Читать книгу Lost Angel - Kitty Neale - Страница 6

Battersea, South London, September 1940

Nine-year-old Ellen Stone woke to the incessant wail of the air raid siren. Neighbourhood dogs were already howling and Ellen’s stomach churned with fear as she flung back the blankets.

‘Come on, get a move on,’ her mother, Hilda, shouted, ‘and don’t forget your gas mask.’

Ellen’s thin legs wobbled as she reached out in total darkness to fumble for the light switch. With the blackout in force, and the windows covered to prevent even a chink of light escaping, her bedroom looked gloomy in the dim glow of a bare lightbulb. Ellen pushed her shoulder-length dark hair aside as she thrust bare feet into her shoes, and then, grabbing the hated gas mask, she ran downstairs.

‘Hurry up,’ her mum urged.

They stumbled down the garden to the Anderson shelter, but could already hear the heavy, uneven throb of bombers flying across London.

‘Oh, Mum,’ cried Ellen.

‘I know, love, I know,’ she consoled, closing the shelter door behind them. ‘Don’t worry. They’re probably going for the Surrey Docks again. Now hold the torch so I can light the oil lamp.’

With hands shaking, Ellen did as she was told, and though her mum was a tiny woman, less than five foot tall, she leaned on her strength. With light brown hair, small dark eyes and a thin face that ended in a pointed chin, her mother was like a pretty mouse in appearance, yet there was nothing meek in her demeanour. She could be soft and kind, but woe betide anyone who crossed her.

‘There, that’s better,’ Hilda said in the glow from the oil lamp.

They sat on the camp bed, but Ellen jumped as a loud barrage of gunfire sounded, relieved when her mum put an arm around her shoulder, saying, ‘They’re ours, love. It’s those huge banks of anti-aircraft guns they’ve set up in Battersea Park.’

‘I … I’m still scared, Mum.’

‘I know, and this can’t go on. We need to get you out of London, but I don’t fancy this evacuation lark where you’d be sent off to strangers. I’ve sent a letter to my old friend Gertie, asking if you can stay with her for a while.’

‘But … but what about you? I don’t want to go without you.’

‘Your gran and granddad won’t shift and I can’t leave them. You’ll be fine with Gertie and you’ll love it on her smallholding. She’s even got chickens.’

There was the sudden shriek of stick bombs falling, along with the clatter of incendiaries as they landed on roofs and pavements. This was followed almost immediately by a loud boom, and another, so many that Ellen lost count as the ground shook beneath them. She was deafened by the noise, terrified, her mum now hunched over her like a shield.

All sense of time was lost, but then came a strange stillness, a hush before more noise – this time the dull thud of walls collapsing. ‘Mum, I can smell burning.’

They sat up to hear the crackle of flames and swiftly her mum moved to douse the oil lamp, a tremor in her voice. ‘The … the gas mains may have been hit, but it’s all right, we’re safe here. I think it’s over now, but we’ll have to wait for the all-clear. I can’t light the Primus so we’ll just have a drop of water.’

Fumbling in the dim light, her mum poured water from a bottle into tin mugs and, throat parched, Ellen drank it greedily. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

They sat, ears alert, dreading another wave of bombers until at last, after what felt like another hour, the all-clear tone from the siren sounded.

Tentatively they left the shelter, only to stand almost paralysed with shock at the sight that greeted them. Their house, along with every other in the street, had been destroyed, crushed, and all that remained were piles of rubble.

‘Oh, no, no,’ Hilda gasped.

The landscape appeared vast, alien, and at first beyond Ellen’s comprehension, but then she realised why. It wasn’t just their street that had been hit; it was the next one and the one beyond that, the area now a huge open mass of destruction. Dust was thick in the air, along with the smell of gas and smoke. Fires burned and Ellen was dimly aware of the distant sound of bells clanging as fire engines rushed to the scene. Yet still she and her mother stood, dazed and unmoving.

Gradually more people appeared, covered in dust like them, and it was only then that Ellen’s mother seemed to come to life.

‘Mum! Dad,’ she cried, grabbing Ellen’s hand to drag her forward. They stumbled over rubble, disorientated, both soon coated in filth, until at last Ellen thought they might be in what had once been the next street. Even though she knew what to expect, a sob caught in her throat. It was gone, like theirs … her grandparents’ house was gone.

‘Mum! Dad!’ Hilda yelled, falling to her knees as she frantically dug at the rubble. Ellen ran to help, their hands and fingers soon bleeding, yet still they dug.

‘I told them,’ Hilda sobbed. ‘I told them to use their shelter, but they just wouldn’t listen and preferred to crawl under the table. Mum! Dad! Can you hear me?’

For a moment they paused, listening, praying to hear voices, but there was nothing. They began to pull at the rubble again, but then hands reached out to drag them away.

‘Come on, you’ve got to stand back,’ an ARP warden said. ‘It’s too dangerous and the heavy rescue teams are here now.’

Exhausted, they were led from the devastation and not long after a mobile canteen arrived. They were given cups of tea, a woman saying sympathetically, ‘Are you all right?’

‘My parents, they’re under that lot. I’ve got to help,’ Hilda gasped, about to move forward again.

‘You won’t be allowed past the cordon. Leave it to the rescue teams. They know how to assess the risks, how to find people buried under rubble; it’s best if you stay out of the way.’

The vast area was a hive of activity now, firemen, policemen, ambulances, heavy rescue teams, ARP wardens, but all Ellen could think about was her beloved gran and granddad. She was aware of other people around them, women and children crying, but she felt strange, remote, the sounds coming as though from a distance. She swayed, a rushing sound in her ears, and then, as her knees caved beneath her, Ellen knew no more.

Hilda was reeling with grief. It had been a dreadful twenty-four hours and she was almost on the point of collapse, yet she had to hold herself together for her daughter’s sake. Her only relief was that Ellen wasn’t hurt; the fainting fit a combination of shock and nervous exhaustion. She was still whey-faced, her blue eyes bruised with pain; her daughter, like her, was grieving.

It had been hours before her parents were pulled from the rubble, both dead, and for the rest of her life Hilda knew she would never forget the night-marish sight of their broken bodies. Now she had the funeral to arrange, and even though her friend, Mabel Johnson – whose house was outside the bombed area and untouched – had taken them in, Hilda felt so alone. If only Doug was here; but at the outset of the war her husband had enlisted in the navy. He was on a ship, somewhere at sea, and, with so many naval losses being reported, she feared for his safety.

‘Here, get that down you,’ Mabel said, her kind, round face soft with concern as she handed Hilda a cup of tea.

‘Mabel, I’ve lost everything. My home, furniture and, until you all rallied round, we only had the filthy clothes we stood in.’

‘You’ll be found somewhere else to live, but in the meantime didn’t you mention once that your mum had a sister? I expect you’ll want to go to her.’

‘She died years ago, Mabel, and after that her husband and son moved away. They didn’t bother to keep in touch with us and I’ve no idea where they are.’

‘Until you’re re-housed you’re welcome to stay here,’ Mabel said soothingly. ‘With my Jack away fighting in this bloody war and both my boys evacuated to Devon, I’ve got plenty of room.’

‘Thanks, it’s good of you.’

‘Don’t be daft. We’ve been mates since we were nippers and I know you’d do the same for me.’

‘I still can’t believe my parents have gone. All I’ve got left of them is this necklace, Mum’s chain and crucifix. She always wore it, swore by it, but … but a lot of good that did her,’ Hilda said, once again overwhelmed by grief.

Mabel let her cry for a while, but then said, ‘I knew your mum well, although … I didn’t know she was religious.’

‘She wasn’t really, well, not a churchgoer. The necklace was my grandmother’s, passed on to Mum when she died. For some reason she used to say that wearing it made her feel as though Gran was watching over her.’

‘Who knows? Maybe she was.’

‘She’s dead, Mabel. My dad too. What was the point of believing in a daft cross and chain?’

‘From what you’ve been told, they didn’t suffer.’

Hilda nodded and, though thankful for that, she still felt lost, bereft. She clutched the chain, her mother’s face still so clear in her mind, and then slowly fastened it around her neck.

‘That’s it, girl. Sometimes we all need something to cling to, something that gives us a bit of hope.’

‘I don’t think this necklace has some sort of mysterious power. I’m only wearing it because … because it was hers …’ And with those words Hilda broke down again. She was a grown woman, a wife and a mother, yet now her parents were gone she felt lost. They had always been there for her to run to – had always loved her unconditionally. Now, without them, she felt so alone.