The Bells of Bow (26 page)

‘Yer right there,’ Georgie said abruptly, surprising himself. ‘I’ve been thinking that I should be doing more.’

‘Have you, Mr Bell?’ Maudie asked as she refilled their cups. ‘What sort of thing were you thinking of?’

Georgie hardly faltered. ‘I thought I’d become a volunteer fireman,’ he said, not having a clue how that particular idea had popped into his mind. In fact, he couldn’t think why he’d said it at all.

‘What a wonderful idea,’ said Maudie, her smile of approval making Georgie feel for once he’d said the right thing.

Georgie decided to waste no time putting his thoughts into action. Within forty-five minutes of leaving Maudie’s house, he was standing in front of Sub-officer Smith’s desk in the temporary fire sub-station that had been set up in a requisitioned school off Old Ford Road.

Sub-officer Smith looked at the form that Georgie had filled in. ‘Says here you were a lorry driver, Bell. That you’d like to volunteer as a driver of a heavy-unit fire appliance.’

‘I talked to a few of the fellers out there in the yard and that seemed a sensible sort of thing for me to do.’

Smith nodded noncommittally. He looked at Georgie’s details again. ‘Married man, are you, Bell?

Georgie frowned. ‘Married?’ He wondered what this was leading up to.

‘Yes, you’ll be expected to stay here you see, to sleep, when you’re on shift. We need as many men as we can get, but some men might be more suited to a different kind of volunteering. I can’t be doing with any shirkers or problems. Too busy for that.’

Georgie sucked in his lower lip and twisted his cap into a tight roll behind his back. ‘I am married, in a way, but the wife, she’s not exactly around. Not seen her for more than ten years now.’

Smith didn’t say anything, knowing that by letting Georgie take his time he’d tell him more than any questioning would glean.

Georgie didn’t disappoint him. ‘Might as well be honest. Everyone knew me, Georgie “Ringer” Bell. I was a happy man with a lovely wife and beautiful little twin daughters. Good job, nice little house. I had it all. Or so I thought. Then me and Violet – the wife – started rowing. I didn’t know what had got into her. Kept saying how she wanted something more in life. I didn’t understand what she meant. If I had, I swear I’d have done something about it. But there was no talking to her. Then one day Violet never come home from the market. I left the twins with Nellie, a neighbour. They was only little’uns, eight, nine years old, and I wandered the streets looking for her. It was a stranger told me the strength of it. She’d upped and done a runner with a stallholder, bloke from down the next turning, if yer don’t mind. I stopped bothering with things from then on. I took to drinking too much and I got in trouble with me job. It was a good job and all – driver with the Union Cartage – and it weren’t long before I got the sack. They kept me on as long as they could because they knew I had the girls.’ Georgie bowed his head.

‘How did you manage?’ Smith asked.

‘I got by. Scraped a living working as a potman at the Drum and Monkey, that’s the pub on the corner of our road. They’ve been good to me in there. And I did bits and pieces for the stallholders in the Roman Road. People felt sorry for me, I suppose. For the girls, really. Well, it’s dawned on me recently, over the last few months or so, that I should stop feeling so sorry for meself. I realised I’d never amount to nothing, the way I was carrying on, never be no use to no one if I didn’t do something. And quick and all. So, here I am. I’ve thought about it and I’ve decided it’s time I pulled meself together and started thinking about something other than moaning about how hard done by I’ve been.’ Georgie smiled mirthlessly. ‘It’ll make a change.’

‘You really have been honest with me, Bell,’ said Sub-officer Smith, flipping over the top sheet of a pile of pages on his desk. ‘So I’ll be honest with you too.’ He lifted his chin and gazed steadily at Georgie. ‘I’m a bit wary of you, Bell, about you not having much of a work record lately and about your self-confessed drinking. But being short of manpower means that beggars can’t be choosers.’

Georgie grinned. ‘Thanks very—’

‘Not so fast, Bell.’ Smith held up his hand. ‘I’m going to take this a bit careful. So there are conditions. First of all, I’ve got no intention of starting you off on the heavy unit. We’ve got just the one here and it’s too precious to take any risks with. We’ll just have to carry on making do with the bloke who’s doing his best on that for now. No, we’ll try you out on one of the taxi cabs we’ve requisitioned to tow the trailer pumps. You’ll be driving that. They’ve got small crews, so they’ll be able to keep an eye on you.’

‘Ain’t I seen them cabs being driven by women?’

‘By women
what
, Bell?’

Georgie looked puzzled, not understanding at first. Then he realised. ‘By women. Sir.’

Smith gave the briefest of nods. ‘That’s right. Any problems with that?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Good. So let’s see how you do. Now, the second condition. The training’s not what it was before this little lot started, so I’m going to be watching you closely, Bell, to see how fast you learn. It’ll mean having to sort yourself out quite a bit. Picking things up as you go along. And finally, I expect to see you quite a bit smarter and fitter than you are now. Work on it. Maybe a drop less ale would be a start. And a shave.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Smith stood up and came round his desk to Georgie. ‘I’ll put you in with Volunteer Fireman Johnson, he’ll show you the ropes. Now, I don’t want to be made a fool of, Bell, giving you this chance. Let’s see you prove yourself.’

When Georgie got back to Darnfield Street, Babs was standing at the kitchen sink getting the tea ready.

‘Hello, Dad,’ she said, looking up at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘It’s only sausage and chips so it’ll be ready about quarter past six, all right?’

‘Lovely, girl,’ he said.

Babs turned back to the sink and got on with chipping the potatoes. She could tell by his voice that he hadn’t been drinking. ‘What you been up to then?’

‘I’ve joined the fire brigade.’

‘Blimey!’ Babs dropped the half-peeled potato into the sink, wiped her hands on her apron and sat down at the table.

‘I’ll make us a cuppa, shall I?’ Georgie said.

‘Yeah, that’d be nice.’ Babs could hardly believe it as Georgie took his jacket off, went out in the hall to hang it over the banister, then came back into the kitchen, filled the kettle and set about making a pot of tea.

‘Evie in?’

Babs nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘I’ll make a cup for her and all then.’

‘Am I dreaming? There’s Evie – she actually come home from work with me and said she’d stay in for a bit of tea before she goes out tonight. Now here’s you saying yer’ve joined the fire brigade.’

‘It’s true.’ Georgie took cups and saucers down from the shelf and put them on the table.

‘And yer using saucers and all. Yer never bother with saucers.’ Babs sounded flabbergasted. ‘Here, Dad, what’s going on?’

‘I’m gonna be training with this feller. Vic Johnson, he’s called. Nice bloke. You’d like him. Family man.’

‘No, Dad, you know what I mean. What’s going on with you? Why d’yer do it? What’s got into you?’

Georgie filled the pot with boiling water and covered it with the tatty old cosy that they’d had ever since Babs could remember. ‘We need a new one of these,’ he said, looking at it distastefully.

‘Never mind the tea cosy, Dad, just sit down and tell me what’s going on. Please.’

Georgie sat down and rubbed his hand over his stubbled chin. ‘I was talking to Miss Peters and I realised that I wanted to do me bit. I’ve been a right slob lately. A self-centred old drunk, if I was truthful.’

Babs said nothing, she just raised her eyebrows and poured the tea.

‘I was wondering if yer had any idea where me suit is? Is it still in the wardrobe in your’n and Evie’s room?’

Babs thought for a moment. ‘Don’t think so. No, it must still be in the pawn shop.’

‘Aw yeah, suppose it is.’ Georgie sipped at the scalding tea. ‘Wonder if they’ve still got it.’

‘Shouldn’t think so. It must have been years ago the last time me and Evie took it round Uncle’s for you.’

‘Perhaps I’ll have to see about getting meself a new one.’

‘New what?’ It was Evie standing in the kitchen doorway. Her bright blonde hair was pinned tight to her head in sausage-shaped curls, and she was dressed only in her underslip and the string of pearls that Albie had given her.

Babs nibbled at her lip. ‘Dad’s gonna get himself a new suit,’ she said, trying not to giggle in amazement at the idea of Georgie caring about what he looked like.

Evie frowned. ‘A suit?’

‘Yeah.’ Babs was now having trouble not bursting out laughing. ‘And he ain’t been to the pub.’

‘No?’

‘No. He went and joined the fire brigade instead.’

Evie’s mouth fell open. She looked at Babs, but immediately glanced away again, knowing that her twin would only set her off. She did her best to compose herself and said, ‘Fire brigade, eh, Dad? That’ll be nice for yer.’

That was too much for Babs, she hugged her sides and tears of laughter streamed down her cheeks. ‘Aw, Dad,’ she gasped. ‘It’s gonna be so good to have yer back.’

Now it was Georgie’s turn to look confused. ‘But I ain’t been nowhere.’

‘Aw yes you have,’ said Evie with a tearful smile. She threw her arms round his neck and planted a kiss on his unshaven cheek. ‘Welcome home, Dad.’

After the glorious summer, the winter of 1940 came as a sudden, sharp shock; not only was the cold weather itself a chilling contrast to the long, warm days that had gone before, but it had started so early. It was only the second week in October and was already bitterly cold. But the weather was only a minor inconvenience; it was the Blitz that was the main and very real concern in most Cockneys’ lives. Getting ready every night became second nature, a routine got down to a fine art of collecting blankets, folding chairs, slippers, knitting, books, sandwiches, cigarettes, hot water bottles and flasks of tea – everything, in fact, that might be needed to pass a long night listening to the aircraft overhead and explosions nearby, while everyone did their best to rub along together, help each other out and muck in, in the odd assortment of crowded places that had been taken over as shelters.

But even the most fervent of community spirits could be sorely tested when, exhausted from having to carry on despite lack of sleep, people emerged from their makeshift shelters to be faced with the cancellation of yet another delivery to the already half empty local food shop, or having to put up, again, with the disruption of their usual transport to work, or finding out that the mains had been struck and that there wasn’t even any water with which to make a cup of tea.

Blanche would gladly have put up with all those things, and more, if only she could have swapped them for the letter that had come for her Archie. It was the letter she had been dreading, telling them that Archie was to go away to army training camp.

Archie and she had argued about it, argued more than at any other time in their married life, but he had been insistent. He said that with all that was going on around them, on their very doorsteps in the East End, he had to do something more than work down the market, something that would contribute somehow to the fight that was now as much about protecting his own family as trying to help unknown foreigners across the Channel. Blanche had begged Ted Jenner to try and get him work in the docks, loading supplies or anything that Archie would consider proper, worthwhile war work, but it was no use, there was nothing for him there. So Archie had made his decision. He had joined up. He had even knocked a couple of years off his age to make sure they would accept him. The recruiting sergeant, a tough, no-nonsense Yorkshireman with a neck like a bull, had approved of Archie’s attitude and had turned a blind eye to his claim that he was in his twenties. And now, on a cold, grey October morning, Archie was leaving for camp.

‘Blanche?’ Babs called through the letter box of number four. ‘I’m here.’

Blanche opened the door and pulled back the blackout curtain to let Babs in. She smiled bravely. ‘Thanks for doing this for me, Babs.’

‘Daft,’ said Babs, pulling Flash in after her. ‘As if yer ain’t never done nothing for me and Evie.’

‘Even so, I appreciate yer taking the time off work. Archie couldn’t have stood having to say goodbye to the little’uns at the station. It’s gonna be hard enough saying goodbye to me and the other two.’

Babs followed her along the passage into the kitchen. It was exactly the same as the Bells’ kitchen in number six, but seemed much smaller with the extra chairs round the table and all the things belonging to the children.

Blanche fussed around, wiping every available surface with a damp rag that she had in her hand. ‘I’ve left a sheep’s head stew on the stove for their tea and there’s plenty in there for you and all. Help yerself, won’t yer?’

Babs nodded. ‘Right.’

‘And Len wants to feed the scraps to Flash, if that’s all right with you.’ Blanche’s face crumpled and she let the cloth fall to the floor. ‘What am I gonna do, Babs?’

‘You just go. Go on.’ Babs went over to the high chair in the corner where Janey was gnawing happily on a crust of bread and chucked the toddler under the chin. ‘We’ll be all right, won’t we, darling?’

‘Hello, Babs.’ Archie was standing in the back doorway with his arm round Len’s shoulder. ‘It’s cold out there.’

‘Freezing,’ said Babs.

‘We’ve just been checking that Len’s rabbit hutch ain’t got no leaks or nothing. It looks like it’s gonna be a bad old winter.’

‘We’d better be going if yer gonna get that train,’ Blanche said briskly, and ran out of the kitchen.

The taxi journey to Waterloo was difficult to say the least. Archie tried a few times to make conversation, but he got no response from Blanche, Mary or Terry. The three of them just stared wordlessly out of the windows at the grey London streets; even the shocking scale of the bomb damage couldn’t provoke a single remark.

At the station, the platforms were crowded with men in uniform and women and children jostling for places to say goodbye as soldiers, sailors and airmen hung at precarious angles from open carriage windows. The goodbyes weren’t whispered, everyone was shouting, trying to be heard over the noise of trains pulling out from other platforms and steam hissing from the engines as they prepared to leave. The smell of coal and cigarette smoke, mixed with the unmistakable scent of Evening in Paris, was everywhere.