The Girls They Left Behind (4 page)

The allotment was thriving this year. After the bitter winter and cold spring, he’d been afraid everything would be late, but instead they’d had this glorious summer and the vegetables and fruit had flourished. He’d never seen the beans so high at this time of year before, and the gooseberries and currants were fat and glowing. The row or two of strawberries had done well too, and they’d had them for tea once or twice as well as providing a good bowlful for Olive’s wedding last Saturday. Strawberries were, in Frank’s opinion, a luxury and he only grew them because Jess liked them so much. They did make a good jam, with a few

gooseberries to help them set.

The road vas full of men leaving the Dockyard, some on foot like Frank, others cycling. There were buses too, taking them all over the city and down to the Hard, where the ferryboats waited to take those who lived in Gosport on the five-minute trip across the harbour. It was a vast exodus, and other folk kept clear when the Dockyard was coming out.

It was at that moment that the siren sounded.

The wail filled the air. Frank stopped as its shriek hit him, and felt the jolt of shock, followed by a tingling shudder that ran over his whole body. He glanced quickly up and down the street. In that moment, everyone must have done exactly the same — stopped as if frozen. -Then there was sudden movement everywhere as people began to run and shout. An old lady who had been creeping slowly along with her hand on the low garden walls to steady herself, stood with confused, frightened eyes, her lips trembling as she clutched her shopping bag close against her.

For a few seconds, Frank stood as uncertain as the rest. Then he remembered that there was a public shelter two

streets away. He set off towards it, then turned back and approached the old woman.

‘They’re coming,’ she whispered. ‘They’re coming to get us.’

‘They’re not going to, though, are they?’ He spoke cheerfully, although already he could hear the snarl of the bombers approaching. Had the warning come too late?

It had certainly come too late for a lot of people to find

proper shelter. Especially people like this poor old dear, who was now sobbing helplessly and wetting herself into the

bargain. He saw the puddle forming round her feet and tugged her arm gently.

‘Come on, missus, let’s get you home. You don’t want to be out on the street in this.’ The planes were very close now and he felt the first shock of explosion as bombs fell in the harbour and the Dockyard. The old woman whimpered and clutched him and he forgot to be gentle and dragged her along the

street, ignoring the shopping bag that she had dropped.

‘Me rations! Me rations!’ she wept as she stumbled along,

but Frank was concerned only with getting her indoors. I hope to God she didn’t lock the front door, he thought as they reached it, and breathed a sigh of relief as it swung open at his touch. He pushed her inside.

‘Have you got a shelter?’

‘No. We’re a sixer, see, we couldn’t have no Anderson, I dunno why. Something to do with the waterpipes in the gardens, they come through every sixth house. My daughter’s hubby says we’ll have to make do under the stairs, they say that’s the safest place, don’t they…’ Her voice faltered as Frank pushed her along the narrow passage. The space beneath the stairs had been boxed in as a big cupboard, with an old mattress shoved inside to sit on. He bent and thrust the old lady inside, then scrambled in beside her as another explosion shook the house.

‘Here, that was close.’ She seemed to be recovering a little now that she was home. Together, they crouched on the floor in the dimness, listening to the roar of planes overhead and the thunder of the exploding bombs.

‘It’s bad, innit,’ the old woman whispered. ‘They’re going to bomb us out of our own homes. They’re going to keep on bombing till there’s none of us left and then they’re going to

take our homes away and live in ‘em and do what they like.’ She began to cry again. ‘It’s not fair. It’s not fair. Not after what we went through before. I lost my husband in the last lot, killed in action he was, to make England a land fit for heroes to live in, and what good did it do? Tell me that, eh?’

`Ssh.’ Frank found her hand and patted it. ‘Don’t think about it now. It’s happening and we’ve just got to live through it and not let it get us down.’ But he spoke absently, for his thoughts were with Jess and the children. For God’s sake, he thought, don’t let those boys be out roaming the streets in this lot. And he made up his mind that they would be sent back to the safety of the countryside as soon as possible.

The explosions rocked around them. What’s happening out there? he wondered. I ought to get out there and help.

He began to crawl out of the cupboard. ‘I’ve got to go now, love. You stay here till they sound the Raiders Passed signal and your daughter gets back, then you have a nice cup of tea.

You’ll be all right here.’ He hoped it was true.

She clutched him with feeble fingers, entreating him to stay, but he gently disentangled her hands. ‘You stay here. You’re safe here,’ he repeated, and stood up, ducking again immediately as an explosion thundered almost overhead and he heard the sound of breaking glass and falling masonry. For a moment, he hesitated. He could have his head blown off the minute he stepped through the front door.

But someone was going to get killed anyway, in this lot. Probably hundreds, maybe thousands of people. And others would be hurt, and buried under collapsed buildings, needing help.

The next explosion was closer still. It sounded as if it were almost next door. The window of the room he was in shattered, glass flying everywhere, and if he hadn’t ducked he would have been peppered with it, slashed to pieces perhaps. But this time the thought of scrambling back into the safety of the home-made shelter didn’t enter his head. Without another word to the old woman, who was now whimpering with terror, he wrenched open the door and ran along the passage to the street.

Whatever was happening out there, he had to be part of it. He couldn’t stay here while his own family and home were in

danger, somewhere across the city, and he couldn’t take shelter when he had a duty to do.

The front door was still ajar. He pulled it open and stood for a moment looking up and down the street. God knows what I expected, he thought. Complete devastation? Houses knocked down, on fire, bits of bodies lying about all over the place? In fact, his mind had shown him no pictures of what a bombed city might be like. Until now, although he had known the facts, he had been unable to imagine the consequences.

But to his surprise, there was little sign of destruction. At first glance, everything seemed normal. And then he noticed that almost every window in the street was shattered. A few chimneys had fallen or stood askew, ready to topple. And a boy of about twelve — not all that much bigger than his Tim — came by, crying and holding his head. There was blood dripping down through his fingers.

Frank ran out and grabbed his arm. The planes seemed to have passed over now, but more might come at any moment and he could still hear explosions. Smoke rose in black clouds above the rooftops. The danger was by no means over.

‘What are you doing out here? You ought to be in a shelter.’ His voice was rough with fear and concern, but sounded merely cross and the boy flinched and tried to pull away.

‘I wasn’t doing nothing wrong, mister. I tried to get ‘ome, but the bombs come. I couldn’t find nowhere to shelter. And then summat hit me, it hit me head, look. I’m bleedin’

He began to sob again and Frank felt a flash of rage. He knew now what Jess had meant when she’d railed against the

war, saying it wasn’t fair that ordinary people who just wanted to live their lives should have to get caught up in such things. Old women like the one he’d left behind in the house, alone and crying with terror, nippers like this one with a wound that could have killed him. And this was just the start.

‘Come on,’ he said more gently. ‘Let’s get you to a First Aid post.’ He prised the boy’s fingers away from his scalp and examined the cut. It was more of a graze, but it had taken off a fair lump of skin and blood was oozing through the matted brown hair. It needed proper attention, from someone who knew what they were doing.

He thought of going back to the Royal Hospital but they’d

be too busy with real casualties. There must have been any amount of people killed and hurt in the raid. He could hear the streets coming back to life now as people ventured out, and there were shouts and yells as folk discovered what had happened. There’d be plenty needing help. He felt a stab of fear as he wondered again how Jess and the kids had fared.

But he couldn’t just leave the boy. Best get him to a First Aid post, where he could be properly looked after.

Drayton Road Infants’ School. It had been taken over by the ARP, they’d have people there who could help. It wasn’t too far away. He hoped to God they could get there. There didn’t seem to be any bombs falling at the moment, but the sky was filled with black smoke now, split with streaks of orange flame, and he could smell the acrid tang of burning. It looked as if there was a bad fire somewhere, and from the

direction he thought it could be the gasholder at Rudmore. If that was on fire, there could be another explosion at any minute, worse than a bomb.

He gripped the boy’s arm and began to run. The lad made no more effort to escape and ran along with Frank, still half sobbing. He kept his other hand pressed to his head, the blood still oozing between his fingers. Frank hoped he wouldn’t pass out before they got to the First Aid post.

An ARP warden cycled down the road, his wheels wobbling as he avoided glass and broken tiles.

‘Get back under shelter!’ he shouted. ‘There’s not bin no Raiders Passed signal yet. There could be another lot coming over any minute. Get inside, all of you.’

Frank took no notice. He had only one thought in his mind, to get this boy to a place where his head could be attended to, and then to get home. His own family might be buried and calling for help, needing him.

He stopped the warden.

‘I’m a firewatcher — got to get on duty. But I want this youngster seen to first. Can I get through to Drayton Road?’

The man stared at him. His face was already grimy with dust and smoke. He looked as scared as the rest, and why not? He’d never been bombed either, it was the first time for him same as everyone else.

‘Drayton Road?’ he said, as if the name were new to him. ‘I dunno, mate. There’s bin bombs up there, I know that.’ He glanced up at the sky, so blue only half an hour ago, now filled with the menacing cloud of fiery black smoke which darkened the streets. `Summat’s burning down near the Yard.’

‘I thought it might be Rudmore,’ Frank said, and the warden nodded.

‘Yeah, it might. And if that goes up we’ll cop another packet. This your boy? His head don’t look too good.’

Frank shook his head. ‘I just want to get him somewhere he can be seen to. Then I’m off up Copnor.’

He set off again. The warden was already turning away to shout at some children who were throwing stones at one of

the few unbroken windows left. At the corner of the street a man passed him, his face grey with shock, eyes staring. He

looked at Frank and put out a hand.

‘The Anchor — you should see what they done to the Anchor.’

‘The Anchor?’ Frank said. ‘The pub, you mean?’

‘You should see what they done,’ the man repeated. He seemed to be on the verge of tears. ‘The bastards. The bastards.’ He shook his head blindly and stumbled on, purposelessly, as if he had nowhere to go, nothing in mind but the agony of what he had seen.

‘Come on,’ Frank said, taking the boy’s arm again. ‘I can’t help it if there are more planes coming, I’ve got to get back up Copnor.’

They were in Kingston Road now, one of the busiest thoroughfares in the city, leading from the London Road across Portsbridge, and eventually to the beach at Southsea. It was all one long road really, with several different names as it passed through different districts — easy to see from the air, Frank thought, looking up again to see if there were planes. But the sky was still black with smoke. At least that might stop the enemy spotting their targets, he thought grimly.

And it seemed that the danger was, for the moment, over. As he hurried across the main road, aware that a little further along people were shouting and crowding towards Kingston

Cross, as if something had happened there, the siren began to wail again. But this time, instead of the fearsome, swelling lament that warned of enemy approach, it was like a long-drawn sigh of relief— the signal that the raid was over.

Kingston Cross. That was where the Blue Anchor Hotel stood. Frank had never been inside, for he was a teetotaller and avoided public houses, but he knew them all by name and used them as landmarks. The family often teased him about his knowledge of local public houses, revealed whenever he gave directions. ‘That’s just opposite the Coach and Horses.’ Or, ‘Turn left by the Star and Garter and then keep straight on till you get to the Black Lion.’ How did anyone who never touched a drop know so much about pubs, his brother-in-law Ted would ask. But Frank would point out that it was just a matter of knowing the city you’d been born in, knowing it like the back of your hand.

He could see Kingston Cross now, from where he stood at the corner of Powerscourt Road, and it was obvious that something up there had been badly damaged. Already fire engines were appearing, dashing along the roads with bells ringing, but they’d heading for the fire over at Rudmore. He hesitated, wanting to go straight up to the Anchor, but the boy beside him was sobbing again, clearly frightened and in some pain. He’d have to get him seen to first. And he was desperately anxious about Jess and the children.

He turned and made for Drayton Road. Only a few yards now, and he could hand over his burden and go and give whatever help he could.

And then, on the corner of Livymering Road, he stopped dead.

The main part of the school, where the older children went, was still standing, its wide brick facade and narrow tower untouched. But the infant school had received a direct hit. The buildings where five-year-old children had learned to read and write and add two and two together, were little more than a heap of rubble, smashed beyond recognition, and a dense cloud of dust hung over the ruins, swirling in its own breeze, and settling like a miasma of despair over the wreckage.