‘So what act can you do?’ Jim asked. ‘Sing? Dance? Read poetry? Play the piano?’
Our regional ARP unit was putting on a variety show. Fed up with criticism from members of the public who thought we did nothing but moan about lights showing in their homes during the blackout, we decided to do something to give us a better image. It would cheer us and everyone else up too.
The Ritz cinema agreed to let us have an hour and a half after the Saturday morning pictures for kids and before the film matinee started. Jim, the head ARP warden for our area, called a meeting to decide who was doing what. It was the first time I’d met many of the other wardens because our shifts hadn’t coincided. After an hour of discussion, sometimes verging on arguments, we agreed a programme. It included two comedy sketches, a magician, two singers singing four songs between them, a dance routine and a song by a school choir. Jim would compare and tell some jokes. With a flourish he reached down to a bag next to his chair and took out a top hat and bright red waistcoat. He put them on and twirled round waiting for applause. It was a side of him I’d never seen before.
‘You’ll look like a circus master!’ someone quipped.
Jim grinned, his missing front tooth more on display than usual. He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Well, maybe I was before I retired. That’s for me to know and you to guess. Now, what talents have you lot got?’
Half an hour later, David and I were assigned a comedy sketch Jim had written. ‘I used to write for Bob Hope I’ll have you know,’ he said as he handed us the script.
No one believed a word of it.
But when David and I settled ourselves at the British Queen pub with our drinks – half a shandy for me and a pint of bitter for him – we wondered if he might be telling the truth. The script he’d given us was quite funny. Or would be if we could act it well enough.
The pub was busy and we struggled to find seats where we could hear each other. A darts match was going on in one corner amidst great hilarity and not a little cursing. A couple were having an argument and the woman suddenly threw the dregs of her drink in the man’s face and stormed out. Several old men watched impassively as they nursed their half-pints, clay pipes clenched in their gums. Three older women, still wearing their outdoor coats and sporting hairnets, sat gossiping as they sipped their cider.
We settled in our seats and read through Jim’s script deciding who would play which part. I noticed as we spoke that our bodies moved in unison, when I moved a certain way, he did too, and vice versa. Then, as we laughed about something, our knees suddenly touched. It was as though the air grew warmer. Without thinking, I undid the top button of my blouse, then felt embarrassed and hoped he hadn’t noticed. As he moved to hold his glass I noticed as if seeing them for the first time, the hairs on his lower arm, soft yet manly. My knee felt so charged, I thought it would never feel normal again. I wanted to look at him to see if he’d noticed but didn’t dare. His hand moved towards mine, then back to where it had been. An awkward silence descended on us as if a thick fog blocked out all sound.
After a pause that probably lasted a couple of seconds, but seemed like hours, we took sips of our drink at the same time.
David cleared his throat. ‘Heard anything from your fiancé yet?’ he asked.
The question brought me back to my senses and numbed the hormones that were threatening to overpower my good intentions. ‘No, he’s still missing, but I keep hoping he’ll be found. It does happen.’
He nodded. ‘It must be very difficult for you, holding out hope all this time.’
‘It would be harder not to have hope though.’
The atmosphere between us changed, and I found I could hear the noises around me in the pub again. The clatter of glasses, the darts hitting the dartboard, the chatter, the door opening and all the other everyday sounds that had faded away.
‘Come on,’ David said, his voice brisk, ‘let’s make a start. We’ve got a lot to learn and not much time to rehearse what with work and different shifts.’
I scraped my hand through my hair. ‘We may need to meet up at other times.’
He smiled and his eyes told me how much he lied that suggestion. ‘Yes, we might.’
* * *
The next evening I was on ARP duty and thrilled to find David was on duty with me. The air raid sirens sounded early; some people weren’t even home from work. David and I helped people get to their shelters; supporting the lame, encouraging the slow and trying to comfort the terrified. All the time, the sky was lit by anti-aircraft bullets sending streaks of light through the darkness to bring down planes so high overhead we couldn’t see them at all.
When the streets emptied, we did our rounds, knocking on doors to ensure no one was accidentally left behind. We could see several other parts of London were ablaze, the now familiar red lighting the sky telling its story of death and destruction. Relieved our patch had escaped so far, David and I went back to the ARP post to report in.
We’d no sooner finished our report and made ourselves a cup of tea when a Jerry plane dropped a load of incendiary bombs nearby. We all rushed outside, taking buckets of sand and stirrup pumps with us. All around us the incendiaries flared with flames so bright they lit up the streets. Sometimes the fires were on the road and were easily put out, others hit houses and set roofs alight.
David and I saw one roof blazing and knocked on the door in case the family were hiding under the stairs as people often did. Still wearing her wrap-around apron, the lady of the house came to the door. ‘What is it?’ she asked as if we were Betterware salesmen disturbing her peaceful evening to sell her some plastic boxes or a new broom.
‘Your house is on fire,’ we said, pushing her aside.
‘No, it’s not!’ she shouted after us. ‘You come back here, you bleeding tin-pot dictators!’ As we went past the living room door we saw, to our amazement, an elderly man sitting in an armchair. His eyes were open but there was no sign of a reaction to the blaring siren or us moving around. Maybe he was deaf. Or had lost his mind.
‘Get him under the stairs,’ David shouted to the stroppy woman, but got no reaction from either of them.
She followed us upstairs, muttering away that we were invading her house, but stopped when she saw a corner of the bedroom ceiling was glowing red.
‘Fetch a broom,’ I shouted to her as we moved the bed out of the way.
‘Save the carpet, save the carpet!’ she shouted as she hurried downstairs. A minute later she was back. She handed me the broom and kept chanting, ‘Save the carpet! Save the carpet!’
I handed her the tin bucket. ‘Fill that with water. Now!’
She scuttled off as if her life depended on it. In no time at all she was back struggling under the weight of the water.
‘Go back down and get under the stairs. Leave this to us!’
‘Remember my carpet!’ she said, hurrying out of the door.
‘Bugger the carpet,’ David said when she’d gone back downstairs. He poked the ceiling with the broom and jumped back. That section collapsed, incendiary bomb and all, and we set about putting it out. He used the water pump and I directed the hose at the fire, but it was beginning to spread. We grinned and grabbed the carpet, using it to help extinguish the flames.
‘Needs must,’ I said, suppressing a giggle.
Back downstairs we found the elderly man still sitting in the chair as if nothing was happening. ‘I wonder if he’s dead,’ I said and went to check, but he was breathing easily and seemed to be asleep.
I knocked on the door of the cupboard under the stairs. It opened an inch. ‘Fire’s out,’ I said, ‘but you’ll need to get that roof protected tomorrow.’
She stuck her head out. ‘Is my carpet okay?’
Without answering we left and headed towards the street to put out more blazes. Outside, we shared a conspiratorial grin. David linked arms with mine and, like children, we skipped a few yards before we saw another fire needing our attention.
Stepping apart, we ran towards it. It was a small fire, easily put out using the sandbags that were placed at regular intervals down the street. As we stood to stretch our backs a movement caught my eye. I turned and there, moving in a house that was badly damaged by fire, was Alun.
I nudged David, ‘I know that bloke, he’s my friend’s brother and he’s looting.’
Alun hadn’t seen us.
‘Want to nab him?’ David asked. ‘Let’s just give him a fright.’
We strode over, shining our hooded torches in his direction. Now the fires in the street had been damped down, they showed in the gloom.
‘Oy, you!’ I shouted. ‘You’re under arrest for looting!’
Alun jumped as if someone had shot a starting pistol next to his ear. He grabbed his bag and ran fast enough to be in the Olympics. I doubt he even knew it was my voice. It set me thinking what it must be like to be him. Cocky on the outside, always with a quick put-down or joke. But on the inside? I couldn’t imagine having watch my back all the time for fear that the law would grab me. Or the army would realise I didn’t have a bad chest. Or some crooked friends decided to get back at me for something. He thought he had an easy life, but it seemed anything but to me.
‘You okay with that?’ David asked and I grinned. ‘It won’t stop him, but maybe he’ll be a bit more careful in future.’
‘Dangerous game to play, looting while buildings are unsafe. He could get caught in an exploding gas pipe or a building could fall on him.’
‘He thinks he’s immortal. For Bronwyn’s sake, I hope he keeps safe. Doesn’t help the people he steals from though.’