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Urgent events after his meeting with the Chief Constable gave Rupert little leisure to reflect on their discussion. A German V-2 rocket struck the intersection of High Holborn and Chancery La Bane in Holborn, killing six people and wounding almost 300.
The Chief Constable sent three younger officers and two police vehicles to lend aid, so everyone else on the force took on extra work. Rupert had followed this extended beat in his earlier years, and found it pleasant to renew old acquaintances.
At the same time, the extent of the bomb damage in this part of the Green struck him anew. Back in his home area, he’d gotten used to gaping holes in row houses and cratered streets—interesting how destruction wormed its way into your existence and became the norm.
Not long after the Holborn hit, in the most disastrous attack thus far, another V-2 landed across from the Woolworth’s department store in New Cross Road, Deptford, South London. South of Bethnal Green about five miles, the New Cross bombing caused such rage, Rupert could feel its palpable essence as an ambulance delivered him and other emergency workers to the scene.
How could anyone begin to describe this disaster? The mild weather and the Allied push towards Berlin had put people in good spirits, and Woolworth’s recent receipt of a shipment of new tin saucepans had figured in the outcome. With pans so scarce these days, they’d declared a sale. Nearly 150 of the saucepans, word had it, so the public had a good chance of purchasing one. Thus, a long queue formed—mums, grannies, and also some soldiers.
On this busiest of days, Woolworth’s called in all their full time workers, including a group of Saturday boys and girls who welcomed the opportunity to increase their regular earnings. Besides the crowd of shoppers, noontime saw manual workers collecting their week’s wages from the Deptford Town Hall directly opposite the store.
Of course, many of them decided to shop now rather than return later.
When the second break for Woolworth’s workers began, a new group of staff headed upstairs for a cooked lunch. The Woolies Tea bar offered hot Bovril to sip, so the New Cross Station Southern Railway cleaners hurried to Woolies to eat their noonday meal, as well.
At 12:26, a V-2 rocket, the 251st to land in England, hit the rear of Woolworth’s flat roof. Residents told Rupert they experienced a moment of silence before the walls bowed. Then the building collapsed and exploded, creating a massive inferno that incinerated even the Royal Arsenal Co-operative Society store next door.
Bystanders recalled another queue waiting for a tram out in the street. The conflagration engulfed the tram and the entire queue.
Half a mile away, the ambulance driver said he must stop, since shattered glass filled the street. At New Cross Station, Rupert emerged with the others to make his way onward through ankle-deep glass. The crunching beneath his boots gave him pause—so much like his sensation in the volunteer fire station bombing, yet at that time, he could hear nothing.
When his contingent arrived at the scene, emergency workers and locals were already lifting heavy beams and cement blocks from the rubble. They hoped to find someone—anyone—still alive.
In addition to memories from the fire station bombing, the taste of the tube station tragedy filled Rupert’s throat. Willing these vestiges away, he plunged in to do what he could. Not that lifting and shoving obstacles to make way for those with machines would do much—even those machines could not alter what lay under this wreckage. Nothing could.
At one point, Rupert clawed toward a snatch of rose fabric, perhaps the dress of a mum who came for a saucepan, or a young female worker delighted with this extra day to earn a bit more money. A girl like Anna.
Less than an hour ago, such excitement had filled this place. Looking forward to Christmas, when perhaps their lad would return on a short leave, customers gathered in anticipation. With a new saucepan, they would cook up something special despite the rationing.
The fabric in his hand, though shredded and burned, represented a blouse or scarf, clothing bought or carefully stitched by hand, and bespoke its wearer’s taste for the bright and beautiful. The scrap floated from his fingers into this vast sea of rubble as he stared into the distance.
Not far away, Vicar Towsley bent to offer someone aid, and from another direction, Chief Constable Derby gave instructions. He’s missed those morning times with the vicar of late, and must again make them a priority.
In this sea of sorrow, each worker kept to himself. Looking into another’s eyes would be too much to ask.
Hours later, when they had done all they could to rescue survivors before the cranes rolled in, a local debris supervisor reported that to date, this attack had killed over a 150 people. And the injured? No accurate accounting as yet.
Dazed by the body count that doubtless would rise, Rupert crunched toward the police wagon and accompanied the other officers back to the station. Everyone rode mute with shock, although shock had become normal. For Rupert, the same thing happened during the Great War.
At some point, after so many merciless struggles with the enemy in the trenches, he succumbed to numbness. How could one compare one battle with another? Back then, he had no idea of the casualties, but would those figures have made a difference? From siege to siege, battle to battle, he set one foot in front of the other like an automaton.
So it was presently. Except for one battle he’d been putting off far too long. Since she had not come forward on her own initiative, how might he speak with her? How did one express disappointment—yes, even fury—while love for her still filled his heart?
With heavy feet, he trod home, dropping by the fire station, rehabilitated two blocks from its former location. The warden in charge sent him home. With each step, he determined to discuss Anna with Madeleine. Tonight.
At the fire station, the warden had eyed him with consternation. “We shall find a replacement for you tomorrow night, as well, officer. A person can manage only so much in this increasing cold weather without developing a fever. Clearly, you would benefit from some time off.”
Why argue? Two nights at home. Lovely. But on this one, he dreaded what he must do.
As soon as Cecil and Iris had been tucked in, he sat near Madeleine. She gave her fingers a different occupation this evening—knitting. The click of her needles vied with the tick tock of the hallway clock.
“I saw the vicar this morning. He seemed quite well.”
“Good—we had no opportunity to speak today.” No need to tell her how ensconced Towsley had been in the attack’s grisly aftermath.
“It must have been horrendous for him today, and for you.”
So, she had heard, or read his mind.
“A perfect choice of words, my dear.” Rupert leaned his head back against the back of the armchair that fit him to a T. “I say, I have been meaning to ask you about Anna. I have seen her so rarely since her tooth extraction—”
“Of course. Both of you are quite busy on your own accounts. But I keep up with her.”
Relief surged through his chest. “Good—that pleases me no end. These are such hard times for young women.” He must go a step further, but how to formulate the question? Finally he blurted, “Junior has spoken with me about some concerns—”
Her slow blink revealed that she knew more than he, as often happened. So Junior had gone to her, after all—or perhaps Anna had confided. His own fault, for putting this off so long.
“Yes?”
“Our Anna has learned a harsh lesson in recent weeks. Perhaps you noticed the signs, as I did.”
“Signs?”
Madeleine’s sigh struck him like a loud wind. What had he missed?
“She appeared even more weary than normal, and she’d foregone eating breakfast for a while. There were other—” Not even the minutest lag in Madeleine’s attack on some dark blue yarn. “—symptoms.”
Gulping down a vast swatch of fear, Rupert’s voice issued scratchy. “Symptoms?”
“At times I forget you’re a man.” She gave him a forlorn smile. “Symptoms of being with child.”
He choked on his reply, then let it dissipate completely. So it was true. A vice ringed his chest.
“But this has now passed.”
“P—passed?”
“Yes, but not before Anna confided her situation.”
“Her sit—”
Foregoing her knitting, Madeleine grasped his hands. “Anna has been seeing a Canadian soldier for some time, it seems. As things often go these days, she—she gave in to her desires. For a time, Rupert, she was expecting a baby.”
“For a—”
“Yes. Anna miscarried last Sunday.”
A whirlwind tore through his head. Last Sunday? He made an attempt to remember. Yes, Madeleine had seemed preoccupied after church. On the way home, she’d had no comments on the Vicar’s sermon, not his best ever.
After dinner, he thought she looked pale, and offered to take the children to a park. She accepted without argument and insisted on packing the three of them a picnic. Thus, he had not seen her again until early evening.
And then, another V-2 attack called him out. Arriving home quite late, he tiptoed to bed, with Madeleine fast asleep. Or so he thought.
His head swam with what had occurred right here under his roof.
“She—here?”
“I did fetch the nurse, since...” Madeleine bit her lip. “It seemed wise to make sure all was well.”
“Well?” He wanted to shout, “How can all be well when she has—” But the softness in his wife’s eyes halted the explosion. Her mix of apology and tenderness—what was he to do with it?
“I never intended to deceive you, but things have been so—disrupted, especially since your injury. And then that attack after you brought the children home. I could see how these new horrid bombs were affecting you, and decided Anna and I could work this out.”
“Mmm.” He strengthened his grip on her hands. “And the soldier. What of him?”
“He vowed to stand by her. They planned to marry. Now, I believe Anna will give their plans more thought.”
“Did you—meet him?”
“No. She wants us both to meet him at once. I...” Madeleine tossed her head. “Bugger this hateful war! We had to let her go far too young. Things would be so different, if only she could have—”
In silence, Rupert finished her sentence. —maintained a normal young woman’s life. If only Hitler had died of influenza a decade ago, or stepped on a rusty nail far from medical help, or if only someone else had risen to power in Germany, someone with a heart—a soul.
“I hope you—” Madeleine’s forehead erupted in furrows.
Could she possibly think he would be upset with her? Oh, some men might claim she had usurped his rightful place as head of this household. But what constituted his rightful place? Did he not need every conceivable aid in carrying out his duties?
After all that had happened this past year, and Madeleine’s devotion to this family, to Anna—to him, how could he find fault?
What if Anna’s child, however conceived, had not been lost? Would the doctor have suggested Anna live in South London at a home for unwed mums and their babies established by the evangelical Mission of Hope? A foundling home? Or perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Harwood would have welcomed her?
Or would Madeleine insist on Anna living at home, regardless of the stares she would endure? In fact, he could not imagine her sending Anna away, no matter how difficult things became—no matter the effect on Cecil and Iris, yes, and Junior and Kathryn’s sons.
Those images of walking Anna down the church aisle in white—he had said goodbye to them right off. He had also neglected to speak with Vicar Towsley about this.
Dear Anna. His little girl. These days, far too many of his friends and neighbors faced this situation, bugger the influx of foreign troops. Such goings-on—dances for the soldiers, movies for the soldiers—everything focused on their needs.
But were the daughters of the Green still not as precious as ever?
Since Junior had alerted him, he’d held back, all the while lamenting his cowardice. Not long ago, he witnessed a father down the street pack his expectant daughter’s things in a brown paper parcel, call her a disgrace, and send her away. The pain of that parting stayed with him.
“Right is right.” The father muttered this as his daughter tearfully made her way down the street. When it came to it, Rupert feared being too harsh with Anna. Along with that, a sense of things being far, far out of his control descended.
But now, things had turned out far better than his bumbling attempts might have. He would never know, for the problem vanished without him lifting a hand. He gave himself no pardon for his inaction, but at the same time, accepted this new reality.
As for Anna—what ought he to say to her? When he saw her next, she would know that Madeleine had told him. Why, he would walk that path when necessary.
Across the two feet separating them, Rupert gently pulled Madeleine from her chair, and she sank against him with a heartfelt sigh. Her head lay flux with his heartbeat, her body wrapped in his arms. Washed in Sunshine soap, the warm scent of her hair wafted, and her closeness filled his senses.
His whisper floated over the crown of her head and echoed back. “Thank you, my love.”
