarked Audrey as Prue undressed to reveal peach-coloured silk cami-knicks.
“Must have cost a week’s wages,” added Tess. She was the youngest of a large family, and her own style of dress was hand-me-downs. All from a taller, older sister.
“A week’s? Try a fortnight’s,” retorted Prue.
“I hope you’re saving them for his eyes only,” said Audrey.
Prue shrugged provocatively. “Some things are too good not to be shared.”
She took her compact from her handbag and handed it to Sylvia. “Hold this for me, there’s a pet. I can’t get a look in edgewise with the ugly sisters over there.”
One of the Section A operatives, a chunky brunette, had stationed herself in front of the small mirror on the wall and was applying her lipstick. Her skin had a yellowish tinge and the front of her hair was bright orange. All the girls who handled the cordite ended up like that.
“I heard that,” she said over her shoulder. “Who’s calling us ugly?”
“Nobody, dearie,” said Prue. “Just an expression.” She checked herself in the compact mirror, pulled out a strand of hair from beneath her white turban, and studied the result. She had only recently transferred from Section A and her normally brown hair was still an orangey yellow. “Draws the blokes,” she whispered to Sylvia, who was watching. “They get hot and bothered at the thought we might be blown to smithereens any moment.”
“Don’t tease the child,” piped up Audrey. “She doesn’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Speaking of smithereens, I still haven’t got over that damn raid on Friday,” interjected Tess. “The worst yet. Our entire family stuck in our Anderson shelter for eleven bloody hours. Eleven hours. Bombs falling all around us. Can you imagine me and my sister together for that long? Christ! I thought it would never be over.”
“Better that than dead,” said Irma Dimble. A recent widow, she knew what she was talking about.
“Quite right, Mrs. Dimble,” said Mrs. Castleford. “Let’s have no more gloomy talk, girls. That won’t win us the war. And no more swearing from you, Miss Deacon, or I’ll dock your wages.” She clapped her hands. “Chop-chop, girls. Let’s not dilly-dally. We have absentees today, which means more work for the rest of you. We don’t want to fall behind, do we.”
“Or on our behinds, for that matter,” said Prue, winking.
“Speaking of which,” said Audrey, as she tied on her turban, “I never got to tell you my story.”
“Never mind that now,” interrupted the supervisor. “Section A ready? All clear?”
“All clear, Mrs. Castleford,” came back the chorus. One by one they hopped over the low barrier into the clean area beyond the lockers and headed for the far door.
“Get down to work right away, you lot,” called Prue. “You’ve kept us waiting lately. Falling asleep, are you? Too many late nights?”
The little brunette, the one who’d been looking in the mirror, cocked a snoot at her behind Mrs. Castleford’s back.
The supervisor turned to the remaining five girls. “Let’s get a move on. Miss Sumner? Mrs. Dimble? Did you remove your rings?”
“We’ve put sticking plasters over them,” said Irma.
Althought the ASA powder they worked with was so volatile that anything that could create a spark was a worry, everybody knew how important it was for her to keep her wedding ring on. Mrs. Castleford nodded.
“Just let me see.” She inspected their hands. “Yes, that’s acceptable.” Her glance swivelled over to the others. “Miss McDermott, how many times must I remind you? All of your hair must be covered. You have some hanging out.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Castleford.” Prue tucked away the strand.
The supervisor waved her hands as if she were shooing chickens. “Now then, off we go. Miss Sandilands, I don’t need to check you for cigarettes again, do I?”
“No, you don’t.” Audrey’s voice was demure. She was on warning and she knew she would be fired if she was found a second time with contraband.
“Are we all clear, then?”
“All clear,” the girls chorused.
Just as the others had done, they all stepped over the low barricade. Mrs. Castleford hustled them through the door and into the passageway that connected with their section.
The two danger areas were new additions to the old factory and were strictly practical. Squat and square, they were built of brick painted battleship grey. Official word was that this prevented the Jerry bombers from seeing them in the fog. However, the employees joked that the real reason was Mr. Endicott had got a bargain on grey paint.
“Have you decided whether or not to evacuate the kiddies?” Tess asked Irma as they scurried along. The passageway was roofed but open-sided, and the damp fog had settled in.
Irma shook her head. “I can’t bear to be without them is the truth. Not with Dick gone.”
Tess linked her arm through that of the older woman.
“That’s understandable. You probably should have taken more time off.”
Irma’s husband had been killed at Dunkirk seven months ago, leaving her with two young children.
That same fog followed them as they pushed open the heavy fire doors and entered the section. There were no windows, and the narrow, shed-like building was bathed in the bluish light of mercury lamps. There were two benches, each covered with rubberized linoleum, also grey coloured. Buckets of sand lined the walls.
Two men were working at one of the benches, which had the covering torn up.
“What are you fellows doing here?” demanded Mrs. Castleford. “You know it’s against regulations to be doing repairs when the shift starts.”
“Sorry, ma’am, won’t be much longer,” said the older one. “We had to replace the lino.”
“Well, please hurry. We’re losing far too much time as it is.”
“You’re late today, aren’t you?”
“Yes, we are.” She regarded her charges. “Take your places, girls. Miss McDermott and Miss Sandilands, you can sit with the others until the men have finished.”
The two girls settled themselves onto wooden stools at the adjacent bench.
Mrs. Castleford glanced around. “Where are the carrying boxes? Don’t say there aren’t any fuses ready?”
One of the men indicated a wooden box on the floor between the benches.
“There’s one there. The first shift didn’t quite finish its quota.”
Mrs. Castleford sighed and turned to the girls. “Mr. Riley says there’s a miscount from the morning shift. I really must help him sort out the problem.”
“We can start up by ourselves,” said Audrey.
The supervisor hesitated. “You’re not supposed to.”
“We know what to do,” added Irma.
“Oh, all right, seeing that we’re so late.”
She went over to the box, which was about the size of a small suitcase and had rope handles on each end. Both of the workers flicked her an appreciative quick glance. Mrs. Castleford was as plump as a robin but firmly corseted.
“Here, let me do it,” said Doug Aston, the younger man.
“Why, thank you. Just be careful.”
He took the box by the handles and placed it on the bench between Irma and Tess, who were at the far end.
“Mrs. Dimble, I’m leaving you in charge for now,” said Mrs. Castleford. “I won’t be long.”
She bustled off and Audrey started to sing softly, “I’m in the mood for love, simply because you’re near me …”
“Shush. You’re so wicked, Audrey Sandilands,” said Tess with a grin.
“I wonder why they had a miscount on the red shift,” said Sylvia.
Audrey made a guffawing noise. “That’s a bit of malarkey, if you ask me. It’s an excuse for Mrs. C. and Phil Riley to have a little shag. Or search for some more missing keys.”
“But they’re both married,” exclaimed Sylvia.
Irma looked disapproving. “Let’s not get into gossiping, shall we.”
The girls subsided into a chastised silence that was only half sincere.
Tess lifted out one of the cylindrical papier-mâché pots from the box. She began to count out her quota of fuses, placing each one in her tray.
“I keep trying to tell you what happened to me as I was coming here,” Audrey said as she watched.
“What happened to you on the way here?” chorused Tess and Prue.
“Well, this bloke bumps into me, see. Suddenly I feel his hands all over my bottom. ‘Oi, what do you think you’re doing?’ I says. ‘Sorry, miss,’ says he, ‘it’s this fog. I mistook you for a lamppost.’ What cheek.”
The others all laughed. Audrey was as thin as a stick.
“Too bad for him he didn’t collide with our Sylvia here,” said Tess. She gestured with her hands, making curving movements. “He’d have thought he’d died and gone to heaven.”
Sylvia blushed. For a young girl, she had a full figure. The two workmen were pretending not to listen in, but they were. They grinned at each other.
Tess went back to counting out the fuses as she removed them from the pot.
“Fifteen … sixteen … and never been kissed … seventeen … eighteen, wished she had been …”
“Hurry up, slowpoke,” said Audrey, drumming her fingers.
“I can’t rush today. I didn’t get home until one o’clock. I was at a dance.”
“Did you meet anybody interesting?” asked Prue.
“I did indeed. A Canadian bloke. He joined the RAF. Ever so smashing, he is. He’s going to meet me tonight after work.”
“I don’t understand how you can go out dancing at times like this,” interjected Irma. “What if there’s a raid?”
Tess shrugged. “I’d rather be done in having a good time than be sitting shivering in a shelter when the bomb lands. Friday was enough for me.”
“I feel the same as you, Tess,” said Prue.
They were silent for a moment, then Prue clapped her hands in a good imitation of the supervisor.
“Now, girls, no gloomy thoughts. Chins up.”
“She’s the one should talk about chins, not me,” said Audrey, patting her own lean jaw.
There were two rectangular boxes in the middle of the bench. One contained plugs, the other specially designed brass holders. Having finished her count, Tess removed one of the plugs and inserted a fuse from her tray.
“Here you go. Here’s baby.” She passed both plug and fuse along to Prue.
“Here comes some screwing,” said Prue with a lewd grin. She had one of the holders at the ready to engage the threads of the plug.
Audrey yawned. “Stop playing around, you two. Oh, what the hell, I might as well tray up too.”
Impatiently she reached for the papier-mâché pot and started to pull it towards her.
“Oops, why is it so wobbly …?”
“Audrey, be careful,” Irma cried out in alarm. “Don’t! Don’t move it like that!”
The meagre fire in Detective Inspector Tom Tyler’s office seemed to be in its death throes, smoking continuously. The old police station, with its ill-fitting window frames and doors, couldn’t cope. Tyler knew he shouldn’t use up his coal ration all at one go, but he was very tempted. He was dressed warmly enough, but he craved brightness and warmth.
He got up from his desk, where he’d been trying to justify being at the station on a Sunday afternoon by filling out the endless forms that the Ministry of War required these days. They were mostly requests to replace missing ration books or identity cards. Each had to be considered carefully. Not exactly an exciting task, but being at home with Vera was so painful, he avoided it as often as possible. It’s not that they squabbled anymore; they didn’t. It was just that there was a silence between them that he found impossible to bridge. Had he even tried? Perhaps at first after the tragedy, but Vera had made it clear she didn’t want to. So he’d stopped and they remained locked each in their own loneliness and sorrow.
He went over to the window. Outside, a fine drizzle was falling on the empty streets. Even before the war, the shops and pubs in the little country town were always closed on the Sabbath, but today everything looked bleak and uncared for. Flowers gone from the front gardens, few displays in the shop windows. The weak afternoon light was fading fast but there were no lights showing in the houses. It was the hour for blackout. Whitchurch had not so far experienced the bombing that the big Midlands cities of Birmingham and Liverpool had, but the townsfolk were conscientious. For a brief moment, Tyler leaned his forehead against the cold windowpane. Then he turned around and stepped away.
“For heaven’s sake, Tyler,” he said to himself. “Moping won’t help.”
He was about to go into the front hall to see if he could get Sergeant Gough to stir up a cup of tea when the intercom buzzed. He answered it.
“Call for you, sir. From Mr. Grey at Special Branch.”
Tyler felt a pang of alarm. “Grey? What’s he want?” He hoped the man wasn’t calling with bad news about Clare. He’d had only one letter from her in three months. He assumed she was still in Switzerland.
“He didn’t say. Just that it was important.”
“It always is with that bloke. He probably reports his daily bowel movements to Winnie himself.”
Gough chuckled. “Shall I tell him you’re not in?”
“Good God, no, Guffie. What are you thinking? If the local boffin needs to talk to me urgently, I’d better answer. Could change the course of the war.”
He didn’t add “and give me something to do,” but he had the feeling that Sergeant Gough understood that.
“I’ll put him through. And I was just about to make a pot of tea. The wife sent over some fresh-baked tarts for us.”
“Now, that is important. You should have said so earlier.”
“I was saving the surprise, sir.”
Tyler picked up the telephone receiver.
“Evening, Tyler. Beastly weather, isn’t it.”
“Certainly is, sir.” He felt like saying, It’s November. This weather comes about regularly every year, but he waited for Grey to get to the point. He could hear him sucking on his pipe.
“I’m calling because I have a job for you. There’s been an explosion in one of the Brum munitions factories. Rather a nasty affair, truth be told. Some fatalities. Happened earlier today. I had a ring from the inspector at Steelhouse Lane. Name of Mason. He’s an old chum of yours, I understand. He said you were stationed in Birmingham at one time.”
“I was. Several years ago now.”
“He said his officers are stretched thin what with dealing with raids and so forth. He asked if we could spare you to handle the investigation.”
“Investigation, sir? I don’t consider myself an expert in explosives.”
“Don’t need to be. It’s no different from any other kind of police work. All a matter of common sense, really. You’ll no doubt find the blow-up was caused by carelessness, but we want to make sure there was no sabotage involved.”
Grey had a way of tailing off the ends of his sentences as if his energy was expiring, like the air from a pricked balloon. With that and the ubiquitous pipe in his mouth, his listener was constantly forced to ask him to repeat himself.
“Did you say sabotage, sir?”
There was a light tap at the door and Sergeant Gough entered, balancing a tray on one hand. Tyler waved to him to put it on the desk.
“… always a possibility,” murmured Grey. “The commies have quite a following in the industrial towns. Not to mention all the nationalists, who are as active as fleas on a dog in these places. If it’s not the Welsh, it’s the Irish or the Scots. Next thing, every piddling county in England will be demanding its own government.”
Tyler nodded to Gough, who poured out a cup of tea and mutely pointed at the jam tarts.
“You are up for this, aren’t you, Tyler?” said Grey. “Change of scene is as good as a rest, they say.” Tyler had been about to bite into one of the tarts, but he stopped. He wasn’t in the slightest bit tired; he wasn’t suffering from any bodily fatigue. But Grey said something else, which got lost.
“Beg pardon, sir.”
“According to my secretary, there’s a train leaving at nine tonight. As this is a special operation, you can put in a requisition for expenses. Keep them reasonable, there’s a good chap. We don’t have a lot of dosh to fling around. Mason said you can bunk in at the station. They’ve got spare rooms.” He paused and Tyler heard him strike a match. “All right, then? Ring me in a couple of days and let me know how you are getting on. The explosion was probably just what it seems to be – human error. But keep your eyes open. If any of those fanatics have been monkeying around we’ll string them up.”
Before Grey could disconnect, Tyler said, “Have you had any word from Mrs. Devereaux, sir? I mean, is she all right?”
Grey muttered something that Tyler managed to catch this time. “She is well. We are thinking of having her return to London while she can, but that is up to the ministry. Good luck, Tyler.”
The telephone clicked off, leaving Tyler to hang on to that morsel of news like a starving man.
The train was slow and it was going on for eleven o’clock when Tyler arrived in Birmingham. The carriages were unheated, and when he disembarked, he found himself moving stiffly. Like an old man, he thought to himself, not pleased.
The fog was pervading even the station and he felt it entering his lungs, dank and sour. Some change of scene! The Shropshire rain, miserable as it might be, at least felt clean. He turned up the collar of his macintosh. Passengers were dispersing quickly, but he paused for a moment to get his bearings.
A man muffled to the eyebrows was leaning against one of the pillars having a cigarette. “Taxi, sir?” His cab was barely visible.
“No thanks, I can walk faster.”
“Suit yourself.”
“You’re taking a gamble, aren’t you, mate? Driving in this weather?”
The man shrugged. “Got to make a living, don’t I.”
Another passenger, a man in an army greatcoat and peaked cap, came through the doors.
“Taxi, Captain?” This time the driver scored a hit.
“Good luck,” Tyler called after them. “Now, where were we?” he muttered to himself. He’d brought a filtered torch with him and he snapped on the light. Fat lot of good that did. The beam was simply bouncing back off the wall of fog. He’d have to rely on memory. Not too hard, considering how many times he’d walked his beat in this area. He’d been a police constable for – what was it? four years? After their second child was born, he talked Vera into moving to Birmingham with promises of a better salary, better social life, but she’d never settled down. Finally she gave him an ultimatum: either he returned to Whitchurch with her and the two kiddies or she was leaving him. Tyler had capitulated without much argument. He agreed it would be better for them to grow up in the country. However, he did miss the raw, tough edge of Birmingham life and the challenges of being a police officer there. Tyler sighed. Water under the bridge, that was.
He moved on, gaining more confidence in his route as he did so. The Industrial Revolution had spawned Birmingham, and nobody would ever pretend that this perpetually grimy city was elegant or charming, the way some of the older English towns were elegant and charming. However, people had made their lives here for generations, and the present destruction was distressing to see. Almost every few feet there was evidence of the damage that the recent bombing raids had inflicted. There were craters in the road with police barricades around them as warning. He had to walk around piles of rubble, and his light showed him glimpses of the collapsed walls of houses.
He had just turned the corner onto Colmore Row when a man loomed out of the darkness in front of him. They almost collided but the other man sidestepped nimbly into the road. At that moment a bicyclist shot out of the gloom and, unable to stop in time, crashed into the man, who fell heavily to the ground. The bicycle skidded violently and the rider slipped from the pedals. However, he quickly straightened and, without pausing to see what damage he had caused, pedalled off.
“Hey, look where you’re going,” shouted Tyler. He aimed his torch but the bike was swallowed up by the fog. He glimpsed only a slight figure wearing a balaclava and dark clothes.
The man was getting to his feet slowly and Tyler went to help him. “You all right, sir?”
“Give me a minute and I’ll let you know.” His accent was American. He rubbed at his shoulder. “What happened? What hit me?”
“Some idiot of a lad who thinks he can ignore the laws of physics. He was riding much too fast for these conditions.”
The American grimaced as he bent down and picked up his hat, which had been knocked off when he fell. “I hope the little brat hits a brick and gets his comeuppance. What the hell is he doing riding around at this time of night, anyway?” He looked around. “You know, I don’t have a clue which direction to go in.”
“Where were you heading for?”
“My hotel. It’s on Corporation Street. But even in broad daylight I’d have trouble finding it. You Limeys insist on changing the name of the street every block or so. And this was way before you thought the Nazis might invade.”
Tyler grinned at him. The man seemed a little on the tipsy side but his good humour was infectious.
“I was visiting the auntie of a friend of mine,” continued the American. “She kept plying me with her homemade cider. That stuff tastes like apple juice and has the kick of a mule.” He moved closer to Tyler. “Are you a warden? You don’t have your armband and hat on. You’re not a spy, I hope.”
“No, I’m not.” Tyler pointed ahead of him. “That’s the way to your hotel. If you keep close to the curb you should be all right. Corporation Street isn’t far. Just go past the next two streets.”
The American held out his hand. “My name’s Kaplan. If you get hold of that tear-ass bugger, give him a clout for me.”
“I will indeed. One for me too.”
They shook hands and parted company. Kaplan was walking much more tentatively than he had before. Maybe Tyler should have offered to escort him to his hotel. Good for Anglo-American relations. Tyler wished he could have nabbed the little blighter, but he’d taken off in too much of a hurry.
The fog swirled in front of him as he trudged on.
Jack Walmsley, fourteen years old, a Boy Scout, and an official police messenger, was a lad in deep trouble and he knew it.
“Sod it.” He automatically whispered the bad word even though there was not a soul within earshot. He’d skinned his knee badly in the collision with the unknown pedestrian and he could feel a trickle of blood running down his bare leg into his sock. He wanted to go home but he daren’t. He had to come back to the gang with something to show for himself.
He started to count the streets, and at the third one he turned, dismounted, and wheeled his bike. Dorset Road had been bombed only a few days ago and he knew the houses were too badly damaged for anybody to have returned to live there. One of those that looked relatively intact had belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Cowan, an elderly couple he’d known since childhood. He’d heard they’d both died in the bombing raid. He shoved aside his feelings of uneasiness. They wouldn’t need their stuff now.
He pushed his bike under a remnant of fencing and slipped beneath the police ropes that were festooned around the area. He went to the front door, which was partly off its hinges, opened it cautiously, and stepped into the house.
“People are as thick as planks, Jack,” Donny had said to him. “Friggin’ stupid, most of them. They have no imagination. They usually leave their bloody money in the back of the wardrobe, in the pantry, or in the living room sideboard, bottom drawers at the back. Look for some sort of tin – biscuits, tea, stuff like that – Aunt Fannie’s po with a lid on. If there isn’t any money, scarf the tins of food. Better than bloody silver plate these days. But we can still handle the odd picture frame if it’s nice. Keep alert at all times, like a soldier. You don’t want to come across a friggin’ granny who’s bin sitting in the bleedin’ pantry waiting out the Jerry. Got it?”
Donny Jarvis had accompanied his question with a painful twist of Jack’s ear. He enjoyed doing things like that, and the burn had lingered for a long time after. He’d almost broken Jack’s little finger a couple of weeks ago, when he bent it down into the palm until the boy had shouted out in agony.
“Who’s the boss here, Jack?”
“You are, Donny,” gasped Jack.
“And you love me, don’t you?” More pressure applied. “Say yes, like the little pouf you really are.”
“Yes, Donny.”
“And if I asked you to suck my cock, you would, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, Donny.”
The two other boys, Art Fernie and Bert Teale, who were watching, had tittered at this, and Donny thrust away Jack so hard he fell to the ground, cracking his elbow.
“You’re disgusting,” said Donny. “You’re worse than bleeding shit on my shoe.” And he’d wiped his foot on Jack’s trousers, going dangerously close to his privates. “Get up, arsehole. Don’t come back without that bleedin’ rucksack filled to the brim.”
Jack started to struggle to his feet, but Donny knocked him back again. “And don’t think of running to your old man or Mumsie. They won’t help you. Looters go to bloody jail for a long time. We have friends in jail, you little sod, and they would do whatever we asked them to. Got it?”
“Got it,” Jack whispered, and Donny let him get up.
They’d been gathered in the air-raid shelter in Bert Teale’s backyard. Bert’s mother was sozzled as usual and had stretched out under the kitchen table, which she said was as safe as anywhere. His dad was away in North Africa and Bert had declared one day that they didn’t know if he was alive or dead, but as for him, he hoped the bastard was dead. The boys didn’t usually exchange such personal feelings with each other, but both Art and Donny had nodded in agreement.
“After the war, I’m going to drive up in my Bentley … and I’m going to offer my old man a bloody job working for me.”
Donny sported a scar on his upper lip where his dad had knocked him against the stove during one of his mad-drunk fits. Even Jack – who tried to make himself invisible at the meetings and acted as if he didn’t see anything – even he was impressed by the implacable hatred in Donny’s eyes whenever he mentioned his father.
This cold, foggy November night, he’d gone to Donny’s house as instructed. “Fog is the perfect cover,” said Donny. “Nobody’ll be out and there won’t be a bloody raid. Soddin’ Jerry won’t risk it.” He grabbed Jack’s hand, ready to twist it. “You won’t get lost, will you, little ponce? You know what’ll happen if you try to weasel out of this with some poor excuse or other.”
Not being able to see more than a foot in front of you seemed more like a real reason than an excuse, but Jack didn’t dare say so.
The gang operated like a small feral pack and always went out during an air raid, banking on people to be in the shelters and the streets to be empty. Donny made a point of scoffing at the bombs. “If it’s got your bleedin’ name on it, you’ll cop it; otherwise you won’t.” The other boys made sure to hide their own fear. They’d had a couple of close calls but otherwise Donny’s credo seemed valid. They had hit six houses in succession during the last big raid, early in November. In one place they’d found thirty pounds hidden in the bread box. “Probably saving for Christmas,” said Donny with glee.
Usually they worked as a team, two to do the looting, one for a lookout. Tonight Jack was by himself. He was on probation, Donny said.
“You’re a friggin’ messenger. A Boy Scout. You’re a good boy. Everybody thinks the bleedin’ sun shines out of a scout’s arse. Nobody will question you tootling about.”
Jack stood for a moment in the hall. It was totally black and the acrid smell of cordite and dust still lingered. He snapped on his torch, aiming the beam around the hall. Most of the roof was gone and the stairs had partially collapsed. In spite of what Donny had said about the wardrobes, he didn’t want to risk going up to the bedrooms.
There was a piece of plywood covering the entrance to the parlour, so he decided to check the kitchen first. Bits of plaster crunched underfoot as he walked down the narrow hallway. The woollen balaclava was itchy on his skin.
The kitchen was small, with yellow sprigged wallpaper that had once been bright and cheery but was now covered with red brick dust. He remembered being in here, sitting at that same table while Mrs. Cowan served him a glass of delicious eggnog. He hoped she couldn’t see him now. Don’t think about that. Don’t think. Be a soldier.
He opened the door to the pantry. The neat shelves were lined with tins. All kinds: tinned fruit, stewed tomatoes, peas and green beans, lots of baked beans.
He halted. Several tins had been opened and lay empty on the floor. He didn’t know what to make of it but he couldn’t back out now. He swung off his rucksack and shovelled in as many tins as he could, until it was bulging. He added a half bag of sugar and the tea caddy. What was that? He paused again, thinking he’d heard something, but it was just the wind blowing through the broken window. The tattered curtains were slapping and flapping like the flags of the dead.
Would this be enough for Donny? Jack couldn’t be sure. He’d better check the parlour. People often put their best china and silver in there, like his mum did. He shrugged the heavy rucksack onto his back and, swinging his torch from side to side, he walked cautiously out into the hall.
His heart leapt into his throat.
He was sure there had been a piece of plywood in front of the entrance to the parlour. It wasn’t there now. He could see it leaning against the wall just to the left of the doorway. His knees started to tremble so hard he thought he might have to sit down. His mind immediately started to race with excuses – I thought I saw a light in here and thought I’d better make sure … I’m a Boy Scout.
Oh God, there was somebody just inside the parlour, a shadow against the lighter window. It moved towards him.
Suddenly a torch light flashed into his eyes, blinding him. “Stay right there, you little bastard,” a man’s voice hissed. “One move and you’re a dead man.”
Jack turned to make a bolt for it, flinging off his rucksack as he ran. He hadn’t even reached the front door when he felt the man grab hold of his collar. He was lifted into the air and slammed down hard on the floor. Then the man knelt on him so heavily it was hard to breathe. Jack was sure he was going to die on the spot, but suddenly the weight shifted and the man got off him.
“Turn over slowly.”
Gasping, he did as he was told and the man pulled off the balaclava. Jack heard the sharp intake of breath.
“Jack. What the hell are you doing here?”
He could just make out the man’s face. He was unkempt and filthy, but unmistakable.
It was his own brother.
Eileen Abbott climbed into bed, thrusting her feet between the flannel sheets to find the hot-water bottle, now only lukewarm. Usually the blessed privacy of her snuggery soothed and eased her, but tonight the room felt cold and lonely. Some time ago, when it was clear that she was the daughter who’d be living at home, Eileen had asked to have the front parlour as her own bed-sitting room. She furnished it simply: one armchair, the bed, and a matching wardrobe and dresser. Just enough space for books, her wireless, and a gramophone.
Eileen pointed her toes underneath the covers, something she did without thinking. Her aspirations to be a dancer had long since gone, but every so often when she felt wistful, she would push back the armchair, wind up the gramophone, and dance to a record. Even in that restricted area Eileen prided herself that she could still manage a tight pirouette or two.
She shifted restlessly. Sleep seemed far off. She sat up again and snapped on the bedside lamp. Perhaps writing her report would help her get out of this agitation.
At the outbreak of the war, she’d volunteered to be one of the diarists that the group called Mass Observation had asked for. They also used trained observers to record the voice of the people, as they put it. Typically, these observers noted down overheard conversations and opinions of the general population. “Good Lord, isn’t that what spies do?” her father had remarked when he heard about it. “They’re not undercover, just sometimes anonymous,” said Eileen. Joe had grunted skeptically. Eileen was more trusting. She thought it was a good idea and potentially lessened the gap between the governed and the government. However, she’d gone for the personal diary record. She could hardly use her position as a nurse to note down what were often private conversations with her patients.
Funny thing was, she found writing in the diary was comforting and she’d stuck to it faithfully. Mass Observation had assured all their volunteers that everything was read even if they couldn’t comment.
She unscrewed the top of her Thermos and took a gulp of the hot cocoa her mother had made for her. Then she reached for the notepaper that was on the beside table. Each sheet was stamped across the top: MASS OBSERVATION. DIARIST NUMBER SIXTY. BIRMINGHAM. (PLEASE DATE)
Her hand still didn’t feel quite steady and she took a deep breath. Just because she was a trained nurse didn’t mean she could be unaffected by the terrible accident that had occurred, but, as always, she forced herself to keep her emotions under control. Getting all weak and teary wasn’t going to help anybody.
Sunday, November 24, 1940.
Forgive me for putting it like this, but today was a day from Hell.
There was an explosion at Endicott’s this afternoon. Sunday is my day off so I wasn’t at the factory when it occurred. My mother and I were in the living room listening to the wireless when we heard it. It could have been anything – an unexploded bomb, a broken gas main – but we both said, “That sounds like it came from Endicott’s.” Dad had not long before gone in because he was working the afternoon shift, and Mum turned quite white. We went immediately to see what had happened. There were already a lot of people in the street, but it was so foggy some had their hands on the shoulders of the ones in front of them, like blind people do. We plunged into the stream with Mum clinging to my arm, and we were able to move at a good pace. The girls from the factory were standing outside, several wearing the red armband signifying they worked in the Danger Section. Mr. Endicott’s secretary, Mr. Cudmore, was trotting up and down like the White Rabbit, trying to get everybody to move across to the other side of the road. He’d come straight from home and he was without his tie, unheard of for him – he is utterly punctilious about his dress. The girls were slow to obey, seeming shocked into paralysis. Fortunately, there were many family members in the crowd that had rushed over, and they claimed their daughters. A light plume of smoke was coming from the roof but there were no flames. Mum and I were highly relieved to see Dad. He was standing with his arm around the shoulders of one of the girls, who was sobbing. He in turn looked relieved to see us. The person he was comforting turned out to be Vanessa, my nephew’s wife. Trust her to find an available man to cry all over. Seeing that Dad was none the worse for wear, Mum took over and told Vanessa to buck up, which she did promptly. Nobody had much information except that the explosion had occurred in the B section of the Danger unit. The A section operatives were unscathed. Vanessa and the others had been in the canteen or working on the main floor, which was untouched. Dad said that the fire wardens had already put out any fire and there didn’t seem to be any danger to the rest of the factory. The Danger Section is separate from the main floor and has reinforced walls. But Dad said there were injured people inside. I was about to go in when an ambulance arrived. I knew the two men. One’s a conshie named Nigel or Neville, something like that. He’s a nice lad, really. Works hard. The other is a dour Scot who says he isn’t going to fight another war. Everybody calls him Mac. He must be getting on for fifty but he’s very strong, physically and emotionally.
They got a stretcher from the ambulance and the three of us entered the building. I stopped only to fetch my first-aid kit from the clinic and we went through the walkway to the Danger Section.
Eileen paused, remembering. As they entered the shed, the smell of cordite, blood, and feces assailed them.
What a sight. Since the bombing raids started, all of us have had experience in dealing with dead and mangled bodies, but this was very hard. Probably because I knew all of the young women. One of them, Tess Deacon, lived on this street. She was dead, lying like a doll covered with dust, but not a mark on her. The percussion had killed her instantly. The worst was Irma Dimble. She had been eviscerated. Mac stepped forward to deal with that, bless him. Both of her arms had been severed and lay, one on each side, a few feet away. I could see that her ring finger was covered with a piece of sticking plaster. Funny how you notice irrelevant details like that in a crisis.
I checked on the others. Prue McDermott’s throat was sliced, a raw red gaping mouth of a wound. Her eyes were open and for a second she focused on me. She tried to speak but that only made more blood bubble out. I put a pad on her throat but she sort of sagged and her eyes rolled back in her head. I knew she was dead. No time to mourn. Young N. was beside me and he was stalwart. We went over to the two girls who were still alive. Sylvia Sumner’s right arm had been severed just below the elbow. It too was lying to one side like a mannequin’s broken limb. Her left hand was a bloody mess. Poor, poor girl. She had got engaged only a month ago and she’d come into the clinic especially to show me the ring.
The other girl was Audrey Sandilands. Funny, cheeky Audrey. She was unconscious but breathing, although she was bleeding from the nose and mouth. Another percussive injury. Not much I could do for her on the spot. The damage was all internal.
Mac, in the meantime, was examining the two men who had been injured. They must have been working nearby. One of them – Doug Aston – had a deep head wound and the other’s eye had been blown out and was lying on his cheek. His name is Peter Pavely and I’ve known him for years. A kind fellow, a devout Methodist.
I had to decide quickly whom to move first. Audrey, Sylvia, and Mr. Pavely were the worst off. I thought Sylvia and Peter could be saved; I wasn’t so sure about Audrey. Fortunately at that moment another two ambulance men arrived and I didn’t have to make that choice. I directed them to Audrey and they loaded her onto the stretcher and took her off. I got Mac and Neville to help with Sylvia. She was semi-conscious and moaning softly. I applied tourniquets to both arms and wrapped pads around the wounds. They took her away. I did what I could for Mr. Pavely and Doug Aston until more help arrived.
Eileen gulped down more of the cocoa. She kept some brandy in her cupboard, but she was too chilled to leave the precarious warmth of her bed, so she tugged the covers up higher and continued to write.
Another ambulance arrived and was able to take both men off to the hospital. I stayed behind to organize removal of the three bodies to the mortuary. I asked the wardens who were standing by to assist with the cleanup – a euphemism if ever there was one for scraping human tissue and bone from the floor and the benches and mopping up pools of blood. There were four wardens, none of them young men, and they were superb. I knew that two of them had served in the Great War, the same as my father had, so perhaps they’d had experience. I know Dad did, although he rarely talks about it. Dad even got through the police cordon and came to see if there was anything he could do. I told him to deal with the rest of the workers, get them to go home and make sure somebody was with them. He didn’t try to talk me out of my task, bless him. The factory caretaker, the Polish refugee, came in. He’s been nicknamed Wolf because his real name is unpronounceable. He immediately volunteered to fix the huge hole in the roof with a temporary tarpaulin. He doesn’t speak much English but he was calm and efficient, although he too looked dreadful. Bless him too. In emergencies such as these, people going about their business without being asked are deserving of the George Medal, if you ask me.
I’ll try to go to see the Deacons tomorrow. At least Mum went on our behalf tonight when she heard the news about Tess. She said the sorrow was almost unbearable. Tess was their pride and joy. Just twenty years old. We sent her a birthday card two weeks ago. What a waste of a young life, the promise snuffed out in an instant. I assume there will be some kind of investigation into what happened, but with the kind of work those young women were doing, an accident can happen anytime. It’s both tedious and dangerous, which is the worst kind of combination.
Christmas will be here in no time. I’m not looking forward to it. How desolate it will seem with so many men overseas and so many families destroyed by the bombing. It makes you wonder if we can keep going.
Eileen looked over what she had written and replaced the notepaper on the table. Was there really somebody reading these diaries? Or was it a futile gesture that mattered to no one?
She turned off her light and lay awake in the dark.
Steelhouse Lane Police Station was an imposing three-storey building that had an aura of authority reminiscent of the Victorian era. In actuality it had opened its doors only in 1933. It was often called grand, sometimes intimidating. Tyler thought that your opinion was dictated by your conscience. At the moment, however, its dignity was somewhat diminished by piles of sandbags stacked around the perimeter. Tyler stepped into the grand arched doorway and pressed the bell. Alf Mason himself answered the door immediately.
“Tom. Good to see you. Wasn’t sure you’d ever get here.”
“Sorry. They had to clear the tracks twice.”
“You were lucky it was only twice. Come on in.” They shook hands heartily, with some additional thumps on each other’s arms. “Give me your things.”
Tyler handed over his hat and coat and Mason ruffled his hair playfully.
“What happened to the carrot top? You’re almost as much silver as red now.”
“At least I’ve still got some,” retorted Tyler.
Mason chuckled, rubbing his own smooth dome ruefully. “I heard that bald heads were a sign of intelligence.”
“The brains burning out the hair, I suppose?”
“Something like that.” He snatched Tyler’s suitcase before he could protest. “Here, let me take your bag. Let’s go up to the common room. I’ve got a kettle on the boil.”
He led the way up a poorly lit flight of stairs and ushered Tyler in. Warmth and brightness welcomed him.
“Thought you’d like a bit of a warm,” said Mason. “Mind you, we had to burn some of the furniture to keep the fire going.”
Tyler grinned. “Too bad there’s a war on. You could requisition some new stuff. Looks like you could do with it.”
Heavy use had already softened the furniture and scuffed the wood flooring.
“Go and warm up your cockles,” said Mason. He began to gather together the newspapers that were scattered on one of the couches. “That’s all my mess. I spend most of my time in here when I’m not working. My house took a hit a few days ago and I’ve moved in here with the bachelors.”
Tyler had obediently gone to the hearth. He turned around. “Good Lord, Alf. I didn’t know you were bombed.”
Mason shrugged. “Only just happened. Fortunately the girls are both stationed up in Scotland and Yvonne had gone to stay with her sister in the Lake District. It seems the safest place to be at the moment, and she thought she’d be closer to the girls. Not that she’s seen much of them by all accounts, and last I heard she says she’d rather risk a bomb than the slow death by boredom that she’s currently experiencing.” He winked at Tyler. “Yvonne was never one for the beauty of the unsullied countryside. She says there’s nothing to do there except count sheep, which puts her to sleep.”
“I’m surprised she even agreed to it, knowing your missus.”
Mason shrugged. “She’s going to give it a trial period. She’s only been gone for a month. Course, she wanted to come back when the house was knocked out but I talked her into staying where she was. Everything’s boarded up tight.” He gave a wry grin. “Truth is, I miss her. Wives! You want them out from underfoot when they’re here and can’t stand your own company when they’re not.”
Tyler smiled in response, although Alf was certainly not speaking for him in this regard.
“How’s Vera?” Mason asked as he poured some tea from a silver pot on the trolley.
Tyler shrugged. “Bearing up. She doesn’t say much.”
Mason handed him a cup. “That must be tough for all parties.” He pointed. “Do you want me to add a splash to that? I’ve got whisky – Canadian Club – only good for livening up the tea. We might as well drink it now; there won’t be much more where this came from. I think those that say the war will be over by Christmas have got their heads up their jacksies. We’re in for the long haul.”
Tyler nodded agreement and Mason added a healthy shot to each cup.
“You look done in, Tom. Drink that up and I’ll show you your room. You’ll find it nice and quiet. There’s hardly any of the lads around now and none that you would know. They’re all away trying to shore up cities worse off than us. That or they’ve signed up.” He held up the whisky bottle. “More?”
“Thanks.”
“With the tea or without?”
“Without. That’s goddamn awful char you made, Alf. Did you stew it for a week?”
Mason laughed. “Almost. We just keep adding tea leaves to the pot. The only way to deal with the rationing.”
He splashed some more whisky into Tyler’s cup and looked over at his friend.
“How’re you making out these days, Tom?” he asked quietly.
“All right. Thanks for your letter, by the way. I appreciated it.”
“I was utterly stunned when I heard what happened at the internment camp. What a dreadful case! And what came from it must have been hell for you.”
Tyler nodded. He didn’t want to go into it, not even with Alf.
They sipped at the whisky in silence for a moment, then Mason put down his cup. “I’ve got to hit the wooden trail or I’ll be useless tomorrow. I’m off to Nuneaton to help sort out some administrative problem. I assume you’ll be going over to the factory in the morning. The BBC reported the explosion. Did you catch it?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“They couldn’t say where it had taken place – they never do. It was just called a Midlands town. They said there were three fatalities, but one of the injured girls is in critical condition. It’ll be four dead soon. Endicott’s is closed down tomorrow, so you’ll get a chance to have a gander ’round.” He tried to stifle a yawn.
“One more thing, Alf,” said Tyler. “Our Mr. Grey is wondering if there might be sabotage involved. Communists and so on.”
Mason frowned. “I doubt it. All of the workers get security clearance, but we don’t clap somebody in irons just because they’re on the bolshie side.”
“Anybody I should pay particular attention to? Nationalists, for instance?”
“Don’t get me started on the bloody Celts. They don’t know which side their bread is buttered on. They’ll be singing a different tune if Hitler comes knocking on their doors. Do you think he’ll welcome them? Fat chance. He hates nationalists of any stripe.”
“No IRA sympathizers?”
“Not that I know of. I hope to God we squelched that lot when the last two got the drop for trying to blow up the police station.”
“That was back in February, wasn’t it?”
Mason nodded. “We haven’t heard a peep since then. Good as bloody gold they are. So, sabotage? I doubt it. It’s my view that the explosion was an accident. Those gals are rushed through their training. They’re young, heads in the clouds. One mistake, one lapse of attention, and boom, you’re a goner.”
He yawned again. “Beg pardon. Long day. Sorry I don’t have much more I can give you. I did ring over to the factory, though, and they’re getting you a place to work from. Endicott’s secretary will meet you and show you around. His name’s Cudmore.” Mason made a flip-flop gesture with his hand. “He’s a good fellow, for all he’s a bit limp-wristed. You might not even see Charles Endicott. He avoids trouble like the plague. And he’s notoriously tight-fisted. If you do recommend changes to routine, he’ll put up a fight if he thinks it’ll cost money. Just ignore him or pull rank if you have to. Tell him you’re a personal mate of Winnie’s. That’ll shut him up.”
He got to his feet. “If you want to come back here for your meals, just sign up with the canteen. Frankly, you’ll get better food at the British Restaurant on Broad Street. It’s just opened.”
“I’ll look into it.”
“There’ll be some breakfast served here at seven thirty. Not much to write home about these days – toast and tea.”
“I don’t have to go to morning lock-up parade, I hope.”
“We’ve suspended that for the duration, thank God,” said Mason with a chuckle. “At least with this war, justice is swift. Nobody’s much bothered with so-called reasonable doubt, which as far as I’m concerned is a crock of shite. You were caught red-handed, matey, off you go to clink. No toffee-nosed lawyer to whinge for you.”
Tyler laughed. In spite of his tough talk, he knew Alf was a fair and conscientious copper.
“I won’t see you till tomorrow night,” continued Mason. “It’s going to take an elephant’s age to get to Nuneaton if the fog keeps up, so I’m off at the crack of dawn. Ready?”
Except for the fact that he knew it would have embarrassed both of them, Tyler could have hugged his friend. His kindness and matter-of-fact manner were a balm. Mason banked down the fire, then led the way into the hall, snapping off the light behind them.
“I’ll say good night then. You know where the loo is. I’m bunking in number twenty-six.” Mason looked at him. “Sleeping all right these days?”
“Not bad,” Tyler lied.
“It’ll take time, Tom.”
“To tell you the truth, I was glad to be called up here. Change of scene.”
“Thought it would be.”
They parted company at Tyler’s door with a couple more thumps on each other’s arms.
Tyler went into the bedroom. He unpacked the few things he’d brought with him. Two fresh white shirts, a couple of sombre ties in case he spilled something on one of them, warm underwear, woollen socks. He put them into the top drawer of the dresser. The previous occupant of the room had left behind a wrapped toffee. Tyler considered having it but he wasn’t sure how long it had been there. He left it alone.
He got into his pyjamas and slipped under the covers. Typical of police-issue furniture, the mattress had known better days. The middle sagged like the belly of an old donkey.
A constable in the adjoining room was playing a record on his gramophone, not loudly, but the music was still audible. It sounded like the weedy American, Frank Something or other. He was singing I’ll never smile again, till I smile at you. Tyler found the song disturbingly pertinent to his situation. Only three months ago, but it seemed like years since he’d heard from Clare Devereaux, Clare Somerville as she was to him, the woman he had always thought of as his one and only love. He’d had one brief note saying she was still in Switzerland but she hoped she would see him before too long. Rationally, he knew she couldn’t say much – her letter would be censored – but he was disappointed that there were no words of love, no endearments. Did she miss him the way he missed her? He’d written three letters but had no way of knowing if they had reached her.
The music from the next room was getting slower and slower. The gramophone must be the kind that needed winding up, and Tyler wondered if the constable had fallen asleep. Frank’s voice was starting to drag as if he’d been on a drunken spree.
“Don … t … kn … ow … whe … re … do … kno … w wh … en …”
Finally, to his relief, it stopped completely. Reminds me of myself, thought Tyler. I could do with a good winding up.
Last month he’d actually gone to the conscription board and tried to enlist. He’d even take a desk job. He couldn’t say the men behind the desk had laughed at him. They were rather kind, in fact, but his request had been turned down without preamble. “You’re much more valuable doing what you’re doing,” said one of them. He was a lean, posh-voiced bloke with an eye patch. “We’ve got to maintain law and order at home, by Jove.”
So, by Jove, here he was. Not exactly maintaining law and order but at least trying to sort out accident from intention. His thoughts shifted to the conversation he’d had with Grey. Common sense, really. He hoped that was true. An investigation like this wasn’t going to be easy. Alf had said there were three fatalities. If he did indeed discover that there had been sabotage, that was three murders.
He snapped off the light. “Goodnight, Clare, my darling,” he whispered. “I hope you’re safe.”
Eileen sat up in bed, her heart bumping. Tap, tap, tap. Soft yet persistent, coming from outside. Tap, tap, tap, tap. She knew the windows were latched and nobody could get in, but it was frightening that at this hour somebody was at her window. She picked up the torch that stood on her table, ready for the times they had to go to the shelter, swung her legs out of bed, and walked cautiously to the window. She lifted aside the thick curtain just a crack and peeked out. Her own shadowy face reflected back at her, but as she pressed closer she could see a shape on the other side of the glass, distorted by the fog and darkness but recognizable. It was her nephew.
Quickly, she pushed up the sash window. “Jack. What are you doing here? What’s the matter?”
“Auntie Eileen, I’ve got to talk to you,” he whispered.
“Why are you at the window? You scared the heck out of me. For God’s sake go to the front door and I’ll let you in.”
“Please, Auntie. I don’t want Granddad and Gran to get up.”
“I’m not going to hold a conversation with you through the window. It’s perishing.”
He turned away at once, and she closed the window. She slipped on her dressing gown and, torch in hand, went out to the front door.
Jack was on the threshold, and even in the darkness his fear was palpable. She didn’t speak, only beckoned, and he followed her into her room. She closed the door behind them and switched on the light.
He looked terrible. His face was covered with dust and streaked with tears. There was a large bruise on his cheek and one bare knee was badly scraped.
“Just a minute.” She went over to her bedside table and poured some cocoa into the cup. Then she opened the corner cupboard, took out the bottle of brandy, and poured a generous splash into the cocoa.
“Here. Drink this down.”
He did so, coughing and spluttering as the brandy hit his throat. Even then he took the precaution of pressing his sleeve against his mouth to stifle the sound.
“Take your time. Can you get down some more?”
He shook his head. “No, it’s awful.”
The floorboards overhead creaked and both of them waited, looking upwards.
“It’s only Granddad,” said Eileen. “He usually goes straight back to sleep.”
The creaks retreated and were still.
Jack looked over at her, his face full of misery. “Thanks, Auntie Eileen.”
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on or not?”
“It’s our Brian …” he choked.
“What about Brian? Has something happened? Did you get a telegram?”
“No, nothing like that.” The boy rubbed hard at his eyes as if he could erase the memory. “I found him in a bombed-out house.”
“What do you mean you found him?”
It was on the tip of Eileen’s tongue to ask what he himself had been doing in a bombed-out house in the middle of the night, but she thought it would be wiser to leave that for now.
“He was hiding. He’s gone AWOL, Auntie. He’s deserted.”
Eileen sat down on the edge of the bed. “My God, Jack. I can’t believe it.”
“It’s true, Auntie. He’s been there since Friday.”
“Is he going to turn himself in?”
Jack shook his head emphatically. “He said he won’t. He won’t go back to the front and he won’t go to prison.” He bit his lip. “Auntie, I think he’s gone off his rocker and I think he might do something really bad.”
“Does he know you’ve come here?”
“Yes. He said Granddad and Gran and you were the only ones he could trust. He wants you to come to talk to him.”
“Where the dickens is he?”
“In your shelter in the backyard –”
“What!”
“Please, Auntie. I had to do what I was told. He don’t seem like our Brian at all. He said if I turned him in, he’d get me, brother or no brother.”
Jack’s lips were quivering. Eileen tried to make sense of what he was telling her. Brian was her nephew, her godchild, her family. How could he have deserted?
“I’d better go right now and talk to him.”
“Be careful, Auntie. He’s not himself, honest.”
“Well, I am myself, so maybe that will bring him to his senses. Stay here.” She pointed to his knee. “I’ll take care of that when I come back. Let’s sort this out first.”
She took her overcoat and wellies out of the wardrobe and went through the kitchen to the back door, moving as quietly as she could. She knew what a light sleeper her father was.
She snapped on her torch, waved it in a low circle, then began to walk slowly forward. It helped that Joe had painted the stones that lined the path white. Near the entrance to the shelter, she could make out a dark shape that moved slightly as she approached.
“Brian, is that you? It’s Auntie Eileen.”
“Come inside.” His voice was so hoarse she might not have known it was him, except she risked flashing the light up to his face. A dark stubble covered most of his face, and his eyes were hollow. It was less than six months since she had last seen him, but any soft boyishness had gone. Brian was twenty-one years old and he looked forty.
Brian held back the entrance blackout curtain for her to step through. In the close space she could smell the acrid stench of his unwashed body. She went ahead into what her father jokingly referred to as the lounge. Brian had lit the oil lamp but kept the wick low. There were deep shadows in every corner.
“So, Brian, what’s going on?”
“Just what it looks like, Aunt Eileen. I’ve left the army. A personally justifiable but nevertheless dishonourable discharge.” He stopped. “You don’t have a fag on you, do you?”
“I thought you didn’t smoke.”
“I do now. I told Jack to tell you to bring me some fags. What did you do with him, by the way?”
“He’s waiting in my room.”
“He’d better not bugger off to the police.”
“Of course he won’t. Don’t be silly.”
It was then that Eileen understood what Jack had meant when he said Brian was off his rocker. A muscle in his face was twitching non-stop and he could hardly stand still, jigging like a caged animal, one that would bite without hesitation.
Brian went over to the little dresser that her mother had moved into the shelter for her tea things. The cramped space had Beatrice’s signature written all over it: the spirit stove on an upturned painted box, the two camp beds covered with colourful quilts and cushions, an old rug on the floor. Two chairs. An oil heater was in the corner. There was even a photograph stuck on the bare wall of a pugnacious Winston Churchill, whom her mother greatly admired. A green velour curtain discreetly hid the chamber pot in the corner. One of the family jokes was that if Beattie Abbott ever mistakenly got sent to Hades, she’d start fixing it up to make it homely.
“Granddad wouldn’t come down here without his roll-ups. Where are they?” asked Brian, jerking open the dresser drawer and scattering the tea package and cups to the floor, breaking one of them.
“Brian, stop it this minute,” Eileen said sharply. “Look at you, you’ve broken that cup.”
He turned around to face her. His expression was dark and wild but her presence obviously brought with it the old authority of aunts over young nephews.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“There might be some Woodbines in the house. Let’s go in there where it’s warmer. I’m freezing.”
“Then what?”
“What do you mean, then what?”
“Are you going to try to talk me into giving myself up?”
“That might be the best thing to do, Brian.”
“I’ll die first.”
“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic. You always did have a tendency to blow things out of proportion.”
“I’ll be executed if I go back. Hung by the neck until dead.”
“Not these days – we need fighting men too badly. You weren’t even on the front line. You’ll go to jail for a few weeks and that will be it.”
“Then I will have to go back to the war.”
Eileen sat down in one of the chairs, clasping her hands. “Likely not. You’d probably be given a desk job.”
He didn’t respond to this. Then he said, “How’s Vanessa? Have you talked to her lately?”
“Not since last week. We had tea together in the canteen.”
“I should have gone to her house when I got here, but her parents would have called the police. They never really liked me. She’s probably wondering where I am. I wrote and said I had some leave coming.”
“Your mum told us that.”
He started to fidget. “They cancelled it at the last minute. Rumour was we were going to Africa. To the desert.” He flashed her a crooked grin. “You know me, I don’t even like going to Blackpool. I decided to take my own leave. Permanent.” He fished in his pocket and took out a small bottle. “A bloke gave these to me. Benzedrine. They issue them to the RAF lads to keep them awake.”
He was about to shake a couple into his hand when Eileen stopped him.
“I think you should hold off on those things. How long have you been taking them?”
“Since Wednesday. They really work. I thought I’d better stay on the alert. I’ve been on the run. I couldn’t risk having my rail warrant checked, so I’ve been travelling at night. Jumping on the backs of lorries mostly.” He paused. “You remember the Cowans? When I got to Brum, I ended up in their house. Just chance, really. I didn’t realize it at first but then I saw them. They were both dead, Auntie. Sitting like statues underneath the stairs.”
“So I understand.”
“I didn’t see them at first. They must have taken cover in the broom cupboard, and in the murk I hadn’t noticed them through the slats. They were sitting on two chairs, both covered with plaster dust, both quite upright, and both quite dead.”
“They were good, kind people,” said Eileen.
“Me and Jack used to go and sing carols in front of their house at Christmas.” He burst out in his hoarse voice, “Please put a penny in the old man’s hat. If you haven’t got a penny, a ha’penny will do. If you haven’t got a ha’penny, God bless you. And bang, bang on the door.”
“They were very tolerant.”
“You told us finally that they were Jewish.”
“That’s right. Their real name was Cohen.”
“You told us because you found out we were singing the bad version of the song.” He shouted again, “If you haven’t got a ha’penny, you’re a skinny old Jew.”
Eileen sighed. “Shush. You’re making a lot of noise.”
He lowered his voice. “I’m sorry I sang that. They never said anything. Always gave us a shilling and some cake Mrs. Cowan had made. They used to give us homemade eggnog at Christmas. Do you know what, Auntie?”
“Yes?”
“They were holding hands. The wardens had to carry them out together. I hid in the parlour when they came. I couldn’t think, so I stayed in the house, hoping something would happen.” He made an attempt to smile. “And it did. Jackie found me and here we are.”
She got to her feet. “Come on. Let’s have a conflab inside.”
He didn’t protest and Eileen led the way back to her room, both of them tiptoeing like thieves as they crossed the kitchen.
Jack was sitting in the armchair, and he jumped up when they came in, looking warily at his brother.
“Why don’t you take that chair, Brian,” said Eileen, keeping her voice low. “Jack, is there any cocoa left?”
Jack shook the Thermos. “Some. Here, Bri.”
He thrust the drink over but Brian pushed his hand away. “I’m okay. I wouldn’t mind a slug of that brandy, though.”
Without a word, Eileen poured a hefty shot and he tossed it back as if it were water. She hoped it wasn’t going to have an adverse reaction with the Benzedrine he’d been swallowing. His pupils were dilated and there were flecks of saliva at the corners of his mouth.
He plopped down in the armchair and leaned back. “Whew. Maybe I’m more tired than I realized.”
“Why don’t you close your eyes for a minute.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Within seconds he was asleep.
Eileen’s heart went out to him. Beneath the frenetic energy he was completely exhausted. She took the quilt off her bed and covered him up.
“What are we going to do, Auntie?” whispered Jack.
Even in the pitch darkness, Jack was pedalling dangerously fast. His Auntie Eileen had sent him home, making him swear to secrecy, but he’d dropped his rucksack in the Cowan house and he’d had to retrieve it. Donny had told him that, no matter what the hour, he had to report in when he’d completed his task. He was already much later than they would have expected and he was afraid of what he would encounter. His mind felt numb. He couldn’t think of an explanation for the amount of time he’d taken. He was almost out of breath when he reached the street where Donny lived. As he turned the corner, he ran over some debris that was strewn across the road. The jolt threw him forward onto the pedals, banging his already scraped knee. He dismounted to inspect the damage. His shin was stinging and he pushed down his sock so he could see what he’d done. Then he had an idea. He reached for a nearby chunk of brick and, before he could reconsider, he rubbed it really hard up and down the bone, aggravating the scrape and tearing the skin even more. He wanted to yell in pain but bit his lip so hard he drew blood there too. Tears sprung to his eyes. Tentatively he straightened out his leg and got to his feet. As he flashed the beam of the torch, he could see that a swelling had shot up at once.
He set off again. Would Donny punish him for being so late? Would the loot satisfy him? He wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. What a mess he was in. Donny’s house was the end one in a mean row of back-to-backs on Water Street. Jack leaned his bike against the wall. It must have been almost two in the morning, and so dark he might as well have been standing in a coal pit. He didn’t dare knock but pushed open the door and stepped directly into the living room. A sharp voice snapped at him.
“Who’s that?”
“It’s me, Jack.”
A pause. Then he saw a figure heave itself up from the floor. Another shape was beside him. Two people had been lying in front of the fireplace, where the embers of a fire still glowed. The second shape said in a drowsy voice, “Wot’s up, Donny?” It was a girl’s voice. Donny’s latest, Thelma, was with him.
Donny poked her hard. “Sit up, slut. We’ve got a visitor.”
She pushed herself onto her elbows. Even in the dim light, Jack could see she was naked. She made no attempt to cover herself. Permission would have to come from Donny first.
“Put the light on,” Donny said to Jack, and he obeyed, trying not to look at the girl now revealed. She was his age, only fourteen, but her breasts and hips were already full and rounded. Her eyes were puffy and in the light he could see she had a bruise on her cheek. Whether she’d got it from Donny he didn’t know and wouldn’t ask.
Donny reached for his cigarette papers and tobacco pouch, which were on the floor beside him.
“Roll us a fag,” the girl said.
“No. I only got enough for one left.” He was sitting up now and he quickly went through the routine of rolling a cigarette and lighting it. The sharp smell wafted over to Jack, almost turning his stomach.
“All right, Jacko. What have you got for us and why are you so late? Lucky for you me and my bird weren’t in the middle of a shag. Could have been friggin’ embarrassing.”
“I – I fell and hurt my leg,” stuttered Jack. “I dunno, I must have fainted or something. Next thing I knew I was on my way here.” He swung his rucksack off his back and put it on the floor. “Got some good swag, Donny.”
He opened the bag and tipped out the contents. Donny got to his feet, pulling the blanket that had been covering him and Thelma around his shoulders. He was wearing tight underpants, and Jack couldn’t help but glance down. Donny’s private parts showed large and defined.
“Oi, Donny, I’m perishing. Give us a blanket.” Thelma was whining. Jack knew Donny hated that tone of voice, and he tensed with fear at the retaliation he thought would fall on the girl. But tonight Donny seemed to be in good humour and he let it go.
“Shurrup. I’ll come and warm you up in a tick.”
He drew on his fag, the red end throwing light onto his thin lips. The old scar was white. He stirred the contents of the bag with his foot.
“Looks good, Jacko. But you’re trying to pull one over, aren’t you.”
Jack tried not to shrink away from him. “No, Donny. Course I’m not.”
Donny blew a smoke ring and watched as it dissolved into the air. “Let’s put it this way. It’s now the middle of the friggin’ night. You’ve had plenty of time to go back and forth several times. But you’ve only got one sack. What did you do with the others?”
Jack could feel his legs starting to shake. “I told you I fell. I must have been unconscious. I stuffed my bag and came here direct. I swear I did. Just one bag.”
“Let’s see your stripe.”
Jack showed him the goose egg and blood on his shin. Donny whistled softly as if in sympathy.
“I bet that hurt bad.”
“It did, Donny. Really hurt.”
Donny bent down and brought the end of his cigarette close to Jack’s leg. He squinted upwards.
“If I were to stub out my soddin’ fag on that there stripe … well, it would be pretty bloody nasty, wouldn’t it? Especially if I did it more than bloody once.”
Jack didn’t answer. Oh God. He was afraid he was going to mess his trousers any minute. He could sense that even Thelma was watching them in fear.
Donny straightened up. Jack could see the excitement in the other boy’s eyes, the pleasure rising at the prospect of causing pain. Help came from an unexpected quarter. Thelma said, “Look, pet, he’s brought some tinned pears. I fancy some.”
Jack didn’t know if her intervention was an act of courage or if she truly was only interested in the fruit. Whatever the reason, Donny moved away and resumed smoking the fag, pulling down the red-hot tip as far as he could.
“What’s it to be then, Jack? The truth or …”
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. The wound on Jack’s shin was already throbbing and he knew Donny was quite capable of following up on his threat.
He opted for the truth and gave up his secret. He betrayed his brother.