The Wayward Wife (23 page)

Mugs and cups on the shelves behind the counter rattled and the drawer of the till on the counter top popped open of its own accord.

‘Oh, God! It's a real one.' Breda caught Susan's arm. ‘You, turn off the gas under the urns. Ma, make sure the ovens are closed. I gotta find Billy,' then, tearing off her cap and apron, she vanished into the kitchen.

‘What's happenin', Susan?' Nora asked.

‘An air raid, Nora, a bad one by the sound of it.'

‘Have you come to help us? Is that why you're here?'

‘Yes,' Susan said. ‘That's why I'm here. Do what Breda says and then get into the shelter.'

Crockery rattled once more and the steady, menacing drone grew louder. Susan found the cock of the gas pipe that fed the urns and, with some difficulty, turned it off.

Crouching behind the counter she felt the weight of the planes press down on her, the air compressed by the noise of their engines. She crawled out from under the counter and, driven by curiosity, ran out into the street.

There was movement everywhere, people running from the market stalls in Cherry Street; men helping women, women pushing prams, carrying infants or dragging young children along by the hand, small boys staring up at the German aircraft, a plane-spotter's dream.

Shading her eyes, Susan peered up at the sky. They were high, the bombers, so high that in the golden afternoon light they appeared almost transparent.

An ambulance came whizzing down Thornton Street, horn blaring, followed by two fire tenders. The old folk and children that the ARP wardens were herding towards the public shelter cheered as the tenders roared past as if the appearance of firefighters in their street signalled victory.

Clouds of black smoke were visible above the rooftops. Millwall, Limehouse and the Surrey Commercial are taking a pasting, Susan thought, and the basins of the Upper Pool, quays, warehouses and cargo ships must be sitting ducks too.

An incendiary struck the roof of a house three down from Stratton's and tumbled, splashing flame, into the street.

Old folk and children scattered. The woman who had been sipping coffee a few moments ago appeared with a stirrup-pump and extinguished the fiery puddle just as another incendiary fell close by and, bursting like a vegetable marrow, spilled flames across the pavement.

On the corner, where Thornton Street folded into Docklands Road, the front of the Co-op Bank exploded.

Susan watched the building shudder and lean out, folk running, then a plane appeared through the eruption of smoke and she heard the chatter of machine guns and, transfixed, saw the plane dip and, close enough to touch, zoom away over her head.

‘What the 'ell do you think you're doin'?' Breda shouted.

‘I have to get back to London,' Susan said.

‘This
is
London, you silly cow,' said Breda and hauled her off the street and into the larder where Nora, Billy and three frightened neighbours were already taking shelter.

Falling in love had conferred a degree of reticence upon the garrulous Griffiths. Even Mrs Pell, an expert in wheedling, had been unable to tease the truth from her lodgers. Kate was just as unforthcoming as Griff on what exactly had happened on the Brecon weekend and what plans, if any, the couple had made for the future.

‘Oh, come on, Danny,' Kate said. ‘Don't be so grumpy. Dance with me.'

‘I can't dance.'

‘Anyone can do a quickstep,' Kate said. ‘I'll show you.'

‘I tell you I don't dance.'

‘Silwyn doesn't mind.'

‘Of course, I don't mind. I could do with a breather.'

The tea dance had been arranged at the last minute, the band made up of musicians of varying degrees of talent. The floor of the Greenhill lounge shone like a skating rink in the glare from the open windows and girls in frocks or slacks and men sweating in suits and collared shirts might have tumbled out of a gala at the Hammersmith Palais.

The afternoon dance was intended to appease those on late shift who would miss the Saturday night free-for-all which, in the scented dusk of the harvest month, ran serious risk of becoming an unbridled orgy of booze and petting.

The band was playing ‘What Is This Thing Called Love?'
.
Danny had often heard it on the wireless. He had watched Griff dance, elegant and assured, and had taken grisly pleasure in noting how Griff's hand rode on the swell of Kate's hip and how her long legs flashed in the turns and runs.

He no longer resented Griff stealing Kate away. Griff had so much more to offer her than an orphaned Glaswegian with a failing marriage on his hands.

‘You don't know what you're missing,' Griff said.

‘He just wants to be coaxed.'

‘No, Kate, I do not want tae be coaxed.'

‘Sit there feeling sorry for yourself if you must. If you won't dance with this lovely lady then I will,' Griff told him.

Kate arched her back and gave a little shiver of pleasure as Griff took her by the hand and, catching the beat, swirled her away from the table by the wall.

Danny followed their progress among the dancers.

How happy and carefree they looked, he thought, how ideally suited. He wondered what Susan was doing right now, who she might be with and regretted that he had never learned to dance, had never danced with his wife.

In an hour or so, the band would strike up a goodnight waltz, the drinkers would leave the bar and the dancers the floor and head out into the early evening light to catch a bus to Wood Norton or, arm-in-arm, walk through the quaint streets and tree-lined lanes to relieve their colleagues who, even with a long shift behind them, would shake off fatigue and head for the Greenhill, and, Danny thought, nothing much would change except that by then it would be dark.

Then, abruptly, the music stopped.

The bewildered dancers gathered round the bar where, standing on a stool, Mr Gregory prepared to address them.

‘I'm sorry to be the bearer of distressing news,' he began, ‘but, as you will no doubt hear soon enough, the Luftwaffe has just launched a massive air raid on London.'

‘Nothing new in that,' said a voice from the floor.

‘Unfortunately,' Mr Gregory went on, ‘it appears the blitzkrieg Hitler has been promising us in recent weeks has begun in earnest.' He held up a hand to silence the mutter from the floor. ‘The news tonight will be bad. I want you to prepare yourselves for it. It's important – nay, essential – that we aren't distracted by exaggerated German claims of casualties but stick to our tasks with our usual objectivity and' – he paused – ‘do not dwell too much on what might be happening' – he paused again – ‘elsewhere.'

‘Are we finished here?' someone asked.

‘Pardon?' Mr Gregory said.

‘The dance?'

‘For God's sake, man,' Mr Gregory exploded, ‘what sort of a fatalist are you? The Nazis are bombing London to bits and you want to go on dancing.' He closed his eyes, sniffed and got control of himself. ‘The bar will remain open and food will continue to be served but, no, ladies and gentlemen, I'm afraid the party's over for tonight.'

Kate and Griffiths, hand in hand, returned to the table. Danny got to his feet.

‘What do you want to do?' Griff said. ‘Is there someone you can telephone?'

Danny shook his head.

‘What about your wife?' Kate said. ‘Will she be at work?'

‘I doubt it,' Danny said. ‘In any case, the chances of gettin' through are slim.'

‘What then?' Griff said.

‘Head for Hogsnorton, I suppose,' said Danny.

Kate touched his arm. ‘Danny, are you all right?'

‘Aye,' Danny said. ‘I'm fine.'

The larder still smelled of cheese but when the electric light bulb flickered and suddenly went out the odour of the paraffin lamp that Breda lit soon chased the friendly smell away.

The lamp stood on a small, knee-high table that Nora used as a step to reach the high shelves. The faces of the occupants of the shelter were lit from below as they leaned forward to converse in whispers, like conspirators.

There were two bench-bunks, each piled with blankets. Four quart bottles of water and an assortment of fizzy drinks had been placed in a corner which, Matt said, was safer than putting them up on shelves where they might fall on someone's head. Tucked under the table were a small camping stove, a kettle and a cardboard box containing mugs, a canister of sugar and a tin of Fry's cocoa, but at that hour of the afternoon no one was interested in sampling the home comforts.

Nora had Billy on her knee. He seemed quite unperturbed by the thunderous explosions that shook plaster dust from the overhead beams and made the glassware in the corner chatter. He had filled his mouth with fruit gums from the packet his Aunt Susan had brought and, cheeks bulging, was content to suck and slaver noisily, unaware that his mum, his grandma, his aunt and the three elderly neighbours to whom Nora had offered shelter were putting on brave faces for his benefit.

‘Nora tells me you were in the trenches in the last war, Mr Brennan?' Susan said. ‘You must have experienced a great deal worse than this.'

‘Never gassed,' the man said. ‘Never feared nuhfink but the gas. Bloody Huns. We 'ad 'em on the run then all right.'

‘What regiment were you with?'

‘Artillery. Big guns. By God, they was noisy.'

The timing, Susan thought, was broadcast perfect: no sooner had Mr Brennan uttered the word ‘noisy' than a huge explosion somewhere close by shook the building and brought down more plaster dust.

One of the women let out a shriek.

Billy, still sucking, turned and looked up at Nora who, with more savvy than Susan might have expected, just raised her eyebrows and said casually, ‘Ooow, that's a big one.'

‘Where's Dad?' said Billy.

‘Out with the fire brigade,' said Breda.

‘Hmm,' said Billy and, apparently mollified, settled into Nora's lap and dug into the sweet packet for another gum.

It was close to six o'clock before the raid ended.

By then both female neighbours were shaking and tearful, Billy was bouncing around from one bunk to the next and Breda had smoked so many cigarettes that her throat was raw.

Susan pulled open the larder door.

Shafts of sunlight from the yard were defined by a thick white clogging dust. The door to the yard had been blown in but, Susan noted, there wasn't much debris on the stairs.

She stepped cautiously along the corridor.

The kitchen was littered with broken glass. The blackout curtains had been torn to shreds but the ceiling was still in place, the big dresser, the table and the oven too, though some of Nora's ornamental plates had toppled from the high shelf and were ornamental no more.

There was almost no damage to the front shop. The tiny window was intact and also the door, though the upper panel bulged ominously inward. The tables were coated with a layer of fine grit but there was no smell of gas.

‘Could be worse,' Breda said. ‘I'll fetch them out, okay?'

‘No,' Susan said. ‘Wait.'

Scraping open the front door, she went out into the street.

On the corner where the Co-op Bank had been was a ragged-edged void. The sky was smeared with smoke as far as the eye could see. Vehicles were jammed into the far end of Thornton Street where pipes and cables crawled from a gaping crater and wardens, policemen and CD volunteers were frantically trying to organise a clear way for the rescue teams.

Susan surveyed the rubble-strewn street and wondered just how far she would have to walk to find a bus to carry her back to Portland Place.

Breda came out of the shop with Billy on her back. The hustle-bustle, din and smoke had excited him. If she put him down even for a second he'd be off like a shot for sure.

‘I'd better be going,' Susan said.

‘Goin'? Goin' where?' said Breda.

‘Home,' said Susan. ‘I mean, to work.'

‘How're you gonna get there?'

‘Walk, if I have to.'

‘You just want to get back to your fancy man, don'cha?'

‘What?' said Susan. ‘Bob? No, he's in Dover.'

‘Bully for 'im,' said Breda.

Billy twisted from side to side, taking in the carnage. Breda clamped her arms over his knees.

‘Tell Dad …' Susan began.

‘Tell 'im what?' said Breda.

‘Tell him I'll see him soon,' Susan said and, before Breda could stop her, stepped over the rubble and started out for home.

The ground-floor concert hall had been stripped of seats and turned into a dormitory complete with mattresses where newsreaders, typists and supervisors rubbed shoulders with producers from the Empire Service and reporters from America.

For news staff three days on and three days off was the general rule but producers of topical programmes like
Speaking Up
did not have the luxury of punching a clock and it came as no surprise to Susan to bump into Larry heading through the entrance hall with a blanket over his arm and, floating on a wire hanger, a spare shirt.

‘What are you doing here?' she asked.

‘I'm not risking a trip out to Kennington tonight,' Larry answered. ‘My sister can look after herself for once. This place might not be the Ritz but it's better than a stinky Anderson shelter. Where you been?'

‘Shadwell.'

‘How'd you get back?'

‘Hoofed for a bit then found a taxi.'

‘Word is it's bad down that way.'

‘It is,' Susan said. ‘Very bad.'

It had been less difficult than she'd imagined it might be to put the East End behind her. She'd avoided the worst areas of devastation and when she'd reached the top end of Fleet Street a cabby had taken pity on her.

She said, ‘Is Basil in his office?'

‘Doubt it,' Larry said. ‘I think he went home.'