Far From Home (15 page)

‘I’m sure the hospital will make sure he’s safe,’ said Peggy above the gathering cacophony of the bombers overhead. ‘Now you eat your tea, love. You must be half-starved by now.’

She watched Polly tuck into the fish pie with relish. The girl looked exhausted, but at least she was safely home, and once Hitler had stopped dropping bombs on them, they could all go to their beds and have a good night’s sleep.

Cissy heard the siren and the deep-bellied rumble of the fast approaching enemy planes. The music came to an abrupt halt as everyone scrambled for the shelter beneath the theatre, and the curtain swept across the stage. She raced with the other dancers to the wings to grab her gas mask, bag and coat before hurtling down the stone steps to the basement.

It was cold and damp and very unpleasant in that basement shelter, and, with so many people crammed into every space, she felt quite claustrophobic. Cissy huddled into a corner, wrapping the coat around her to ward off the chill, as the other girls lit cigarettes and began to gossip.

Cissy did her best to join in the chatter but she was all too aware of Jack Witherspoon, who was sitting a few feet away, and could feel his steady, disapproving gaze on her. She gave up on the gossip and closed her eyes as she huddled further into the shadows, her shame warming her face. She felt cheap and dirty, appalled that she’d allowed Jack to bully her into doing something so sleazy for the sake of her career.

She grimaced at the thought. Her career – that was a laugh. Those two hours in the back room of the theatre had opened her eyes and made her see how things really were. She was a hoofer, just one of the back row of the chorus without any real talent. How stupid she’d been ever to believe Jack Witherspoon, how naïve, to think that a few smutty photographs would get her noticed and into the spotlight. She’d be noticed all right, she conceded bitterly, but not by famous Hollywood producers or theatre managers – but by dirty old men.

Her skin crawled at the memory of that horrid photographer. He’d been old with claw-like hands and thick, wet lips, and his reptilian eyes had run over her, making her shiver with disgust. She should have known then, should have walked away and refused to do it. But she’d stayed, and the shoot had begun with her posing in front of a backdrop of a tropical beach.

She’d relaxed and smiled and began to have fun until he’d ordered her to push her clothing off her shoulders, to lean forward and press her breasts together to enhance the cleavage. He’d licked his lips continuously as he’d clicked the camera shutter, and she’d flinched as he’d barked out his orders to show more, to pout, to get more of her breasts on show – to take the top off altogether and give the punters a real treat. That was the moment she’d fled the room in tears.

Cissy glanced through her lashes at Jack, who was now in deep conversation with a young dancer who’d just joined the troupe. He’d given Cissy no sympathy and offered no comfort. In fact, he’d called her a stupid little girl who wasn’t worthy of his time and trouble, and had told her to go back to the chorus where she belonged and not bother him again.

A tear seeped through her lashes and she hurriedly dashed it away, glad for once that the lighting down here was so poor. She’d wanted to go home after that photo session – desperate to feel her mother’s arms around her and to know that she was safe and loved and forgiven. But she knew she couldn’t, and that had made everything worse.

As the enemy planes rumbled overhead and the first crump of an exploding bomb made the building shudder, she looked back over her short life and wondered how she could ever have been so stupid as to think she was anything special. She could dance well enough, and her singing voice wasn’t too bad, but she was no more talented than a thousand other pretty young girls.

She’d been starry-eyed for as long as she could remember, determined she was destined for stardom on the stage, perhaps even in film. She’d begged and pleaded to be allowed to join ENSA, and had seen her parents’ capitulation over this small troupe as a major breakthrough – the first step on the ladder to fame and fortune. How could she now go home and admit it had all been a terrible mistake? How to tell them that life in the theatre was a sham, and that the men who wielded such power were predatory, feeding off young girls’ dreams in order to make them debase themselves?

Another enormous blast shook the very foundations of the building, making people cry out and the lights flicker. Cissy curled up in the corner with her misery, dreading the moment the raid was over, for it meant going home – meant acting out a lie until she could find some way to escape her predicament. But there was no getting round it: her parents had signed a year’s contract only the month before.

POLLY WAS TERRIFIED
. It had been bad enough in the bowels of the London Underground, but cowering here beneath this thin bit of corrugated iron which was half-buried in sods of earth was beyond hair-raising. How could such a thing be remotely safe when she could so clearly hear the deep-throated roar of the bombers overhead, and the light buzz of the swifter fighter planes that accompanied them?

She huddled into her coat as the regular booms of the Bofors on the seafront and along the cliffs gave a bass note to the demonic orchestra, the ack-ack guns interspersing the thunder with their sharp volleys. Perhaps she would have been better off obeying the ARP warden and going to the public shelter? She would have been deeper beneath the ground there, further from the noise and the certain death that was about to rain down from those enemy planes.

She cried out as an explosion made the earth tremble and rattled the shelter. Curling into the corner, she whimpered, convinced she was about to die. Two more explosions followed, each one rocking the ground and making her curl ever more tightly, the gas mask clutched in her fists. They seemed close – too close. And now she could smell burning.

Controlling her fear enough to peek through the gap at the top of the ill-fitting door, she stared, awestruck, at the horrifying sight above her. Searchlights raked the skies, revealing layer upon layer of enemy aircraft heading determinedly inland as the anti-aircraft missiles traced fire through the skies. Then she saw what appeared to be parachutes drifting down from some of the bombers, but they were too tiny to carry a man, so what could they possibly be?

As she watched them float ever nearer, to be lost among the surrounding roofs, she heard the explosions and saw the sudden orange glow in the night sky. There were hundreds of them, and they were carrying incendiaries.

She almost jumped out of her skin as Peggy moved suddenly from the shadows of the shelter and grasped her hand. ‘It’s all right, love,’ Peggy murmured. ‘I know this doesn’t feel terribly safe, but it’s better than risking having the house fall on us.’

‘If we take a direct hit, none of us will survive,’ said Polly, who knew her face was ashen and her eyes wide with horror.

‘If we take a direct hit, then none of us will know anything about it,’ shouted Peggy over the thunderous roar above them.

Polly was all too aware of the fact, and although Peggy was trying to comfort her, the thought of dying without ever seeing Adam or Alice again didn’t ease her terror – it enhanced it.

Peggy’s arm was strong round her waist. ‘Take deep breaths, Polly,’ she shouted. ‘Have faith that we’ll get through this – that we’re not the prime target.’

Polly nodded and made a concerted effort to control her breathing and her fear, but every part of her was on alert, her muscles rigid as she heard the continuous blasts of exploding bombs and incendiaries.

Peggy nudged her and cocked her head towards Danuta, who was wrapped in a blanket and curled up on the bench, fast asleep.

Polly stared at the other girl in amazement. How could she sleep through this? It was enough to wake the dead. But, she reasoned, Danuta must have experienced raids like this in Poland, perhaps survived things she couldn’t begin to imagine. Then she glanced at Mrs Finch, who was calmly carrying on with her knitting, and felt ashamed of her cowardice. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, concentrating on relaxing the taut muscles and her racing pulse, forcing calm where there was chaos. She was not alone, she could get through this.

‘Good girl,’ murmured Peggy in her ear. ‘That’s right. I know you think you’ll never get used to it, but you will. You’ll be surprised.’

Polly gave a tremulous smile as Peggy grasped her hand. She was feeling a little calmer, but she couldn’t help but flinch as another heavy explosion rocked the shelter and thrummed through the iron walls. How could she ever become inured to this? It was too loud, too real – and far too close. And what about the hospital? Was Adam all right? Had they decided to risk moving him because the raid was so fierce?

She closed her eyes, thinking of him, so vulnerable in his hospital bed and yet so unaware of the horrors that were going on around him. Then she was haunted by thoughts of Alice and the rest of her family. Were they being hounded by enemy planes, hunted by U-boats, cowering on deck in their life jackets waiting for the dreaded moment when they must abandon ship?

A chill ran to her core. She couldn’t afford to think like that or let her fear get the better of her. If the Germans were concentrating on London and the south-east then the convoy would make it through, just as all the others had done. It was vital she keep strong-minded and positive.

Peggy understood Polly’s fear, for she’d experienced it herself during those earlier raids when she’d been convinced that none of them would survive. That was not to say she was without fear now – she’d just learnt to control it, to live with it and steel herself for the next attack.

She could feel Polly begin to relax, so she left her side and lit the primus stove to boil the water in the tin kettle she always kept in the shelter. The numbers of enemy aircraft seemed to be lessening now, the explosions fewer, and there was the distinct buzz of Spitfires harassing the enemy. She thought of Martin and all the other brave boys who were defending this beleaguered island, and prayed that they would all return to base safely.

As she smoked a cigarette and waited for the water to boil, she kept an eye on Polly. It was clear the girl had troubles, and she suspected she was thinking about her injured husband and the rest of her little family. The poor young thing must be finding it so hard, and Peggy realised she had a lot to be thankful for. At least her children were safe in the country, not risking everything in the Atlantic where merchant ships had already been attacked and sunk.

Her thoughts turned to Jim and Ron, who would be out in this hell trying to fight the fires and rescue people from bombed-out buildings. And then there was Cissy and Anne, and the three girls who’d gone to the dance with their young Australians, and …

She shook her head as if to clear it from those defeatist thoughts, and quickly made a pot of tea. They would be all right, she thought determinedly. They’d come home and life would continue. She had to believe that – otherwise what was it all for?

The last of the bombers and fighter planes had gone, but the all-clear didn’t sound, and half an hour later she realised why. They were coming back, dropping the last of their bombs and incendiaries over the seaports, towns and villages of the south coast before they were chased back across the Channel by the air force boys.

It was just before dawn when the all-clear rang out, and Peggy caught Polly’s eye, realising they both feared what they might find when they left this shelter.

Peggy shrugged and tried to make light of her worries. ‘We’ve come through unscathed before,’ she said in the deafening silence that always fell once the sirens stopped. ‘I expect everything will be all right. If it’s not, then we’ll just have to make the best of things.’

Danuta woke up and yawned. ‘It is over, yes?’ She swung her legs down from the bench and quickly folded the blanket round the pillow before checking her watch. ‘I must prepare for work. If I am late this morning Matron will be very angry, I think.’

‘I don’t know how you do it,’ sighed Peggy in admiration. ‘You’ve managed to sleep right through the whole thing. At least Mrs Finch has the excuse of being stone deaf.’ She glanced across at the old lady who was snoring softly in her deckchair.

‘I was very tired,’ said Danuta, with a dismissive shrug.

‘So was I,’ muttered Polly, ‘but I couldn’t sleep a wink.’

‘But this is the first time you have experience of such things, I think,’ Danuta said evenly. ‘It is different for me. I have seen many such raids and know that if I am to die then I will die whether I am asleep or not.’

‘Right,’ said Peggy, gathering her coat round her, determined to get on with things. ‘Let’s see if the house is still standing before we wake Mrs Finch.’

The stench of burning accompanied the palls of smoke that drifted in the pearly stillness of the hour before dawn. The sky was a hazy orange from all the fires, and the shrill clamour of distant ambulance and fire-engine bells rent the silence made so profound by the enemy’s departure.

The dread was a leaden weight as Peggy led the two girls up the shallow steps into the garden. She stood by the vegetable patch, her heart hammering as she dared to look up at the house. By some miracle Beach View was still standing and, apart from a few missing tiles on the roof and a buckled length of guttering, it appeared to be unscathed. ‘Thank God,’ she breathed. ‘Now let’s hope the rest of the street is all right.’