Hundreds of air raid wardens, Home Guard soldiers, Civil Defence and emergency services worked through the early hours of the morning.
This time, the Luftwaffe had hit four out of the nine shipyards along the Wear. Greenwell’s on the south dock, Austin’s further upriver, Laing’s, and Thompson’s.
Martha returned home to find her mother was up, with breakfast on the go and a big mug of Ovaltine.
Her daughter had come back safe and sound and she had that to be thankful for. Like William kept telling her – she just had to take one day at a time. During times like this, there was no other way. She tried to heed his advice.
It was hard, though.
When dawn broke, Aunty Rina took Hannah a cup of tea in bed and told her to get herself ready for the day.
Half an hour later they had a kosher breakfast of cereal and toasted home-made bagels before leaving their house on Manila Street. Walking down Villette Road, they stopped off to collect Olly, and from there they walked the mile and a half to High Street East.
They would not have been able to take public transport even if they had wanted to as many of the main roads had been pockmarked with craters during the night.
They walked via Tatham Street and looked up Borough Road. The homes of those they knew and loved were still standing. ‘Díky Bohu,’ Rina muttered, looking up at a sky that seemed so pure, so untainted, despite being contaminated by Hitler’s harbingers of death just hours previously.
On seeing that Vera’s café was still standing, Rina said a second ‘Díky Bohu,’ and when Vera herself came to the door, griping about the ungodly hour she was being forced to leave the comfort of her bed, Rina smiled for the first time since the sirens had sounded out.
‘Come on,’ Rina told Vera in her sternest voice. ‘Get your pinafore on. There’s work to be done. Sandwiches to be made. Tea to be brewed.’
Vera huffed loudly, ushering Hannah and Olly into the café before poking her head out and looking down the street. It looked like a war zone. She could see rubble strewn about the road, shattered glass and a burst water main gushing everywhere.
An ambulance heading from Barrack Street further down the road trundled past slowly in an effort to avoid the mounds of bricks and mortar lying across its path.
If anyone had been scrutinising the old woman’s face, they would have seen shock, then sadness – followed by defiance.
Flicking the sign on the front door of the cafe to ‘Open’, and kicking the wooden triangular door wedge into place, Vera turned round and marched back into the café.
Looking at Rina, Hannah and Olly, she waved her hand in the air impatiently.
‘Well, come on, what yer all waiting for?’
When Helen woke up she looked at the time. It had gone nine o’clock. She’d slept surprisingly well. Probably because her mind was at rest knowing that those she loved were safe and sound. Once the all-clear had sounded out, she’d rung the Ryhope, and although she’d not been able to speak to John in person, she’d been reassured that he was all right. As expected, both the Ryhope and the Borough Asylum were expecting patients from town. John would be run off his feet.
She had also managed to find out from the operator that although both sides of the river had been badly hit, the Borough Road and Tatham Street had thankfully escaped unscathed.
Helen stretched and began to get herself ready for the day.
It was going to be a really important day. One, she realised, that had been a long time coming.
Now that the fog had lifted, she could finally see what was right in front of her.
Last night, while the town had been shaken to its core, her mind had gone to John. She’d realised how much he occupied her thoughts, her time, and, moreover, how much she actually missed him when she wasn’t with him. How crazy was that?
Gloria was right. John felt the same. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be spending every minute he had spare with her either.
As she’d sat in the cellar, she’d realised how stupid she had been to believe her mother’s poisonous words. John didn’t care about her past. She knew him better than anyone. Certainly better than her mother did.
Slipping on the dark green dress that brought out the emerald of her eyes, she looked at herself in the mirror. She went over and sat at her dressing table. Just a little make-up. Not too much. And she’d put her hair back in victory rolls. Attractive but casual.
Down in that dark basement, she had seen the light.
There was too much awfulness in the world and – thinking of her grandfather – too many awful people. So, when something rather lovely came along – like what she had with John – you just had to grab it with both hands and make the most of it.
It was this realisation that had made her resolve to go and see John.
If he was in theatre, or conducting consultations, she would wait.
When she saw him, she would ask him to go for a walk with her around the grounds.
And then she would tell him what she really thought. How she felt.
Or perhaps she would simply show him.
When Pearl woke up she had the hangover from hell.
Not an uncommon feeling, though one she hadn’t felt for a while now.
She sat up and looked around at her surroundings.
It took her a few moments to work out where she was.
Ronald’s.
Then came a feeling she wasn’t so used to. Guilt. And regret. Neither emotion usually succeeded in penetrating the layers of thick skin she had grown over the years, or the barrier of booze that shielded her from reality most of the time, but this morning they’d slipped through her defences and caught her off guard.
She flung off the blanket that was covering her.
She breathed a sigh of relief.
She still had her clothes on.
She vowed not to get so paralytic again.
Scrabbling around for her cigarettes, she found a squashed packet on the coffee table and lit one. Smoked. Coughed. Smoked some more. Then she stood up.
‘See yer, Ronald,’ she shouted up the stairs. She listened for a reply but heard only snoring.
She looked at the clock. Eleven. That gave her an hour to turn herself around and get to work.
The guilt returned.
She knew she had to apologise to Bill.
She didn’t like saying sorry, but she needed this job.
Pah! Who was she kidding? This wasn’t about her keeping her job.
She was sorry because she could remember the look on his face. It was about the only thing she could remember from last night.
Seeing her go off with Ronald, she knew what he’d think. What he would presume.
Normally, she didn’t give two hoots what anyone thought, but loath though she was to admit it, she did care what Bill thought.
When Helen stepped out of her front gate on the corner of Side Cliff Road and Park Avenue, she was shocked to see just how near to her home the bombs had landed.
It was bedlam.
Firefighters, ambulances and army trucks were travelling in both directions along the main road that ran parallel to the park. She presumed they were taking the injured to either Southwick Hospital or Monkwearmouth. Spotting a warden walking down Roker Park Road, she hurried and caught up with him.
‘Where’s been hit?’ she asked.
‘More like where hasn’t,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘That bad?’ Helen asked, keeping abreast with him.
‘They reckon a hundred and thirty bombs dropped,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘As usual this side’s had it bad. The railway crossing’s been hit up at Fulwell. There’s been carnage up Atkinson Road way. Four houses totally obliterated. At least another hundred and fifty damaged.’
He exhaled.
Helen recognised the look.
‘How many dead?’
‘Eleven. Including a family of six.’
They exchanged looks. Neither needed to say anything. The warden tipped his tin helmet before hurrying across the road and disappearing into a crowd that had gathered outside the Wesleyan church. It too had taken a direct strike. Those who should have been worshipping and singing psalms this time on a Sunday morning were now salvaging furniture and books from their place of prayer.
A few minutes later Helen reached the corner of Roker Baths Road and stopped in her tracks. The Roker Park football stadium had been pummelled – and more than once by the looks of it. The car park, just twenty yards from the nearest turnstile, was wrecked, as was the old clubhouse.
Overhearing two old men in front of her, she learnt that the pitch was now a deep crater, but worst of all, a special constable who had been patrolling the area last night had been killed. He’d died just a few yards away from his home in Beatrice Street. Helen thought of the poor man’s family. Had they been the ones to find his body?
Ten minutes later, Helen reached Thompson’s to find it a hive of activity, and knew immediately that the yard had taken a hit.
‘What’s the damage?’ She grabbed hold of one of the workers heading out of the yard.
‘We’ve been lucky, Miss Crawford,’ the man said. ‘Just some minor damage over by the quayside.’
Heading over there, she bumped into Harold.
‘Denewood took one. She’s letting in water,’ he said, puffing on his cigar.
‘Will we lose her?’ Helen said, her heart sinking. She knew the amounts of sweat and sheer hard graft that had gone into getting her down the ways.
One step forward and two steps back.
‘We might be able to save her.’ Harold sounded hopeful. ‘The lads are on the case. They’ve got the pumps going. They should be able to keep her afloat long enough to get her patched up.’
Harold gestured over to the admin building and they both started walking.
‘I think Jerry’s managed to mark just about every district in the borough,’ he said. ‘They reckon about seventy dead and well over a thousand injured. And that’s a conservative estimate.’
‘Right, well, let’s make sure we’re up and running for start of shift tomorrow,’ Helen said, reaching the main entrance to the admin building and pulling open the door.
It was the only way she knew how to fight back.