Chapter 4

Monday, 19 August 1940

Anthony had not slept well the previous night and his eyes stung every time he blinked. The all clear for the second night’s raid had been called just after two o’clock in the morning, and when his head had finally hit the pillow, he had been too agitated to drift off. His side still ached and every time he rolled over in fitful sleep the pain had woken him up. Ruth and Anthony had been lucky, but some of their neighbours had had no such luck: they were the first casualties of the war at home, the home front.

Anthony’s head had swum as he’d wandered away from the collapsed building and he’d felt strange, as if he had a headache. No amount of aspirin would get rid of it. He should have seen a medic before he left, but he couldn’t stay with that woman there. On his way he had spoken to one of the rescue men, confirming that the residents of the house had not been inside when it had been hit, and so he had set off towards the shelter to inform them what had happened. This morning he was determined to do more.

He had been to the Ministry of Labour and National Service offices so many times that he suspected the receptionist even knew his name. He knew his way around its Victorian chambers almost as well as he knew the school building. As the staff attempted to direct him, he stalled them with a hand and walked past. There was a din filtering through the walls and along the corridors from the busy civil servants. Other men were already queuing up outside the National Service office. Most of them were younger than Anthony, barely out of their teens. One or two conscientious objectors queued outside a nearby office. They cast wary glances at the men waiting to enlist.

Having been refused before Anthony was an anomaly in age; most of the other men his age had already been called up. As they had extended the ages of national service, he had decided to try his luck again. Perhaps now the war had finally come to them they might turn a blind eye.

He didn’t really want to leave Liverpool, but he had always wanted to do his bit, having been too young for the last war. He remembered his father, an officer, setting off, resplendent in his polished and well-tailored uniform. It had instilled a sense of heroic pride in Anthony as a boy, but his father had given him one piece of advice that had stuck with him ever since, ‘If you ever find yourself fighting for King and Country, son, make sure you join the air corps. Those boys have all the fun.’

Of course it was the Royal Air Force now, but the point still stood. Anthony wanted to fly, to soar above the country fighting back the enemy bombers that were terrorising the people of his city. He had been fascinated by aeroplanes since he had first seen one as a little boy, and it had taken this fascination to university, but his life with Julie had led him to becoming a teacher instead. He didn’t regret it for a moment, but if there was any chance he could fly now then he would take it.

Some of the other men talked amongst themselves as they waited, but Anthony kept his thoughts to himself. Already one or two more had queued up behind him. One by one the queue went down, closer to the door. It frustrated him how long the wait took, but not one of the conchies had been seen yet. Eventually he reached the front and was ushered in to give his details to the recruitment officer.

‘Age?’ the officer asked, without looking up from the paperwork. He had a bald patch on the top of his head, which was beginning to look like a tonsure, and he wrote like a left-handed man, the pad of his right palm smudging the ink before it could set.

‘Thirty-five,’ Anthony said, then gave his other details with practised efficiency. He remembered the last time. He’d practised all the way to the office. Anything to make the process go as smoothly as possible.

‘Proceed through to the medical.’ The officer waved the paperwork at Anthony and he took it on his way to the next room. Not once had he looked at Anthony.

The doctor was finishing up an examination and told Anthony to wait a moment. Anthony placed his coat on the back of a chair in the corner, making sure nothing fell from the pockets. The heat in the room was stifling and he could feel the sweat breaking out on his temples.

‘Hello again, Mr Lloyd,’ the doctor said when he spotted Anthony. ‘Come on then, you know what to do by now.’

Anthony felt guilty that he had never bothered to learn the doctor’s name and mumbled a hello. He stood on the scales and waited as the doctor adjusted the height measure to the top of his head before writing it all down on the form he had been given. From where Anthony stood he could barely read the handwriting, but he knew whoever ended up with that form would know everything they needed to know. Next, Anthony untucked his shirt from his trousers and undid the buttons. The stethoscope was cold against his chest as the doctor moved it around.

‘Hmmm, hmmm,’ the doctor said, closing his eyes to listen. ‘Breathe in… and out. Nice and deep. There we go. Uh-huh.’

He let the stethoscope drop then flicked its tube over his neck before returning to his paperwork. Anthony buttoned up his shirt again and took care to tuck it into his trousers without getting caught up, knowing that the examination was over.

‘Now, you know what I’m going to say, Mr Lloyd?’

‘I suspect I do,’ he replied. ‘Same as last time?’

‘Same as last time, I’m afraid. The heart murmur is still there. It doesn’t need any further examination, but it’s not going away. And with that, I can’t possibly recommend you for national service.’

Anthony let out a sigh he didn’t know he had been holding.

‘I know you’re keen and disappointed, but it’s for the best.’ The doctor scribbled notes across the paperwork. Anthony expected him to simply draw a big cross over the form. ‘Besides, you’re in a protected profession. The children still need teachers, don’t they? You’re doing your bit by giving them the education they need. So they can grow up and be doctors or teachers in their own right.’

Anthony had never met a more talkative doctor.

‘I suppose,’ he said. ‘There aren’t many children left in the city.’

‘Come on now.’ The doctor wasn’t one to give up. Anthony had had the same speech every time he had tried to enlist. ‘You’re a warden too. We need men like you at home, just as much as on the front. And it’s much better than being shot at constantly, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Is that much different to the bombing here?’ Anthony moved towards the door, but it seemed that the doctor wasn’t done.

‘Well, yes. I would say so. The war may have come to us, but at least I get to sleep in my own bed at night.’ The doctor went back to the notes on his desk.

‘When there’s not a raid on, at least.’

‘Quite. Good day, Mr Lloyd.’ He turned back to Anthony. ‘Oh, and I wouldn’t bother with the army or navy either, they’ll only tell you the same thing. Carry on the good work on the home front. Chin up!’

Anthony had never felt like hitting someone before, but the doctor was trying his patience. Instead, he simply picked up his coat and left. Outside, the air was cool and it hit Anthony with a flush, like leaving a warm public bar after a few drinks. He swayed in his steps, and he wasn’t sure whether it was the disappointment or simply the change in temperature. He felt like his entire life was unsteady, but at least he had a home and a job to go to.

He could have done with a week, no, a month off work, but even though there was a war on he had plenty to do. The school was quiet, the corridors filling with the click of Anthony’s shoes on the tiled floor. It wasn’t just the evacuation of the children; numbers had been dwindling. He passed empty classrooms, rows of wooden desks sitting patiently waiting for children to occupy them. Would the children miss out on too much schooling? He suspected they would be all right. Some had started to filter back to Liverpool, their parents recalling them from evacuation in what the press like that Ruth woman were calling the Phoney War.

He touched a hand to his side and winced. He hadn’t realised at the time how much the brick fall had hurt him. In hindsight, he saw he had been more concerned about Ruth, than himself. Even if she was an underhanded journalist. Julie would have said that it was that kind of empathy that made him a good teacher, but he thought at times that it made him an idiot. He could be too trusting, that was why he was determined not to let that woman charm him. If he did, somehow it would come back to bite him. Next time he saw her hanging around in a raid he would ignore her. It was the only way.

Some families had refused to send their children away from the city. Anthony had had a number of conversations with them, advising them to reconsider. He wondered whether they would change their minds now that the first bombs had landed on the city and they had suffered the first loss of life. Some people would claim there was no danger. Some people didn’t learn until it was too late. They believed bad things happened to other people, and they were privileged, but Anthony knew full well that disaster could strike at any time. The morning newspapers had reported that only a couple of people had lost their lives in an unnamed ‘North West town’, but rumours were already circulating that the true number had actually reached double figures, and Anthony knew it would only get worse.

The smell of school was all too familiar, like a second home. The dustiness of chalk and the sticky tang of varnished wood that despite its age never seemed to completely dry. Occasionally he would let his hand scrape along the wood, noticing the grain that rose and fell around knots. At least it had become a home as much as Liverpool had after he left his family in Wales. He had steadfastly refused to go back, and even though he and his family occasionally wrote letters to each other, it was a decision that suited them all. He had chosen a new life in a new city with Julie.

Most of the city’s schools had now closed, but not St Thomas’s. Whether the headmaster had just decided to carry on as if nothing had changed, or whether he really did have the children’s interests at heart, Anthony could never be quite sure.

As he walked towards the staffroom the thick stench of cigarettes became the dominant smell. It was times like this that he regretted giving up smoking, but given the danger of a careless match during a raid he had thought it best to stop. His nerves had been on edge for weeks now, but he knew it was the right thing to do.

He pushed the door open, feeling the squeak of its hinges through the brass handle plate. It was a wonder the metal hadn’t been taken for the war effort, but he supposed the school had certain privileges. The white plastered ceiling was stained yellow in patches. The room was about ten yards by five, and panelled in the same wood as the rest of the school. It was empty. Many of the other teachers had gone on to other work; had the others perished in the raid? Julie always said that he reached for the worst thought before thinking it through, and she had been right. That had become even more difficult after her death, but he had come to terms with it in time. He just wished he’d known it at the time.

The staffroom was the warmest room in the building, kept heated by two long radiators under the windows. The windows themselves were long wooden frames with large panes of glass, but heavy maroon curtains kept in the heat. At times it was too much for Anthony. Today was one such occasion, given the August sun. The headmaster, Robotham, revelled in the heat, as a man who had grown up in Africa.

The door squeaked open again and hit the wall with a dull thump. Anthony only opened his eyes a few seconds later, spotting that the headmaster had entered the room and now occupied the matching armchair opposite him, a newspaper clutched in his liver-spotted hands.

‘Lloyd,’ Robotham said, looking at Anthony over his pince-nez. ‘You look as if you haven’t slept in days, man. Burning the candle at both ends, are you?’

Anthony did not particularly enjoy his company, but they had at least been able to have civil conversations in the past. That was until the war had started. He stifled a yawn, lest it show his uninterest.

‘Apologies, headmaster. We had the first raid the night before last and I’m afraid I didn’t get much sleep. The bombing rather knocked it out of me.’

He winced at the unexpected and unintentional pun, but Robotham didn’t appear to notice.

‘Yes, indeed,’ he replied. ‘You really should consider which is most important to you, young man. Our school work is rather demanding, but it is all for the children after all. They do so need us in these trying times.’

Anthony didn’t have the strength to argue. ‘I understand, sir. The children are of course my top priority. It is a privilege to teach them.’

‘Of course, of course, I know that. But what about all this other nonsense? Running around the city in the dead of night. What good does it do anyone? Least of all yourself.’

‘I help to make sure that people are safe during the raids, sir.’

‘Ahh yes, but really. As I say, it’s all an old lot of nonsense. People will look after themselves, or they won’t. It is a thankless task, is it not?’

There was some truth to what the old man was saying, but Anthony didn’t agree. Robotham and he were a generation apart and their ideals were quite different.

‘It’s good work, sir,’ he said, feeling a little rebellious for once. ‘If men such as myself do not volunteer then I dare to think who would. As you said yourself, we are needed in times such as these.’

‘Well, if you must insist on throwing my own words back at me, Lloyd. I must say that is quite unfair, I meant nothing of it. I simply wished to impart to you that you’re trying to do too much and as a result I do fear that your teaching may suffer. It’s just something to think about, that is all. I shan’t make an issue of it, unless you wish to do so. Quite patriotic though it is.’

‘I just want to do my bit, sir. As you and the others did in the last war.’

Robotham winced. Anthony had never seen the man give such an outward show of emotion, and he knew immediately that he had hit upon a raw nerve. The headmaster spoke quietly. ‘If you had been through the last war, Lloyd, then you would not be saying that.’

Anthony kept his mouth shut. He had no wish to force the headmaster to relive his experiences of the last war. Anthony had heard too many horrific stories to wish that upon anyone. However, he was curious as to Robotham’s opinions on the current war effort. Having survived one, surely he would have something to say?

‘What should one do, sir? The war has come to us this time, but we can’t fight back. They won’t let me sign up, so how do I protect people? How do we stop feeling so impotent, how do we take control?’

The headmaster thought for a long moment, and Anthony began to wonder whether he had not heard the question. A few other teachers had filtered into the room and were talking quietly amongst themselves. Anthony was relieved to see they hadn’t fallen during the raid as he had feared. Robotham chewed on the end of his cigar and eventually turned to regard Anthony, once again looking over his glasses.

‘What you do, son, is you look everyone you care about right in the eye and you do everything you can to remember their face, every line, every wrinkle, the colour of their eyes, the shape of their lips. Then you make sure you bloody well remember every little detail, because, and trust me on this, Lloyd, in war those faces will disappear before you have a chance to remember what they looked like, before you have a chance to say goodbye.’

He placed the cigar back between his lips, then let out a breath of smoke. Anthony felt it wrap itself around his nostrils, filtering through his mouth, enticing him with the taste of it.

‘There is nothing else for it,’ the headmaster continued. ‘This is the hand we have been dealt. As for taking back control, well, there is always something you can do. There are many ways to win a war. We won the last one, even though all those poor young lads were dying on the front. We won that because we kept going. We did not let Germany win, and we will not let them this time.

‘Fight in every way you can, Lloyd. Fight by not giving up, fight by supporting our boys in the sky, on the front, wherever they may be. Do your bit, we are all in this together. Teach their children so they can focus on the battle. Whatever it takes, just as the Prime Minister says. Now, if that’s quite enough of that lecture, I must be getting on.’

Robotham stubbed out his cigar in a metal ashtray on the side table and hauled himself out of the chair by placing a hand on each arm. He left Anthony speechless. Anthony had expected the headmaster to compel him to sign up, to tell him that being a soldier was the only good, patriotic thing to do. Could it be that Anthony was doing the best he could after all? Only time would tell.

For the first time in months he was motivated, but even still, pulling himself out of that chair to go and teach was difficult. He would do it and he would do it well, but that night he would be out on patrol again, doing what he could to defend the city and the people he had come to love.