The Girls They Left Behind (7 page)

the others. But at the first sight of broken windows and debris littering the streets, he forgot his weariness.

‘Coo-er! Look at that . .

They gazed at the windows, already being boarded up.

There were people up on roofs too, putting back slates. A woman with a scarf wound over her head like a turban swept

broken glass out of her front door.

‘Come on,’ Micky urged as they slowed down, ‘there’s better’n this to see. I want to see some real smashed houses.’

But when they reached Portchester Road, even Micky stopped in awe. They stared at the ruined street, at the piles of debris that still blocked the road, at the shattered roofs and ‘torn walls. Some of the houses had been completely destroyed. Others had whole rooms exposed, with pictures still hanging on the walls and teacups still on the tables.

‘There’s someone’s lay, stuck out in the middle of

nowhere.’ Micky pointed to a bathroom that had been partially demolished. He sniggered. ‘Wonder if they were sittin’ on it . .

‘I could do with a pee,’ Cyril said, and ran over to the lavatory bowl which hung at a drunken angle at the top of a

splintered staircase. The other boys giggled and someone shouted at them. Cyril came back grinning and they went on down the street, kicking at loose bricks and clambering over piles of rubble.

‘There’s all sorts of stuff just bin left,’ Micky said. ‘Look. Tins of peas, beans, all bent and twisted. And kids’ toys. I bet some of it’s still all right.’ He bent and scrabbled through a pile of objects that had been heaped in the gutter. ‘There’s a Dinky car here, nothing wrong with it at all.’

The other boys began to do the same, turning over broken dolls and mangled train sets. Most of it was beyond repair, but there were a few bits and pieces that could be slipped into pockets. They moved slowly along the pavement, pushing the muddled heaps with their toes, keeping out of the way of the people who were clearing up.

‘You can get right into these houses,’ Jimmy Cross said. ‘I wonder what it’s like.’

The nearest house was partly destroyed, with the upper walls torn away to expose its upstairs rooms, while downstairs remained closed and mysterious. Through the broken window, they could see tumbled furniture and doors hanging at crazy angles.

‘I wonder if anyone got killed in there,’ Tim said in a hushed voice.

Micky’s eyes lit up. ‘Let’s go and see.’

Keith hung back a little. ‘Will there be blood? I don’t like blood much, it makes me feel funny.’

‘Stop out here then.’ The bigger boys were already pushing open the front door. It swung back, revealing a mess of broken laths and torn wallpaper. The stairs were covered with broken plaster, with bits of blue carpet showing here and there. Micky glanced up and down the street. ‘Quick — no one’s watching.’

Tim looked at his brother. He was uneasily aware that they ought not to be here, that this was something that would definitely be forbidden. If Dad ever got to hear about it … but the temptation was too strong to be resisted. Yet he couldn’t leave Keith out here all by himself.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘There won’t be any blood. They’ve taken away all the people who got hurt.’ He turned to go after the others. Keith, his lips trembling a little, followed him unhappily.

Micky was in the front room, rummaging through a cupboard that had once had a glass front. Most of its contents were broken, but there were a couple of glasses that were only slightly chipped, and he took them out and stood them on the windowsill.

‘They’ll do for our mum. She likes a glass of port and lemon. So does my gran.’ He looked round the filthy room and his eyes gleamed. ‘Here, this’d make a smashing den.’

Jimmy Cross was sifting through another heap of rubble. ‘It’s all girls’ stuff,’ he said in disgust. ‘Look at this — a china doll with its face all smashed. And a teddy-bear with all its stuffing coming out. We’re not going to find anything worth having here.’

‘This is all right.’ Tim had found something else. He wiped the dust off with his sleeve and held it up. ‘It’s a donkey.’ The other boys crowded round to look. The donkey was made of twisted and woven cane. It carried panniers on its ;ides and wore a straw sombrero with its ears poking through. ‘It’s just a kid’s toy,’ Micky said, but Tim shook his head.

‘It’s not, it’s from Gibraltar. Our Auntie Annie’s got one just like it. Her Colin brought it home once — he’s a sailor. He helped sink the Graf Spee.’ He looked at the donkey again. ‘I’ll take it home for Mum.’

‘Oy! What you doing in there?’ They jumped as an ARP warden pushed his way into the room and grabbed their

shoulders. Don’tcher think things is bad enough without looters and sightseers? Clear off, before I calls a copper.’

Micky turned indignantly. ‘We’re not looting! My auntie lives here. Least, she did till yesterday.’ He looked around him at the ruined house. ‘We just come over to get a few things for her.’

The warden stared at him. His face was tired and grey, and he looked as if he had neither slept nor shaved for the past two

days. The harsh lines softened and he laid his hand on the boy’s arm.

‘I’m sorry, son,’ he said more quietly. ‘I wouldn’t have bawled at you, only we had a lot of nosy parkers round here today, snooping round to see what they could see — and take away, too, some of ‘em. I dunno what they want to come, gawping for, they’ll see plenty more of it before they’re much older. But you didn’t ought to be poking round inside, all the same, it ain’t safe. The whole lot could come crashing down any minute.’

He led them back on to the littered pavement, and they stood looking up at the ruins of the house. Tim looked at Micky.

‘We’d better go home,’ he muttered. ‘Our mum’ll be looking for us again.’

‘I was just goin’ anyway,’ Micky said loudly. ‘There’s nothin’ else worth takin’. Our auntie’ll be ever so upset.’ He turned and swaggered away up the street.

The rest of the boys trailed after him. Tim felt uncomfortable. He wasn’t above telling the odd fib himself, but he felt that there was something wrong about Micky’s lie about an

auntie living in that house. Only yesterday, someone had lived there — someone real, who didn’t have a home any more, who might even have been killed. It didn’t seem right to take things out of their house and then tell lies about them.

He was still carrying the donkey. He wondered what to do with it. He could drop it in the road, but somehow he didn’t like to do that. He wiped some of the dust from its head. Perhaps Maureen would like it.

But by the time he arrived home, he knew that he would never be able to produce it without a lot of explanations about

where he had found it. He went up the back garden path, relieved to find that his mother was out shopping, and hid it in the coalshed.

Kathy Simmons woke that morning to find herself sharing a

large school hall with a crowd of other people who had been

bombed out of their homes or evacuated because of the

danger of explosion. She lay for a moment on the hastily made-up camp bed, staring miserably at the sunshine filtering dustily through the tall windows.

For a few moments, before opening her eyes, she had tried to convince herself that the raid had been no more than a

nightmare, that she was still at home and had never spent the evening and half the night being pushed from pillar to post, sent first to this rescue centre, then to that, until at last le and the girls had finished up here. But it was no use. Already she could hear the voices of the helpers as they prepared breakfast, the weeping of other people around her and the sobs of her own little girls. Dragging

herself back to reality, she sat up and brushed back her hair with fingers that still trembled. She didn’t seem able to stop shaking, even though she’d slept, on and off, for the past three or four hours. Last night it had been worse — great shudders that seemed to tear her body apart. She’d felt so guilty, being unable to control them when Stella and Muriel needed all the comfort she could give them, but someone had given her a cup of tea with a lot of sugar in it and that had helped. For a bit.

Muriel was crying again now in her little nest of blankets. There hadn’t been enough beds for everyone, and she and Stella had been put to bed on a heap of old cushions. Kathy hadn’t been at all happy about those cushions, they were stained and tattered and she wouldn’t have given them house

room, but there was nothing else and she’d been too worn out to argue. She bent over and touched Muriel’s shoulder, drawing her into her arms.

‘Don’t cry, pet. It’s all over now, we’re quite safe. Come into my bed for a minute.’

The child allowed herself to be pulled into bed and lay

there in Kathy’s arms, sobbing bitterly. Kathy felt her heart wrench. It wasn’t fair, bombing little children out of their homes. It wasn’t Christian. She stroked the fair hair, wondering if Muriel would ever get over it. She was only six and didn’t understand. Stella was nine and had a bit more idea, but she’d never expected the sort of horror that had happened last night. Kathy hadn’t expected it herself.

Muriel was trying to say something now, the words choked by sobs. Kathy held her tightly, crooning and smoothing her hair. ‘Don’t try to talk. It’s all over now. Everything’s all right now.’ She wished she could believe it.

Stella was awake too, sitting up and watching them. Her face was white but she wasn’t crying. She looked as if she’d buttoned up everything tightly inside her.

‘She wants her dolly,’ she said. ‘She wants Princess Mattia.’

Kathy’s heart sank. They had found the doll last night, during that first unbelieving survey of the bombed house. Almost everything had been smashed. The doll’s china face had been broken beyond repair, its arms and legs crushed. Kathy had wept herself at the sight of it. She remembered the day Mike had brought it home, when he’d come back from one of his Mediterranean trips. He’d brought her a little basketwork donkey at the same time… She’d turned away, too sick at heart to look for anything else. There wasn’t any point.

‘I’m sorry about Princess Marcia,’ she said, rocking Muriel in her arms. ‘We’ll get you another dolly.’ But she knew it wouldn’t be the same.

After that, there wasn’t time for crying. The helpers had poured out cups of tea on a trestle table at the end of the hall

and everyone was crowding round trying to grab the sugar. There was bread and marge too, but nothing else. Some of

the children picked at theirs and left it, others stuffed it into their mouths as though they hadn’t seen food for a month. Kathy put the pieces Stella and Muriel couldn’t eat into her pocket. There was no knowing where the next meal might come from.

‘What are we supposed to do now?’ she asked one of the helpers, a woman with grey hair and a tired face. She’d probably been up most of the night, trying to sort out the endless stream of people who’d been bombed out. ‘Where can we go?’

The woman shook her head. ‘Don’t ask me, love. I’m just here to pour out tea and make sandwiches. There’ll be someone come in from the council later on to sort all that out

for you.’

Kathy went back to the corner where she and the girls had

spent the night. It was the only home they had now, that rickety little camp bed and the pile of old cushions. She wondered how long they would have to live here, and what they would do for clothes and food. They had nothing but what they had been wearing when the siren had sounded.

The morning wore on. Nobody seemed to know quite what to do with themselves. People sat on their beds or gathered in small groups to talk about how awful the raid had been. A couple of women started an argument. Most of them were still feeling shaken, and one girl kept being sick.

Helpers came and went, and two or three women carrying briefcases came in and set up a sort of office on the trestle

tables. One of them called for attention and asked all those whose names began with A to form a queue to be interviewed.

‘That’s us at the back as usual,’ Kathy commented ruefully. Muriel had stopped her bitter crying now and was sitting

miserably on the camp bed. Stella, still white-faced and subdued, had asked if she could go outside to play, but Kathy had shaken her head.Td rather you stopped here, under my eye. We might have to go somewhere else and I don’t want to have to go looking for you.’

There were quite a few children, who had either not been evacuated or had been brought back when it seemed as if

there was going to be no bombing. A few had toys they’d

managed to salvage, but most of them were growing bored and restless. The smaller ones clung to their mothers, whining and grizzling, and some of the bigger boys started to chase round the hall, jumping on and off beds and shouting.

‘I ‘opes to Gawd we don’t ‘ave to stop ‘ere long,’ said a woman near Kathy. ‘You’d think they’d ‘ave summat better than this ready. I mean, what’re they going to do if there’s another lot like last night? We’ll be crowded out.’

‘I suppose they’re trying to get something organised now.’ The queue of people had now reached those whose names

began with D. The As, Bs and Cs had already returned to their little spaces and gathered up what belongings they still

possessed. ‘What does your name start with?’

‘W,’ the woman said gloomily. ‘Wilson. It’ll be the middle of next week before they gets round to me.’

‘Well, I don’t see why we got to wait,’ someone else chipped in. She had frizzled ginger hair and the end of a cigarette drooping from her lip. ‘I’ll be going to stop with my sister at Farlington. I don’t see as that’s their business. They never took no interest in us before.’

‘Yes, but they’ll give you money, won’t they,’ Mrs Wilson said. To buy new clothes and furniture and stuff. And they wants to know just who’s bin bombed out, for their records.’

The ginger woman looked as if she didn’t give tuppence for

the records, but the possibility, of being given money didn’t seem to have struck her before. She sat down again and lit another cigarette.

At midday the tables were cleared again and urns of soup