Snapshots of War
Michael Gouda
Part 5
Monday 12th May 1941
Though no one knew it then, Saturday the 10th May marked the last mass bombing run on London of the Blitz. The Luftwaffe however finished in grand style. Bombs rained down and there were many casualties, the Mayors of both Westminster and Bermondsey being two of those killed on that last night. In all there had been over 40,000 people killed in the Blitz, half of these in the bombing raids on London. Though there was much talk of the population 'grinning and bearing it', of 'we can take it', of 'business as usual', many civilians felt demoralised. The rationing, the blackout, the sleepless nights, the worry - for their own safety as well as for that of their loved ones overseas, in the Far East, in North Africa - all combined to lower the morale, to spread the fear of an imminent German invasion. Probably the mood of the British people was at the lowest of the whole War. Britain had been bombed into submission, it was felt. All it needed was the invasion force - which surely was being assembled in the French ports on the other side of the Channel - to make that short crossing. Who or what was there to stop them? Old men with out-of-date rifles, some of them indeed with no more than agricultural tools, hoes and sickles, as weapons. William had listened to a comic on the Home Service only the day before. It was one of his favourites, Robb Wilton, who gave monologues in a countryman's voice which always made Theresa laugh. He was funny, of course, but his stories had more than a grain of truth in them, like the one they had heard, "The missus looked at me and said, 'What are you supposed to be?' I said, 'Supposed to be? I'm one of the Home Guards.' She said, 'One of the Home Guards, what are the others like?' She said, 'What are you supposed to do?' I said, 'I'm supposed to stop Hitler's army landing.' She said, 'What you?' I said, 'No, not me, there's Bob Edwards, Charlie Evans, Billy Brightside - there's seven or eight of us, we're on guard in a little hut behind the Dog and Pullet.'" It was funny but they knew they stood alone. Britain waited. London waited. The Salter family waited. William waited in the Lyons Corner House in the Strand. Peter was late. He had promised to be there at 5.30 but it was already ten to six and the waitress - a middle-aged woman with an unsympathetic frown and an unsuitable frilly apron - was regarding William with irritation. A cup of tea could only be allowed to last for a certain length of time, her expression said. He would have liked to have ordered a poached egg on toast - the very thought of it made his mouth water - how long had it been since he had last had an egg? - but he couldn't afford it. Apprentice pay was hardly generous and he only had a threepenny bit in his trouser pocket. As he sat there, he thought back over the time he had known Peter. It had been seven months since that first eventful episode in the Elephant and Castle underground station, three months since the first night in Peter's house. In five months time he would be eighteen, old enough to be a soldier like his Dad. Not that his mother would ever let him volunteer. He would have to finish his apprenticeship and even then he would have an important job, a 'reserved occupation' they called it, so that he wouldn't have to go even when he was twenty and of the age when conscription applied. Peter of course worked in a 'hush-hush' job and wasn't supposed to tell anyone anything about it but he had revealed to William that he was in what he called Anglo/Dutch liaison. The strange wireless in Peter's house was used for short-wave communication to Dutch resistance groups. William had sworn his secrecy on his mother's life and felt very proud of Peter's trust - proud, pleased and gratified. Yet most things that Peter did gave him pleasure. The physical relationship was of course satisfying, yet Peter seemed to have given him something more than physical delight. William could himself appreciate that somehow he had gained more self-confidence, didn't feel so embarrassed in company, didn't even blush anymore when his workmates teased him. He quelled the indignant look the nippy gave him with one of his own but had to admit he was a little relieved when he saw the slim figure of Peter making his way between the tables towards him, smiling his gap-toothed smile. "Dear Wim," he said as he sat down. "A million, million regrets that I am late. A little trouble at work, I'm afraid." "Trouble?" asked William, anxious. "Not real trouble. I am making a mountain out of a molehill. Just too much work and also I had to contact Charles before I came here. But all is resolved now. So - " he peered at the menu " - what will you have to eat? Sardines on toast? Sounds horrible." "Poached egg, please," said William firmly. "Good choice. I will have it too. And then we will go back to the flat and I shall make love to you." Increased self-confidence William might have gained, but that remark, in a public place, with a frowning waitress hovering in the background and possibly overhearing, was too much. William blushed. But it didn't stop him enjoying his tea. As they went outside on the streets a news-seller, a little old man with a face like a monkey, was shouting his wares. "News, Star, Standaaaard! All the latest! Stop Press News! Tobruk holds out against German/Italian siege." Peter bought an Evening Standard and they huddled together in a shop doorway to study the report. "I think my dad's in North Africa," said William. "That's where Tobruk is, isn't it?" "It is, my dearest Wim," said Peter, "and that Rommel is no mean General. They call him the Desert Fox you know. But if the Allies can hold him then that's all the fewer troops for Hitler to make an invasion here." "Do you think there will be one?" asked William, his mind suddenly filled with images of German troops goose-stepping down Piccadilly, into Trafalgar Square, Hitler sitting on the throne in Buckingham Palace. "If America should come into the war, that would make a difference. President Roosevelt seems to want to but the American people are against it. Little Europe must get on with her own affairs." William giggled as always at Peter's quaint English. "Come, let us go home. Charles will have finished his messages by now." They turned into Charing Cross Road where the office workers were streaming out of the buildings and heading for the queues at the bus stops and underground stations on their ways home. Peter said it wasn't worth their while trying to get onto an already over-crowded bus so they walked. The setting sun sank behind some clouds and the sky became a dusky pink. Pigeons swirled and settled in the crevices of the stonework. "Red sky at night, welder's delight," said William, and had to explain what he meant to Peter. "So I give delight to my little apprentice-welder?" "Abso-fuckin'-lutely, guv," said William, as Cockney as they come. "Did you say Charlie would be in when we get there?" "I hope he will have finished and gone." "I hope so too." They reached St Giles's Circus and turned left down Oxford Street and then into the little side streets which led to Wentworth Mews. It was getting dark now and the streets were empty. They held hands. "Heard anything from your father?" asked Peter casually. "Mum got a letter from him last week. He wrote about the sand and the heat. That's why we think he's in North Africa," said William. "Do you consider it is a good idea that I meet with your mother?" "Christ!" William had never thought about this and the idea pulled him up short. "So you think it is not a good idea," said Peter and got out his front door key. It was still just light enough for him to see the keyhole. "It was just the surprise, but I think I would like it. I'm sure she would like you - and probably Adele would fancy you." Peter laughed and opened the door. They slipped into the tiny hall and in the darkness at the foot of the stairs Peter held William and kissed him on the mouth. "Is that you, Piet?" asked a voice from above. "Shit," said Peter. "Can't we slip out and come back later?" asked William but it was too late. The door opened upstairs and a rectangle of light spilled out into the staircase well. Charles' red head appeared framed in an aureole of light, peering down at them. "Oh it's both of you, is it?" He sounded cross. "Haven't you finished yet?" asked Peter and climbed the stairs, William following. He had never got on well with Charles, right from the first time they had met in the Fitzroy Tavern and further meetings hadn't improved matters. William wasn't sure if Charles was jealous of his relationship with Peter or if there was something else, something deeper. Peter and Charles had never been lovers - or so Peter said. In fact he stated that Charles was perfectly normal. Perhaps William's appearance had sparked off an innate detestation of Peter's queerness, which he had been able to ignore before. "Yes. Yes. I have finished now," said Charles. "Good God. What have you been doing here?" asked Peter, and William, following him into the room, saw the place was a mess, coffee cups, newspapers, some books, a plate with the remains of a meal and a knife and fork, cigarette ends. The cushions from the sofa were scattered about on the floor and some papers with writing on them lay about on the table. The whole place smelled stuffy with smoke. "Oh you're such a housewife," said Charles. "I'll clear it all up." "No leave it," said Peter. "We'll do it. We want to be alone." He ushered Charles out of the room and down the stairs. William heard them talking in the hall and then the front door open. He started to tidy up the papers. There was a document on the table that the wireless stood on. In fact there were two, one in English and the other in some sort of foreign language. Different handwriting but obviously the same text as the same figures appeared in similar places in both. He didn't really intend to but the words at the start of the English version made an impression. 'Mined areas in the North Atlantic,' it was headed. 'Disposition of recently-laid beds of minefields,' he read. Then followed a whole series of figures, presumably co-ordinates of whereabouts in the Atlantic the mines had been laid. It didn't make much sense. What was the point of giving information like this to Dutch partisans who, if interested at all, would want to know where the mines in the North Sea were, not the Atlantic. "What a slut that Charlie is," said a voice from the doorway and Peter entered, smiling his loving smile, his blue eyes, clear and innocent. He took the papers from William's hand and screwed them into a ball, tossing them into the wastepaper basket. "Now how much time have we got?" "I promised Mum I wouldn't be back any later than nine," said William. "Even though the bombing raids aren't nearly as heavy, she worries so." "Then we must make good use of what time we have," said Peter. He gathered William into his arms and for a while he made him forget everything.
Thursday 15th May 1941 "Sorry, Mrs. Salter, it's them bloody U-boats," said Alfred Dent, High Class Grocer as the sign stated over his shop window. "The convoys can't get through, you see. They say our ships are being sunk at a rate of three a day, crossing the Atlantic. And of course it's the only way we can get the stuff we don't produce at home." He gave a despairing sigh as if it was just one of those things that couldn't be grumbled at, was almost unpatriotic to grumble at, and wiped his hands on his apron. Theresa Salter knew full well that there were other women, perhaps younger and more attractive than she was, who got that little bit extra over the ration - but at what cost? She wondered whether Mrs. Dent (High Class Grocer's wife) knew about these arrangements and what - with her muscled forearms - she might do to Alfred if she ever found out. But there was a queue behind her, impatient women who, like her, worked the whole week and wanted to get the week's shopping over as soon as possible on Saturday morning. "Thank you, Mr. Dent," she said, smiling her nicest smile. "I DO of course quite understand." Mr. Dent gave her a calculating look. He lowered his voice. "Perhaps I could find a little something, some tea perhaps... If you came back this afternoon, after closing time at one o'clock." There was a Ministry of Food poster on the back wall. It said: 'Food is a munition of war - Don't waste it'. Fat chance of that, Theresa thought. She smiled again, promising nothing. "Good morning, Mrs. Dent," she said loudly to the big woman behind the cheese counter as she went out. Summer again but, unlike last year's remarkable one, this June had reverted to normal. It was raining, that fine drizzle which soaked through clothes almost without seeming to. Flaming June, thought Theresa crossly. Jean from next door popped in through the back door almost as soon as Theresa had got home. "You look as if you could do with a cup of tea," she said as soon as she opened the door and stepped in. Theresa was drying her hair on a towel. "No need to say you 'aven't got any, I've brought my own. Enough for a couple of cups anyway." She held up a screw of paper and started to fill the kettle before Theresa could say anything. "I know the ration doesn't go anywhere. Two ounces a week, I ask you. Hardly enough to last for a couple of days." It reminded Theresa of the incident in the shop. "That Dent creature," she burst out, anxious to confide, "he offered me some tea in exchange for... favours!" "Oh him! He's 'armless. All he wants is a little feel. He's too dead scared of that missus of his to do anything more. I bet he'll give you a quarter of tea for a touch of your titties." Theresa was shocked. "That's awful," she said. Jean shrugged. "You do what you 'ave to do," she said. "Alternative is the Black Market. And you know what they're askin' for a quarter of Empire Blend Indian? Four shillings! Four bleeding shillings a quarter. And the proper price at the Co-op, when you can get, it is only 6d." "I can't afford to pay that," said Theresa. "As it is what Bert sends back from his pay goes nowhere. Poor William's hardly getting anything and we're mostly living on Adele's pay. It isn't fair on her. Between you and me," she confided, getting closer to Jean and lowering her voice though there was no one else in the kitchen to overhear, "I'm thinking of getting a job as a bus conductress. They're advertising for them down at the depot." Jean laughed. "I can see you on the number 39," she said. "That'll be useful. Goes right past the Army and Navy Stores. And the uniform's very fetching, and the hat. You'll look good with that cocked sexily over one eye. Fares please. Pass right down the bus. Hold very tight. Ding Ding." Adele clattered down from her room. "I'm off to the pictures with Mavis," she said. "Think I'll go on to the Palais after." She looked very smart in a new Frazerton dress in green rayon. "We can stretch the brew," said Jean, stirring the pot, "if you'd like a weak one before you go." "Please," said Adele. "My, you look nice," said Theresa. "Got some Elizabeth Arden powder and lipstick," said Adele vaguely. "Lucky you," said Jean. "Where from?" Adele looked evasive. "Oh," she said. "You know..." She seemed relieved when the back door burst open and William came in, wet through and shaking his head so that drops of water flew in a great circle around. Theresa threw him the towel and he rubbed his head vigourously. "Your hair's too long," said Theresa. "It needs a short back and sides." "No it doesn't," said William. His hair hung down over his eyes. "You look like a sheepdog," said Theresa. "Makes him look like a girl," said Adele, glad the subject had changed from her make-up. "Peter likes it like this," William blurted out without thinking and then regretted it immediately. All three women turned on him. "Who's Peter?" asked Adele. "A friend." "We never see any of your friends," complained Theresa. Jean just looked interested. "Why don't you invite him here for tea?" asked Theresa. "So that we can meet him." Tea, she thought. Where would that come from? She felt almost ashamed that she couldn't provide a decent cup of tea for her family, for friends to be invited. The War was bad enough with its killing and destruction, but it was the little inconveniences that made it so hellish. "Do you want a cuppa?" asked Jean. "I could add a bit more hot water." She peered doubtfully into the pot and stirred the contents. "Gnats' piss," said William. "Isn't there a proper cup." "It's the convoys," said Theresa. "It's so dangerous for our ships crossing the Atlantic." "Mines," said William suddenly as if a thought had struck him. "Not mines, stupid," said Adele. "It's the U-Boats. Anyway I'm off. Ask your friend round and I'll give him the once-over. Probably a spotty kid like you anyway." She went down the hall, her heels clicking on the linoleum. William called after her. "You can talk about spots!" "Don't be unkind to your sister, dear," said Theresa. "She can't help her face. It's the job she does." William turned back to his mother. "You've seen him anyway. Remember, we met in the underground at the Elephant and Castle on my birthday last year? He's not a kid. He's twenty seven." "I don't remember your friend but ask him. I'll get some tea and see if I can make a cake." She glanced at the clock and avoided catching Jean's amused eye. "I'm just going down to the shops." She put on her hat. At least it had stopped raining and the sun was out.
Saturday 17th May 1941 The six girls erupted from the Essoldo Kinema, warpaint repaired in the Ladies, ready for anything. Through the warm evening they walked along the pavements in an untidy huddle, chattering and laughing, and generally causing innocent offence to harassed passers-by who were too old to remember how good it was to be young and healthy. There might be a war on, people might be killing each other but it was an afternoon off from work and they were out with a bunch of mates. "Wasn't it sad when Bonnie got killed," said sentimental Ella, "falling off the pony. I had a real good cry." Maud had brought a bag of mint humbugs and generously passed them round. "As God is my witness. I'll never be hungry again," said Mavis, sucking her sweet and quoting from the film. "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn," said Adele and the girls shrieked with laughter. "Well, what shall we do now?" asked Lily. "Let's all go down the Strand," sang Mavis, with the words of the old Music Hall song. ".... and have a banana," chorused the rest. An elderly man in a pinstriped suit and carrying an umbrella gave them a disapproving look which made them laugh all the more. "It's disgraceful how the young gels of today behave," he muttered as he went by. "Old toffee-nose," said Ella, once he was safely out of earshot. "Well, girls," said Mavis. "What do you say to the Palais? See if we can pick up some fellas." Ella had to go home but the other five clambered joyfully onto a tram intent on having a good time. Sitting in the upstairs of the tram and looking out onto the evening streets, Adele thought a little nostalgically of Chalky. It was fun going out with the girls, having a laugh, but to go into the Lewisham Palais, dressed in her best blue frock with the shoulders and the short sleeves, on the arm of a boyfriend, especially one as good- looking as Chalky, would have been just that much better. And he'd been such a wonderful lover, tender and romantic - and very good at it. She wondered why he hadn't written. It had been - she counted back the weeks - two months since they'd last ... "Ouch!" She was jogged from her reverie by Mavis's elbow. "Come on, dozy. What yer dreamin' about? Tell us what this fella you're goin' to find tonight will look like." "Curly blond hair," said Adele, remembering. "White teeth - " "All 'is own," suggested Maud. "And a big smile." "And a big somethin' else," said Mavis amidst the merriment. "Ooh you are awful," said Vera, laughing with the rest. The band, the Teddy Winters Ballroom Orchestra, was hardly 'Big Band' standard but it played a passable quickstep and had been known to include its own version of 'In the Mood' to which restrained jitterbugging, the new craze from America, was allowed. The girls found seats on one side of the dance floor and stared at the line of 'boys' on the other, discussing their demerits. There were a few young men in uniform but mostly they were either young lads, just out of school and embarrassingly aware of it, or middle-aged men probably having a night off from their wives. "Doesn't look as if Prince Charming's come tonight," said Maud. The music changed to a fox-trot, 'A Nightingale Sang in Berkley Square, slow and sweetly sentimental, Georgie Fisher's saxophone moaning the tune. "If no one asks me for a dance soon, I'm going over there to grab one of them myself," said Mavis. "There's a Pilot Officer over by the bar," said Ella. "Look at his 'tache. I bet that'd tickle." "Depends where he's kissin' you," said Vera, sniggering. "Oh Gawd," said Mavis. "That red-haired bloke. Surely it's old Charlie Leverton." "And 'e's coming this way." And indeed the under-manager of Woolwich Arsenal munitions factory was making his way across the floor, skirting the dancing couples, the lights from the revolving mirror-ball, catching his red hair. Adele, for a moment, felt a spurt of unreasonable panic. "Well, he's not likely to recognise any of us girls," said Lily. "He never really looks at us at work, not even when he's tellin' us off." "Would any of you lovely ladies care for a dance?" he asked, nattily dressed in a double-breasted suit and bright green tie. Mavis restrained her 'smart' answer in case he should somehow discover that they all worked at the Arsenal. His gaze roamed over the five of them and finally settled on Adele. He smiled. It made him look almost human. Nervously Adele got up and felt herself held in his arms. She was pleasantly surprised to find that he was a good dancer - more than that, an excellent dancer. He wasn't one of those types that grab you in a bear-hug and try to rub themselves up against you, taking liberties. Nor was he one of the 'pump-handle' brigade who jig along, only occasionally in time to the music, and try to make up for the paucity of their footwork with the energy of their arm movements. Adele felt that they made a good couple, flowing smoothly over the dance floor and his directions were well-controlled so that he didn't once bump into another couple. "You're a good dancer, Mr..." Ooops - she had nearly given it all away by calling him Mr. Leverton. "My name's Charlie," he said, "and you're a beautiful dancer. I can't understand how I haven't met you before at the Palais." "I'm Adele." "That's a nice name." It almost sounded as if he meant it. The lights dimmed and a spotlight roamed the floor picking out various couples. Adele realised suddenly that it was a spot dance. She looked at his face under the lights. She hadn't noticed it before but he was quite good looking. Odd coloured eyes under that red-gold hair. Light brown, almost yellowish. She suddenly thought of a cat's eyes. "We've met before," he said, looking at her, "haven't we?" It was out. Adele prepared to confess. Then suddenly there was space around them as other couples were picked off. "Come on," said Charlie," let's give them a show." He took her firmly and together they glided over the floor. She felt as if she was floating, giving an exhibition, as her feet followed his, his hips guiding her closely, her head held proudly. Then they were alone, the only couple on the floor while the spotlight lit up the pair of them and everyone around was clapping. The music finished. He gave her a final twirl and they were done. She stood there for a moment in his arms, mouth slightly open, breath coming fast. Then he let her go. "Thank you, Adele," he said, and took her back to the group of girls. "Well," said Mavis after he'd gone, "that was nice. Did you ask him for a rise for all of us?"
End of Part 5