The FitzOsbornes at War (23 page)

‘Toby,’ said Simon, putting his hand on Toby’s arm, but Toby shook him off.

‘The first time I shot down a plane, I was amazed I’d managed to do it without panicking or throwing up or blacking out in the middle of it. The second time was right after I watched a friend go down in flames over the Channel. I shot the tail off a 109 and someone else did the rest, and yes, I was thrilled, I was exhilarated, I was
ecstatic
that I’d help kill a man. What a hero!’

Henry was blinking rapidly at her plate. Aunt Charlotte cleared her throat, carefully repositioned her cutlery and then glanced around, as though worried someone might overhear. Simon had closed his eyes. Only Veronica gazed steadily at Toby.

‘It sounds like Hell,’ she said. ‘But you’re stopping the bombers from getting through. You’re putting your life at risk to save others. That
is
heroic.’

‘You don’t understand,’ Toby said, his voice rising. ‘No one does! You think I give a
damn
about being heroic? I don’t even know good from evil any more . . . Oh, what’s the point?’ He’d lurched to his feet and was groping for his cap. ‘I have to go, I need to get back.’

‘You’re not fit to drive anywhere,’ said Simon. ‘Sit down, for God’s sake, I’ll take you back after we’ve all –’

But Toby was already stalking towards the door.

‘Oh, go after him,’ cried Aunt Charlotte.
‘Please.’
Simon shoved back his chair and followed without another word.

‘I’m
sorry
,’ choked out Henry. ‘I’m really, really sorry, I didn’t mean to upset him!’

Aunt Charlotte, unexpectedly, reached over to pat her hand.

‘Poor child,’ she said. ‘Poor, dear child.’ But she was looking towards the doorway, so she could just as well have meant Toby.

5th September, 1940

Dear Soph,

SORRY I was so utterly bloody on Saturday. I’d had a rotten week and then I had a row with Simon on the way over, but I had no right to take it out on you. I’ll make it up to Henry, promise. Forgive me?

It’s just that I was so tired, but I’m absolutely fine now. The doctor gave me a couple of sleeping pills when I got back, and I had ten hours’ solid sleep, and that’s made the world of difference.

Anyway, I feel terrible that I didn’t even talk to you much. Hope your job is becoming more interesting and your boss slightly less stupid. Could you pass on my apologies to V? Although I am not so worried about her, as she already knows I’m a complete idiot.

Lots of love,

Toby

11th September, 1940

W
E OUGHT TO BE FEELING
more at home in our little cellar now. We’ve brought down books and writing paper and pencils, a tin of biscuits, water bottles, a rug, a folding tray that we use as a desk, and a box of candles in case the electricity goes out. Trust the Germans to wait till tea leaves were being rationed to two ounces a week before they started their bombardment – life underground would be far easier to bear with an unlimited supply of nice hot tea. It’s also a nuisance having to lug our bedding up and down the stairs, but it’s too damp to keep a set of blankets and pillows down here permanently. I dread to think what it will be like in the middle of winter – but surely these raids won’t
still
be going on then. Will they?

Saturday was when it started in earnest. The weather had been glorious, and Veronica and I spent most of the afternoon working in the garden. When the siren went off around tea-time, we barely paused to look up into the sky.

‘Oh, honestly,’ said Veronica, brushing the dirt off her hands. ‘Can’t they give it a rest on a Saturday? I’m going to have a bath.’

‘No, wait,’ I said. ‘Listen.’

I thought I heard a very faint, dull rumbling. We peered up at the sky, but our patch of it was a brilliant blue, interrupted only by a few strands of cotton-wool cloud.

‘Actually, I can hear something, too,’ said Veronica, after a moment. Then a fire engine started up nearby and rushed along our side road, bells ringing madly.

‘Let’s go up and have a look,’ I said.

We let ourselves into Montmaray House through a side door, groped our way through the dark, silent rooms to the servants’ stairs, then climbed up and up, all the way to the roof, which provided a majestic view of Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park, and beyond that, Westminster and the City. But it wasn’t lush greenery or historic architecture that caught our attention; it was the sky. It looked as though someone had flicked a giant brush, dripping with black paint, at London’s clean blue ceiling. As we stared, each black speck grew bigger and bigger, then transformed itself into a tiny glinting aeroplane. There were hundreds of them, and they were all converging on the same spot.

‘The East End,’ said Veronica. ‘They’re aiming for the docks.’ And as she spoke, a cloud of white smoke appeared on the horizon. The aeroplanes had arranged themselves in neat lines above this, and were taking it in turns to spiral down and drop their bombs and fly off. The cloud rose higher, and darkened, and then expanded to take over the entire sky. From halfway across the city, we could see the red and gold flames leaping from the ground to claw at the black air. It wasn’t until the next day that we heard about the gasworks and the arsenal that received direct hits; the piles of freshly delivered timber that turned the docks into a towering inferno; the streets flowing with molten rubber and soap and paint from burning factories; the barges that caught alight and drifted off down the Thames like floating lanterns. At the time, we only knew it was the most monstrous fire we’d ever seen. It would have been more sensible to take cover, but we just stood there, gaping, awestruck at the scale of the destruction. I remember thinking,
Oh God, Julia’s on ambulance duty tonight
and
Thank Heavens that Daniel doesn’t live in Whitechapel any more.
It was as though I could only comprehend what was going on by focusing on a couple of people I knew who might be affected. Of course, I realised even then that hundreds of people must be dying as I watched, but that was just too much to take in.

Then the All Clear sounded, jolting us out of our daze, and we whirled round and ran back down to the flat. I tried to telephone Milford, to let them know we were all right, but I couldn’t get through.

‘Those bombers will be back after dark,’ Veronica predicted. ‘The blackout’s useless if there’s an enormous fire lighting up the whole of London.’

And, of course, she was right. They returned a couple of hours later, and it went on all night, and it wasn’t just the East End they were aiming at this time. Down in our cellar, I could hear the bombs whining closer and closer, feel the crump and the shudder as each one landed. The electric light flickered and died. The air filtering through the vents tasted of burning. I was amazed, when we staggered out of our shelter the next morning, to find the house and grounds still there. It had seemed as though the whole world was being pounded into oblivion, but our street was untouched, except for a fine layer of ash and powdered brick that had settled on everything.

The next night, they hit the City, and knocked out the southbound railway lines. On Monday night, another couple of hundred people died, including dozens of poor homeless East Enders who’d been evacuated to Canning Town. And on and on and
on
it goes. It isn’t only after dark that we have to worry about, either. Every single day this week, we’ve had our work interrupted by raids. Once, after I’d dashed across to John Lewis in my luncheon break to buy some elastic, the Warning siren went off and I had to spend an hour and a half in their basement. It
was
much nicer than our office shelter, though. They had a gramophone playing soothing music, and the shop girls came round selling books and packets of biscuits, and handing out khaki wool so we could knit scarves for the army as we waited for the All Clear.

And at least now our own anti-aircraft guns seem to be firing back – I didn’t hear them at
all
the first few nights. I don’t know if they actually manage to hit any planes, but the noise of the guns makes me feel slightly less vulnerable. And I suppose things might be even worse if we didn’t have those barrage balloons floating overhead. It’s hard to believe that big silver balloons might be any deterrent to German bombers, but I think they force the planes to fly higher, so their bombs are aimed less accurately . . . not that
that
is particularly reassuring.

These are the sorts of things one thinks (and writes) about when stuck in a tiny cellar during a bombing raid.

23rd September, 1940

S
IMON MET ME FOR LUNCHEON
at a little café near my office today – he had to drive some very important Air Marshal to Whitehall and had a couple of hours free. He tried to talk me into resigning from my job and going back to Milford, at least until the air raids stop, and I must admit I was tempted. I am so exhausted, and so sickened by the destruction. Each day on my way to work, I find more and more of the city has been reduced to cinders and crumbled brick and fragments of charred, twisted metal. Oxford Street got the worst of it last week – John Lewis is now a blackened skeleton. Even Buckingham Palace had its windows blown out when half a dozen bombs landed in its grounds.

But I would never leave Veronica here by herself, and she would never give up her job, and even
I
feel a tug of loyalty towards the Ministry of Food (office morale has improved markedly since Lord Woolton took over).

‘I suppose you think it’s going to get even worse,’ I said to Simon.

‘If I did, I wouldn’t say so in public,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that illegal now, spreading gloom and despondency?’

‘Oh, come on,’ I said, but very quietly (and I did glance about to see if anyone could possibly be listening, although no one was). ‘Just because the newspapers keep going on about how cheerful and defiant Londoners are, doesn’t mean anyone
believes
it. I know they’re not telling us what’s really happening. They don’t even read out the number of casualties on the news any more.’

‘Well, how would that help anyone? What does it matter whether they say it was a hundred killed last night, or a thousand? I doubt the authorities have the exact figures, anyway. They’re usually still digging bodies out of the rubble days later.’