Joe winced as a nearby explosion shook the old rag shop. ‘It’s a bad one ternight. They’re over in force,’ he shouted back.
The warden put down the phone and rubbed a grubby hand over his tired features. ‘Are your crowd okay?’ he asked.
Joe nodded. ‘They’re all right. Our two girls are gettin’ ’em goin’ wiv a sing-song an’ we’ve managed ter keep the tea flowin’.’
Ted Butcher, the senior warden, leaned towards a bespectacled young man who was wearing a steel helmet a size too large. ‘Talkin’ o’ tea. ’Ow about you puttin’ the kettle on,’Orry?’
Horace Wilson grinned owlishly and disappeared into the back room. Ted took out a packet of Goldflake and held one out to Joe. The two men sat in the dimly lit shop, their faces tired and strained. They puffed away on their cigarettes without talking and, when Horace brought in two mugs of tea Ted stretched and puffed heavily. ‘Did yer ’ave a good ’oliday, Joe?’ he asked.
Joe pulled a face. ‘I tell yer, Ted. I was glad when it was all over. My ole woman didn’t stop naggin’ all the time I was there, an’ ’er sister was a right bundle o’ laughs as well. Between the two of ’em they gave me the right ’ump. On Boxin’ Night I just about ’ad enough of it, so out I goes ter get a drink. There was this place in the village an’ when I walked in the door yer should ’ave seen the eyes. Everybody was starin’ at me like I’d jus’ crawled out o’ the woodwork. Ter tell yer the truth, it was a poxy pint as well.’
‘Your ole Dutch won’t come back ter London then, Joe?’
‘No fear! She said she’s quite okay where she is. I’m glad really. She’s a bundle o’ nerves as it is, an’ they ain’t ’ad no bombin’ yet. If she was back ’ere she’d die o’ fright.’
The phone rang again and Horace picked up the receiver. His face looked serious as he turned to Ted. ‘The fires are out o’ control in the City! There’s a great big crater near the Tower Bridge ’Otel, an’ the flats in Dock’ ead ’ave copped it!’
‘Gawd ’elp us!’ Ted gasped.
The door of the wardens’ post suddenly burst open and a tall, lean figure rushed in, his face blackened and his steel helmet pushed to the back of his head. ‘The water main’s busted in Tower Bridge Road an’ the bleedin’ vinegar factory’s alight!’ he shouted. ‘What’s more, there’s a bleedin’ unexploded bomb in Conner Street!’
Ted looked over to Horace. ‘You got that, son?’
The bespectacled warden grabbed the phone, ‘Got it!’ he shouted.
Joe stood up. ‘I’ll leave yer ter get on wiv it, Ted,’ he said. ‘Look after yerself. It’s gonna get worse before the night’s out.’
Joe kept his head low as he ran through the gates into the factory yard. Above the sky was blood-red, and the ground shook beneath his feet. Gun flashes lit the night and as he reached the shelter entrance a loud explosion made him clasp his hands to his ears. Down below in the stuffy refuge, Lizzie Conroy was leading a chorus of ‘She’s Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage’, and Billy Richards was plucking away at his ukulele. Joe could see the Widow Pacey, impassive as ever, her arms folded and her eyes staring ahead. The Toomeys were singing and Ada Halliday was conducting the impromptu choir with her arms flailing. Mary Brown was busy at the tea urn, and some of the children were already curled up on the benches.
When Joe walked over Mary looked up. ‘’Ere, Joe. When they gonna put them bunks in ’ere?’ she asked. ‘Those kids look really uncomf’table on them ’ard benches.’
‘Gawd knows,’ Joe replied. ‘They should ’ave bin put in long ago.’
Over in one corner a group of children were gathered together. Mary’s son Jimmy was showing off his collection. ‘I’ve got a bit wiv a number on it.’
‘Let’s ’ave a look,’ Gordon Jackman said, peering into the cardboard box at the jagged chunks of metal.
‘That’s nufink,’ Ronnie Bailey scoffed. ‘My mate Arnie’s got a great big ’cend’ry bomb in ’is ’ouse. It come in ’is roof an’ didn’t go orf. ’E’s got stacks o’ shrapnel as well.’
‘That’s stupid, Ron. ’Cend’ries can go orf any time. ’E could get burnt ter cinders.’
Ronnie Bailey blinked at the other young boy. ‘It’s all right. Me mate’s dad keeps the bomb in a pail o’ water.’
Gordon scratched the tip of his nose. ‘I ’ad some newts and tadpoles once an’ I kept ’em in a pail o’ water. When they turned inter frogs an’ fings they all jumped out an’ ’opped up our passage. My mum wasn’t ’alf scared.’
Jimmy lowered his head and called his friends together. ‘’Ere. See ole Muvver Adams over there?’
Six pairs of eyes glanced in the direction of the elderly lady who sat alone, her arms folded and her head resting against the wall. ‘She’s got loads o’ cats an’ when they ’ave kittens she drowns ’em all in a pail o’ water.’
‘That’s ’orrible. She mus’ be an’ ole witch,’ Ronnie said, pulling a face. ‘Look at Muvver Pacey. She’s a witch. When it’s dark she turns inter a big black pijjin.’
Gordon pointed over to where the Toomeys were sitting, his eyes fixing on Lillian. ‘I fink she looks like a witch.’
‘No, she’s a prosser.’
‘What’s a prosser?’
‘I dunno. It’s what me dad calls ’er.’
Just a mile away, another little backstreet was getting its first taste of bomb damage. Salter Street was littered with broken glass, roof slates and splintered wood from shattered front doors after a landmine had flattened a row of houses in Canning Street, the turning opposite. Down in the cellar of the Dolphin they heard the loud explosion and flakes of white plaster fell on to the beds.
Bill French had been lying awake and he jumped up quickly. ‘Christ! That was a near one!’ he gasped.
Dora and Jennie were huddled together, and Connie buried her head beneath the bedclothes as the landlord hurried up into the bar. The wooden shutters over the pub windows had held but broken glasses and bottles of beer were scattered across the floor. The large mirror behind the saloon bar counter was cracked, and chunks of plaster had fallen from the ceiling. Bill ran out into the street and looked along the turning. He could see the flaring gas main and the high jet of water bursting from a broken pipe. Men were already pulling at the rubble with their bare hands and there seemed to be people running everywhere. Fire bells were ringing out and Bill saw the local policeman cycling into the devastated little turning. The landlord scratched his head. There was nothing he could do. Too many people clambering over the rubble would be disastrous for anyone buried beneath it; help would be needed after the survivors were brought out. He went back into the pub and tried the gas. Luckily it lit, although the pressure was low. He filled the largest pot he could find with water and pulled out a couple of blankets from the bedroom cupboard. There was little else he could do for the moment, except busy himself clearing up the bars.
As dawn broke and the long, even wail of the all clear sounded, Bill and Dora opened up their pub. The dust-caked policeman stood at the end of the turning, directing the homeless into Salter Street. They filed past, grey-faced and shaking. Women were quietly sobbing and sleepy-eyed children looked around curiously as Dora poured tea into large mugs and passed them around along with sandwiches of cheese and breakfast sausage. Jennie and Connie came down into the public bar carrying more blankets which they wrapped around the elderly women.
The policeman cycled up and came into the bar. ‘’Ow we doin’, Bill?’ he asked, sitting himself down heavily beside the counter.
‘Well, we got ’em settled fer a bit. What’s the news?’
The constable took off his steel helmet and put it down on the counter. ‘It was a bloody miracle. Everybody’s accounted for. They was all over the shelter. We dug Mrs Harriman’s dog out o’ the rubble an’ it shook itself an’ trotted off large as life. It was a bloody miracle.’
As the winter sun climbed up into the sky, vans arrived to transport the homeless to the nearby rest centres. Dora and Bill began their task of getting the pub ready for the first customers and the girls left for work. They picked their way through the debris out into the Old Kent Road.
As they walked along to the Bricklayers Arms Jennie glanced at her friend. ‘I was terrified last night, Con,’ she said. ‘I bet there wasn’t ’alf some damage done.’
Connie shivered and pulled her coat up around her ears. ‘When that loud bang went I ducked under the clothes. I thought the pub was goin’ ter crash down on us.’
They could see the devastation of the air raid as they reached the corner of Tower Bridge Road. Streetlamps were down and there was glass and rubble everywhere. One or two of the shops had had their windows blown out and there was a large crater in the middle of the junction. Buses were being diverted and the trams were lined up waiting as emergency crews worked feverishly to lay new tracks.
Jennie slipped her arm through Connie’s as they crossed the road. ‘Well, it was quiet over Christmas, Con. I’m jus’ sorry I talked yer inter that party,’ she said, staring ahead. ‘I thought it would do yer good.’
Connie smiled. ‘The party was okay. It was jus’ me. I wasn’t really up to it.’
‘You sure Sammy didn’t try anyfing?’ Jennie asked quickly.
‘No, Jen. As I told yer, ’e got a bit ’andy, but ’e soon got the message.’
Jennie sighed. ‘Me an’ Steve are ’avin’ it off, but yer guessed that, didn’t yer?’
‘Yeah, I guessed it.’
‘Gawd knows what me folks are gonna say when they find out. Trouble is, Steve’s older than me, an’ ’e’s got a bit of a reputation for runnin’ aroun’ wiv a dodgy crowd. Me dad don’t like ’im very much. ’E finks Steve’s too flash, but ’e ain’t really.’
Connie shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s never easy, is it? There’s always problems when yer get serious wiv someone. I know ’ow it was when I started goin’ wiv Robert. ’E was older, too, and not our sort. Poor Aunt ’Elen used ter worry ’erself sick about it. Fing is, yer gotta sort it out before yer get too close. Don’t let anybody change yer mind for yer. Nobody could talk me out o’ goin’ wiv Robert an’ I don’t regret one minute of the time I spent wiv ’im. My only regret is that it was all too short. I miss ’im terrible.’
It was Monday morning and, as they reached the factory entrance Connie sighed deeply. There was another long day ahead, another long week of monotonous grind. It seemed as though everything was pressing down on her and squeezing the life juices from her protesting body. She felt old, dry and weary and she wished more than anything that she could walk on past the factory and just keep on walking. Connie realised she hadn’t eaten any breakfast that morning. Her mouth was parched and her head felt heavy. She wanted a strong drink right at the moment and it made her feel anxious. She had been drinking too much; it was taking hold of her. She knew that if she didn’t slow down she would make herself very ill. Would that be so bad, she thought? There seemed to be nothing for her to live for. Life without Robert was empty and meaningless. There was nothing to look forward to, nothing but dark days and darker nights. Only in the evenings, when she was serving behind the bar, could she begin to forget her misery a little, taking a drink or two and letting the burning spirit blunt her senses and promise a dream-free sleep. Alcohol had become like a friend to her, and she was afraid that it would betray her.
Jennie was looking at her strangely. ‘C’mon, Con or we’ll be late clockin’ in,’ she said with a frown.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Connie had hardly noticed him at first. He worked as a labourer at the factory and one of his tasks was to pull trolleys of treated leathers into the workroom. Jimmy Pope was tall and slim, with a pleasant smile and an open face that bespoke a cheerful nature. He was active and strong and when he was summoned to an army medical the girls at the factory got ready to say their goodbyes. Everyone was surprised, and no one more than he himself, when he was rejected for military service. They said it was a heart murmur and suggested that he consult his family doctor. When Jimmy followed the advice and contacted his ageing doctor he was told not to worry.
‘The army people were probably coming down on the side of caution. Your father had the same condition, Mr Pope and, as I remember, he was nearing eighty-four when he passed away. It’s hereditary and I shouldn’t give it another thought. Just be thankful you’ve escaped the call-up.’
Jimmy was not sure he had escaped anything. Some of the call-up dodgers were getting a hard time and he knew he would have to carry his medical card around with him to satisfy the interfering busybodies. There was bound to be some malicious gossip too, but being a cheerful sort of person, Jimmy went back to work and decided he was lucky after all. He wrote a letter to his wife, who had been evacuated to Suffolk with the two children, telling her she could stop worrying about him going into the army. He had been rejected owing to a perforated eardrum. He thought a little white lie was needed to put Ruby’s mind at rest. Knowing her, if he told her the truth she would be expecting him to drop dead at any minute.
Connie had been living with the sorrow of Robert’s death for some time before she began to notice Jimmy. In some ways he reminded her of her lost lover. He was tall like Robert, and he seemed to have a similar devil-may-care attitude. In looks they were very different, however. Robert had been fair, with blue eyes which had made her weak with excitement. Jimmy was dark, with large brown eyes and he wasn’t handsome. It was his mannerisms which reminded her most of Robert, and Connie found herself watching him whenever he came into the workroom. She felt no physical attraction towards the young man, only a curiosity, and Jimmy slowly became aware of it. He had heard about the tall, pretty girl with the long blond hair whose fiancé had been killed in action and when he noticed her watching him every time he came near her Jimmy began to get interested. He was missing Ruby and Connie Morgan was certainly very pretty. She must be feeling lonely, too, he reasoned. Maybe he should get talking to her and ask her out for a drink one evening. It wouldn’t be for sexual reasons, he told himself without really believing it, but just a friendly relationship with someone who was also lonely.