It was almost midday when the serious-faced forelady came up to Connie. ‘Come with me, luv. The manager wants ter see yer,’ she said quietly.
Connie followed the forelady out of the workshop and along the corridor to an office which had a sheet of cardboard nailed over the damaged door glass. When she entered the room Connie was shocked to see Alice Jones standing beside the manager’s desk. The forelady left and the manager got up. ‘I’ll see if I can get you a cup of tea,’ he said, making a quick exit.
‘Sit down, Connie,’ Miss Jones said, taking her arm and guiding her to a chair.
‘What is it!? Is it Robert!?’ Connie blurted out.
Alice stood beside the chair and put her hand on Connie’s shoulder.
‘Peter Armitage phoned me this morning, Con. He asked me if I would come along to see you.’
‘Why!? What’s wrong!?’
‘I’m terribly sorry but Robert’s been reported missing in action.’
Connie buried her head in the woman’s stomach and sobbed bitterly. ‘No! It can’t be! ’E can’t die an’ leave me! ’E can’t!’
Alice stroked the young woman’s hair and could feel her whole body shaking violently.
The forelady came into the room with a cup of tea. ‘See if she’ll drink this. I’ve put something in it,’ she whispered.
Alice handed Connie a handkerchief. ‘Dry your eyes, dear. Drink this tea, it’ll make you feel better. C’mon now.’
Connie sipped the tea, tears of grief falling into the cup. Her eyes looked up appealingly to the older woman. ‘When? When did it ’appen?’
‘Someone from the squadron came to see Peter early this morning. I think it was the commanding officer. Robert’s plane crashed into the Channel last night. One of the pilots saw his plane go down. He never got out, Con.’
Connie’s face was deathly white and she stared at the floor as though in a trance. The cup shook in her hands and Alice took it from her.
‘C’mon, let’s get you home,’ she said softly.
The Bartletts had finished their tea and they sat in silence. Molly had gone to her bedroom and Matthew was staring into the empty grate. Helen’s hands shook as she tried to thread a needle and after a while she gave up. She rose and went into the kitchen where she stared at the dirty cups and plates for a few seconds before returning to the front room.
Matthew looked up as she came in. ‘Shall I go up an’ see if she’s all right?’ he asked her.
Helen shook her head. ‘I’ve bin up twice. She’s jus’ lyin’ there on the bed. I can’t get a word out of ’er. The poor cow was sobbin’ ’er ’eart out.’
Matthew sighed deeply. ‘One of us’ll ’ave ter go up before long. We can’t leave ’er in the flat all night. We’ll ’ave ter get’er ter the shelter some’ow.’
Helen sat down and looked up at the clock. ‘You go up, Matt. Maybe she’ll take notice o’ you.’
Matthew climbed the flight of stairs and let himself into the flat. Connie was lying sprawled across the bed, her face buried in the pillow. Gently he put his hands on her shoulders and she turned on her side. He could see her tear-stained face and red eyes as she stared up at him.
‘Why, Matt? Why should Robert ’ave ter die? We was so’appy. Why should it be ’im?’
‘I don’t know, Connie. All I know is, there’s lots o’ brave fellas givin’ their lives in this war. Fellas jus’ like your Robert. I know it’s ’ard, luv, but yer’ve gotta be brave. ’E was brave, an’ ’e would want yer ter be brave, too. C’mon now, luv. Wash yer face an’ we’ll all go over the shelter tergevver.’
‘I can’t, Matt. I wanna stay ’ere ternight.’
‘Now listen, girl. Yer can’t stop in these buildin’s all night. Put some water on yer face an’ come down to us. We’ll wait fer yer.’
‘You go over the shelter. I’m gonna stay ’ere.’
‘Well if yer determined ter stay ’ere ternight we’ll all stay wiv yer. We’re not leavin’ yer alone.’
Connie slipped her feet over the bed and sat hunched, her head buried in her hands.
Matthew touched her gently on the top of her head. ‘C’mon, luv. We’ll go down tergevver. C’mon, take me arm.’
The siren sounded early that night and the air raid was a particularly bad one. A bomb fell in John Street and demolished a row of houses. The Horseshoe public house was flattened and some of the shops in Tower Bridge Road had their fronts blown out. Bad fires started in the wharves and docks, and a fire bomb landed on the derelict oilshop on the corner of Ironmonger Street. Joe Cooper and Frank Brown roused the rest of the fire watchers and they raced to the burning shop.
‘It’s ’opeless!’ Joe shouted as he dashed into the wardens’ post opposite. ‘The oilshop’s alight!’ he screamed above the noise of the guns.
‘We’ve already reported it, Joe. Gawd knows ’ow long it’ll take ’em ter get ’ere. Control’s told us ’alf o’ London’s burnin’ ternight.’
Joe ran back to the others. ‘Let’s get back under cover. They’ve phoned the fire brigade. If that fire spreads ter the buildin’s we’re in trouble.’
As the men ran back down the little turning they could hear the sounds of falling shrapnel and glass shattering. They stood and watched from the shelter entrance and eventually the fire tender arrived and firemen began to play their hoses on the shop and adjoining barrow sheds.
‘It looks like the buildin’s are okay. Let’s get a cuppa while we’ve got a chance,’ Frank shouted.
Inside the stuffy shelter the grimy-faced men stood by the urn, mugs of steaming tea held in their shaking hands.
Mary Brown came over to Joe and whispered, ‘Young Connie Morgan’s in a terrible state. ’Elen told me the girl’s fella got killed in action.’
Joe looked over and saw Connie sitting next to Molly. The two girls were holding hands in silence, their eyes staring ahead. ‘Gawd ’elp us!’ he groaned. ‘What a bloody shame. I was only talkin’ to ’er the ovver day. She was worried out of’er life then. What a bloody shame.’
Mary took his empty cup and dropped it into a bowl of water. ‘I dunno where it’s all gonna end, Joe. Jus’ look at ’em sittin’ there. Look at their faces. The old ’uns can’t stand much more o’ this, an’ there’s the kids. It ain’t right fer ’em ter be stuck down ’ere night after night.’
Joe put his hand on her arm. ‘The old ’uns can take it, Mary. They’re made of iron, an’ the kids’ll be all right too. The way I see it, we’ve got some sort o’ chance down ’ere, barrin’ a direct ’it. Is there anuvver cuppa in that urn?’
The bombers had gone and the first light of day showed over the rooftops. Joe Cooper roused himself and stretched to ease his aching back. People around him were in various positions of fitful sleep and he noticed Clara Cosgrove had her head in her chest and was snoring loudly. As he glanced around he saw that Connie Morgan was sitting upright, her hands clasped in her lap and her eyes staring ahead. Molly sat next to Connie with her head resting on the Morgan girl’s shoulder and she was sleeping soundly. Both Helen and Matthew were fast asleep where they sat.
Joe walked over and crouched down in front of Connie. ‘You all right, luv?’ he asked softly.
She nodded and continued to stare blankly. Joe could see how pale and drawn she was and he reached out and touched her clasped hands. ‘Yer’ve gotta bear up, girl. Yer gotta face it, no matter what. I wish there was somefink I could say ter ease the pain, but I can’t. Nobody can. All I know is, time’s the greatest ’ealer. The pain will ease in time, believe me, girl.’
Connie’s angry eyes met his. ‘Robert’s gone. I’ll never see ’im again. You don’t know ’ow much it ’urts, nobody does, so jus’ leave me alone.’
Joe stood up and looked down on her grief-stricken face.
‘Okay, Con. I’ll leave yer alone, but jus’ one fing though. There’s a lot o’ folk sufferin’ like you. There’s a lot o’ loved ones bein’ grieved over – an’ grievin’ – an’ I tell yer somefink else. I lost someone once. It was someone I was very close to, an’ I suffered jus’ like you are now. I know ’ow yer feel, luv, so bear that in mind if yer want somebody ter talk to, okay?’
Connie’s eyes filled with tears and she forced a brave smile. ‘Okay, Joe.’
The wail of the all clear sounded and the weary Ironmonger Street folk emerged from the shelter to see the blackened shell that was once Jerry Martin’s oilshop. The stench of charred timbers and scorched bricks filled the little turning. Fire hoses were still attached to the hydrant and two tired firemen sprayed jets of water on the smouldering ruins. Windows had been damaged and broken glass was scattered over the pavements, and overhead the morning sky was copper-coloured and darkened with smoke.
It was mid afternoon when the well-dressed figure climbed the four flights of stairs and knocked on the front door. Connie ignored the knock and continued to stare into the fireplace. When the knock was repeated she got up reluctantly and opened the door.
‘I’m sorry, I was . . .’ she began.
He had stepped over the threshold and removed his homburg, his sad eyes looking into hers. Without a word she hugged him and he held his comforting arms around her sobbing shoulders.
‘I wanted to come. I know how you must be feeling, Connie. We loved him too,’ he said.
Peter Armitage closed the door behind him and they walked into the front room. Connie composed herself and went into the scullery to make some tea. She came back with two cups on a tray and they sat talking quietly, each glad of the other’s company.
‘Claudette is in a terrible state,’ Peter said. ‘Doctor Spanswick has given her a strong sedative and I’ve got someone to sit with her for a while.’
They sipped their tea in silence, and then Connie said, ‘Fanks fer sendin’ Miss Jones round. When I saw ’er in that office I knew she’d come about Robert.’
‘It was the least I could do,’ he said. ‘I’d promised my son that if anything happened to him I would get the news to you. It was the way he wanted it. I would have come earlier but Claudette . . .’ His eyes filled and he choked back the tears. ‘Robert’s commanding officer told us he was awarded a bar to his DFC. We’re very proud of him, and I know you are, too.’
Connie looked away from the bowed figure and stared at the small black box lying on the table. ‘Is that Robert’s medal?’
He nodded. ‘I’d like you to have it.’
She shook her head. ‘No, I couldn’t. You keep it. I’ve got enough memories ter last me the rest o’ me life. It’s only right you should keep it.’
He picked up the box and slipped it into his coat pocket. ‘You must come to see us soon. I’m sure Claudette would like that. I would, too.’
She showed him to the door and kissed his cold cheek as he stepped out on to the landing. ‘I will come ter see yer both, Peter. Fanks fer comin’ round.’
She stood on the cold landing and watched the sad figure disappear down the wooden stairs. Maybe one day, Peter, she thought. One day, when it doesn’t hurt so much.
With the darkness came the raiders, and there was no respite. Each night the bombs fell and more fires raged. Each night more stories were told in the factory refuge of friends and acquaintances who had been made homeless or who had been killed or maimed. The Ironmonger Street folk began to feel that their little turning was immune to the carnage. Every night the shelter dwellers listened to the noise of the bombs and the loud crash of the guns, and they emerged the following morning giving thanks that their little turning was still intact. The street folk who had once rallied to its defence now joked about its immunity.
‘Let’s be fair,’ George Baker said with a smile on his lips. ‘That there Field Marshall Goerin’ ain’t gonna waste no bombs on our street. The fifth columnists ’ave told ’im the bleedin’ street’s fallin’ down already.’
Lizzie Conroy got angry with the cantankerous old man. ‘Yer shouldn’t joke like that, George. Yer’ll put the bleedin’ mockers on the street if yer not careful.’
‘Mockers nufink,’ George replied, leaning on the wall and using his walking stick to sweep a large piece of glass from the pavement. ‘Yer like a bloody ole gipsy, believin’ in such fings.’
‘You can scoff, yer silly ole bleeder. All I’m sayin’ is, yer shouldn’t tempt fate.’
‘I ain’t temptin’ nufink. What I’m sayin’ is . . .’
‘I can’t stand ’ere talkin’ ter you,’ Lizzie cut in. ‘I’ve got me ole man’s tea ter get.’
George watched Lizzie’s departure with a grin on his grizzled features. ‘Silly ole fat-arsed cow,’ he mumbled to himself.
Lizzie was about to let herself into her house when Ada Halliday walked up.
‘’Ello, luv,’ Ada said, putting her shopping basket down at her feet and rubbing her aching back. ‘I jus’ bumped into Mrs Argrieves down the road. You remember ’er? ’Er what used ter live in John Street. Yer know ’er Billy copped a packet at Dunkirk.’
Lizzie pulled a face. ‘Yeah. Was it bad?’
‘Well, Mrs Argrieves reckons ’e ’ad a bullet lodged near the spine. They took it away all right an’ ’e’s walkin’ again, but she said ’e’s sufferin’ from shell-shock. She reckons ’e’s gorn a bit funny.’
‘Funny? ’Ow d’yer mean, funny?’
‘Well, be all accounts ’e’s mumblin’ to ’imself an’ ’e won’t keep ’imself clean. Mrs Argrieves said ’e ain’t ’ad a shave fer a week, an’ yer know ’ow smart ’e used ter be.’
Lizzie nodded. ‘’Er Billy used ter get in wiv that gamblin’ crowd. They used ter play cards an’ dice on the corner of John Street. The police was always tryin’ ter catch ’em. Billy used ter wear some smart suits. Must ’ave cost ’im a few bob.’
Ada glanced along the turning then looked back at Lizzie. ‘Accordin’ to ’er, all Billy’s mates clubbed tergevver an’ bought ’im a complete rig-out when ’e come ’ome from the’orspital. Yeah, shoes, ties, the lot. She said ’e looked ’is ole self fer a while. Trouble is, ’e ain’t ’ad the clothes orf ’is back since. Yeah, that’s right. She said ’e even sleeps in ’em. The poor bleeder’s gorn right down the pan. It’s a bloody worry fer’er. I did feel sorry fer the poor ole cow when she told me.’