The Forget-Me-Not Summer (38 page)

Steve smiled and said that he would like to see the little dog again, not having done so since before the war. ‘You ought to buy him wax earplugs or woolly earmuffs,' he teased. ‘If he couldn't hear the bangs he'd probably go off to sleep quite happily.'

They were still laughing over the idea of Timmy in fluffy earmuffs when the bus deposited them at their stop, and they hurried along towards Russell Street, planning the breakfast which they hoped to enjoy presently. It was too early for any of the shops in the street to be open, but that was not the only reason for the unfamiliar quiet. The air was thick with dust, and despite the householders' precautions there were several glassless windows, and shop doors swinging wide. Miranda began to hurry. ‘I hope to God they're all right,' she said breathlessly as she ran. ‘Oh, I do hope they're all right!'

AVRIL AND GARY
had barely settled down to their fish and chip supper when Moaning Minnie set up her wail. Timmy, under the table awaiting any scraps which might come his way, moaned softly as well, but Gary and Avril fell into their usual routine without a moment's hesitation. The fish and chips were rewrapped in their paper and shoved into Avril's air raid basket along with some rather dry cake and sandwiches from the previous day and two bottles of cold tea. Then she and Gary raided her bedroom for two blankets and a pillow each, donned their winter coats, hats and scarves and set forth.

The basement was reached from the back of the bicycle shop, through a heavy oak door at the foot of a dozen steps. This would be the first time that Gary had seen it, for usually when the warning sounded he had to hurry off either to act as a shelter warden or to take messages from one post to another on his trusty old bike, for despite the fact that one of his legs was made of wood he could ride a bicycle as well as any able-bodied man, thanks to a special pedal into which his false foot fitted.

He looked appreciatively around the underground room, which was empty as they had known it would be. Pete had warned them that he meant to go out to his uncle's farm on the Wirral and get at least one decent night's sleep, for the moment he looked up at the clear
sky and the great disc of a moon he knew it was on the cards that the raiders would soon be overhead. Avril and Gary had said they would look after Timmy, since the little dog was terrified by the sound of falling bombs and would hear very little if he was in the cycle shop basement, which was deep and well protected. Avril put the basket on the small table Pete had provided and closed the door. Gary stood the little dog down on the uneven floor and began to spread his blanket out on the wooden bench which ran along the wall.

Avril smiled as she took in Pete's latest attempt to make the basement homelike: an ancient alarm clock had appeared on one of the shelves he had built some time before. There was also a Primus stove, a kerosene lamp, a couple of ancient but comfortable chairs, and wooden benches on the two longest walls, so that, when just two of you were sharing the basement, you could stretch out on a bench each, wrapped in your blanket with your head on your pillow, and make believe you were in bed. ‘What do you think?' she asked. ‘All the houses and shops on this side of the street have basements, but I bet no one has gone to greater lengths to make theirs comfortable than Pete has. I can never sleep in the public shelters – too much noise and too many people – but I've slept down here a couple of times. That door is solid oak; you can't hear much through it, unless a bomb drops awfully near. The only thing that really worries Pete is fire, so every now and then he just has a quick look out, but so far we've been lucky. Go on, what do you think?'

‘It's grand,' Gary said appreciatively. ‘Shall I light the Primus? I think the fish and chips will still be warm, but I don't fancy cold tea if we can have it hot.'

‘Well, all right,' Avril said rather uncertainly. ‘I don't believe anyone's ever lit it before, though. Pete always says that, what with the floor being so uneven and the stove pretty old and wonky, he's afraid it might tip over and set fire to the basement. It's really for emergencies only, so if you don't mind, Gary, I think we'll stick to cold tea.'

‘Of course I don't mind,' Gary said immediately, and presently they were seated on opposite sides of the small table eating fish and chips with their fingers whilst Timmy, fears apparently forgotten, laid his head in Avril's lap and accepted chips, small pieces of fish and larger pieces of crisp golden batter. They finished their meal in record time and went to their respective beds, though Gary, looking uneasy as the noise from outside grew in intensity, did not immediately wrap himself in his blanket. ‘I feel I ought to be out there, because it sounds like a bad one to me,' he said. ‘I know I'm off duty tonight, but if the noise is anything to go by the fellows might be glad of an extra pair of hands.'

Avril sighed. ‘You know what they say: folk wanderin' about durin' a raid, even if they're tryin' to help, simply cause the wardens more work. So just settle down and try to get some sleep. Morning comes a lot quicker if you've managed to nod off for a while at least. We'll leave the lamp on, but I'll turn the wick right down.'

For twenty minutes or so both Gary and Avril lay quiet, but Avril soon realised that sleep would not come. The noise was dreadful. The bombs seemed to be bursting all around them; several times the basement rocked, and what Pete had feared came to pass: the Primus stove fell over and rolled tinnily back and forth, whilst Timmy,
who had been lying on the foot of Avril's bed, suddenly elevated his nose to heaven and howled.

Avril sighed and sat up. ‘It's no use; no one could possibly sleep through this,' she announced. ‘I'm going to turn up the lamp, find my book and have a read. What about you? There's yesterday's
Echo
in my basket as well as a couple of children's books –
The Secret Garden
and
Humpty Dumpty and the Princess
. When there's a bad raid I find it easier to read a children's book which I know well so I don't have to think.'

‘I'll have whichever one you don't want,' Gary was saying, when someone knocked on the heavy oak door and then pushed it open. Two frightened little faces peered into the warm and well lit basement.

‘Can we . . .' the older child, a boy of perhaps ten, began, but before he could say any more Avril pulled him and the little girl who clung to his hand into the basement and slammed the heavy door shut. ‘Where have you come from, and what are you doing in the street when there's a really terrible raid going on?' she demanded. ‘It's lucky you saw our door; lucky we were here. Where are your parents? I don't want to frighten you, but . . .' A tremendous explosion cut the sentence off short and both children jumped and winced before the boy answered, his voice coming out in a squeak.

‘We was goin' home. We've been evacuated, me and Maisie, only the lady hated us and didn't feed us proper. We stuck it as long as we could, only at teatime yesterday she wouldn't give us no bread, said it were on ration now and we'd ate our share at breakfast. Maisie was so hungry she were cryin' so I telled her we'd go home – we live in Bootle – only we didn't have no money so we
had to walk. We axed the way and got lifts a couple of times. We telled folk we'd missed our train . . .'

‘Well, never mind that,' Avril said. ‘You'll be safe enough here until the raid's over and then me and my friend will take you home to your parents. I'm sure you know your address and which tram to catch.'

The boy nodded eagerly. ‘Thanks, missus,' he said. The little girl suddenly clutched him and pulled his head down to her level.

‘Ask the lady if there's food,' she pleaded, and there was a wealth of longing in her voice. ‘Any food 'ud do, Dickie. I's so hungry . . . and thirsty . . .'

Gary leaned forward, took the sandwiches out of Avril's basket and wordlessly handed them over, watching as the children devoured Spam, jam, and paste sandwiches indiscriminately and with every sign of enjoyment. ‘You can give the crusts to Timmy,' he said, then laughed as he saw that the two little visitors were eating the sandwiches in great starved bites, indifferent to crusts.

‘Fanks, mister,' the boy said, and took the offered cup of cold tea, holding it for his sister and not drinking himself until her thirst was satisfied. Then he looked up at Gary. ‘Who's Timmy?' he asked curiously. ‘Is that you, mister?'

‘No, I'm Gary, this is Avril and the little dog is Timmy . . .' Gary began at the same moment as Avril gave a cry of dismay.

‘Timmy's gone!' she said, her voice rising. ‘He must have slipped out when the door opened, and we didn't notice. Oh, Gary, he'll be killed for sure! Even if the bombs don't get him he'll die of fright.' She rushed across to the door and began to tug it open, hoping that the little
dog would have got no further than the foot of the stairs, but there was no sign of him. Avril climbed halfway up the flight and got the impression, in the only glance she was allowed, that the whole city was in flames and that the bombers were still attacking, black against the stars. Then she was peremptorily snatched back by Gary, who caught her round the waist and pulled her back to the relative safety of the basement.

‘I'll go and call Timmy. If he's out there and I can see him I'll fetch him back,' he shouted above the whistle of descending bombs and the terrible crashes as they came to earth. ‘It's all right, silly, I won't take any risks, but I know you won't be happy until you know Timmy's safe.' He was climbing the stairs as he spoke and Avril called to him not to be a fool.

‘You know what they say – if you go back into a bombed house for a cat or a dog, they'll have found a safe spot but you'll wake up dead,' she cried distractedly. ‘I know we all love Timmy, but he'll be hiding away somewhere . . . please, please, Gary don't go out there!'

Gary glanced back at her and grinned. ‘Can you hear me, Mother?' he said in a passable imitation of Sandy Powell whose catchphrase it was. ‘Get back into the cellar and look after those two kids; I shan't be a tick.'

Avril was tempted to ignore him, but when she turned and saw Dickie and Maisie she changed her mind. She closed the door on the horror outside and produced slices of cake and a bag of boiled sweets from her emergency supply. The two little faces turned so trustingly towards her were white with exhaustion and streaked with tears and dust. Of course she loved Timmy, often lured him up to the flat with scraps so that she could have a cuddle,
but these two children had had an even worse time than the little dog. According to Dickie – and she had no reason to doubt his word – both he and his sister had been half starved by their so-called foster parent and had taken desperate measures. Fate had flung them in her way and now it was her duty – hers and Gary's – to see that they got safe home to Bootle, where their real parents would make sure they were fed and loved as befitted children so young.

She stared hopefully at the heavy oak door, but realised that it might take Gary five or ten minutes to search the places to which Timmy might have fled. She turned back to the children, about to suggest that she read them a story, then changed her mind. ‘Take your coats and hats off and I'll wrap you up in a blanket and you can have a bit of a snooze,' she said tactfully. When the two children continued to stare blankly at her, she sat down, took Maisie on her knee and undressed the little girl down to her liberty bodice and patched knickers.

But when she put out a hand to help Dickie, masculine pride made him say, gruffly, ‘I can manage, fanks, missus,' as he shed coat, balaclava and much darned jumper. Then he climbed up on to the bench where his sister was already wrapped in blankets, thumb in mouth and eyes tightly closed, and cuddled down beside her. Avril opened her mouth to bid them goodnight and closed it again. Her unexpected visitors were already fast asleep.

For the next half hour Avril read her book, but after every two or three chapters she found herself glancing towards the door. She realised she was in a difficult position. She longed to go in search of Gary and Timmy, but knew that if she did so she would be acting against her
own advice, and in a thoroughly foolish manner. Besides, she could not possibly leave the two children. Gary was so sensible; she imagined he had gone further than he intended and had either found Timmy or given up the search, for the time being at any rate. Then he must have realised how far he had wandered and would either have been ordered down a shelter by a passing warden or have gone down himself, knowing that without his tin hat or his bicycle he would be of very little use to the emergency services until the raid was over and the clearing up operation was beginning.

Wondering what time it was, Avril picked up the alarm clock and examined it closely, sure that it must have stopped. But its tick was steady and when she tried the winder mechanism she realised that Pete must have set it going just before he left, which meant that the time really was around two o'clock in the morning. She knew she should get some sleep, but had to fight an almost irresistible urge to slip through the doorway and climb the stairs so that she could get some idea at least of what was going on. Surely the Luftwaffe must have dropped all their bombs and incendiaries by now? But going to investigate meant leaving the safety of the cellar, and suppose one of the children woke and followed her, or slipped out as Timmy had done? No, the sensible thing to do, and well she knew it, was to stay where she was until the all clear sounded. Then and only then could she and the two children emerge to make their way across the city to Bootle.

Avril gave a deep sigh, picked up her book and began to read, but after several more chapters she glanced at the lamp. Damnation! The wretched flame was beginning
to waver, which had her chewing her fingernails. If she turned it down to save what oil there was in the hope of retaining some sort of light in the cellar, then it might go out altogether and prove difficult to relight. If she left it turned up full, however, it might still go out, and possibly at an even worse moment. She had just decided that she would turn the lamp as low as it could go without actually going out when two things happened. She remembered she always kept a small torch in her handbag, which nestled in the bottom of her emergency basket, and just as she got to her feet to fetch the torch there was an even bigger explosion than the ones she had been hearing all night, and the lamp was blown out.