The first incendiary crashed through the roof of the Harbourmaster’s less than thirty seconds after the town hall control centre received warning of an attack. There was no time for a yellow alert. Friday 1 May was a clear, cold night with a stiff breeze blowing and the favourable conditions made it easy for fifteen high-level German bombers – Junkers and Dorniers flying at top speed towards Kelthorpe with an ear-splitting howl – to detect then hit their targets with deadly precision.
The initial firebomb exploded on impact and the blaze spread quickly. The pub was soon engulfed by flames, its plate-glass windows shattering in an instant. Soon, hundreds more incendiaries rained down on, among other things, the bus station, a secretarial college and a Methodist chapel. Fire gained the upper hand, raging through buildings on the north side of town like a giant blowtorch. Sizzling white flames erupted from roofs and roadways, exploding petrol tanks in cars parked along the promenade. Fire watchers armed with a few sandbags and hand-operated stirrup pumps were overwhelmed by the sheer number of fizzing fire sticks that exploded in their faces with a blinding light. The wind gusted golden showers of sparks along narrow, blacked-out streets, setting light to a tobacconist’s shop, a butcher’s and a newsagent’s. The roar of flames filled the night sky. Panic-stricken families fled their houses and took refuge on the beach, cowering against the sea wall as Tommies from the 39th Brigade aimed their ack-ack guns into the sky and fired in vain.
Over in Gas Street, Pamela was on duty with Connie and the Fraser boys. They were coming to the end of their shift and heard Jerry before they saw him – the whine of his approaching engines gave them a brief warning before the call came through from the control centre to sound an immediate red alert. The wail of sirens was accompanied by the first bright flash as an incendiary hit its target on the far side of the headland, followed by more fire sticks raining down, whistling through the air before they landed and set Kelthorpe New Town ablaze. Mission accomplished in little more than the blink of an eye, the triumphant enemy pilots executed a synchronized victory roll then headed for home.
‘All wardens attend the scene immediately.’ Connie snapped out of the exhaustion she had been feeling after a long stint behind the desk. ‘Simon, take stock and report back to me pronto. Eddie and Pamela, link up with the wardens from North Street; assist in whatever way you can. I’ll send back-up ambulances from King Edward Street.’
There was no panic. Deciding that cycling around the headland would the quickest option, Simon commandeered three bikes from residents of Gas Street while Pamela and Eddie stuffed goggles and gauntlets into their haversacks. Mounting the bikes, they pedalled frantically towards the scene of the latest attack.
They arrived just as one of the hydrogen balloons exploded over the estuary.
‘There goes one of the blimps,’ Eddie muttered through gritted teeth.
There was a massive boom before the blazing shreds plummeted. Then, it was as if the water itself was on fire. Worse was to come. Pamela, Simon and Eddie found the Harbourmaster’s ablaze and several lodging houses along the promenade flattened by bombs. An elderly man covered in grey dust tore at the rubble with his bare hands while close by the first rescue squad to respond to the alert dug frantically for survivors. Two dead bodies were laid out side by side on the promenade.
‘Go back to Gas Street and tell Connie to send more rescue squads.’ Pamela’s quick decision sent Eddie cycling back the way they’d come. ‘And we’ll need as many emergency ambulances as she can find – and stretcher parties too,’ she shouted after him.
‘God in heaven!’ Through dense clouds of black smoke Simon spotted a third body being carried on to the prom. He flung his bike to the ground then rushed to join the rescue team, ducking to avoid the icy blast from a hose manned by men from the AFS. The fire service team pumped gallon after gallon of water into the gutted lodging houses until one of the rescuers suddenly called a halt.
‘Listen – there are people in this cellar!’ he warned. ‘Switch off your hoses.’
Reacting without a thought for their own safety, Pamela and Simon entered the hissing shell of the building. They waded towards the entrance to the cellar. Together, they wrenched open the door to cries of help from below. Again without thinking, Pamela switched on her torch then followed Simon down the stone steps, dreading what they might find.
‘Help us!’ a woman’s voice pleaded.
Pamela swung her torch around the windowless cellar that was already four feet deep in filthy water. Her yellow beam rested on the woman and the child that she clutched to her chest. Both were drenched and immobilized by panic. Water swirled everywhere and was rising rapidly.
‘Take the kid,’ Simon instructed Pamela as he waded towards the woman, holding out his hands for her to grab them. But she was frightened to death and refused to move. Her toddler son clung to her, his head buried against her shoulder.
Pamela’s torch beam wavered as she fought the force of the rising water. It flashed over the low ceiling, revealing a row of large meat hooks, and then darted towards the stone steps where water still cascaded down from the ground floor, carrying kitchen debris with it – pans, smashed plates and part of a broken chair. She knew they didn’t have long before the water level reached the ceiling. ‘It’s all right, we’ll get you out,’ she promised as she fixed the beam on the terrified mother.
‘Help me – I can’t swim,’ the woman gasped, her eyes starting out of her head as the water rose to chest level.
‘Take Simon’s hand. Give me the boy.’ Pamela’s instructions were calm and simple. There was a gap of some fifteen feet between them and the cellar steps.
‘Do as the warden says,’ Simon urged.
With a cry of desperation, the mother surrendered her son to Pamela, then threw herself at Simon, who swayed violently before regaining his balance. He hooked his hands under the woman’s armpits to tow her towards the steps. Pamela, meanwhile, staggered under the limp weight of the boy in her arms. She drew on every last ounce of energy to enable her to carry the drenched child, struggling to hold him clear and keeping her lips firmly closed as foul water splashed against her face. They had only moments to make their exit.
At the bottom of the steps, Simon gathered up the woman, taking her full weight as he carried her out of the flooded cellar. Pamela felt the boy’s arms tighten around her neck. Water continued to pour down but she fought on – up one, two and then three steps. A heavy object – the door of a kitchen cupboard carried by the torrent – slammed against Simon as he reached ground level, almost knocking him off his feet. He steadied himself and bore the woman through the shell of the smoking building on to the prom. Pamela followed close behind with the boy. They emerged to a low cheer from the firefighters and rescue party, who were standing by.
Blankets were fetched, the shivering woman and child were led away. Close by, the white-haired man who had been searching through the rubble sat on the pavement with his head in his hands.
Further along the promenade, an ambulance screeched to a halt and Lizzie jumped out. She surveyed the scene – mountains of bricks and burning timber, fire engines with ladders extended towards the upper floors of buildings that remained standing, walls that leaned and threatened to topple, smoke billowing, water gushing through the ruins, men digging, bodies laid out on the promenade. Bill flung open the back doors of the ambulance and emerged with a first-aid haversack slung over one shoulder – but how far did bandages and rubber gloves get you when faced with a disaster of this proportion? Lizzie spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness.
‘Over here!’ A member of the rescue squad called for them. He pointed to a partially uncovered victim lying among the rubble. ‘This one’s alive. See what you can do for him.’
The man was face upwards. The lower half of his body was trapped by a charred beam that Bill and Lizzie would have to lift before they could offer assistance.
‘Gauntlets,’ Bill muttered.
Lizzie sprinted back to the ambulance. She found two pairs of leather gauntlets stored under the driver’s seat and quickly ran back. By the time she arrived, Bill had brushed dirt from the man’s mouth and was offering him water. He put the metal bottle aside and pulled on the gloves.
‘Ready?’ Lizzie asked.
Together they took hold of the blackened, smouldering beam and carefully raised it. The man groaned and begged for more water. Kneeling beside him, Lizzie soaked a pad of cotton wool then gently wiped his lips before pouring cool liquid into his mouth. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Sid.’ The croaked reply was almost inaudible.
Alarm bells sounded in Lizzie’s head – she wasn’t certain because of the dark conditions, but this could be one of the erks she’d danced with at the Harbourmaster’s. ‘Listen, Sid – we’re fetching a stretcher. We need to get you to hospital.’
He raised his head and looked around wildly. ‘I was with my pal. We were drinking at the Harbourmaster’s. Reggie told me to scarper when Jerry dropped his first bomb then I lost sight of him.’
Yes, she’d thought as much; Sid Donne had copped it along with his fellow engineer. ‘Don’t worry about that now.’ Lizzie tried to calm him and waited for Bill to clear slabs of concrete and brick from Sid’s lower half. She could tell from Bill’s expression that the injuries were serious.
‘Wait here. I’ll fetch that stretcher.’ It was Bill’s turn to run to the ambulance. Meanwhile, as Lizzie loosened the patient’s collar, she noticed that he wore a gold cross around his neck.
‘I can’t move,’ he moaned, letting his head fall back and fumbling for the cross. She guided his hand towards it.
‘Take it easy.’ Bill had returned and was in the process of enclosing the victim’s legs in temporary splints. ‘We’re going to lift you on the count of three – one, two, three!’
As they raised him, Lizzie averted her gaze from his lower half. She glimpsed charred fabric and caught the awful smell of burned flesh. Sid emitted a series of low moans, letting his head loll to one side as they carried him swiftly to the ambulance.
‘Drive – as fast as you can,’ Bill told Lizzie as he strapped the patient into a King’s harness. Bad burns to the legs and Lord knew what else; it was touch-and-go for the poor beggar.
With pounding heart and dry mouth, Lizzie set off for the Queen Alexandra. She threaded through streets clogged with dense black smoke, past burst water pipes and fractured gas mains along roads that had been torn up during the raid. Craters yawned and progress was painfully slow. In the back of the ambulance, Bill did his best to keep the patient conscious by talking to him and reassuring him. ‘They’ll put you right in next to no time, pal. Just hang on until we get you to the hospital. Here – drink this.’
Sid’s head lolled and his eyelids flickered shut. Water trickled from the corner of his mouth.
Bill grasped his hand. ‘We’ll be there in five minutes – you hear me? The docs can perform miracles these days.’
Sid clutched his cross. The ambulance swayed around a corner. Sounds faded and all was silent.
Back at Gas Street, Connie handed over to Norman Riley, who had been called in to provide extra cover. The immediate crisis was over – Jerry had done his job and flown back to base. All available rescue teams were deployed. Reports of casualties were grim: five people killed and more than a dozen wounded.
‘A bad business,’ Norman concluded as he sifted through her reports. ‘I pity the poor beggars who live on that side of town.’
‘Yes, it doesn’t bear thinking about.’ Connie gathered her belongings – gas mask and haversack – then made for the door. An orange glow lit up the sky to the north and she saw a fire engine speeding along the street towards the inferno beyond the headland. ‘They’ll be working all night to put out those fires,’ she predicted wearily. After that, it would be up to the rescue boys to salvage what they could. Depending on the extent of the damage, the foremen and their parties of volunteer plumbers, builders and electricians would be on site for days with their jacks and cutting equipment, their cranes and searchlights.
‘You look as if you need some sleep,’ Norman remarked with a sympathetic smile.
‘Yes – I’m off.’ Connie set off for Elliot Street, dragging her feet as she went. She breathed in the smoke that drifted over the headland and only picked up her pace when she thought of her father, who had been at home by himself during the attack. Perhaps Bert would have had time to go up the street to his sister Vera’s house to seek shelter in her newly kitted-out cellar rather than sit it out at home on his own. Sure enough, Connie found that Bert wasn’t at number 12. But when she knocked on Vera’s door he wasn’t there either.
‘You know what he’s like.’ Vera stood on her doorstep in her dressing-gown and slippers. Her hair was in rollers beneath a thick hairnet and her lined features gave her a permanently worn-out look. ‘He probably nipped along to the shelter on College Road to see if he could lend a hand.’
‘Against doctor’s orders,’ Connie muttered. ‘Thanks anyway, Aunty Vera.’
From Elliot Street she took a short cut through an alley on to the main road lined with shops and office buildings. The smoke was thicker in the centre of town and she felt her chest tighten as she approached the communal shelter. Trust Dad not to do as he’s told, she thought.
With her mind focused on getting her father safely home to bed, she paid little attention to the warden standing at the entrance to the underground toilets. It was only when Tom stepped in front of her that she registered who it was. For a moment, her heart came to a sudden, thumping halt.
‘Connie,’ he said in a flat voice. The letter! Her terse, emotionless words had burned themselves into his consciousness. No one is to blame. There is plenty of time for me to decide what to do. No obligation.
‘Tom,’ she breathed.
‘What are you doing here?’ She looked exhausted – there were shadows under her eyes and none of that clear, laughing sparkle that he loved.
‘Is Dad here?’ She wasn’t prepared. Her guard was down. And God, Tom looked dreadful: drained and hopeless, a shell of his former self. Guilt dealt her a hammer blow to the chest.
Tom nodded. ‘He’s down there checking names off against the household register. Don’t worry – he’s safe.’
Shock robbed Connie of her voice. What did you say to a man whose heart you’d broken?
‘I offered to do a shift on North Street.’ He felt he ought to explain his presence.
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘We brought a few families over. They’d escaped from their houses on to the beach – it wasn’t safe for them there.’
He stood, tall and gaunt, a stranger in his uniform, searching her face for answers that she couldn’t give. ‘I’d better go down and fetch Dad,’ she said.
Tom stepped aside, but as Connie eased past, he spoke again. ‘What did you mean, there’s plenty of time for you to decide what to do?’
Her heart lurched again. A shield of defiance replaced the guilt. ‘I don’t know – it’s early days.’
‘Connie, don’t brush me off.’ He reached for her hand. ‘I deserve a proper answer.’
She didn’t pull away but she lowered her head to avoid his gaze. ‘I know you do, but you have to let me get used to the idea of being pregnant first. I have to weigh up my options.’
‘What does that mean?’ She wasn’t being fair; she ought not to cut him out entirely. Tom experienced a sudden, unexpected spurt of anger.
‘There are ways forward,’ Connie murmured, withdrawing her hand.
‘But you’ll keep it?’ Surely he had a say too.
‘I don’t know – anyway, it’s my decision.’ She narrowed her eyes, determined to press on.
‘No – the baby is mine too. You can’t just cut me out. It’s not fair.’
‘Hush!’ Connie’s eyes widened again. Enough; she must find her father and take him home. ‘Nothing’s fair, Tom. You should know that by now.’
‘But I want to be involved. Why won’t you let me?’
Really? He said this now, when it was too late! Scorn burned like acid in Connie’s throat. ‘How involved were you all last week?’ she taunted. ‘I’m asking you, Tom – where were you when I needed you?’
‘“From Hull, Hell and Halifax may the Lord preserve us.”’ Bill quoted an old saying as he sat at Lizzie’s kitchen table nursing a cup of tea. ‘They should include Kelthorpe in that list.’
‘Poor old Kelthorpe.’ It was the afternoon following the raid and rumours were flying in all directions. The death count was up to fifteen, the number of injured to thirty-three. Raby had been hit as well – true to form, Jerry had committed one final random act of destruction by ditching the last of his bombs over the small fishing village.
‘Why us?’ Lizzie was in a gloomy mood, partly thanks to another cold shoulder she’d received from Connie after her return to Elliot Street at two in the morning. It seemed they were back to square one – arriving home to an empty house, Lizzie had collapsed on to her bed and sobbed out of sheer exhaustion. Despite their best efforts, she and Bill had been unable to save Sid Donne, who had been pronounced dead on arrival at the Queen Alexandra. They’d driven back to North Street and ferried three more victims to hospital before being ordered home. Later, when Connie had at last returned with their father, she’d undressed in the dark and rebuffed any attempt at conversation. It had been the same this morning when they’d gone into work: bread had been baked and orders delivered in deafening silence.
‘Why not us?’ Bill replied to Lizzie’s forlorn question. ‘We ship out arms and munitions to our Russian allies, don’t we? The fact is, we’re as vital to the supply chain as Hull these days. We even sent food to the Red Army in Kharkov.’
‘Which makes us a number-one target.’ Lizzie rinsed out the teapot and cups and saucers. When she felt Bill’s arms encircle her waist from behind, she leaned back against him. ‘Have you come to whisk me off somewhere nice?’
‘To Wren’s Cove,’ he told her. ‘I’m your Prince Charming, in case you didn’t know.’
She turned to embrace him with a smile. ‘What’s the dress code – ball gown or overalls?’
Their delicious kiss lasted a long time. Bill was the one to break away and tell her to wrap up warm. ‘We won’t stop long. I just want to give Annie May the once-over, check that she’s still in one piece. After that we can ride on up the coast and have tea in White Sands Bay.’
‘I like the sound of that.’ Lizzie ditched her apron and was soon ready for action. Before long, she was riding pillion as Bill steered carefully through Saturday-afternoon traffic until they were clear of the town, where he upped the revs and headed for the hills. A bird’s-eye view showed a pall of smoke settled over Kelthorpe with little wind to clear it, but beyond that the shoreline curved into the far distance, and there were no clouds clinging to the headlands. In spite of everything, Lizzie saw hope reflected in the sparkling sea, freedom in the azure sky.
Bill pulled into the lay-by above Wren’s Cove, close to the familiar cliff path leading to the beach. A glance in the direction of Raby was enough to prove that the village had indeed been hit; the evidence was there in thin threads of smoke rising from the ruined remains of a row of terraced houses overlooking the small harbour. ‘You see that?’ He jerked a thumb towards the smoke.
Lizzie acknowledged the question with a dip of her head then went ahead of Bill down the steep path. She picked her way carefully, concentrating on where she placed her feet. It was only when she reached the beach that she looked towards the cove and stopped dead, scarcely able to believe her eyes.
Bill jumped the last few feet to join her. What he saw rooted him to the spot. An outcrop of rock partly hid Annie May from view but he could see enough. ‘Jesus Christ!’ He shook his head as if to rid himself of the image.
Lizzie walked ahead around the outcrop. All that remained of Annie May was the charred skeleton of her hull – the stout curved framework and the bulwarks that had strengthened it. Her carefully restored oak deck was no more and the metal winches, the rudder and what was left of her restored keel had caved in completely. ‘All that work down the drain!’ she cried.
Bill followed her. All those dreams! He gawped, open-mouthed. It was hopeless – Annie May was damaged beyond repair. His and Tom’s future had gone up in smoke.
Lizzie walked slowly around the burnt-out shell. What had been the point of Jerry jettisoning a bomb on such a target? But then again, that was just it – there was no point! All that remained were ashes and broken dreams. She went back to where Bill stood. ‘What now?’
‘I’ll have to tell Tom.’ This much he knew: it didn’t matter how young and strong you were, or how much you believed in yourself, disaster could strike without warning. And when it did, it robbed you of all that strength and optimism.
‘I’ll come with you.’ She would stand at her beloved’s side and they would come through this together.
‘Knowing Tom, he won’t say much but he’ll take it hard.’
Lizzie slipped her hand into Bill’s. ‘You can always buy another boat.’
‘What with? We’ve used up all our savings.’ It was like a house of cards tumbling down around him. ‘I wanted to be back at sea before the wedding. I was depending on it. What will we do for money if I’m not fishing?’
‘We’ll manage with what I earn at the bakery.’ She knew as she spoke that she’d delivered a blow to Bill’s pride.
‘No, that wouldn’t be right.’ He stared beyond the wreckage at the dark entrance to the cave, his handsome face a picture of misery. ‘We might have to shelve getting married until I get a job and I start earning again.’ A bitter taste came into his mouth. First the loss of Sea Knight and now Annie May, not to mention the prospect of the Patrol Service packing him off on minesweeping duties – everything was stacked against the wedding going ahead as planned.
Lizzie let her hand drop to her side. A wave of dismay swept over her, and another wave and another, like the relentless sea. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she whispered against the sound of breakers crashing against the rocks. ‘I don’t care whether you have a job or not.’
‘But I do, Liz. I can’t marry you if I can’t provide for you.’ Forcing himself to look at her, Bill saw that her eyes were full of tears. ‘Because I love you,’ he added, drawing her to him and resting his chin on the top of her head. ‘We’ll only have to wait a few months, until I’m back on my feet.’
A May wedding; spring blossom, a white dress with bridesmaids in forget-me-not blue – it was her dream. To have a ring on her finger. To walk down the aisle and be Mrs Bill Evans. All vanished in a puff of smoke.
‘By autumn,’ he promised. ‘Give me until then.’
‘Your mother got through it but only just.’ Harold talked Pamela through the previous night’s events. ‘I managed to get her into the Anderson shelter in the nick of time. Hugh joined us there.’ He wouldn’t admit it to his daughter, but the latest raid had thoroughly shaken him up too. It had been too close for comfort, with firebombs falling within a hundred yards of Sunrise. The flames had heated up the corrugated roof of their shelter and made it too hot to touch. ‘You know Fred was on duty at the control centre. He’s back there again today, writing up his reports.’
Pamela sat in the lounge of her parents’ bungalow, refusing to go into detail about her experiences during the raid. For a start, the shock of seeing the dead bodies had left her drained, and even though she and Simon had succeeded in getting the mother and son out of the flooded cellar, she’d witnessed other harrowing events that she was reluctant to share. ‘Thank the Lord you did,’ she told her father. ‘Some other poor souls weren’t so lucky.’
‘Including poor Sid Donne,’ Harold reported.
Pamela looked at him with a mixture of surprise and alarm.
‘You didn’t know?’
‘No – it’s the first I’ve heard.’
‘Apparently he and Reggie were drinking in the Harbourmaster’s. Sid was trapped by flying debris. He died before they could get him to hospital.’
‘What about Reggie?’ Pamela’s heart battered at her ribs.
‘There’s been no news as yet. The last your mother and I heard he was listed as missing.’
‘Poor Sid – that’s dreadful news.’ She wouldn’t have wished his fate on her worst enemy. As for Reggie, it was best not to think too far ahead.
Edith began to fuss with the tea tray, apologizing for the absence of biscuits and sugar. ‘I know you won’t want to hear this, dear – but please won’t you consider handing back your uniform and standing down from your warden duties?’ she asked Pamela as they sipped their tea.
‘No, Mother, I won’t.’ Pamela dragged her attention away from the ill-fated engineers. ‘I’m proud of that uniform. I wouldn’t dream of handing it back.’
‘There – that’s telling you.’ Harold patted his wife’s hand.
Edith heaved a sigh. ‘You can’t blame me for trying.’ Last night, cowering in the shelter as the bombs fell, she’d tried to block out any picture of her precious Pamela out on patrol. Time had dragged and even though the raid had been brief, the noisy aftermath had lasted through the night – ambulances speeding along the prom, fire engines passing the house with bells clanging and, worst of all, the sound of men yelling and women sobbing. ‘I wasn’t the only one. Your uncle was at his wits’ end too.’
‘Well, as you see, I came through without a scratch.’ Pamela finished her tea.
‘I’m sorry Fred isn’t here, love,’ Harold said. ‘He left for the town hall ten minutes before you arrived. He said how sorry he was to miss you.’
Pamela attempted a smile. ‘No matter. I’ll pop across to the main house and have a quick word with Uncle Hugh before I go.’
‘Right you are.’ Harold gathered the cups and saucers and stacked them neatly on the tray. ‘Your mother and I will take a stroll around the headland.’
Edith dabbed her lips with her napkin. ‘Yes, we’ll stay well away from the prom for the time being. It’s heartbreaking to see what’s happened there.’
‘Chin up.’ Pamela gave her a peck on the cheek. At times like this her mother seemed especially fragile, like an autumn leaf blown hither and thither in the wind. ‘The war can’t go on for ever – there has to be an end to it sooner or later.’
‘Tell your uncle he’s welcome to come and have supper with us later on.’ Harold showed her to the door then waved her across the lawn.
She entered the big house by the side porch, noticing Hugh’s collection of umbrellas and walking canes in the rack beside two pairs of RAF-issue boots and two heavy canvas rucksacks. As she walked along the corridor past a row of servants’ bells she called her uncle’s name.
‘He’s gone out,’ a voice replied in a harsh monotone. Reggie came up the two steps from the kitchen covered in black dust and dressed in torn jacket and slacks. His face was pale and haggard, scarcely recognizable under the grime, with his hair hanging lank over his forehead and his shoulders sagging. ‘You just missed him.’
‘Good Lord, Reggie!’ Pamela took a step back and tried to gather her thoughts.
‘What’s up? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘Reggie, it’s not funny!’
‘No, and I’m not laughing.’
She recovered her wits enough to understand that he’d evidently escaped from the previous night’s inferno more or less unscathed. ‘Dad said you were reported missing. He told me about Sid. I’m so sorry—’
Reggie raised a hand to interrupt her. ‘Not half as sorry as I am.’
‘Yes, I realize that. You were lucky to get out alive. Please tell Uncle Hugh I called.’ She spoke jerkily then continued along the corridor towards the front hallway. The sun’s rays slanted through a stained-glass panel, casting red and green light across the tiled floor.
‘Is that all?’ Reggie said in the same flat tone.
Relenting, Pamela turned back. ‘No, I can stay a while if you like.’
Reggie retreated into the kitchen and she followed him. ‘It was my fault. Sid was all for leaving when the landlord called time but I made him stay for a lock-in. If I hadn’t, he wouldn’t …’ He lapsed into a silence punctuated by the regular tick of the wall clock above his head.
‘I see.’ She pulled out a chair from under the table and made Reggie sit. ‘You can’t blame yourself. You weren’t to know.’
‘The fact remains.’ Resting his elbows on the table, Reggie buried his head in his hands, which were square, with dirt embedded under the nails. ‘I got out with a simple knock to the head and not another scratch on me. He didn’t, poor beggar. I had to spend a night at the hospital before they found a doctor to give me the once-over. And abracadabra …!’ He sat up straight and spread his palms towards the ceiling.
‘You were lucky. I was there – I saw how bad it was.’
Reggie went on as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Sid was a good pal. One of the best. Drove his car like a maniac, mind you. Quite the daredevil was Sid.’
‘Is that so?’ Pamela sat down opposite. ‘How long had you known him?’
‘We joined the RAF on the same day and got sent to a training camp in East Anglia. We’ve shared a billet ever since.’
‘What about his family?’
‘Two brothers – younger than him. His dad’s a mechanic in Wolverhampton – that’s how come Sid knew so much about engines. He went as an apprentice to the same firm as his dad.’
Pamela stared at her hands, regretting that it had taken the man’s death for her to learn more about him. ‘I didn’t know any of that.’
‘Why should you?’ Reggie laid his hands flat on the table. ‘Sid never gave much away. We came up north soon after we’d lost three of our lads in a single raid over Hamburg, hoping to escape the worst of it. And now look.’
‘I really am very sorry.’ Reggie looked and sounded broken. Gone were the jokes and cheeky chat. In fact, he seemed close to tears. Pamela reached across the table and grasped his hand.
‘Sid ran one way when the bombs dropped and I ran the other. I ended up on the beach with half a dozen others from the lock-in. A whole house fell on top of Sid – he never stood a chance. After they discharged me from the hospital I went straight to the morgue to identify him.’
Lost for words, Pamela felt Reggie’s grip tighten over her hand.
He looked up at her with tear-stained cheeks. ‘Thank you for listening to me bleating on,’ he murmured with a catch in his voice. ‘It means a heck of a lot, believe you me.’