Saturday, September 7, 1940
A heavy clod of wet earth fell on Ken’s head. His hands began to shake.
It wasn’t the hideous and sickening lurch of the ground. It wasn’t the overwhelming, deafening crash. It wasn’t even the thought of death. No, it was the idea of being buried alive that most terrified Ken.
He hunched on the ground under the arches of the train tracks of the Wembley Park Station. He listened to the distant drip of water, smelled the dank cool air coming from the tunnel. They said it was safe, but he couldn’t stop imagining the bricks cracking, crumbling, and crashing down on top of him. He could taste the dirt, feel his crumpled arms beneath the tons of rubble, his open eyes seeing nothing, his thin voice reaching no one. He was pinned where no one would ever find him again, until bulldozers rebuilding the station overturned bits of his skeleton.
With every air raid, Ken pleaded with his father to let him stay in the flat. “If the flat gets hit, I’d still have a chance of escape,” he’d say. “It’s only wood and plaster. It’s not like bricks and train tracks crashing down on you.” Last week, when Mark’s building was hit, his sisters had survived with hardly a scratch. Even Mark looked peaceful. Ken saw him as they lifted the broken boards off his body. There was hardly any blood.
“No, Ken, you can’t stay here,” said his father. “You’ve got to come with me and Mollie and your stepmum. We’ve got to stay together.”
Ken didn’t remember anything about his real mother. But he’d only been a year old when she died. His father had married his stepmother a year later. His stepsister Mollie would be nine in November.
Things had been all right for a while—when his father was working. But his father was having a hard time keeping a job. Ken didn’t know what was wrong, but he hadn’t had steady work for four years. Ken couldn’t remember the last time his father had smiled. He spent most days sitting in his armchair yelling about the government and the price of a bit of tobacco.
Now, with the war, things were harder than ever. There were no jobs, and food was rationed. They had a real egg on Fridays, but mostly it was egg powder, chips, and day-old bread. Beetroot sandwiches were considered a treat, but Ken hated them. He got used to feeling hungry most of the time.
All his stepmother ever talked about was money. Ken and Mollie did whatever they could to bring in a bit extra. He had his early-morning paper route, and Mollie got a few farthings now and then when she cleaned the cages of the neighbour’s rabbits. But it was never enough. “We could rent out your room for a quid a week,” his stepmum railed. “We could get a decent bit of meat for Sundays with that, we could.” Ken and Mollie shared a room, but his stepmother thought Mollie should move into the little box room down the hall. Ken wasn’t sure where she thought he should move.
He watched a long-legged spider work its way down the brick archway in front of him. If they had a Morrison shelter at home, he could stay in there during the raids. Some of his friends had Morrison shelters right in their living rooms. Andy’s had been set up just like a dining table. “When a raid’s on, Mum just lifts the tablecloth and we go right in,” he’d told Ken. Ken thought that it looked like a big cage. It would be awful to be squashed up in a cage with Mollie and his father and stepmum. But when Andy’s house was hit, the whole front wall had fallen right on top of the shelter and Andy and his family were fine. They just opened the cage and walked out.
Since the beginning of September, Ken had spent most nights—some days as well—under the Wembley Park Station. The government said stations were the safest places, unless you had a Morrison shelter, or a cellar, or an Anderson shelter in your backyard. But Ken’s family didn’t have a cellar or a backyard, and they were waiting still for their Morrison shelter kit to arrive.
“Soon,” his father said. “The government’s sending them out in alphabetical order. ‘Sparks’ is second half of the alphabet. ’Til then, we’re together, in the arches, under the tracks.”
They’d been there since teatime, listening to the drone of engines, the scream of fire engines in the distance. It had been a beautiful warm day, the kind of day Ken loved to spend poking around the factories or on the towpath of the canal. He was good at spotting things, and he often found little bits of metal and tinfoil that he donated to the war effort.
Now it was dusk and night was coming on. The sun was setting. He could see a glow in the distance.
But wasn’t it in the wrong direction? The sun didn’t set in the east, did it?
“East London’s on fire,” said his father, reading his mind.
Ken tried to concentrate on his drawing. He’d found a piece of shirt cardboard in the rubbish bin outside the flat—it had a bit of a grease stain along one side, but it was still perfectly good—and he was drawing to keep his mind off the bombing raid. His plane silhouettes were laid out in front of him and he was tracing the outline of a Hawker Hurricane. Even if it got completely dark, he’d still keep drawing. He could see the plane in his mind. That was all that mattered.
“Come on, Jerry!” Terry was striding through the tunnel, punching the air with his fist. “We’re ready for ya! Tat-a-tat-a-tat-tat!” There were about twenty people under the arches. Neighbours, mostly. Terry went to Ken’s school, but he was two years younger so Ken didn’t spend much time with him.
Everyone froze as the sound of planes thundered directly above them. Ken held his breath and stared at his drawing. There was a brief silence, then a huge explosion, and a handful of stones fell from the archway. Ken covered his cardboard protectively and tried to ignore the world.
“Hey, Ken!” shouted Terry. “Do you think that one hit the school? Or maybe it was your precious library!”
The Wembley library felt like Ken’s second home. He sat there for hours copying photographs of airplanes and war ships, reading and re-reading every newspaper he could get his hands on.
Ken wanted to be a war correspondent. He listened to all of the news broadcasts. He kept a tiny notebook and wrote down whatever he heard. He wrote down the direction that the planes came from during raids. He asked the boys in his class: could they guess how many had flown overhead?
He wanted to understand Mr. Churchill’s strategy for fighting the Germans. But it seemed nothing could stop Hitler. When the reports from Dunkirk came on the radio, Ken couldn’t make sense of what had happened. The British had evacuated forty thousand troops from under the noses of the Germans. People in Dover went in small fishing boats across the channel to France to help get the British troops home. But then they’d left France and it wasn’t long before the French surrendered to the Germans. The French surrendered. It didn’t seem possible. Now German troops were almost visible across the water, only twenty-one miles from English soil. They could practically swim over. They could invade any day.
A distant rumble like thunder shook the ground below him. Ken looked up at his stepmother. She was knitting—mitts, he thought—and Mollie’s head was resting in her lap. He imagined water flooding through the tunnel with a boatload of Germans cresting a wave and opening fire on them.
By the time the all-clear sounded, it was almost dawn. They’d been there more than ten hours. The sun was starting to rise, as it should, in the east. A peaceful Sunday morning. Mollie was fast asleep. Ken offered to carry her, fireman style, up the dingy stairs and through the dark streets to their flat.
The air on the street was heavy with the smell of cordite. His gas mask in its cardboard box bumped at his side. But he felt relief, the sensation of being physically lighter that he always felt on coming out from under the arches.
He barely noticed Mollie’s weight on this back, but he couldn’t see where he was going very well. He rounded the corner and smashed into Mrs. Hodgson. She was standing stock still staring straight ahead.
“Oh, dear God,” his stepmum said quietly. Ken looked ahead. He could see a space in the row of houses, like a gap when a tooth falls out. The space where the Hodgsons lived.
“Ken,” said his father quietly, “you take Mollie home. Your stepmum and I will see what’s to do.” He watched as his father strode grimly ahead, toward the blank space that seemed to suck all light and sound out of the air.
Later that day, it was Ken’s job to play with Giles and Graham. He was supposed to keep them occupied while the Hodgsons searched the rubble for anything useful.
“Have you anything t’eat?” Giles’ freckles were covered with a fine layer of soot. His eyes were wide as he looked up from the floor in the front room where he and Graham were scooting Ken’s dinky cars around the chair legs.
Ken was in the kitchen spreading thin smears of Marmite on pieces of stale toast when Jenny stepped in through the back door. She had a small smudge of dirt on her nose, but she looked strangely glamorous.
“Looks like we’ve picked out everything we can safely get. The warden says we’re not to move anything else. Too dangerous.”
Ken felt embarrassed by her serious dark eyes. He had a sudden flash of a memory from a couple of years ago—before the war, at any rate—of seeing her laughing as she boarded a tram, with dancing shoes hooked over her fingers.
“Did you get much?” The vision of that space without a house was burned into Ken’s mind.
“Naw. It’s all buried too deep. The hard part is not having nappies or milk for the baby. I fancy you could hear him screaming all the way over here.”
Suddenly, Giles came bounding into the kitchen. “I’m stayin’ here, Jenny. They got Marmite!” Crumbs flew every which way as he jammed the toast into his mouth and tore off back to the lounge.
Ken looked down at the empty plate. He didn’t know what to say to this girl whose life had just been shattered. He cleared his throat and tried to make his voice sound normal. “Do you want a cup of tea?”
“Naw, that’s all right, Ken. I’ve got to collect up the boys.”
“Where’ll you go?”
“We’re not sure yet. Back to the archway tonight. My aunt Is says she can take in two or three of us. We’ve a gran in Slough. She’s just got a bedsit, but still one of us might go there.” She smiled sadly and shrugged her shoulders. “Nine’s too many for anyone to take all together.”
Ken let her words sink in. “At least no one was hurt,” he added hopefully.
“Oh, I’m sure it will all work out. There’s many folk have to deal with far worse. Graham! Giles!” She called out in her singsong voice.
“Not goin’!” Giles shouted down the hall. Ken heard a squeal and a thump. Graham dragged his brother toward them. The five-year-old was squirming and thrashing.
“No! I wanna stay. Wanna play cars! Don’t wanna go t’shelter!”
Graham kept a tight grip on Giles as he handed Ken the two cars. “Here, Ken. Thanks for lettin’ us play.” Ken looked at the cars balancing on his open palm. His Cooper Bristol racing car. His Vauxhall Saloon. They suddenly looked very small.
“That’s okay, Graham,” he said. “You can keep them to play with in the shelter, if you like.”
Giles suddenly stopped squirming and grabbed the racing car. “This one’s mine!” but Jenny caught his eye and he quickly added, “Thanks.”
Ken handed the Vauxhall to Graham. “Ta, Ken.”
“Race you to the house. I mean, to the rubble,” Graham shouted over his shoulder to Giles as he took off through the backdoor.
“No fair!” screamed Giles, running after him.
“Thanks, Ken. Those cars will keep them going for hours,” said Jenny as she turned to go.
“That’s all right. I’ve kind of outgrown dinky cars.”
“Still, it means a lot,” she said.
Ken had cleared up the toast crumbs and was drawing at the table when Mollie came in with his father and stepmother.
“I can’t think what that family’ll do. Whatever were they thinkin’, havin’ all those children? They can’t live under the arches forever—there’s no toilet for one, and no kettle for another. And no one here’s got extra.” She rounded on Ken. “You sittin’ here drawin’, while rest of us is tryin’ to find a few things for those poor souls. Haven’t you got tea on yet?”
By the next day, Ken had forgotten completely about the Hodgsons. He went off to school as usual, only to find that the east end of the building had been hit in the raid. School was cancelled. There’d be no school for the rest of the week. Next week he’d get bussed to Wembley Manor School.
When Ken arrived home early he could tell he was interrupting a conversation that he wasn’t supposed to hear.
“It’ll be good for him,” his stepmother was saying. “Make a man of him. We can move Mollie to the box room, and have a spare room to rent out. Think on it—an extra quid a week! And my sister will get money from the government to look after him, which is more than we get.”
Suddenly, Ken’s father saw him and looked up angrily. “What’d you do? Why’re you home?”
“School’s closed. Hit by a bomb.”
As Ken looked at his father he realized that he looked more sad than angry. “Well, that’s that, then,” he said.
“What’s what?” asked Ken. He sensed something, but he didn’t know what. He felt his stomach flop over. His father looked at his stepmother. “You’re a smart lad, Ken. You should go to a good school. And I want you to survive this war.”
“Kenneth,” said his stepmother, “You need to pack to go to Canada.”
Ken felt cold all over, as though his body was filled with ice water. His ears were ringing. He couldn’t make the words make sense.
“You’re to stay with my sister in a place called Edmonton,” she continued. “The government will pay for your trip over. You’re to gather your things and be ready by tomorrow mornin’. Here’s the list.”
A list? Canada? Away from home, from Mollie, from everything he knew? Away from the war? Tomorrow? It didn’t make sense. How on earth could they afford to send him to Canada, when there wasn’t enough money for a proper meal? His stepmother must be trying to trick him.
“Where’s the money coming from?” he asked warily.
“Don’t need money,” said his stepmother. “I just told you—government pays for it all. Aren’t you the lucky so-and-so!”
“But Canada’s across the ocean. How am I supposed get there?”
“By boat, of course. Do you think the government would make you walk?” His stepmother laughed.
“But a boat’ll take a long time! How long’ll I stay? And when do I come back?”
“You’ll come back when the war’s over, Ken,” said his father softly. “No one knows how long that’ll be. Two, maybe three years.”
He stared at his father. His head was spinning. Three years? They were sending him away for three years? In three years he’d be sixteen.
He’d always dreamed about sailing. Now he could go on a real ship. A ship to Canada. He’d be away from bombs. He’d be away from the archway. He felt as though his brain was on fire.
“Where am I sailing from? What ship? How big is it? Will I get to work on the decks? Do you know—”
“Do I look like a bloomin’ encyclopedia?” said his stepmother. “All I know is you’ve got to be ready to go. We got the letter this mornin’. And you’re not to tell anyone where you’re goin’. Says so in the letter. They could change their minds if you tell.”
“But they must’ve said something about the name of the ship. Otherwise how do I know which one to get on?” Ken was afraid that his stepmum hadn’t paid attention to the details.
“I just told you. It’s a secret. We’re to take you to Euston station tomorrow and they’ll put you on a train. That’s all I know. So gather up those things on the list, and write your name on all of your clothes, just like it says there. And mind you tidy your room before you go.”
He looked at the clock on the mantel. It was only ten in the morning. The library would just be opening. If he hurried, he could get there and find out everything he could about Canada and Edmonton. He could look through shipping reports and try to figure out which ship it might be, and which route they might take.
He raced out the door. He was going on a ship. Across the ocean. To start a new life.
Tuesday, September 10, 1940
The next morning, Ken’s stepmother made him breakfast as usual—a bit of watery porridge—but she put a drizzle of treacle on top for a special treat. Mollie wanted some too, so Ken shared a bit of his.
“Where’re you goin’ then, Ken?” she asked. He’d managed to keep it a secret all night, but it might be years before he saw Mollie again. He couldn’t lie to her.
“I’m going on a boat, Mollie. Going to Canada.”
“What? Why? Can I go too?” Mollie turned to her mother. “Can I go with Ken to Canada, Mum?”
“No, Mollie, I need you here with me to help out. Ken’s older. And your aunt Phyllis can only take the one of you. It’s so Ken can go to a good school. His school got bombed.”
Ken knew his stepmother was running through as many reasons as she could, without saying any of the real reasons. He knew it would be easier for them all if he wasn’t there. They could rent out the room and have a bit more to eat. Besides, he was older. This was his adventure.
“Aunt Phyllis lives in a place called Edmonton, Mollie. That’s where I’m going. I’ll see snow igloos and Eskimos and Indians and beavers, and I promise I’ll write you all about them. And you can write and tell me what’s happening here.” Ken felt a lump in his throat. “Then when the war is over, I’ll be back to see you.”
“Well, that’s all right then,” said Mollie. She was distracted by the treacle stuck to her teeth. “I’m goin’ to be late for school.” She picked up her gas mask and slung it over her shoulder. “Tala, now, Ken. I’ll see you when you get back.”
She doesn’t understand, Ken thought. I’m going away to sea, and in three years, when I am sixteen, I can join the navy as a cadet and stay away at sea forever. But all he said was, “Tala Mollie. You mind yourself.”
After Mollie left, Ken’s father came into the room carrying an overcoat.
“See here, Ken. I know it’s a bit big for you now, but I suspect you might do a bit of growin’ over the next while. I think you might need it to keep you warm, what with the snow and all. So you put it on, and you wear it always. You’ll be glad for it.”
“You look after that coat, mind, Ken. Don’t you go losin’ it,” said his stepmother.
Ken stared at the overcoat. He knew it was his father’s good coat, the one that he kept at the back of the closet for special. He put it on. The arms came down over his hands, and the bottom was below his knees. His legs looked skinny in his short pants, sticking out below the coat.
“Thank you very much.” He looked at his father. “Thank you very much, sir,” he added.