Ruth’s vision swam as she came to. Above her was the night sky, the moon and stars swallowed by the clouds. She was flat on her back against the cobbles of the street, which pressed into the small of her back like broken mattress springs. A weight pressed down on her and she couldn’t move her legs. Had she been paralysed by the fall? She tried to move her arms but they were wrapped up in something heavy but soft. Her back protested the movement, sending shooting pain down her legs. She heard a groan as if it was coming from beside her ear. Was it her own voice? She couldn’t understand what she was hearing, her ears were still recovering from the crash. Her head flopped to the side, apparently no longer under her control, and her vision resolved on a man’s face.
‘Anthony?’ she croaked, her voice dry and uncomfortable. A cough only served to bring a pang of pain to her chest.
‘Hmmm?’ he replied, his accent becoming more Welsh, as if he wasn’t thinking clearly. She hadn’t noticed it before now. His deep brown eyes, magnified by his glasses, failed to focus on her, looking into the middle distance as if seeing something she couldn’t. She could smell the scent of him, almost floral over the stench of cordite and fire wafting on the breeze. His moustache tickled the end of her nose and she almost sneezed.
Memory flooded back to her, and she remembered where she was. Anthony was pinned on top of her, after pulling her away from the blast. He must have been hit by the worst of it, and she wondered what his wounds were like, but he was a deadweight and she couldn’t move him to have a look.
‘Get off me, you great lout,’ she said, hoping her anger would spur him even if he was injured. ‘I can’t breathe.’
As she pushed against him, he groaned again and his weight shifted as he rolled to his left. The pressure on her chest eased and she took a great lungful of breath, relishing the fresh air. There was a sharp pain and she wondered whether anything was broken there, but as she sat up the pain became less severe. Each lungful of air helped her to recover, and she rolled over onto her hands and knees. They were surrounded by a pile of red bricks, most of them broken in half, trailing back towards the house they had been standing next to. It was a ruin, but there was no fire, or signs of fresh bombing. She wasn’t sure what had forced them over, but it couldn’t be that. The other workers were moving around the wreckage, checking it for stability, while one or two stared at the two of them prone on the ground.
Anthony lay to her side, his eyes closed as if he was sleeping. His breaths came in ragged fits and starts, and a frown pulled at his brow. He was atop a pile of bricks that had tumbled from the house, and he resembled a marionette after having its strings cut. She reached a tentative hand out to his shoulder, letting him know she was there.
‘Anthony?’ she whispered. His eyelids snapped open and he stirred like he was coming around from a deep sleep. He tried to raise himself onto his elbows, but fell back. Another groan escaped his lips. ‘Are you hurt? I can get help.’
‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’ He waved her away, then winced at the movement. It was typical of a man to be in pain but claim that he wasn’t. She didn’t see any point in trying to convince him otherwise. If he wanted help, he would have to ask for it. She wasn’t his mother.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, to her surprise. He may have been in pain, but he was willing to ignore that to check on her. When he opened his brown eyes again, there was a genuine look of concern in them. She nodded; she was fine now that she was able to breathe again, and the pain in her legs was abating. They had been lucky this time. It hadn’t been a bomb that came for them. Next time they might not be so lucky, if there was a next time.
‘Good,’ he said, nodding and pinching his nose. ‘I thought the worst when I saw that shadow looming over you. I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry for my presumptuousness.’
‘It’s quite all right. I think you may have saved my life,’ she replied, but he didn’t seem to be listening. He hauled himself to his feet, then bent down to retrieve his hat and slung the box that contained his gas mask back over his shoulder, then smacked the dust from his trousers before turning back towards the house. He took a step and faltered. Ruth reached out to him, but he righted himself before she could lay a hand on him. She wondered whether she should get him to a medic to check over his wounds, but she didn’t think she would win that argument. He was as stubborn as the rest of them, and if he was hurt he would have to deal with it himself. Anthony wasn’t her responsibility, but even still she watched on, hoping that the colour would return to his cheeks.
‘I hope that’s the last time a house falls on me,’ he said, kicking a brick into the distance. He then looked at her to gauge her reaction. She held a steady face for a second, before a laugh erupted from her lips. It was genuine too, and it felt good. The tension dropped from her shoulders as she let it go and took in a big lungful of air. She hadn’t realised how much she had been holding in her breath.
‘Me too, and I hope it’s the last time you push me over. Although, I must say thank you.’
She expected that he really hoped it was the last time he saw her, but she knew that it would be unlikely for them not to cross paths again. If she wanted to write about the bombing raids then she would no doubt find herself in similar situations, and if he was the warden for this area, then they would see each other again. She knew that would only infuriate him more, but it wasn’t her responsibility to prove to him that she was there to do her own job.
It was only now, standing up again, that she noticed how tall he was. He must have been six foot two or three, and even though she was tall for a woman, he still looked down at her. Peter had only been an inch or so taller than her, and often looked right into her eyes. At first it had been disconcerting, then she had become used to it. Anthony, on the other hand, had a way of never looking you in the eye when speaking to you, as if all the other things going on around him were far more interesting than the conversation. He was doing it now, but she thought it was more that he was struggling to focus.
‘You’re welcome. I suppose,’ he said, finally settling his attention on her. ‘Though I’m starting to think you’re bad luck, Miss—’
‘Mrs Holt.’ He knew that she was married, so why was he being so awkward? Perhaps he had suffered concussion and didn’t realise what was happening. He really should go to see a medic, but she couldn’t make him. ‘Are you quite all right, Anthony?’
‘Hmmm? Yes.’ He gingerly felt his side and gave a wince that he tried to hide. Then touched his hand to the brim of his hat. ‘Quite. Quite. We should probably be getting on, no? Plenty of houses to check on. Goodbye and good luck, Mrs Holt.’
She realised for the first time that she could still hear the crack of anti-aircraft guns in the distance, and the faint murmur of planes. Every now and then there was a crump, which could have been the sound of an explosion, but it was difficult to tell amongst the cacophony of the guns and the ringing in her ears. It appeared the raid had moved on to another part of the city, but she had no way of knowing that she would be safe there. She looked back over her shoulder at the disappearing figure of Anthony.
He was a strange man, that was for sure, but for a brief time she had seen under the surface of his steely facade. It was all an act, she could tell. Much as she did in her own life, he presented a public persona that would keep others away, to prevent himself from getting hurt. She wondered what kind of sorrow lay behind those deep brown eyes. He might not want to see her again, but she knew with utmost certainty that they would cross paths again. And she felt like making it her duty to find out what troubled him and see if she could help. She wasn’t the tricky journalist he thought she was, out to serve her own ends. Some of her colleagues were like that, but she had decided early on in her career that she would be different, that she would try to make a difference. She didn’t need to prove it to the stranger, but she felt compelled to.
Unconcerned by her own cuts and bruises, she went to have a better look at the house. It was just like hers and the hundreds of others in this part of Liverpool, all built to the same design. It could quite easily have been her home, but thankfully she lived more than a few streets away. It was an end-of-terrace house, and the entire corner of the building had fallen down from the damage it had received, fallen on top of Ruth and Anthony. She could see straight into the house through the living room. It was a complete mess of blackened walls and furniture, as if some kind of demon had attacked and turned everything upside down. A coffee table was upturned, with two of its legs flung across the other side of the room, while the door hung limply in its frame. There appeared to be photos and other personal belongings scattered amongst the debris, but no sign that anyone had been in the house when it had been hit.
‘Move back, lass.’ One of the rescue men stepped in front of her, blocking her view. ‘It’s not safe around here.’
She took a last mental image of the ruined interior then moved away. She wished she had taken a handheld camera with her, and next time she was in the office she would have to see if she could borrow one for the raids. Just think of the kinds of photographs she could take, even as an amateur, of the bombings. If that was the damage that one bomb could cause, then they were going to see some sights. She had had her first glimpse of the war to come, and she was right to be wary. She would have to find some way to get George out of the city again. What would have happened if that had been their house?
She walked off to the WVS station, ready to do whatever duty they had assigned to her, even though she had already had a house fall on top of her. Such was the life of a volunteer, she supposed. She had known what she was getting herself into, it wasn’t easy work, otherwise they wouldn’t need volunteers. She reported to the station and was directed to the van.
The WVS had a van that had been converted as a mobile support centre. They had parked it on the corner of the road, out of the way of the trams and leaving enough space for other vehicles to get by if needed, but it was at a jaunty angle and no one could get along the pavement. They had perhaps hoped that no one would be outdoors in the middle of a raid, unless they were needed. A trestle table was set up by the side of the vehicle, like some kind of street party. A couple of the volunteers were arranging the items into wooden crates. They were at times disorganised, but doing the best they could with the resources they had.
‘Where have you been?’ one of them asked when she spotted Ruth. ‘The bombers have been and gone, looks like they’ve moved across the water to Birkenhead. Looks like we’re moving on too.’
The speaker was one of the older ladies in the team, and Ruth could easily imagine her as a matron, bossing everyone around in a hospital ward and acting like she owned the place. They had even taken to calling her the Matron, when she wasn’t around. She had no training. She had just assumed her place in command by force of will alone. It would be fair to say that she scared Ruth a little. Her permed hair bobbed under her steel helmet as she talked, and her little eyes could cut like knives.
‘See that those chaps have everything they need, will you, dear? Then when you’re done join us in the van.’
Making tea was not exactly what she had in mind. She knew that a warm drink helped those working get through the night, but Ruth wanted to do more than that to help, be more than that. She could see her sister pouring out a lukewarm brew, but Ruth knew she should be helping with the rescue tasks themselves. They had been waiting for the bombers to arrive for months, and now that they were here she was certain this was only the beginning.
‘Come on, what’re you waiting for? The Luftwaffe won’t wait for no woman.’
‘I’ve got a driving licence,’ Ruth replied, thinking quickly.
‘So?’
‘I can drive the van. How many others can say that? Let me be useful, anyone can make a cup of tea. The men could even do it themselves.’
‘Nonsense, they’ve got important work to do; they can’t waste time on making up a brew. What about the men that come out in shock after digging out some poor soul? Do you expect them to care for themselves?’
‘All right, maybe so, but I would like to help more. Please. Let me drive the van.’
Ruth didn’t know why it had taken until now to assert herself. It wasn’t just that the Matron intimidated her, it was that until now the war had seemed so far away. They were all still trying to convince themselves that maybe it would pass them by, that Hitler and his Nazis would turn their attentions elsewhere, but now they had to face up to facts.
The Matron relented and turned to Trevor, who was usually borrowed from the rescue men to drive the van. ‘They need some help shifting the rubble down the road,’ the Matron said. ‘Mrs Holt will take care of the van, for now.’
He eyed Ruth warily then rushed away. As she climbed up behind the wheel of the van she could see the orange flames on the horizon. The war had finally come to them, and by the look of things it wasn’t going to be an easy one.
She gunned the engine, the motions coming back to her like getting back on a bike after a few years. The world lurched as she pulled away. Her father had driven during the war and when he came back he had taught her how. Ruth was only old enough to have vague memories of the last one, but she knew of communities nearby wiped out by fighting on the front. Her father had fought, and while she hadn’t really known him beforehand, others in the family told her that he had been a changed man when he came back, quiet and sullen, and prone to fits of unjustified anger. Families seldom talked about what had happened to their loved ones in the last war, which gave Ruth enough clues to how bad it truly was. This war was going to be different. They hadn’t had aircraft then, nor the bombers that descended on cities like Liverpool. If fighting had been terrible on the front last time, at least those at home had mostly been saved from attack; now it was going to be different.
Given the ease with which the Germans had invaded France only a few months ago, they were being told there was a good chance that they could invade Britain, and then what? There could be German boots marching down Bold Street, past Marks & Spencer in Compton House and on up to the Queen Victoria statue. At least Ruth could speak the language, but that didn’t make her feel any better. For now she planned to keep that fact as secret as possible. Maybe that Anthony had been right about her. Even though she was no Nazi, nor Aryan, the people around her would become suspicious, and they would lock her up like her grandfather. No, she had to avoid that, show them all that she had been born here and was as British as the next woman.
By the time Ruth got home, George was already tucked up in bed. She had missed that moment once so precious to her, so before washing off the sweat and the grime she knelt next to the bed, brushed the fringe of his hair away and kissed his forehead.
He stirred in his sleep and his eyes blinked open, followed by a smile.
‘I’ve missed you, Mummy,’ he said.
‘Me too, my love. Me too.’