Bless ’Em All Read online

  There was a sort of angry rumble from the crowd, and then another thump, which sounded nearer. People began to get down on the stone floor, some struggling to get under the pews. White, contorted faces registered fear and panic. A toothless old man standing next to her, with a row of medals pinned to his tatty overcoat, said, ‘Miles away. I was in the last lot’, by way of explanation. ‘The one that hits you, you don’t hear it.’ There was anxiety in every eye. These people couldn’t believe what was happening. They had come out for a stroll or just popped in to see the interior of the famous old building, and they had suddenly found themselves trapped inside while bombs rained down around it. It wasn’t real. It was like something from the films. A woman grabbed her two children and enveloped them in her arms as though to ward off any damage. The children, feeling that something was wrong, started to cry. There was a group of people kneeling down, silently praying. Dark-frocked ushers were trying to get people to sit down, clearing the aisles. Betty tried to get back to the door but was swept away into another aisle. It was like she had no control over her movements. She sat down at the end of a pew and, irrationally, opened a prayer book. Was this how it was going to be? Everything out of control, just pushed around like an object in the game of pass the parcel? She found herself praying. Praying was something she hadn’t done since she was at school. Dear God, let me get home safely. And don’t let anything happen to Stephen, who has never done anything wrong. She must have remained in the pew for half an hour, full of dread thoughts, stiff from cold and fright. The other people all seemed preoccupied with their own thoughts. Nobody looked at anyone else, as if avoiding the fear in another pair of eyes, knowing that would mirror their own.

  Betty felt that the world had stood still though these nerve-wracking minutes. Something was happening that was out of the usual order, something strange, frightening, barbaric. Anyone who was in the cathedral at this time would remember the way they restrained the feelings of cold terror. At odd moments in their life they would suddenly think of this time, this awful void in time, when they were trapped with a couple of hundred strangers, waiting to be blown sky high.

  Then there was the sound of the all-clear, a doleful, mourning sound, but not alarming. People around her started to relax. You could almost hear the sound of muscles and nerves stretching, breathing, escaping from the restrictions of fear. Expressions assumed a haughty disdain. Why were all these people such cowards, crying before they had been hit? Each human component of the trapped congregation separated itself from the rest. They shuffled out in some sort of order, with polite gestures, winking to reassure themselves.

  They had all known, of course, that God would protect St Paul’s.

  7

  MISS Tcherny was in the warehouse when the bombs started to fall. She was surprised that bombs were actually falling in broad daylight. She thought that these attacks were scheduled for stealth of the night, when the bombs were released into a black void, and the people in the air would have no knowledge of what, or who, might be underneath.

  Night bombing was somehow more acceptable. At least she would have had a chance to get home. God knows what would happen when the rush-hour started. Tube stations might be closed, buses erratic. If she was home she would at least be with her family or maybe with Charlie. As it was she was likely to perish with spotty Jimmy, Harry the packer, and dry-as-dust Maurice Green. They had made many trips to the cellar recently, but they had all proved to be false alarms. The trapdoor opened directly on to the street, so they could hear the destructive activity and see pairs of feet scurrying by in an indecisive frenzy.

  She heard the thumps and saw the lower half of a fire engine skidding by. Maurice had elected to stand on the roof. What good he was doing up there she couldn’t imagine. Did he think that the sight of an angry Maurice Green on the roof would scare the pilots away? And what was the point in spotting where a bomb had fallen after it had hit something and exploded? These British seemed to think that they were somehow impervious to harm, that a show of righteous indignation would scare people off. They were children in this game of war. Her parents had seen these Nazis at work, had been terrified by attacks on their dress shop, packed everything they owned and left, leaving their life savings, which they had been unable to reclaim, in an Austrian bank. Hitler, it was said, was an Austrian, which made their situation worse. When they first came to Britain they were able to make contacts with relatives and business friends, but it all dried up. She had never told Charlie about the family history. It was best to let it lie. What he didn’t know couldn’t upset him.

  She had promised him that she would stay a night with him in his sister’s house. It seemed a tremendous event at the time she agreed, but, with air raids and bombs, going on a seduction seemed a minor matter. She wasn’t keen anyway, it was a sacrifice, but if it sent him away happy was it a contribution to the war effort?

  She looked across the cellar at Jimmy. His young face was anxious. He was white and his Adam’s apple kept going up and down. He was sitting bolt upright, as though sitting to attention, his whole body stiff with strain.

  ‘Come and sit near me,’ she said, in a sudden fit of compassion, and he turned towards her, near to tears.

  ‘Why are they doing it, miss?’ he whispered.

  ‘Because they’re just stupid,’ she said. ‘Crazy.’

  ‘Are they all crazy? The Germans?’

  ‘It’s orders,’ she said. That seemed to satisfy Jimmy, although why she couldn’t understand.

  Harry had brought a flask of tea, which he poured out carefully, offering the stewed brew to the others. ‘What’s the time?’ he asked, yet again.

  ‘Four o’clock,’ Rosa said.

  ‘Time for tea,’ Harry said, without humour.

  The boy Jimmy had somehow got his head in her lap. He was gulping back tears.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘You’re all right down here.’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ he choked. The bravado of the cheeky youth seemed to have left him.

  It was nearly five o’clock before the all-clear came through. Young Jimmy had sobbed a bit and dribbled a bit down her blouse. After the all-clear he suddenly sat up and gave her a wink, and somehow managed to get his nose between her breasts. She pushed him away. How early did these boys start feeling for their oats? In a few years’ time this little runt would be uncontrollable.

  Maurice Green came down from the battlements as though he’d warded off a panzer attack single-handedly. They were still playing a game. They didn’t realize how serious it was. They were so secure in their Britishness. They won the Great War, didn’t they? It cost them a few hundred thousand lives, but they won in the end. The British were special. There was something in their blood, their history.

  Maurice had seen two ugly machines going over towards the docks. He had been close enough to see the markings on their underbellies. There was an arrogance about their appearance in the sky right over the capital. It was an invasion of the peaceful haze over London. They were, in every way, foreign bodies, out of place, flaunting their daring, attacking the heart of Britain. It was something that made the blood rush to the head. Then he heard the thumps. They sounded near, but the smoke that rose afterwards was miles away. The warehouse was almost in the shadow of St Paul’s, but Maurice knew that that holy place, with its history and all it stood for, was sacrosanct. Not even the Nazis would dare to attack St Paul’s.

  He hadn’t seen Bernard all day, and now, at five o’clock, he could do with an extra pair of hands to tackle the post. Harry came upstairs.

  ‘What you going to do, guv’nor?’

  Maurice stared. ‘We’re going to get the orders off, of course.’

  Harry looked down at the floor.

  ‘It’s five o’clock,’ he said.

  ‘Well, we’re working till six.’

  Harry sort of shuffled his feet. ‘Don’t know what it’ll be like getting home. The wife’ll be worrying.’

  Miss Tcherny and
Jimmy came up, and stood, forming a sullen rebellious trio.

  ‘We ought to get off,’ said Miss Tcherny. ‘It’s going to be murder on the Tube.’

  Maurice suddenly felt angry. ‘You’re letting them win. Letting them disrupt our routine. We always get the post off at this time.’

  Nobody argued with him. They just stood together in silent disagreement.

  ‘There’s a war on,’ said Harry. ‘The customers know that.’

  ‘The post office will be closed,’ said Jimmy. ‘They were the last time.’

  ‘You’re paid until six,’ said Maurice weakly. ‘All right. But sharp in the morning.’

  They tumbled down the stairs, and Maurice picked up an order pad and started to look out the titles, walking between the shelves, picking the requested books, sorting them into neat piles for packing and invoicing. He’d make sure that they caught up tomorrow. If he let go the place could descend into a shambles. The customers relied on a prompt service. ‘By return’ had always been Green’s boast, and they were going to keep to it.

  Bunty was sure that Bernard had done her an injury. Her arm felt twisted and her thighs felt sore and burning. She was glad when the car came, but then, half-way home, the driver stopped and indicated that she should get out and get into an Underground shelter on the edge of a park. It was crowded down there and smelly. There was a fat woman playing an accordion, and people were singing as though their lives depended on it. She lost sight of the driver.

  A huge woman in a stretched-to-bursting dress said something to her and pushed a small boy to his feet to make room. The boy, who may have been eight or nine, stood sucking his thumb. Bunty sat down beside the woman. She felt lost. What was happening? Why had she been shoved into this concrete cave with all these people? She looked all around for the driver. The boy was staring at her and he tried to sit on her lap.

  ‘Get up, you horrible Herbert,’ said the large woman. ‘Mind your manners.’

  Right opposite Bunty an old man took out his false teeth, sucked the crevices with his tongue and put them back in again. A youth sat steadily picking his nose while he stared at her. A fat man with staring eyes patted her thigh reassuringly. A baby was being fed, surreptitiously, by a flushed-faced young woman.

  Bunty got up. She wasn’t doing any good here. She pushed past people until she got to the entrance. There was a policeman on the door.

  ‘I shouldn’t go out just now,’ the policeman said.

  Bunty just smiled and stepped out into the street. There was no one about, and the street was like a vast car park, but with cars parked randomly rather than in rows, left in a hurry by drivers rushing to find shelter. She didn’t know where she was. Kennington? Wandsworth? Ah, there was a bus, but it wasn’t moving. If she started to walk she wouldn’t know if she was going the right way and she couldn’t ask anyone. Suddenly she saw the car. It was parked next to a telephone box. She could ring her mother. Then Bunty realized that even if she were able to reach her mother she wouldn’t be able to tell her where she was. She didn’t know where she was. It was hopeless. She had a sudden feeling of panic. She knew that things were somehow different. People pursed their lips and opened them wide, as if they were saying something of immense significance. Everybody did it, and they always looked solemn or scared, so it must have been something important. Bunty’s mother wrote it down for her – WAR – and pointed up at the sky. Bunty had seen pictures of soldiers sloshing about in mud in the last war, and she knew it wasn’t up in the sky.

  She stood by the car. Surely the driver would come back. Why had he left it in such a hurry? And not only her driver. All the cars were stopped and no drivers to be seen. A policeman was beckoning her. What did he want? She started to go over and then, quite suddenly, the policeman relaxed and stopped his entreaty, and people started filtering out of the dark cellar where she had been, blinking in the daylight. The driver appeared, looking worried. He gestured to her to get into the car. Why had everything returned to normal so suddenly? Something was happening that she did not understand. She could write it down and ask Tim.

  When she got back Tim was standing outside the house looking worried. She smiled at him and he shouted at her, ‘Where the hell have you been?’ And she smiled as though he had paid her a compliment, which seemed to annoy him. He pushed her up the steps and up the stairs into their flat. She felt better. Here was Tim, angry as usual, but she was home, safe.

  ‘Who was that man?’ Tim shouted.

  She nodded in agreement with whatever it was he had said. But Tim was worked up about something. He took her by the shoulders and shook her, shouting all the while like a madman. His eyes were angry. What was wrong? Surely he ought to be glad to see her after all that had happened?

  She put on her ‘sorry’ face, but Tim would not be placated. She was aching to go to the bathroom. She pointed, and Tim let her go.

  When she came back Tim was looking out of the window. He seemed calmer. He gestured that she should sit down on the settee. He was saying something, very seriously, very earnestly. She composed her face to deal with this new phase. Tim was clearly worried. It was her job to comfort him. She snuggled herself into his arms and held him tight. Tim was a poor sod. He couldn’t really cope with life, and he couldn’t cope with her. She was very fond of Tim, in a sisterly, even motherly, sort of way. He had these little tantrums. He lost his temper, but it was soon over and she knew how to deal with him. She started to open his flies and Tim became like a lump of putty in her skilled hands. She drew his penis out and felt it stiffen in her hand. His eyes shut and he lay there like a puppy waiting to have its tummy tickled.

  Then she began to undress, taking off her blouse and then her brassière, and Tim was staring at her, not like a bewitched male, but pointing to her shoulder. He got up and dragged her before the wardrobe mirror. She could see a big blue bruise. Tim was pointing and shouting, looking angrier than ever. He jerked the blouse off and pulled down her skirt and knickers, but not in the nice, saucy, loving way they were used to but in an angry way, looking at her as though he were examining her for imperfections. He pointed to her thighs that were red with a scratch on the inside of the left one. He was shouting again: that pursing of the lips and wide open mouth. Everything seemed to start with this facial contortion. Tim was clearly in a high old temper. He kept pointing at her scratches and bruises, and pointing them out to her in the mirror. Did he think she’d done them herself? He was a funny boy was Tim. She put on her nightdress and got into bed. Tim was staring out of the window. He lit a cigarette. He was trying to steady himself, control his nerves. Bunty waved at him, but he turned away.

  The next day when Bunty’s mother came Tim insisted on Bunty showing her the bruises and scratches. Bunty’s mother wasn’t impressed. ‘They’ll heal up. I’ll put some iodine on if you like.’

  ‘But where has she got them from?’

  ‘Only she knows that, and she’s not telling.’

  ‘Somebody has been knocking her about,’ Tim said with heat.

  ‘You don’t know that. She could have fallen down somewhere.’

  ‘When I got back from work she wasn’t here.’

  ‘I expect she went down a shelter or something. There was a warning. Maybe she fell or got knocked down in the rush.’

  These off-the-cuff explanations did not serve to mollify Tim. ‘It’s these blokes she goes with. Bloody animals.’

  ‘Why should anyone want to knock her about? She’s done nothing. Poor thing.’

  ‘How do you know what she’s been up to?’ Tim shouted wildly.

  ‘All right,’ said Bunty’s mother. ‘There’s no need to inform the whole house.’ Bunty’s mother always came out on top in these exchanges. She knew that Tim had realized what was going on, but he just hadn’t got the will-power to put a stop to it. He was allowed his little rant and rave. Nothing could come of it. The fact was that Tim couldn’t really afford someone like Bunty. He was lucky was Tim. If it wasn’t for the speech dif
ficulties and not being able to hear, Bunty would have been on the stage, or even the films. Bunty was, after all, a beauty, and Tim couldn’t expect her to be waiting behind the door for him all day long.

  After this incident Tim became sulky. He knew that he didn’t have any control over his wife. She may not be bright, but she was very headstrong, determined to go her own way, whether he liked it or not.

  Bert Penrose was in the basement of the Claridge’s Hotel when the warning came through. He didn’t hear it, but he knew because the basement where he was engaged in interminable washing up suddenly filled up with other members of staff. They wouldn’t come down there otherwise. Bert resented these periods of alarm. All the others – porters, page boys, maids, waiters and maintenance people – stood around, smoking and chatting, while he continued to slop around the dishes in slimy water. He didn’t mind working, but he didn’t like all these people watching him. The head waiter often peered over his shoulder, wiping a finger over a plate. ‘Look at that,’ he would say. ‘Disgusting.’ And later, the manager would come down and give Bert a ticking-off.

  Bert hated working in the underground slop house. When he left home he always tried to dress up a bit, to give the impression he was going to some important job in an important firm. When he got to Claridge’s he undressed and put on floppy overalls that, even when just back from the laundry, smelt like they had been boiled in carbolic.

  Nevertheless, he knew he was lucky to have the job at all. He had been an imposing hall porter, with brown-and-gold livery, and would have been still if that cow hadn’t reported him for busting into her room while she was getting dressed. True, he hadn’t knocked, but he had been too busy with the cases to notice her in her scanties. In any case, there wasn’t much of her, the skinny cow. Lady Alexandra Something, and a right little snob she was, had demanded that he was dismissed, and the management had made a show of giving him the sack but had, in fact, hidden him in the basement as a dish-washer. It was either that or out on his ear, without notice and without a reference. If he weren’t too old he would have volunteered for the Army or the bloody Navy.