Pete had owned a dog ever since his seventh birthday when his dad had bought him a blue roan hunting dog as a present. He had named it Bluey, rather unoriginally, and had loved it devotedly. When Bluey had died of a snake bite, his father had expected him to want another dog, but Pete had known that he would soon be leaving the Walleroo and would not be able to take the animal with him. He still missed Bluey, though, and thought of him often. His squadron leader had a golden retriever; a large and handsome beast with melting dark eyes and a curly coat which needed constant grooming. But Pete rather despised it because it was everyone’s friend, especially if one had food about one’s person. Bluey, on the other hand, had been a one-man dog and Pete thought that it was perhaps fortunate that he had died before his owner had left the Walleroo; Bluey would never have acknowledged another master.
So now, when Pete heard a couple of faint – very faint – barks, he immediately pricked up his ears and nudged Dicky. ‘Hear that?’ he demanded. ‘There’s a dog under all this stuff . . . did you hear it?’
‘No, and there ain’t, because they don’t allow dogs in shelters,’ Dicky said. ‘Well, not in the big public ones, anyway. What you heard was a dog barking somewhere on the Scotland Road and the sound being bounced back by one of the tall buildings what’s still standing.’ He sighed heavily, wiping the sweat off his brow. ‘Sound is very deceivin’. Well-known fact, that.’
‘Oh,’ Pete said, digesting this. He bent to his work once more. The two of them were making their way down to what had once been the entrance of the shelter every time more bodies were brought up, just to check, but so far there had been no girl dressed in a green frock with a green ribbon in her hair, and as the rescuers probed deeper into the shelter Pete’s stubborn belief in what Jess had told him began to falter. The men emerged, stony-faced, with their pitiful burdens, reporting that the scene below was one of complete carnage. They were sure everyone in the shelter must be dead.
‘How long do you want to stay here, old pal?’ Dicky said some while later, coming back after another fruitless visit to the line of bodies laid out on the pavement. ‘They believe they’ve cleared the shelter now. They think everyone’s accounted for. Of course they’ll go on digging in case . . . but all they’re going to find is more of the same, if there’s any left, that is.’ Dicky looked awkwardly across at the other young man. ‘Look, Pete, you’ve never even met the girl, and the truth is, I can’t hang about no longer. I live a good way out of the city an’ I’ve gorrer get home or me mam will start to worry. And some o’ them bodies . . . well, the state they’re in makes recognising anyone difficult, if not damn near impossible. So you see, there’s just a chance that they’ve already got young Debbie out and we’ve neither of us realised . . .’
‘But surely you’d have recognised the dress? A green frock and a green hair ribbon . . . that’s all I’ve been looking for,’ Pete pointed out.
‘I’m beginning to wonder if she was wearing a green frock,’ Dicky said gloomily. ‘But if she is – was, I mean – you’re as likely to recognise it as meself. As I said, I’ve really gorrer get back before this evening’s trouble starts. You’re very welcome to come home with me, if . . .’
‘It’s very kind of you to offer, mate, but I think I’ll hang around here until they’ve excavated the whole of the shelter,’ Pete said. ‘And I’ve got to go back to the hospital as soon as I’ve found Debbie, so I can let her mother know what’s happened.’
Dicky sighed but picked up the jacket he had cast off earlier and struggled into it. ‘Yes, I was forgetting; before I can go home I’ll have to go back to the bakery and tell my boss I need tomorrow off. I’ll have to drive down to Betws – wharrever – to break the news to Gwen’s mam.’ He looked hopefully at Pete. ‘I s’pose you wouldn’t like to come with me?’
Pete shook his head. ‘No can do, mate. Once I’ve sorted things here I’ll have to get back to my station; my Wimpy should be back on active service by then.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Dicky said. ‘Look, I’ll give you my address, then if you change your mind . . . only I’ll be in the force meself quite soon.’ He pulled a receipt book from his pocket, scribbled his name and address on the back of the next sheet and handed it to Pete, who thrust it into his trouser pocket.
The two young men shook hands and Dicky had actually turned away when Pete cocked his head, listening once more. There it was again, a faint but definite bark, and he was sure that it came from the mass of rubble which he and Dicky had been slowly clearing from where they assumed the end of the shelter must be. ‘What was that, if it wasn’t a dog?’ Pete said, as another faint bark came to his ears. ‘You
must
have heard that, Dicky, it was clear as a bell.’ He turned his head but Dicky was already out of hearing, hurrying in the direction of his delivery van. Pete looked round for someone else to confirm what he had heard, but even as he did so a movement caught his eye. Puzzled, he stared, and then saw, squiggling and wriggling from under a huge block of masonry, a dog: a scruffy mongrel with one ear almost torn off and a coat so filthy and matted that it was impossible to tell what colour it had once been. But its eyes were bright and when Pete moved towards it, and bent down to help it out of the tiny gap, it licked his face before giving one last tremendous heave, which brought its spindly hind legs and disgraceful tail into the open at last.
‘Well I’ll be blowed,’ Pete said, almost reverentially. He had been right: the dog had been under the rubble all the time, trying to let them know that it was alive; possibly, that there were others alive too. Pete approached the place where the dog had emerged, but his new friend was before him. Shoving its head inside the cavity, the dog began to bark shrilly, whilst its tail rotated so fast it was almost a blur. Pete bent over the dog and shouted: ‘Anybody in there?’ and faintly, so faintly that he wondered if he had really heard anything, came an answering hail. Wildly excited, Pete began to heave at one of the big lumps of masonry, then saw with dismay that, had he been successful, he would have started a miniature landslide, doing more harm than good. Backing away, he picked the dog up and set off towards the group of men still working with infinite care on the tumbled wreckage. ‘This dog just squeezed out from where me and my mate were working, up t’other end,’ Pete said breathlessly. ‘I shouted and someone answered, though the voice was awfully faint. Can you . . . ?’
There was no need to say any more. The man in charge shouted orders and some of the equipment they had been using was picked up bodily and carried to the spot Pete pointed out. The boss bent over the cavity and began to shout instructions to whoever was within. Then, before Pete could do anything about it, the dog had wriggled out of his arms and disappeared into the pile of rubble once more. He made an ineffectual grab at it, but was stopped by one of the engineers. ‘It’s all right, mate,’ the man said quietly. ‘If the dog can keep coming and going – and it looks as though it can – then it’ll be out again in a minute, and next time it goes down we can tie a message to its collar. Often, the mere knowledge that help is on its way is enough to keep a survivor hanging on.’
‘I see; I understand,’ Pete said humbly. ‘I – I’ve been hoping that a – a friend of mine might be still alive down there. She’s a young girl called Debbie Ryan. Her house was bombed last night and her mother’s seriously injured; oh, God, I hope it’s her, I hope she’s not hurt too badly.’
Debbie heard the rescuers getting closer, heard their muffled instructions to her to ‘keep away from the wall and crouch back’. The baby in her arms had been ominously silent for the past hour, or perhaps her silence was no longer so ominous, for, only half an hour before, the dog had squeezed back through the tiny passageway it had made and there had not only been a message around its neck. Dusty had brought a small container of milk and, weeping with gratitude, Debbie had fed every drop into the small eager mouth.
And now they were almost through, though the aperture was not yet sufficiently large to allow her to escape. Very soon, however, the three of them would be able to emerge into the outside world together and Debbie was sure that her mother must be amongst those waiting to greet her. And Gwen, of course, unless she had been injured, in which case she would be in hospital, Debbie supposed.
The voice which had been giving her instructions advised her, cheerfully, that she should turn away from the source of light, hunch down, and keep very still, since they were about to break through into her prison. Debbie obeyed. There were more noises, then a sharp crack, and then – oh, the relief of it – real, honest daylight. Hands reached out to her, pulling her gently towards safety. Someone exclaimed, tried to take the baby, but Debbie hung on grimly. ‘Don’t!’ she said sharply. ‘My mam will take her, she’ll look after her for me. Mam? Gwen?’
There were murmurs all round. A uniformed man tried to take her towards an ambulance but she pushed him away, insisting that she would not move until her mother came. She was very confused, as much by the fact that amongst this crowd of people she knew no one as by the memory of her recent ordeal. Still holding Baby tightly, she looked wildly about her and saw a tall, fair-haired man coming towards her, both hands held out. ‘You’re Debbie, aren’t you?’ he said gently. ‘I’m awfully sorry to have to tell you, but your mother’s in hospital. Can I take you to her?’
Debbie gave a tiny nod. ‘Gwen?’ she said and scarcely recognised her own voice. ‘Is she in hospital too? Or has she gone home to Daisy Street? She was in the shelter with me, only I went to change Baby’s nappy and I was still behind the curtain when the bomb fell.’
‘Let’s get you to hospital, then you can see your mother, and get yourself cleaned up,’ a cheerful voice said. It was an ARP warden. He took her arm and the tall young man offered once more to take the baby, but Debbie was having none of it. In the confusion of events which had preceded the bomb, she had a vague memory of a woman who looked like a gypsy, who had tried to lay claim to the infant. Debbie remembered how she and Gwen had decided to hang on to Baby so that they might return her to her real mother and clung desperately to her now. ‘No, I can manage,’ she said fiercely. ‘She’s – she’s mine.’
They let her keep the baby but bundled her into an ambulance and the tall young man with fair hair got in as well and so did Dusty, because when the ambulance man tried to evict him Debbie and the tall young man became so vociferous that the dog was allowed to remain.
They reached the hospital. Debbie climbed down and found her legs collapsing beneath her, but the young man carried her to a wheelchair and then pushed her swiftly down a long corridor. A nurse and a doctor stopped them, tried to say that Debbie must be examined and cleaned up before she could be taken on to a ward, but the tall young man drew the doctor aside and said something that must have had considerable weight, for the doctor turned to go with them, and accompanied them to the ward where Debbie’s mother lay.
One of the porters at the entrance of the hospital had offered to look after Dusty while they were inside and when they reached the ward Pete took the child from her, saying he would wait in the foyer, so Debbie was alone when she reached her mother’s bed. She thought Jess looked terrible, quite unlike herself. But when Debbie murmured, ‘Mam?’ her mother’s eyes flickered open, and from somewhere she conjured up the travesty of a smile.
‘I knew you were all right,’ she whispered. ‘I told the young man he must search for you because you were still alive.’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ Debbie said impatiently. ‘But you . . . oh, Mam, you’ve been hurt bad. Don’t try to talk. You should conserve your strength.’
Jess’s head gave a tiny, negative shake. ‘No; I must tell you something before I go,’ she whispered. ‘When the war started I – I wrote you a letter. I put all sorts in it; me Post Office details, stuff like that. It’s in the secret drawer of my little bureau along o’ some money. And there’s a name and address . . .’
Her voice trailed away and Debbie leaned closer still, smoothing the damp hair from her mother’s forehead and holding very tightly to the cold hand which she had clasped as soon as she reached the bedside. ‘All right, Mam, I’ll see to it, but you mustn’t worry yourself,’ she said. ‘We’re both alive, you and me, and you’re going to get better. That’s the only thing that matters to me, you getting better . . .’
But Jess’s lips were parting and her eyes, which had closed, flickered open once more. ‘No, queen, what’s important is that you go straight home now and get that letter,’ she said urgently. ‘This is no place for a young girl alone. I want you to . . .’
Her voice faded away and Debbie had just started to remind her that she was not alone, that she had Gwen, that even Uncle Max would no doubt keep an eye on her, when she felt the fingers in her own loosen their clasp and saw her mother’s head fall sideways on the pillow. There was a rattling sound, then nothing. ‘Mam!’ Debbie screamed, then flew down the ward, shrieking, ‘Nurse! Nurse!’ at the top of her voice, but though several nurses, and a doctor, came running, they could only tell Debbie, with all the sympathy and gentleness at their command, that her mother was dead.
Chapter Ten
Despite her frequently expressed desire to be allowed to go back to her own home, the hospital insisted on keeping Debbie in overnight, though they warned her that she would probably have to spend it in the hospital basement, since there was bound to be another raid.
As soon as he was able, Pete visited Debbie on the ward, knowing that he would have to tell her how he had met Dicky and how the other young man had identified Gwen’s body. Then, of course, he would have to tell her that her home in Wykeham Street had been bombed.