The Woman in Black (2 page)

‘I remember well as the shadows fell, the light of hope in their eyes …’

The voices died away. No one moved.

The drone of engines could be heard from outside, from above. Everyone knew what that meant. The staccato bursts of anti-aircraft fire that answered the drone just confirmed it.

The bombers were back.

There was another whine, different to the engine drone. Then another. And another.

Everyone held their breath. The oil lamps strung
along the walls illuminated trembling bodies, fearful eyes.

Then the bombs hit. The walls shuddered and shivered. Plaster and dust fell. People flinched, jumped. A few let out moans and screams, then tried to regain control of themselves. It didn’t do to break down in front of others.

Eve closed her eyes, tried to take herself somewhere else, somewhere warm and sunny and safe.

Another explosion. Another drizzle of dust and plaster.

Eve opened her eyes once more. It was no good. She was here. Now. The bombs wouldn’t go away by wishing them to, so she just had to deal with the situation.

She looked across the row of faces, her gaze settling on a little boy. He was dressed in his pyjamas, his hair sticking out at all angles. In his hands he clutched a threadbare teddy, clinging to it like his life depended on it. With every distant explosion his eyes darted about in terror, another tear threatening to fall from them.

Eve felt something inside her break and moved to sit beside him. She smiled. It was a warm smile and it illuminated her face, giving it a certain radiance, even in the oil-lit darkness.

‘What’s his name?’ she asked, looking down at the teddy.

The boy stared at her, barely able to speak. ‘Bear,’ he said eventually, his voice as small and threadbare as his toy.

‘And are you looking after him?’

The boy nodded.

‘So will you make sure he doesn’t get scared?’

The boy thought for a moment, looked at his bear, then back at Eve. He nodded again.

‘That’s good,’ said Eve. ‘We need brave boys like you.’

Her smile deepened, fixed on him, and the boy gradually smiled back. Safe now, reassured.

‘How do you do it?’

A woman was huddled against the wall in a blanket alongside her. She was older than Eve, only by a few years, but the worry and exhaustion in her features made her seem even older still. Eve turned towards her, frowning slightly.

‘Night after night of this,’ said the woman, ‘and you’re still smiling …’

Before answering, Eve glanced down the tunnel once more. It was dark, empty, seemingly endless.

‘You’ve got to, haven’t you?’ she said, her voice as cheerful as she could make it.

The woman didn’t seem so sure. It looked like the fatigue and strain would get her before the bombs did. She frowned at Eve, clearly not believing her words.

Under the woman’s gaze, Eve’s smile faltered and she looked away, down into the tunnel once more.

The next morning was dull and grey, depressing and wintery, as Eve emerged from the Tube station brushing the dust from her clothes. She had survived another night.

She looked round. The city was even more shattered and scarred than the night before. The bombed-out remains of shops, pubs and houses were everywhere. A broken mannequin dangled from a shattered shop window, swaying like a hanged looter. All that remained of the floor above was a wall with an intact fireplace, but no floor, no hearth. Next to it was a cupboard, the door creaking in the breeze, a stack of Cornishware bowls teeter-tottering on the shelf. They fell, smashing, adding to the rubble. Someone’s family photographs blew down the street; smiling, happy children borne away, memories, markers of a life, lost for ever.

Eve was alive. But the city seemed dead.

She checked her watch as she hurried home. She had to pack. She was leaving.

Eve was only slightly out of breath as, smartly dressed and suitcase in hand, she walked into King’s Cross station. She needed to make a fresh start, she thought. And today would be the day to do it. She was leaving the city. Going somewhere safe.

Soot covered the ceiling glass inside the station, as steam from the trains drifted above their heads. The place was alive with comings and goings, the clang and clatter of the trains and the passengers. Joyful reunions and tearful goodbyes were all around her. The air was filled with a frantic, nervous energy as hope and despair turned routine departures and arrivals into matters of life and death.

Posters covered all the walls of the station. Several variations of ‘Careless Talk Costs Lives’ were dotted about, as were invocations to ‘Dig for
Victory’. A stern, red-faced and angry-looking man dressed in full John Bull regalia standing in front of a line of infantrymen pointed an accusing finger at all who walked past, and asked, ‘WHO’S ABSENT? Is it YOU?’

The poster made Eve notice the soldiers all the more. The young, fresh-faced, optimistic ones, eager to engage the Hun in battle, contrasted with the wounded, broken men who were returning. Heads were turned, eyes downcast as they made their way through the concourse. The young soldiers making a point of not looking at the returnees, ignoring them in case their bad luck turned into an airborne infection.

She heard sobbing just behind her and, turning, saw a mother with her daughter. It was difficult to make out who was crying the most. The mother clung on to her daughter, and the daughter did the same until well-meaning relatives separated them both, taking the girl away. ‘It’s for her own good,’ Eve heard. ‘She’ll be safer with us.’ Eve thought of the boy in the Underground station the previous night. She hoped somebody was looking after him, making sure he was safe. The thought made her tearful.

‘Mothers – send them out of London’ said a poster on the wall above the sobbing mother. It showed a boy and girl in dressing gowns and
pyjamas, against a brick wall. Huddled together, frightened and apprehensive, their eyes haunted and shell-shocked. Next to it another brother and sister, but these were bucolic, blonde, chubby cherubs. The boy, hair neatly parted and slicked down, held a protective arm round his kiss-curled little sister. They both looked contented and cheerful. Underneath was stated the reason for their happiness: ‘CHILDREN are safer in the country … leave them there’.

Eve hoped so. Yes. She could only hope so.

It didn’t take her long to find the woman she was meant to meet. A decade older than Eve, steel-eyed and ramrod-backed, standing as if to attention, Jean Hogg was Eve’s headmistress.

Surrounding Jean was a group of children, all resembling the frightened children in the first poster. Jean had found something wrong with one of the boy’s coats and was bending down to straighten it, admonishing him for not buttoning it properly, as Eve walked over to her.

‘Good morning, Headmistress,’ said Eve, smile in place. Then she looked at everyone else, giving them a bigger smile. ‘Good morning, children.’

‘Good morning, Miss Parkins.’ They all spoke as one, the words said by rote in their usual sing-song voice. Some of them managed to return her smile. Eve felt a warmth inside her when they did that.

Jean straightened up, scrutinised her. For a second, Eve wondered whether the headmistress was going to find fault with her own coat.

‘You’re late,’ said Jean.

‘My … road was hit last night.’

Jean’s expression suggested that a bomb was no excuse for unpunctuality, as Eve looked down at the children. There were seven of them, three girls and four boys, the youngest seven, the oldest eleven. They all had their own suitcase and each carried a small cardboard box with ‘Gas Mask’ written on the side. They were poor children, from the centre of the city, and none of them had their parents with them.

‘Shall we find the train?’ Eve asked.

‘We’re waiting for Edward.’ From Jean’s tone, Eve could tell Edward had placed himself in an even worse category of tardiness than herself.

Eve frowned. ‘I thought his mother was bringing him here.’

Jean’s steely gaze – just for a second – gave way. ‘Their house was hit two nights ago. He’s an orphan now.’ She looked away from Eve, eyes roving down the concourse. ‘Here he is.’

Eve stared after her, still trying to take in what she had just heard. Edward – an orphan.

All the children had turned to watch Edward arrive, clamouring in their own way to be the
first to see him. Eve knew what children were like. Anything out of the ordinary, different, was a source of spectacle, especially when it involved calamity and loss. Edward, whether he wanted to or not, would now be a celebrity.

Edward walked slowly towards the group, an older man holding his hand and leading him. But unlike the others he had no suitcase and was carrying all his belongings in a patched-up bag. The cuts on his face from the explosion had begun to heal and his glasses had been repaired, but Eve could tell from his expression how much he was hating being the centre of attention.

‘Come on, Edward, there’s a good chap,’ said Jean, expecting her authority to carry automatically. ‘We have a train to catch.’

She held out her hand to him, but Edward made no attempt to take it, or even move towards her. He clung on to the man at his side.

Eve moved quickly towards him, bending down so she was on his level. ‘Edward,’ she said, trying to get him to look at her, ‘I’m so sorry …’

Edward didn’t reply.

Eve tried a smile. ‘You’re … you’re going to come away with us now,’ she said. ‘Away from all this.’

Edward still made no reply, and Eve eventually stood up.

‘He hasn’t said a word since the accident,’ said the man. ‘I take it you’re his teacher?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m just a neighbour. Been looking after him since … you know.’ He gave the boy’s hand a squeeze. ‘Come on, Edward. Go with the nice lady. There’s a good boy …’

The man let go of Edward. ‘Don’t forget your sweets,’ he said, pushing a paper bag into Edward’s pocket. Still Edward said nothing.

Eve took Edward’s hand and looked into his eyes once more. They were dulled, silent. There was nothing there. Nothing she could read.

Nothing she could reach.

She walked him over to the other children. It was time they were on the train and leaving London. Time for them to be safe once again.

Even in the short space of time they had been on the train, Eve noticed the children’s mood change. As the rubble of the bombed-out city gave way to smaller towns and finally countryside, the enormity of what was happening started to dawn on the children. They began to fidget in their seats, nervous with excitement. They were outside London, leaving their normal lives behind, off on an adventure into a new world.

Eve noticed that the children had divided themselves into two groups in the crowded carriage, boys and girls. Eve sat with the boys. Tom was the oldest and, if Eve was honest, the one she liked least. She knew it wasn’t healthy for a teacher to think that way, not about children, but she couldn’t help it. He had a pronounced mean streak that she
had tried to cure him of, but to no avail. If there was any bullying to be done, Tom, she knew from experience, would be the one to do it.

Next to Tom was Alfie. Overweight and passionate about the RAF, he claimed he could identify a plane just by hearing its engines. But after the constant bombing raids on London, that wasn’t a skill he was alone in possessing. Alfie and Tom were looking out of the window, fascinated by what they were seeing.

Opposite Tom and Alfie were James and Edward. James was Edward’s best friend, but he clearly didn’t know how to cope with the way Edward was now. He kept stealing glances at the mute, grief-stricken boy, his desire to help conflicting with his inability to do so written clearly on his features. Edward just stared at the bag of sweets in his lap.

Jean, her face hidden behind the
Daily Express
, was sitting with the three girls. The bossy Joyce; Ruby, her inseparable sidekick; and Flora. Flora’s younger brother, Fraser, sniffing as if he had a permanent cold, was also sitting with them. Flora was supposed to be keeping an eye on him, but she clearly wasn’t doing so at the moment. Instead, she was staring at Edward. Eve knew that Flora had a little crush on Edward, but the way she was gazing at him now extended beyond that. Eve looked at the other children. They were all
now staring at Edward, fascinated by his stillness, by the fact that he was simultaneously with them yet absent.

Jean lowered her newspaper. ‘It’s rude to stare, children.’

Joyce, Ruby, Flora and Fraser pointedly looked away from Edward and sat instead in awkward, wide-eyed silence.

‘You may talk among yourselves,’ said Jean, her voice slightly lower but still formal. ‘Quietly.’

But they didn’t. Not in front of Jean. Their headmistress was too imposing a figure for them to do that.

Eve took in the countryside rolling past the window, the colours Technicolor vivid after the drab monotones of London. Her eyes closed.

‘You must have started young.’

She opened them again. The children were all still there, as was Jean, but someone else had joined them and had taken a seat opposite her in the crowded carriage.

He was young and handsome. They were the first things Eve noticed about him. He was also very smartly dressed. His RAF uniform showed the rank of captain.

‘Excuse me?’ she said.

He gestured towards the children. Eve couldn’t help but notice the strength in his arm, the athleticism
of the movement. ‘To have eight children,’ he said.

Eve smiled, felt herself redden slightly. ‘They’re not mine.’

The RAF captain returned her smile, raising an eyebrow. ‘Kidnapped them, have you?’

‘I’m their teacher.’ Eve felt the carriage become suddenly warm.

‘School trip?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Eve. ‘Their parents can’t leave London, and they’ve got no other relatives …’ She shrugged. ‘So we’re taking them to a house in the country.’

The captain frowned. ‘All by yourselves?’

‘There’s other schools going to be there, too.’ Eve leaned forward, her face mock-serious. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard, but there’s a war on.’