I felt bad, lying to Mums on Wednesday, but all through supper— gluey grey fish cakes, oh dear—she’d kept on and on about how she’d been to buy wool and there’s no more three-ply and two-ply is no good, and even though I was hating myself for not sticking to my resolution to be nicer to her, by the end of the meal I was absolutely fed up to the back teeth. Dad was late, so Minnie tried to cheer her up by telling her about a girl at her work who’d dyed her hair with henna. It was only supposed to be left on for ten minutes, but there’d been an air-raid and she’d had to rush to the shelter with her hair in a towel—four hours later, she had a bright orange head! I thought it was funny, but Mums just pursed her lips and said, ‘I didn’t know you worked with that sort of girl,’ then carried on with her pet subject. Minnie’s so much more patient than I am. She kept nodding sympathetically and saying, ‘What a shame,’ when I just wanted to shout, ‘It doesn’t matter!’ Because it’s so unimportant to be worrying about wool when there’s everything else.
I said that to Minnie afterwards, when we were washing up, and she said, quietly, ‘Well, it matters to her.’
I said, ‘I don’t know why you have to be so nice all the time.’ I knew it was childish, even before I said it, and wished I hadn’t because she looked so hurt. It wasn’t fair to snap at her, because she was doing her best and anyway, she’s only seventeen—too young to understand about love, or anything, really.
Seeing her bent over the sink, she looked such a kid that it suddenly made me feel like a woman of the world, which I’m not, but I thought, she can’t even imagine the conversation like the one I had with B when we sneaked out to the Corner House this afternoon. Well, I couldn’t imagine it, either. If somebody had told me a month ago that was going to happen, I’d never have believed them, because it seemed so impossible that even while we were talking I couldn’t quite believe it. The tea room was pretty crowded, but we got a little table behind a pillar where no one could see, and I was telling him about the queer feeling I’d had in the corridor with the world all melting away, because I was sure he’d understand, when he suddenly said, ‘You’re a lovely girl. I can’t believe that some young man hasn’t carried you off.’
I thought of Frank, and said, ‘I don’t want some young man to carry me off, as you put it.’
‘You’re a virgin, aren’t you?’
I was a bit taken aback by that, but determined not to seem shocked, so I said, ‘Well…yes, since you ask.’
He looked at me with his head on one side as if he was considering a picture, and said, ‘Why is that, do you suppose?’
‘What do you mean, why?’
‘Exactly that.’
‘I don’t know. Because I am. Because…’ I realised I didn’t really know. I suppose the answer is, Because it’s the right thing to be, or at least, it’s what the world and men—or men like Frank, at least—expect of girls like me. But I didn’t know how to explain that, and felt that if I tried it might sound rather petty.
‘Because?’
‘Well, I haven’t really wanted to be anything else, and anyway, I don’t want to get into trouble.’
He put his hand over mine. ‘You don’t have to get into trouble.’
‘But—’
‘No buts, young lady. The question is, do you want to now?’
I knew exactly what he meant, and I couldn’t look him in the eye at all. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Will you tell me when you do know?’
I was so flabbergasted, I just said, ‘Yes.’
‘Good girl. And will you have dinner with me tomorrow?’
‘In the evening?’
‘I believe that’s the usual time for dinner.’
‘But—’
‘That’s all right.’ He winked. ‘I’m fire-watching.’
‘I see. And what am I doing?’
‘First aid lecture.’
I was thinking about our conversation when Minnie suddenly asked, ‘Why are you smiling like that?’
I couldn’t tell her, so I dropped my tea-towel and dashed out of the room with the excuse of fetching a new one.
When I went back to the kitchen, I occupied myself getting Dad’s supper out of the oven, so Minnie couldn’t see my expression, which must have been peculiar, to say the least. Mums was still talking about her wretched wool when Dad came in, so he tried to take her mind off it by telling her about the lecture he’d been to for the new wardens. He says they are all as old as Methuselah—the lame, the blind and the halt, he calls them. Of course it didn’t work, because after about three minutes Mums was going nineteen to the dozen about how we’d all be murdered in our beds and no one was doing anything about it. When Dad pointed out, quite rightly, that the wardens aren’t there to stop the bombs, she said, ‘It’s these blasted aeroplanes. I don’t know why we had to go and invent them in the first place, we’ve had no benefit. Now stop going on about it, you’re making me tired.’ Honestly, she is impossible sometimes.
None of us could think of a thing to say in reply, which wasn’t surprising, and after a few minutes of rather stunned silence, Dad said, ‘They’re late tonight. You’d best go upstairs and change your clothes.’
We hadn’t heard the siren, but while I was putting on my slacks there was the most enormous crash, so loud that all the windows rattled and plaster came down from the ceiling and I lost my balance and almost put my foot through the trouser leg. I was trembling so much I had to sit down on the bed, and then there was another crash, and then the most almighty whomp! of something exploding. The entire house was shaking like a tree, and I could hear Mums shouting and then the guns opened up. I don’t think I’ve ever got downstairs so fast in my life—I was practically flying, and I shot straight into Dad’s arms and almost knocked him off his feet. When he’d got his breath back, he said, ‘Still in one piece?’
‘Just about.’
‘That’s the ticket.’
‘What was that?’
‘Gas main, I should think. Good job we’ve eaten.’ Then he said, ‘I’d better get down to the post and see what I can do.’
I watched him putting on his helmet and I suddenly thought, what a good person he is, for the way he puts up with Mums and is always so cheerful and calm and brave. I felt so full of gratitude and love that I wanted to tell him, but I didn’t want to be melodramatic and silly so I just said, ‘Be careful, Dad.’
He smiled at me and I thought, perhaps he knew that wasn’t what I meant to say at all, and somehow that made it better than if I’d actually said it—can’t explain that properly, but it was something between us that was bigger than words. He said, ‘Don’t worry, Smiler. We’ll pull through. Look after your mother, she’s in a bad way. I told Minnie to fetch her some brandy.’
I stood in the passage for a moment after he’d gone and I thought, whatever happens, I’ll always remember that. Then there was another huge bang, and I went haring into the kitchen and found Mums and Minnie under the table. Mums had her head in her hands, and was rocking and moaning, really wretched.
Minnie whispered to me, ‘The brandy isn’t doing any good. I’m afraid she’ll go hysterical.’
Mums kept saying, ‘Oh, Billy, Billy,’ over and over again.
I put my arm round her shoulders and said, ‘Dad’s going to be fine. He’ll be careful. I made him promise.’
‘But he’s gone.’
‘Yes, but he’ll be back as soon as it’s over.’
‘He’s gone. He’s not supposed to be on duty, so why did he have to go?’
‘To help, Mums.’
‘I didn’t want him to go. I asked him not to.’
‘I know, but he had to.’
Mums started to cry and Minnie put her arm round her, too, and we sat there in a row and listened to the bombs. It seemed to go on for ever—the nearest we’ve had yet—and every time there was a bang we all jumped. My heart must have missed more beats than it ticked. Minnie and I kept looking at each other over Mums’s head. ‘That sounded like Union Road,’ Minnie whispered.
‘At least we’ve still got our windows.’
Mums jerked her head up. ‘Windows? Is the blackout—?’
‘It’s fine, Mums.’
‘Oh, Billy…’
After a while there was a lull and we crawled out from under the table and across the passage to the cupboard under the stairs. I just had time to rush into the sitting room and grab the cushions from the sofa before it started again with that awful ripping sound like tearing a sheet, which means a high explosive, and I hurled the cushions into the cupboard and myself after them—right on top of poor Minnie—and we’d just about managed to get ourselves into some sort of order when there was another. The noise went on and on, and so did Mums’s whimpering, until I wanted to scream. I don’t know how she can stand it in this cupboard, night after night—it’s like being buried alive, and so airless I thought I was going to suffocate. For the first time, I felt furious that our family, or any human being, could be reduced to this, huddled like animals, quaking in a dark, squalid hole, robbed of sleep and comfort and unable to defend themselves, or even—which I badly wanted to do—spend a penny, but Mums had forgotten the pot.
Every time there was a lull, I tried to get to the toilet, but Mums grabbed me and pulled me back again, and by the time we’d stopped arguing it would be too late because the next lot was coming over. The All-Clear went at four o’clock, by which time my bladder was ready to burst, my stomach was aching like anything and my legs were completely numb. I staggered off to the lav and then went to find a cigarette to steady myself. Minnie was in the kitchen, making tea on the spirit stove. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘we’re still here. Well done, House, for not falling down.’ It was a daft thing to say, but I knew exactly what she meant. Then she looked down and started laughing.
‘What?’
‘Your feet—look! You’ve got your tennis shoes the wrong way round.’ She was right. In all the commotion, I hadn’t even noticed. They looked so silly that I started to laugh, too—relief, I suppose—and the two of us just roared.
When we’d pulled ourselves together, I said, ‘Don’t you want to go to bed?’
‘I’m not sleepy.’
‘Me neither. Fancy a game of dominoes?’
‘Why not? I’ll just take some tea to Mums, first.’
We sat under the kitchen table, just in case. Neither of us said very much, and I could see from Minnie’s face that she was listening out for Dad, same as I was. After about an hour, we heard Mums snoring. Minnie went to look and came back with a half-empty brandy bottle. She rolled her eyes at me. ‘Did the trick in the end.’
‘As long as she doesn’t make a habit of it.’
‘Be fair, Lucy, it was very close—and with Dad going out like that…’ she made a face. ‘I offered her some cotton wool to put in her ears when it started, and do you know what she said? “I won’t be able to hear what’s going on!” I said, “You don’t want to hear what’s going on,” and she said, “Yes, I do.” There’s no pleasing some people.’
We talked about going upstairs again. I said Minnie ought to, and I’d wait up for Dad, but she wouldn’t, and then she said I should, and we were on the point of rowing about it when we heard, ‘Hello! Any more tea in the pot?’ and it was Dad, covered from head to foot in dust. He almost fell through the door and collapsed on one of the chairs.
‘What happened, Dad? You look exhausted.’
‘Let me get my breath, I’ll be all right in a minute.’
Minnie said, ‘Let me take your helmet,’ but he shook his head.
‘Leave it.’
We asked him to tell us what happened, but he didn’t say much, except to ask about Mums. I said, ‘Aren’t you going to drink your tea, Dad?’ because he hadn’t touched it, but he just said, ‘You two get some sleep. I’ll have to be off again in a minute.’ He sounded so tired and defeated, I knew he just wanted to be on his own. I turned back in the doorway and said goodnight, but he was staring straight ahead and seemed not to have heard me. With the white dust on him, and his eyes like craters in the shadow of his helmet, he looked like a ghost.
We went upstairs in silence, and on the landing, Minnie said quietly, ‘He didn’t want to see us, did he?’
‘No.’
‘He was trying to be Dad, when he came in—you know, be like he always is—but he couldn’t, could he?’
‘No.’
‘It must have been terrible.’
I said, ‘Do you want to come in with me?’
‘No, it’s all right.’ Then she went into her room and closed the door.
I wished she’d said yes. It’s frightening how much you rely on people to behave in a certain way, and how unsettling it is when they stop. But it’s not just Dad, it’s me, too. I looked in the mirror just before I got into bed, and was surprised to see anything there at all. I didn’t recognise the reflection behind the plaster dust. That must be what an animal sees when it looks into a mirror, a meaningless shape. I wiped the glass with my handkerchief, but it didn’t make any difference. I got into bed determined to pull myself together. It’s a bad thing to be too preoccupied with oneself, especially at the moment.
Terribly tired, but it took for ever to drift off and then it was only a half sleep. Gave up at quarter to seven and went out into the back garden in my dressing gown to have a look round. It was light, but everything was grey and damp with drizzle. I could smell gas from the burst main. Not much in the way of damage, except windows blown out a few doors down. Ours look all right, though—must have been just far enough away. I concluded that most of the damage must have been in front of the house, not behind it, and was about to go and see, when I noticed a pair of bird’s wings, with soft, downy feathers, spread out in the middle of the lawn. They looked perfect, as if they’d been shed by a tiny angel, but I suppose they must have been torn off a carcass by a cat. Like a sign of some sort. I thought it would be bad luck just to leave them there, so I fetched a trowel and gave them a decent burial underneath a rosebush. They were so light when I picked them up, almost weightless. Strange to think of where they must have been, soaring across the sky—although when I looked up, that was hard to imagine because the sky seemed more like a great metal dustbin lid that had been slammed on top of the world to keep us down here with all this mess and misery, than something bright and clear and infinite. Extraordinary, though, to think that mankind has conquered it with machines. That made me think of what Mums said about aeroplanes. I suppose she’s right, in a way, because they are only machines—machines for killing. They only seem exciting and glamorous, when really they are no different from tanks or battleships. But we owe so much to those pilots…they must be the bravest men who ever lived.
Found myself hoping, idiotically, that my dead bird could stand in place of an airman—its life in exchange for a human life. Said a short prayer to that effect over the rosebush, feeling very foolish, and hurried back indoors to get dressed.
Dad was back at breakfast, but he didn’t say much. Minnie looked exhausted, and Mums was grumbling about the gas. I told her about the first aid lecture, and she said, ‘You won’t be too late, will you?’ I said I didn’t know and not to worry. It felt rotten. I hate lying. I suppose I could have come nearer the truth—said it was a date with Frank, but she’d only fuss and say it was irresponsible, and I really can’t stand all that at the moment. Perhaps it is irresponsible, but another night under the stairs would just about finish me, and besides, if I was fire-watching at the office I’d have to stay in London, wouldn’t I? Along with B, of course—but then it would be quite in order. They haven’t asked the women yet, but if they do I shall put my name down as a volunteer. I ought to do something, anyway. It’s not as if I’m any use to anyone sitting at home night after night, and Minnie’s far better at looking after Mums than I am.
It was raining when I went to the station. I passed the end of Union Road: three houses down, and all that was left was an enormous crater with two great mounds of rubble on either side, bricks and plaster mixed up with bits of floorboards, linoleum, curtains, crocks—all the things that make a home. The rescue men had planks up the side of one of the heaps, and they were passing baskets of debris back down, I suppose to clear the way for a shaft through the top. There was an ambulance backed up, waiting. I tried not to think about who might be at the bottom of the rubble and, worse, what they might look like.
I saw a warden cross the road with a woman’s handbag in one hand and a frying pan in the other. I couldn’t think where he was taking them. Curiosity got the better of me, and when I went to see, I realised that they were putting belongings from the bombed houses into one of the front gardens opposite. China plates with not a chip on them, a milk jug, saucepans, a man’s hat turned upside down…all laid out in rows on the muddy grass as if children were playing at a jumble sale. There was an old man standing beside them, looking dazed. When the warden showed him the handbag, I heard him say, ‘I don’t care about that. Where’s Peggy?’
The warden said, ‘They’re still digging.’
‘What about Peggy?’
The warden put down the things he’d been carrying and picked up the hat. ‘Is it yours?’ he asked. The old man looked at it as if he’d never seen a hat before.
‘Put it on,’ said the warden. ‘Keep the rain off your head,’ he explained, gently. ‘You’ll feel better.’
The old man said nothing, but took the hat and put it on his head, and the warden left. The man stood staring straight ahead, and he suddenly said, ‘Thank you,’ to no one in particular. It was loud and forceful. ‘Thank you.’
About ten minutes later I suddenly thought, if that pilot had dropped his stick of bombs a few seconds earlier—or later, depending on which way he was flying—our house would have looked like that and I wouldn’t be sitting in this train, I’d be part of the rubble, and so would Mums and Minnie, and it would be Dad standing in a neighbour’s garden with the warden telling him to put on his hat. But instead, the pilot dropped it over Union Road, so I was able to walk out into the garden this morning and find a pair of bird’s wings and bury them under a rosebush. It is all just chance, and we are so helpless.
It was awfully nice to go out in the evening again. I suddenly realised, sitting in the restaurant, that I haven’t really been anywhere for several weeks. I’d said goodnight to all the girls in the office then rushed away to the National Gallery to meet B, who hustled me into a taxi straight away, which was rather exciting, like being a spy or something. We said our ‘hellos’ in the back, and he took me to a restaurant in Charlotte Street where we spent the next two hours getting tight on red wine and laughing a great deal. We heard the siren but nobody moved. I asked B if he didn’t think it odd to be eating in an Italian restaurant when our countries are at war with each other, but he said that none of them are fifth columnists, or they’d have been interned by now. And two of the owner’s sons were serving in the army—he’s put a notice about it on the wall—so I suppose it must be all right. Then he added, ‘Besides, they’re Italians,’ which made us both giggle, and then I said, ‘We shouldn’t really be laughing. I mean, that business over Somaliland made us look pretty silly, giving it up like that after everyone had said what a shame for Hitler having the Italians as allies and how lucky they weren’t on our side.’
B said, ‘Well, at least they’ve got plenty of sand.’ We were laughing again, when he suddenly stopped. ‘Oh, Lord.’ His face had gone white.
‘What is it?’
‘Chap we know. Down there. Just stood up.’ He jerked his head towards the back of the restaurant. ‘Don’t look, you fool!’
‘What shall—’
‘Get out! Just go. I’ll settle the bill and come after you. Meet round the corner.’ He stood up, jerked my hat and coat off the stand, and almost threw them at me.
Thirty seconds later I found myself standing on the pavement in the dark, shivering and feeling as if I’d just had a bucket of cold water flung in my face. In the restaurant, it had felt so warm and happy and right, and then to be pulled up short like that… Chap we know, he’d said. Meaning him and his wife. The wife whose existence I’d conveniently forgotten. I’ve no idea what she looks like, but suddenly I could imagine her, a real, flesh-and-blood woman, sitting in a chair in their house, listening to the wireless and thinking that her husband was out fire-watching. It all seemed so sordid, standing on the street corner in the middle of a raid, putting myself in danger and causing worry to others through my own selfishness, that I suddenly found myself wishing I was back under the stairs with Mums and Minnie.
Then I heard footsteps, and as they grew closer I saw that it was B. As I started towards him I saw him make a quick shooing movement with his hand, then he crossed over to the other side of the road. I didn’t understand immediately, and was about to call out to him when I heard another set of footsteps, hurrying towards us. I shrank back into a doorway just as whoever it was must have caught up, because I heard a man’s voice say, ‘Bridges! I thought it was you. Which way are you going?’ I didn’t catch B’s reply, but they moved off together down the street, and I was left on my own, feeling very cheap and rather frightened. I suddenly thought of the warden this morning, handing the old man his hat, and it made me want to cry. Not because I wanted somebody to hand me a hat—I was wearing one—but the small kindness of it, wishing it for myself. It seemed such a terrible contrast with what had just happened in the restaurant, such a little action from a simple desire to help another human being without thought of gain or favour. It made me feel like the worst person in the world, an outcast from the rest of humanity, and I remembered the bird’s wings in the garden and thought, where’s my angel? If I had my own angel, everything would be all right. Not that I deserve one.
The noise of the guns bucked me up, and I thought I’d better stop feeling sorry for myself and concentrate on getting home before it got any worse. I thought B and his friend must be heading for Tottenham Court Road, and I didn’t want to follow in case we met up at the station, so I turned and walked the other way. It was very dark, and pretty soon I was dashing around in a panic, with no idea which way to go. I could hear machine guns and aircraft, far off at first, then nearer, and when I looked up there were flares like exploding chandeliers, breaking up and dropping downwards, and then the sky was lit up in red and orange, turning the pavement pink and making the buildings flicker and glow in a sort of half light, rosy and magical. It was the most extraordinary sight, and for a moment I forgot that I was afraid, because it seemed as if the whole world had turned into a vast display of light, and I was at the centre of it—the strangest feeling, no awareness of danger, or even of myself, just wonder. Like being at the very heart of the universe.
A policeman came up—his helmet blood-red in the glow—and asked me for my ID card. He said, ‘I’d get along home, miss, if I was you. They’re bombing this district.’ As if I hadn’t noticed!
It was only when he’d gone that I realised I should have asked for directions. I called out to him, but he can’t have heard me over the guns, because he didn’t come back, so I gave it up and started blundering towards what I hoped was Oxford Circus, but I couldn’t recognise a thing. In the distance I could see the searchlights, like great bars of light, criss-crossing in the sky, and tiny white flashes from our guns, and the explosions got closer and closer. It sounded as if it was raining bombs: whistling and tearing noises all round and the loudest bangs I’ve ever heard, and it wasn’t awesome any more, but utterly terrifying and all I wanted to do was curl up into a ball and hide.
Pretty soon I was crunching across broken glass, the gas mask banging up and down on my hip, ducking into a doorway whenever there was a bang, huddling down with my heart thumping like anything, telling myself to keep calm but with the most awful frantic terror building up inside—not just of being blown to pieces but of Mums and Dad knowing why I was there, or worse, never knowing at all. I remembered standing with Dad in the hall when he put on his helmet, and the way he looked at me, and I wanted to cry again from sheer despair, but then there was a great woof! from somewhere behind me and the whole street flashed up like daylight. I didn’t stop to think, just let go of the railings and launched myself into the alley round the corner. I caught a flash of something snaking through the air towards me and then a hot, soft mass enfolded my mouth and chin. I tried to scream, but took in a great, choking mouthful of embers that scalded my throat, and for a second I really did think I was going to die. I tore at the stuff in sheer panic, but it wrapped itself around me, suffocating, clinging to my face and twisting round my neck like something demonic as I tried to beat it off, and then suddenly, miraculously, there were hands tearing it away, and I could see a face in front of me, but in pieces as if I were looking through a cobweb and nothing seemed to join up, and then it was over, and the air was cooling my face, and I was taking in great gulps of it, coughing and spluttering, tears in my eyes, and through them I could see a man standing in front of me. I say ‘a man’, but at that moment his face and hair—he had no hat-looked blazing and golden, and with the glow all around him he didn’t seem human at all.
‘Keep still,’ he said. ‘Close your eyes.’
I did as I was told, and felt him push back my hat, very gently, and pat my hair in the front.
‘There. You can open your eyes, now.’
I did as I was told, and for a moment, I was too overcome to speak. Then I croaked out the first thing in my head: ‘You must be my angel.’
‘’Fraid not. A mere mortal. For the time being, at least.’
I put my hand up to adjust my hat, felt frizzled ends of hair above my ears, and wondered what on earth I must look like.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’s fine. Does your face hurt?’
‘Not really. It’s just a bit hot, that’s all.’
‘I don’t think it’s burnt, anyway.’
‘No. Thank you. For helping me, I mean.’
He was wearing a uniform. Air force. He was very handsome—tall, with thick, corn-coloured hair and blue eyes—and well spoken.
I said, ‘What was it?’
‘Look down.’
It was the remains of a stocking, lacy, like an old-fashioned gas mantle where it was burned through, hot and writhing like a snake. ‘Must have been a dress shop.’ The man laughed. ‘The frocks are running away. Quite right too.’
I looked down the alleyway and saw the most extraordinary sight: smouldering frocks, floating through the night air beside a burning shop-front, wispy and disintegrating, but keeping their shapes as they minced across the cobbles, as if they were being worn by very prim invisible women. It can’t be real, I thought. I’ve just been attacked by a stocking, and now I’m watching a disembodied tea-dance with an airman who looks like a film star. If it wasn’t for the pain in my throat and the burnt hair, I don’t think I would have believed it, because it was exactly like a dream.
He said, ‘Do you trust me?’
His voice seemed to come down from somewhere high up and sort of settle on me, as if the words were feathers. Shock, I suppose. I just nodded.
‘You’d better let me take you to a shelter.’
I must have nodded again, because he took my arm and led me to Soho Square. We didn’t speak, but seemed to step through the whole cacophony of bombs and guns in our own little patch of intimate silence, as if we were sealed off and the rest of the world couldn’t touch us. I knew that as long as he was with me, I would be safe. It gave me a cool, calm feeling inside—the oddest thing, like walking through a fire and knowing it can’t burn you.
When we reached the shelter he dropped my arm and said, ‘Well, here you are.’
Like a fool, I said, ‘Aren’t you coming in?’
‘No.’
‘Oh…’
I suppose I must have sounded dreadfully disappointed, because he took something out of his pocket and put it into my hand. ‘I want you to have this.’
‘But—’
‘No buts.’ He closed my fingers around a small, hard object. The feeling of his hand on mine, the warmth and strength of it, gave me a sudden rush of…what? Not happiness, but an intensity of sensation that made me feel hot inside and self-conscious, sure that he must be aware of it. Then his voice came again, as if the words were alighting on me from somewhere far above. ‘It’ll keep you safe.’
‘Safe?’ The word jolted me and I suddenly saw the two of us as if from the outside; two people standing outside a shelter in the middle of an air-raid. ‘We ought to go in,’ I said.
He didn’t move. ‘Look here,’ he said. ‘It belonged to my mother.’
‘But you… You need—’
‘I don’t need it. Not any more.’
‘But you’re not… not…’ I faltered, not sure what I’d been going to say.
‘You can wear it for me. Now then, let’s find you a place to sit down.’
We went in, and I sat down on one of the benches. I was jolly glad he was there, because I’d have been horribly embarrassed going into a shelter full of unknown people, raid or no raid. It was pretty nasty. Dank concrete, water on the floor and a strong smell of stale bodies, but I didn’t really notice any of those things—well, apart from the smell—until after he’d gone.
He smiled at me, clicked his heels and made a funny little bow, then said, ‘Look after it, won’t you?’
‘Of course, I—’ I started to say, I promise, but he turned and walked away and left me staring after him.
I didn’t open my hand until he’d left. It was a brooch: a dull, green stone, lozenge-shaped. Cheap-looking, not like an heirloom. Not from that sort of family, anyway. But it must be very special for him to carry it about like that. His mother must have been beautiful. I wondered when she’d died—if she knew. She’d have been so proud of him.
He hadn’t seemed like a grammar school boy, not like Frank, too…confident. Not in a horrid, flashy way, swanking and swaggering, but something real and quiet that comes from inside. Perhaps that’s how you tell a true hero—sharp and keen-eyed and straight-backed and…but that’s only looks, comic book stuff. Dad would say it’s all slop, but he agreed when Churchill said, what was it? Turning the tide of the war by their prowess and devotion… His speech about the pilots. Dad made a joke about how we need heroes so badly these days that we’d make them out of cardboard if we had to, but he’d be the first to agree that these men have qualities which set them apart from the common herd.
I’ll keep this always, I thought, as long as I live, and wished with all my heart that I had given him a kiss.
I put it in my coat pocket. I shan’t let Mums see it—she’s bound to say a green stone will bring bad luck. Besides, I can hardly tell her what happened, can I? Thinking that made me remember the business with B in the restaurant, and I realised I hadn’t given him a thought; but it all seemed so shabby by comparison, such a trivial, squalid concern when these men are fighting to save our country from Hitler… I suddenly saw how small-minded B is, and how foolish I’d been, and wanted nothing more to do with him. It’s only when you meet someone like that, someone who’s truly brave, that you realise. It seems all wrong for someone like that to sacrifice himself so that men like B can be free to carry on their squalid little intrigues in safety, but I suppose that’s only a tiny part of the picture. It’s the ideals that matter, not the petty things. Meeting him has given me something to live up to, at least, and when I think of how vain and self-centred I’ve been… Well, not any more.
I put my hand in my pocket and touched the brooch, then leaned back and closed my eyes. I only meant to do it for a moment but I must have been exhausted because I fell straight to sleep, and half an hour later I suddenly came to with absolutely no idea of where I was. The first thing I saw was a row of elderly ladies sitting opposite me with rusty black coats and kippered faces, sighing and shuffling and mumbling their jaws to ease their teeth, and a really nasty-looking one on the end in carpet slippers, snoring with her mouth open.
For a moment, I thought I must be dreaming, but then I found myself clutching the brooch in my pocket. The pin pricked me and woke me up, and I remembered what had happened. I thought I’d better tidy myself up a bit before heading for home, but I felt awkward about doing it in full view, so I twisted round towards the wall for a spot of privacy, and got my compact out of my handbag to inspect the damage. I must have picked it up rather awkwardly, because it was on a slant, and suddenly, a pair of eyes very similar to mine stared straight into the mirror from the other side of the shelter, and for a moment, just a moment, it was as if I was looking at myself, as if my body had reproduced itself and walked across the shelter of its own accord and was sitting looking back at me: same build, same coat, same hair style. But when I turned round for a proper look, I saw a woman, quite a bit older than me, plastered with heavy make-up, wearing high-heeled shoes—obviously a prostitute! Well, I thought, it just goes to show—I must be in a queer frame of mind if I can think something like that. Looking for a man, no doubt. I’m sure these people have to go somewhere, but a public shelter… You’d think the wardens would put a stop to it.
I suppose some of what I was thinking must have shown in my face, because the woman turned her head away quite sharply. I quickly righted the compact and got on with tidying myself up, because the real me was very dishevelled. I was jolly relieved to see that my eyebrows were still in place, but my hair looked a real fright. I tucked in the singed bits as best I could, then I went to work with my handkerchief, which at least got rid of the smuts, but the results weren’t terribly satisfactory, and after a bit of scrubbing and rubbing, I gave up. Then I caught the woman looking at me again, and for one awful moment I thought she was going to say something, and wondered if she might be drunk. I don’t see how you could do…what she does…unless you were. It’s too revolting to think about.
I suddenly thought of B, and what I might have done with him, and felt hot all over. I was sure I was blushing, as if she could read my thoughts, and all I wanted to do was get out of there as quickly as I could, air-raid or no air-raid.
I hadn’t heard the All-Clear, but it was fairly quiet outside. The darkness was threatening, and I found myself breathing in, hunching myself up, feeling my way along walls. I just managed to get the last train from Leicester Square and sat, head down, in the carriage, willing myself to stop shaking, desperately wanting to be home and safe and…I don’t know…wishing that none of it was happening—the war, or B, or any of it. Wishing that nothing had changed. But it has, and we’re not safe any more, none of us. The train was pretty crowded and the platforms heaving and I looked round at all the faces and thought, what are they going home to? Then I imagined the house in ruins and Mums and Dad and Minnie trapped underneath and me not there because I’d lied to them.
I put my hand in my coat pocket again and touched the brooch. I found the pin and pressed it against my fingertip so it hurt, and had a silly thought that as long as I did that the house would still be there and my family would be safe. I knew it was nonsense, but I couldn’t stop myself, even though my finger was bleeding and staining the pocket and I was worried in case it seeped through the lining and made a mark. I kept thinking of the airman, his face in the flickering light of the burning shop, and I felt as if, in some odd way, I belonged to him. The bird’s wings I’d found in the garden and the wings on his shoulder were the same shape, except that the bird’s wings were folded, like a resting angel, and the airman’s were spread wide as if they were flying. The prayer that I’d gabbled by the rosebush, perhaps it was for him, only I hadn’t known it then. I decided I’d say it again, and maybe it would keep him safe for another day, because of the connection between us.
A voice in my head, sounding remarkably like Mums, told me sharply that this was romantic tosh, but honestly, I can’t see why it isn’t as good as anything else, when nobody knows what will happen. I kept the pin against my fingertip for the whole of the journey, but the petty little pain couldn’t stop my thoughts going round and round in circles like a dog chasing its tail. Those burning dresses whirling up into the air and the dinner with B and what happened and the airman and the woman in the shelter… Especially her. I mean, imagine doing that with men who don’t respect you—except I don’t even know what that feels like—and I found myself looking round, as well as I could, at the men nearest to me, the bits of faces I could see, like a jigsaw: wrinkles and shaving cuts and pores and pocks, and hairs on the backs of fingers, dirt under nails, the squared-off shoulders and backs in heavy coats; and I could imagine the greasy insides of their hats, the rims of dirt on their shirt collars, the flakes of scurf in their hair…and I thought of being that woman and having them touch you and lie on top of you and squash you and breathe in your face because that’s what she lets them do. It could have been any one of those men and she’d have gone with them and taken their money.
I couldn’t keep my mind off it, and after a few stops I felt that if any one of those men so much as brushed against me I would be physically sick, so I breathed in and tried to make myself as narrow as possible, but even as I was doing it I couldn’t help thinking, what difference does it make what anybody does, if we are all going to die?
It’s all so confusing. And dangerous. I didn’t want to have those thoughts. They’re like ‘the thing’, only worse, and they can’t be right. I’m weak to have been taken in by nothing more than a handsome face and a few compliments. I felt ashamed of myself, but was jolted out of it by the thought that B might secretly despise me for being the sort of girl who would even consider doing what he wanted. The idea of that made me furious. The one he ought to despise is himself. And he must know how other people would despise him, which was why I suddenly meant so little to him that he was happy to abandon me in the middle of an air-raid. That made me think of my airman again, how different he was, calm and brave…my airman! Oh dear, how presumptuous. He isn’t my airman at all. But I did wonder if maybe I might see him again. I thought, if I went back to that shelter, I might… Who knows?
I got home eventually. Mums launched in immediately. ‘My goodness, your hair! And your coat! What’s happened to you? You could have been killed! I told you not to go!’ I was very tempted to retort that she hadn’t told me anything of the kind, but said nothing. Unfortunately, Mums took my silence as a cue for another barrage, this time along the lines of ‘Something has happened, and you’re not telling us! I knew it! I don’t know why you have to be so secretive, Lucy. Minnie always tells me everything, anyone would think you had something to hide,’ and so on and so on. Of course, the awful thing is that she’s right, I do have something to hide.
Fortunately, Dad stuck up for me, ‘Leave her be, she’s tired.’ When Mums left the room, he said, quietly, ‘Don’t be hard on her, Lucy. She’s worried about you, that’s all.’
I said, ‘I know. I got caught up in a raid, but I’m fine, honestly. Just a bit shaken.’
‘As long as you’re still in one piece. She’s very fond of you, Lucy. That’s why.’
‘I know. It’s just because I’m tired, and when she starts on at me…’
‘It’s all right, Smiler.’ Dad patted my hand. ‘I do understand, you know.’
The All-Clear went early, for once—thank you, Hitler. I escaped up to bed leaving Mums under the stairs with Minnie. Didn’t get into bed at once, but gave my coat a good brush to get the marks off. I must say, I don’t think so much of it since I saw that woman wearing the same model, but I can’t possibly afford another. Gas still off, so did my best to clean up with cold water. Ugh! But felt immense pleasure at putting on my nightie, instead of slacks and tennis shoes.
I took the brooch out of the pocket and put it under my pillow. Fell asleep eventually and woke at six after a very strange dream…not entirely sure that I want to remember it—or that I ought to remember it. There was a man in bed next to me, but not touching. I was most aware of his head. He looked like Robert Taylor, but I knew it wasn’t him, just that whoever it was had decided to appear to be like him because he’s my favourite film star. He kept asking me to put my hand under the sheets. At first I made excuses, worrying about Mums finding us and how it would look. He was very polite, but he insisted that I should do this, so eventually I did, and—this is the awful part—I touched him, and it felt soft and heavy—ugh—and I wasn’t enjoying it, but he said, ‘Go on, go on,’ and it got bigger and bigger like a balloon and I was scared because I didn’t know what to do next, but then he put his hand down under the sheet with mine, and brought out a bunch of flowers, tied up in a bow made out of one of my stockings.
I said, ‘How did you do that?’ but never got an answer, because after that I woke up, feeling surprised and terribly pleased. I was thoroughly alarmed at the direction my thoughts had taken, and found it quite impossible to meet anyone’s eye when I went downstairs. Still, the stocking in the dream reminded me of the ones I need to darn, so I made a start on that at breakfast, much to Mums’s disgust.