The Girls They Left Behind (16 page)

his mum and dad years ago when I was a nipper. Call it in

memory of old times, if you like!’ She laughed and hooked his

arm into hers. ‘Come on, stop looking so worried, we’ll go

down the back way. And you can be out first thing in the

morning, before anyone else is about. Your Betty’ll never

know, and what she don’t know can’t hurt her, can it?’

Almost without realising it, Graham had turned and was

walking back along September Street, arm in arm in the

darkness with Nancy Baxter. His head reeled and his heart

thumped. He thought briefly of Betty, then pushed her from his mind.

This was nothing to do with Betty, nor Tommy Vickers,

nor his mum and dad. This was between him and Nancy

Baxter. In fact, he wasn’t even sure it had much to do with

Nancy. It was all to do with himself, with the body he had

grown into. It was to do with his manhood, with the desperate

need he had to know what it felt like to be a man, to know what

it was all about.

He had a right to it, didn’t he? He had a right.

Betty heard their footsteps go by as she lay in bed, her pillow

wet with tears. She was alone in the bedroom - after her

marriage, Olive had moved into Colin’s room in the little

turret. It didn’t seem right, sleeping with her sister now she

was a married woman, she’d said, and Betty had been glad

enough to have the room to herself, though she missed their

whispered conversations and felt less close to her sister now.

She was glad now to have no witness to her tears, although

she would have liked the comfort Olive might have given her.

And it would have proved to her that Betty did love Graham,

just as much as she loved her Derek. Sometimes Olive

behaved as if they were the only two who had ever been in

love, or missed each other.

At least they’re married, Betty thought. They can do what

they like. Not like me and Graham. She thought again of his

lips on hers, of his searching hands. She’d wanted to give him

what he wanted, she’d wanted it herself, but she just couldn’t.

And she’d hated sending him off like that, miserable.

Maybe next time he comes home, she thought. I’ll ask

Olive about it, how to make sure nothing goes wrong.

Graham’s right, it’s not fair, not when he has to go off to sea

not knowing whether he’ll ever come back.

She knew that he was afraid he would lose her to some

other boy. She knew that he wanted to know she belonged to

him, that he was the first man ever to make love to her. And

want to be his first girl, she thought.

And I will - next time he comes home. I’ll write and tell

him. It’ll be a promise.

The footsteps had faded now. She turned over and fe

asleep.

It was midday on the Monday after Graham’s departure, and Betty Chapman had just handed Mrs Marsh her notice, when the sirens sounded their long-drawn, eerie lament.

‘Oh no,’ Mrs Marsh said with a cluck of exasperation. ‘There it goes again. I suppose we’ll have to shut the shop and go down the shelter. You never know but what it might be real’

Outside, the sun was at its height, glittering on the balloons. The raiders were not yet in sight, but as she went to lock the shop door the low mutter of their approach could be heart! over the dying wail of the siren. Suddenly fearful, the two went quickly to the back door and as they came out into the yard the mutter developed into a snarl, and then a low, ominous roar.

Mrs Marsh gave a gasp of fright and ran for the shelter. She had hung her washing on the line earlier and she snatched at it as she ran, pulling it with her. One of the white sheets trailed on the ground and almost tripped her up. She cried out with fear and annoyance, and gathered it up in a bundle, dragging it through the little doorway.

Next door, Alice and Joy Brunner were sorting through a bundle of women’s magazines. The siren caught and froze them. Alice’s pale face grew even whiter and she began to shake.

Joy dropped the magazines and grabbed her mother’s arm.

‘Come on, Mum. Down the shelter, quick.’

‘It’s a false alarm,’ Alice said, shuddering. ‘It’s bound to be. They aren’t really coming.’

‘They might be.’ There had been false alarms day after day, but you could never be sure it wasn’t real until the other siren sounded, the one that meant it was safe again. ‘We ought to go down the shelter just in case.’ Joy let go of her mother’s arm and locked the shop door. They’d left it unlocked once and come back to find half the sweets gone from the boxes behind the counter. She had a good idea who it was had taken them too. ‘Come on, quick. Where’s your gas mask?’

‘It’s no use, Joy. Even if it is them, it’s no use. If we’re meant to be killed, we’ll be killed, just like your poor father.’

‘Mum!’ The snarl of planes approaching could be heard quite clearly now. Joy pulled again at her mother’s arm, dragging her through the shop and out of the back of the house. She glanced up and caught her first sight of an enemy formation, like a cloud of black flies coming directly out of the sun. For a few seconds she stood frozen. Only her head and eyes moved, following the path of the aircraft as they came slowly onwards, flying in a straight, remorseless line over the city.

‘Oh-h-h,’ Alice moaned, covering her face with her hands.

‘Oh, Joy … Heinrich … Heinrich, where are you…?’ She broke away from Joy’s hand and scuttled like a crab towards the Anderson shelter.

Joy saw the bombs, falling like a bundle of firewood from the belly of the first plane, scattering in the air, falling on Portsmouth…

‘Joy!’

Alice was screaming at her, her head poking out of the Anderson. With a startled jump, Joy came to her senses and hurled herself down the garden.

‘They’re right on top of us!’ She flung herself in behind her mother. ‘They’re diving on us!’ The first explosion shook the ground and was followed by another, another and another.

She crouched on the floor and Alice clutched her, gabbling with fear.

‘They’re not giving us a chance. There’s people still out in the streets.’ The harsh rattle of guns drowned her voice. ‘Oh, Joy, what’s that?’

‘It’s anti-aircraft fire,’ Joy said. Her voice was trembling and she made a huge effort to control it. ‘We’re shooting at them. They won’t get away as easy as that.’

‘What difference does it make whether it’s a bomb or an aeroplane that drops on you? You’re just as dead.’ Alice crouched on the floor, her hands over her ears. ‘Oh, it’s so loud. They must be right overhead. They’ll kill us all.’

The planes were roaring overhead. It sounded as if they were simply circling over the city, quite undisturbed by the anti-aircraft guns. Every minute was punctuated by a fresh explosion. Alice and Joy huddled together on the damp earth floor, their arms covering their heads, their bodies jarred by the vibrations that tore through them through both earth and air.

‘There’ll be nothing left,’ Alice whimpered. ‘Nothing left

It seemed as if half a lifetime had passed, yet it was barely twelve-thirty when the Raiders Passed signal sounded.

Cautiously, only half believing it, Joy and Alice looked at each other.

The sky was silent again. There was no snarl of approaching Heinkels, no ‘crump’ of a falling bomb. The last explosion had been several minutes ago.

‘D’you think it’s really safe?’ Alice whispered.

‘They’ve got ways of telling,’ Joy said uneasily. ‘People looking with telescopes, and that sort of thing. And it’s broad daylight. They must be able to see they’ve gone.’

They scrambled to their feet, stretched their cramped and stiffened limbs and crawled slowly out of the shelter, blinking in the bright sunlight and almost afraid to look about them. It seemed uncannily quiet after the pandemonium of the previous half-hour, but as the thunder died from their ears they became aware of voices from nearby gardens, and then of a shadow passing beneath the sun as black smoke billowed into the sky, with flames of cruel orange and red showing like glimpses of silk lining in a torn black cloak. The Devil’s cloak, Joy thought, flung over the city of Portsmouth to stifle it to death …

She saw Mrs Marsh and Betty Chapman looking over the fence. Alice was crying again, staring at the black and orange smoke and shaking her head like a doll that had been wound up and couldn’t stop.

‘It isn’t that Mum wants to give in,’ she said defensively. ‘But she misses Dad so much. And not even knowing what’s happened to him.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘We don’t even know why they had to take him away. He never did anything wrong.’ Her arms were round her mother’s thin body, comforting her as if she were the mother and Alice her child.

Mrs Marsh nodded. ‘I know, love. It’s all too much for her. You take her in and make her a cup of tea, and I’ll come round and see if there’s anything I can do. It’s hard on us all, but we’ve just got to help each other as best we can.’ She looked down at the washing still clutched in her arms. ‘I don’t know why I took this down with me, I’m sure.’

She went back into the dairy and Betty Chapman followed her. The excitement of being called up into the Land Army had faded. There wasn’t much glamour after all in a war that took innocent men away from their homes as if they were criminals, and left women like Alice Brunner frightened and alone.

Ted Chapman was bringing the Ferry King alongside the Portsmouth pontoon when the sirens sounded.

He felt the now familiar chill of fear run down his spine. It didn’t matter how many false alarms there were, you never lost that little cold shudder or the sickness in your stomach. He looked at Ben, who had just jumped ashore to wind the mooring rope to the stanchion. The other member of the crew, old Sam Hardy, was unfastening the chain to let the passengers off.

‘Get up to the shelters, quick!’

Sam shook his head. ‘I’ll stay aboard.’

Ted drew a ragged breath of exasperation. They had this argument every bloody time. Whichever side of the harbour they were on, the men were supposed to make for the shelters at the top of the Hard. And they never would. The two of them, Sam and young Ben, always insisted on staying with the King.

‘When you go up to the shelter, so will I,’ Sam said flatly, and Ben nodded. But Ted could not bring himself to leave his boat. The King had been his life, his pride and joy, for years.

He’d crossed the harbour thousands of times, in all weathers, tossing in winter gales, creeping almost blindfold in thick fog.

And he’d taken her across to Dunkirk, where she’d worked under heavy shelling and gunfire.

The King had stood by him then, and he had a superstitious dread of leaving her.

‘For crying out loud!’ he shouted, his voice cracking with fear. ‘The Jerries are coming - can’t you see them?’ They were coming in over the Isle of Wight, black as a flock of starlings. ‘Get into shelter, for God’s sake!’

The passengers were running hell for leather up the sloping pontoon. Above them on the railway station, they could see people leaping off the trains, scuttling along the platforms in a frantic search for safety. Ted looked at the sky.

The flock of black planes held a horrible fascination.

Terror ran through his body like a flame at white heat. He screamed again at his crew.

‘ The shelters! For God’s sake -the shelters!’

‘You come too.’ Sam ran up the few steps to the bridge and grabbed his arm. ‘Ted, don’t be daft - you get bombed here an’ you won’t know whether to burn or drown. Look at ‘em!

They’re making straight for the Yard. They’ll blow the whole bloody lot to smithereens, and us with ‘em. What good’ll that do anyone?’ He dragged Ted down to the deck and thrust him on to the pontoon. ‘Look, any more trouble from you and I’ll knock you out and carry you to the shelter!’

Ted felt his legs begin to run. He was still gibbering a protest, but Sam and Ben were on either side of him, yanking him up the wooden slope. By the time they reached the top and began to run along the bridge, the air was filled with the drone of the aeroplanes. Panic tore at his body. It was Dunkirk all over again, and this time they wouldn’t survive.

The first bombs fell as they pushed their way through the shelter door.

Tommy Vickers was working in Old Portsmouth, near

Whitewoods, the furniture depository. His job as general handyman with the Council took him all over the city. That was how he liked it. He enjoyed knowing Pompey like the back of his hand, hearing all the gossip, being a familiar figure around the place. Mending pipes, painting street signs, sweeping gutters, he didn’t care what he did, so long as he was out and always had time for a cheery word or a joke.

When the siren sounded, he made for the nearest shelter and settled himself on one of the benches. Some kids had been in and pinched the paraffin lamps, but someone had a torch and flashed it around in the darkness. Most of the people were resigned to another false alarm, but the sound of the aeroplanes changed the atmosphere to one of dismay.

‘Oh God, not again. It was bad enough last time.’

‘What’ll they hit this time? Our Fred’s house had all its windows blowed out. He’s only just got ‘em patched up.’

A woman beside Tommy began to cry. He patted her arm.

‘It’s all right, love, we’re safe enough in here. Look, let’s have a bit of a singsong. It’ll cheer us up.’

‘What’s there to feel cheerful about?’ someone asked out of the darkness, and Tommy shrugged

‘Well, it’ll help pass the time. And if we sing loud enough we won’t hear the planes. Come on, I’ll start and you all join in.’

He cast about in his mind for a song. Little Brown Jug had been popular lately. Glenn Miller had been playing it on the wireless.

‘My wife and I lived all alone,

In a little log hut we called our own, She loved whisky, I loved rum,

I tell you what, we’d lots of fun.’