December 1940
Ten days later, Ruby and Mary were again traveling north, but this time by train. Their destination was Liverpool, and their assignment was to report on the Durning Road disaster of two nights earlier.
In Liverpool they would have the help of John Ellis, the longtime editor of the Liverpool Herald. “Gave me my first job,” Kaz had explained. “Hired me straight out of university, even though I was an idiot in every measurable way. I’d walk on broken glass for the man, so be on your best behavior.”
Mr. Ellis was waiting for them at Liverpool’s Lime Street station when their train pulled in at midday. He was in his early fifties, with thick spectacles that failed to obscure his inquisitive eyes, and graying hair badly in need of a trim. He was also utterly exhausted, and Ruby felt a twinge of guilt that he would be spending his day showing them around when he so clearly needed to rest.
“Good morning, Miss Buchanan. Good to see you again.”
“And you as well, Mr. Ellis. This is my colleague Ruby Sutton.”
“Ah, yes. The American writer. Kaz sang your praises in his last letter. Shall we be off? My driver is just outside.”
The car was an older saloon-style vehicle, about twice as big as the Baby Austin that Mary had borrowed for the trip to Coventry, and wide enough for Mr. Ellis to sit alongside them for their tour around the city. “I thought we might start here in the city center,” he said as they got under way. “It will give you an idea of the damage Liverpool has seen so far. We can certainly go out to the docks, but I doubt the MOI will let you publish any descriptions or photographs, and you’ve only got a few hours here before you have to head back to London.”
There seemed little to distinguish the streets of central Liverpool from those of London, at least to Ruby’s untutored eye. The buildings they passed were a hodgepodge of styles, and the people doing their shopping wore the same sort of clothes as Londoners. There were even the same shops as she knew from the capital: Boots, Woolworth’s, W. H. Smith, and more than one Lyons teahouse.
It was a warm day for late November, and through the car’s half-open windows she could hear snatches of conversation from time to time. Even to her ears the local accent was startlingly distinctive, and thinking back to her arrival in July, she recalled the first time she’d heard its expressive, almost musical cadences. The ticket agent at the train station had spoken just so, as had the train conductor, and she’d had to ask them to repeat their words several times before she had understood. It felt like a lifetime ago.
They circled through the central part of town, with Mr. Ellis pointing out significant buildings as they passed, many of them huge neoclassical edifices that, in their grandeur, reminded Ruby of the Capitol building back home. Not that she’d ever seen it in person; the farthest south she’d ever been was New Jersey.
“Have you lost any landmarks?” she asked.
“Not yet, no. Parts of the docks have been badly damaged, but places like St. George’s Hall and the Customs House are still standing, as are all of the churches.”
“So compared to London?”
“Compared to London we’ve barely been touched. Through September there were scattered raids with no rhyme or reason to them, or not as far as I could see. October was much the same. Damage, yes, but nothing like the East End has seen.”
“And casualties?”
“Low if you set them against the numbers killed in London, but awful still. Three generations of one family were killed by one bomb last month, on Chapman Street, I think. Then, a few days later, ten children were killed in the same block of flats. Ten. I . . .”
“Yes?” she prompted.
“It’s silly to try and quantify such things. Foolish, even. But the disaster at Durning Road is a turning point, for lack of a better expression. We’ve had a taste of the worst the war can throw at us, and it’s bitter. By God, it’s bitter.”
They rode on in silence, broken only by Mr. Ellis’s occasional directions to the driver.
“Where is Durning Road?” she asked.
“It’s in Edge Hill, due east of here. A fairly typical working-class neighborhood. Close-knit. Sort of place where everyone knows everyone.”
“What happened?” She knew the basics: a bomb had hit a shelter and killed a number of people in what the MOI had termed an “incident” in official briefings. As if such a bloodless term could properly express the limitless tragedy of what had befallen the people of Durning Road.
“It was a school. A training college. People had crowded into the basement shelter. Something like three hundred were packed into the boiler room. I imagine they thought it would be safer there, since the ceiling was reinforced with iron beams. But there was a direct hit, and the entire building, the entire weight of it, fell into the basement. Fell onto the people in the shelter. Those who weren’t crushed by the beams and the bricks and everything else were scalded to death by water from the boiler. And then the gas from the mains caught fire.”
“Do they have an idea yet of how many died?”
“The last I heard it was at least a hundred and fifty dead. Many of those who did survive are badly burned, so that number will certainly climb.”
They turned off the main road and onto a wide street lined with brick-and-stucco shop fronts and older terraced homes. It was a tidy road, utterly unremarkable but for the smoldering ruin of bricks, stone, and blackened lumber in the middle distance.
“Mr. Ellis?” came the driver’s voice from the front. “We’re coming up to the, ah, college. Where’d you like me to stop?”
“Just ahead is fine. We’ll walk the last block.”
They approached quietly, tentatively, standing at the fringe of the crowd of onlookers, and all the while Ruby worked to fix the image of the collapsed building in her memory. It had fallen in on itself, its exterior walls folded upon its roof beams, which in turn rested heavily, crookedly, on layer upon layer of floorboards, plaster, stonework, and broken glass.
At ground level, near what once may have been a set of stairs, a group of men in steel helmets and boiler suits were pulling at the debris, shovels at the ready, their muttered instructions to one another barely audible above an undercurrent of noise that Ruby didn’t at first recognize. It was a sort of low, keening cry, reminiscent of an animal in distress, and it made the hair on her nape stand on end and her breath catch in her throat. She turned her head this way and that, trying to discern what she heard, and then she realized it was coming from the people around her, men and women alike, some of them covering their mouths with their hands to contain their horror.
The sound rose and rose, and then the crowd parted before her, and she stood and watched mutely as two men shuffled past with a stretcher. On it was a blanket-draped body, far too small to be that of an adult, and as the men stepped free of the debris the blanket shifted, only a little, but enough to reveal a tiny shoe, its leather wizened and twisted by fire and water and . . .
The horror of that one shoe fell on her, a body blow that stole the breath from her lungs. She took a step back, closed her eyes, but the image would not flee, it was still there even in the darkness. She could see it, see the child’s little foot, so still and cold. How was she ever to wipe such a sight from her mind?
“Deep breath,” came Mary’s voice in her ear. “That’s it. And another. You’ll be yourself in a minute. Come away with me. Come on and follow me.”
“I’m sorry,” Ruby gasped as Mary led her away. “I don’t know why I reacted like that.”
“You let yourself be human, that’s all. I took a turn, too, when I saw that wee shoe.”
“I’m fine. I will pull myself together—I promise I will.”
“I know you will. Now, why don’t we see where Mr. Ellis has vanished?”
They ran him to ground just around the corner, deep in conversation with a police officer.
“Sorry for wandering off, ladies. This is Sergeant Harris. Known him since he was a green recruit.”
“Mr. Ellis here was telling me how you’ve come up from London to write a story about Liverpool. ’Bout time someone admitted the Blitz isn’t just in London.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Ruby affirmed. “Mr. Ellis was telling us that the college took a direct hit.”
“Was a parachute mine. One gust of wind in any direction and we wouldn’t be standing here. Makes you sick just to think of it.”
“Is there any hope of survivors? I saw, just now . . .”
Sergeant Harris shook his head decisively. “After what I saw last night? I doubt it.”
“Do you think anyone might be willing to speak with my friends?” Mr. Ellis asked.
“Won’t know unless we ask. But not here—people here are waiting for news. Best to go down the road a bit. By the mobile canteen, maybe?”
With their typical brisk efficiency, the ladies of the WVS had gotten to work feeding the neighborhood. Huge billy cans of soup and tea were steaming away, and slabs of cake were being handed out to any child who asked nicely.
Was that all it took to restore a child’s spirits? A piece of cake and a cup of milky tea? When disaster had overtaken her life, she’d been about the same age as these children drawing hopscotch squares on the pavement with bits of broken plaster. It had been easy to placate her, too, with promises of fun and good things to eat. Only later, much later, had she grasped the import of her changed circumstances, and the grief of that moment had never left her.
A few women stood nearby, their hands wrapped around steaming mugs of tea, their faces drawn and pale, their eyes moving constantly, fretfully, between their children and the calamity of the ruin down the road. One, who looked even more tired than her friends, held a feebly fussing baby, well wrapped in blankets and a knitted cap, over her shoulder.
“Good morning, ladies. I’ve got Mr. Ellis here from the Herald, and two ladies from Picture Weekly in London.” The women nodded, one by one, and did their best to smile.
There was nothing for it but to plunge ahead. “Thank you so much for speaking with us. Were any of you in the shelter at the college last night?” As Ruby talked, she pulled out her notebook and opened it to the first blank page.
They all shook their heads, and then the woman with the baby in her arms spoke, her voice wobbly with fatigue or shock. “Only by the grace of God we didn’t go. Tommy is just getting over the whooping cough. He’s that noisy at night, and I didn’t want to bother anyone. So we sat under the stairs. Never thought I’d be happy to see him sick . . .”
“Do any of you know anyone who was, ah, in the shelter?” Ruby asked, and steeled herself for their answers.
“My neighbor down the road. Four of her kids died. Four,” said one.
The woman next to her nodded sadly. “We always thought it was the safest place round here. Big, solid building like that. Seemed a sight better than those Morrison sandwiches they put up in no time at all.”
“I beg your pardon?” Ruby asked. “‘Morrison sandwiches’?”
“She means the surface shelters. Those places are deathtraps,” said another. “One good sneeze, and you’re the meat in the middle of a shelter sandwich.”
And then, from the woman holding the baby, “Are you an American?”
“I am,” Ruby answered, still scribbling down the quotes that had come flying at her. “I came over in the summer. My ship docked in Liverpool, so my first sight of England was your city. I never thought . . . well, I’m sorry to be returning under these circumstances.”
“If I was you, I’d hop on the first ship leaving for Canada,” said an older woman at the fringe of the group.
“You know, there’ve been mornings it’s crossed my mind. Especially after one of those nights when I’ve been back and forth to the shelter so many times my head is spinning.”
Everyone nodded in agreement. “Those nights are the worst,” someone said.
“But I usually think better of it once the sun is up. For better or for worse, I’m here for the duration. Now, would any of you be comfortable sharing your names with me? The story will likely run in next week’s issue.”
She was pleasantly surprised when all the women crowded around, perfectly willing and perhaps even a touch excited at the thought of seeing their names in print. As she copied down their names next to their respective quotes, she looked to Mary and waited for her colleague’s signal. A nod meant they should move on; a shake of her head, and Ruby had to keep talking. Mary nodded.
“Thank you, ladies. I do appreciate your taking the time to speak with me.” She shook everyone’s hand, patted the baby’s back and wished him good health, and then turned to follow Mary, Mr. Ellis, and the policeman back up the road.
They said goodbye to Sergeant Harris, and back in the car, Mr. Ellis asked his driver to return them to the city center. “Do you feel like you were able to get enough photographs, Miss Buchanan? And you, Miss Sutton? Do you have enough for your story?”
“I think so.” She checked her wristwatch; they had ninety minutes before the train to London was due to leave. “We’ve got a bit of time left still.”
“Then why don’t I take the two of you to lunch? There’s a decent place not far from the station.”
“We wouldn’t want to keep you from your work,” Ruby protested, all too conscious of the poor man’s fatigue. “Won’t they be expecting you back at the paper?”
“I’m all but living there at present. They won’t miss me for another hour.”
“How is your wife?” Mary asked.
“She’s well, thank you, and the children. Refuses to leave the city, no matter how often I ask. Won’t agree to go without me.”
“Do you live nearby?” Ruby asked.
“Fortunately, no. Our house is in Garston, a bit south of here. So far we’ve escaped the bombs, but I’m not fool enough to expect it to last forever. I only hope I can persuade Isobel to go to my sister in Wales if—when—it gets worse.”
They passed a pleasant hour with him, and Ruby was content to sit back and listen to his stories about a young Kaz, straight out of school and green as grass and given to blushing bright red whenever Mr. Ellis had so much as coughed in his direction. She couldn’t remember, even an hour later, what she’d eaten for lunch at the public house near the station, but it had filled her stomach and calmed her nerves, and by the time they rose to leave she was feeling quite miraculously restored.
Mr. Ellis was kind enough to come inside the station with them and make sure their train hadn’t been delayed, and only when he was satisfied that their journey home was assured did he shake their hands and accept their thanks for his assistance.
“It was my distinct pleasure, I assure you.” He paused, his brow knitting into a frown. “The thing is . . . what happened in Edge Hill is only the beginning. Call me a Cassandra if you like, but I’m convinced the Germans have been toying with us. Here in Liverpool, I mean. When they decide to destroy the docks, life in this city will get much, much harder.”
“So it’s only a matter of time?” Ruby pressed.
“Oh, yes. The MOI won’t let you print a word of this—I’m just telling you as one journalist to another. Britain lives and dies by what comes through these docks. War matériel, food, troops. Everything our empire can give us. The docks are a lifeline, in the most literal sense, and if they go . . .”
He surveyed the bustling station interior, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, his face pinched and drawn in an expression of utter desolation. “I’m sorry for sounding so bleak. If I were any kind of patriot, I would offer up something more encouraging. Something about the resolute spirit of Liverpool’s people, perhaps? At least that part would be true.”
The station clock chimed the quarter hour; their train was leaving in five minutes.
“Off you go,” he instructed. “And make sure to embarrass Kaz with my stories as soon as you can. The next editorial meeting, if you can manage it.”
“That’s a promise,” Mary said.
He turned to Ruby and shook her outstretched hand. “Good luck to you, Miss Sutton. Goodbye, and good luck.”