War Baby (2 page)

A gasp of amazement went up before the rest of the men sprang into action.

‘Give him a hand, boys,' George ordered.

Lifted by Clancy's broad shoulders, the crossbeam of the truss began to rise. Other men put their shoulders beneath it too, straining for all they were worth.

Choosing just the right moment, Harry let go and with the help of a young lad of barely sixteen, they managed to slide the door out from beneath the beam. The roof truss was shifted to one side, though only enough to give them access to the space beneath the door.

Harry was closest to the hole and it was him who called for a flashlight. As his fingers were cramped with tiredness, he held the flashlight with both hands. Although the gap was filled with dust and it was difficult to see at first, its beam eventually picked out the body of a woman pinned face downwards. Even before checking for a pulse they knew she was dead.

‘I heard a baby,' Harry said. ‘I know I heard a baby.'

The same thought came to each of them: there had been a baby. They'd heard a baby, but they couldn't hear it now.

‘Right,' said George, the voice of authority. ‘Let's move her, but carefully, right? If there is anyone else down there, we don't want to disturb anything loose and bury them, now do we?'

Clancy and Harry moved the woman's body gently. Then the baby cried. It was alive.

‘She threw her body over the baby,' Harry exclaimed. Not for the first time, he was awestruck at a mother's bravery and self-sacrifice, throwing her body over her child so her little one might live.

‘She protected the little tyke,' Clancy said.

The baby was handed over to the proper authorities. Harry made enquiries regarding the woman, and was told that her name was Gilda Jacobsen and she had two older children who had been staying with their father's parents at the time of the raid. This fact gave him enormous relief. ‘At least the poor mite will have his grandparents to care for him.'

Unfortunately, Harry was wrong.

 

 

‘
SORRY LOVE. YOU
can't go through 'ere. The buggers dropped a big 'un, if you'll excuse my French.'

The man's face was soaked with sweat and there were bags under his red-rimmed eyes. Mary Sweet guessed he hadn't slept a wink all night.

‘Is it very bad?

He nodded. ‘Nearly as bad as the November raid, though different types of bomb. One of 'em didn't go off. I 'eard one of the sappers call it Satan
.
' Mary understood, as everyone did, that he was referring to a detachment of Royal Engineers; sappers was the name by which bomb disposal experts were more generally know.

Resigned that speaking on BBC's
Kitchen Front
wouldn't happen today, Mary sighed, pushed the gear stick forward and prepared to do a U-turn. The car, a basic black Austin bestowed upon the Sweet sisters by the Ministry of Food, made grating noises as though reluctant to be turned back. Mary felt pretty much the same. Although she'd been nervous first off, she quite enjoyed making these radio broadcasts, airing useful tips on how best to stretch the family budget but concentrating on baking. Baking was the most difficult subject of all in wartime cooking, purely because most of the ingredients for making pastry or a cake were on ration.

The windscreen wipers slapped backwards and forwards, not that it was raining. They just seemed to come on when she least expected it.

Usually the car was driven by Corporal John Smith, Mary's twin sister, Ruby, sitting in the back seat as a passenger. Today the privilege had been hers purely because while Ruby was fine demonstrating delicious ration-based recipes in front of people, giving out that same information over the airwaves terrified her.

The gearbox continued to make crunching noises, metal grating against metal. It really was a stubborn car.

Perhaps it wants to be a tank, she thought, and was putting up a show of defiance, relegated as it was to driving someone who talked to housewives about how best to make pies with ingredients they never would have dreamed of using before the war.

After shunting backwards and forwards a few times, she was finally facing the right direction. Homeward bound, she thought resignedly.

Although she was far enough out from the city centre not to be immersed in smoke, she could see it billowing skywards in the distance. She could also smell it, the very air dried and tarnished with its sooty heat and blown in her direction by a prevailing westerly wind.

She should have known better, of course. She knew there had been yet another raid on the city. Half the village had turned out last night after hearing the drone of bombers flying overhead. Even the pub regulars had poured out from the Apple Tree pub and the Three Horseshoes, their beer mugs tightly clutched in their fists.

First off the searchlights had picked out the black moving marks that were German bombers, vague X-shapes crossing the sky. Then the bombs began to fall, an awesome glow painting the sky a frighteningly beautiful orange-red over Bristol, the city of churches, their spires sharply black against the red glow.

‘Well, that ain't no shepherd's delight,' somebody said.

Red sky at night, shepherd's delight.
The meaning being that the following day would be fine.

In happier times it might have been said in jest to lighten the moment and lift the spirits of the gathered crowd, but it didn't happen. Those watching the terrible display had fallen to silence, perhaps thinking of how much damage had been done or, more likely, how many people had died.

‘Bleedin' Germans,' somebody said. ‘They got a lot to answer for.'

Against her better judgement Mary had still set out for the BBC studios in Bristol. Andrew Sinclair, her contact at the Ministry of Food, had promised to be there too, but had telephoned yesterday to say he couldn't come. London was also under siege, bombs everywhere.

‘Another raid tonight, I'm sure. My mother is very frightened,' he'd added. ‘I have to stay close to her.'

She'd told him she could find her way there by herself. She'd done so before. She'd appreciated the Ministry providing them with a telephone, but wondered sometimes if it was something of a curse: Andrew Sinclair was the only person who phoned regularly.

Not having him come was something of a relief. Although Andrew knew she was getting married in June, he couldn't hide the fact that he was attracted to her.

She'd told him she'd be fine. ‘The corporal left the car here last night. He knew I could drive and besides he was due some extended leave.'

She'd got up early this morning, skipping breakfast because she was feeling nervous. It wasn't the first time she'd done this, but the butterflies came every time.

Ruby had been surprised that she was still going. ‘We all saw the bombs last night. Bristol's had another bashing.'

Mary scanned her notes. ‘Yes, but they haven't said much about it on the wireless, only that a city in the south-west had been attacked by enemy bombers. They didn't say it was bad.'

‘That don't mean it ain't bad,' remarked her father. ‘And that's a straight road into the city centre. It might be dangerous.'

Mary was undaunted. ‘I'll skip the main road and skirt around the edge.'

‘You'll have to be careful. You don't have to go.'

What he meant was that he didn't want her to go.

‘I'll be fine, Dad.'

‘Your brother thought he'd be fine too.'

She'd looked at him tellingly, her hands slowing in the process of straightening her hat, her best one in a shade of blue that matched her eyes.

‘It's my duty, Dad,' she said softly. ‘I have to do my duty. I owe it to Charlie.'

At mention of his son, missing presumed dead, he'd turned away, heading in the direction of the bread oven and the freshly baked loaves he'd left there turning golden brown.

So much for getting up early; now here she was on her way home again. She caught herself in a yawn, her eyes flickering half shut. It was on blinking herself fully awake that she saw the WVS van, a monstrous affair with a drop side that opened up to serve as a counter. She guessed it had been there all night, a marshalling point for the emergency teams helping to put out fires, organise rescue centres and dig for the poor souls buried under tons of rubble. She prayed that casualties were light.

The women running the tea wagon were stalwart souls sporting stiffly curled iron-grey hair that peeked out under humble headscarves that had been tied into turbans. Each had a no-nonsense attitude, even though they must have been up all night. At present it seemed they were all enjoying a cuppa themselves, the lines beneath their eyes evidence of how long they'd been on their feet.

Mary pulled the car over, stopped the engine and got out.

‘Any chance of a cuppa?' she asked as cheerfully as she could. Her stomach rumbled. ‘Wouldn't mind a currant bun too or a tea cake if you happen to have one going.'

‘You're welcome, love. We've no butter, mind you. The air-raid warden had the last of that.'

‘I can manage without.'

The woman in charge wore a felt hat sporting the WVS badge. She peered at her with narrowed eyes that made Mary think she might be a bit short-sighted.

‘You been there, love?' She nodded in the direction of the city centre some four or five miles away. Her accent betrayed her humble origins, certainly not like the upper-crust Women's Voluntary Service type Mary had come across before.

‘I got turned back. I was trying to get to Whiteladies Road.'

She didn't want to mention the BBC studios; it might sound too superior and she badly needed that cup of tea.

‘What you doin' going there?' asked another of the women.

‘I work for the Ministry of Food. I was ordered to go there. You know how it is, ours is not to reason why …'

She left the rest of the words from the poem hanging in the air …
Ours is but to do or die.

She gulped the hot tea and quickly ate the currant bun they'd found for her. It was a little dry, especially without butter, but she was hungry and very grateful. Eating and drinking helped her blank out the unsaid words. Charlie, her brother, was dead at twenty-two. How many more, she wondered?

The women asked her about her work and Mary told them about her and her sister's job: showing women how to use their rations to make economical – and delicious – food.

The woman with the tightest iron-grey curls Mary had ever seen placed her cup into its saucer and sighed. ‘It's pastry and cakes that's the problem. There are never enough eggs and never enough fat.'

‘I can give you an eggless recipe,' Mary said to her. She went on to tell her to use self-raising flour
and
baking powder. ‘It makes a good sponge recipe without eggs. You're using more raising ingredient instead. Add margarine, milk, golden syrup and sugar – if you have enough. Sift the flour and baking powder. Mix the other ingredients together. Plus whatever jam you have for the filling.'

In turn they bombarded her with their own labour-saving cooking tips and favourite recipes.

Mary took out her notebook and wrote down everything studiously. Some recipes she would use and some were already familiar. However, it didn't do to upset people's feelings. This would have been the whole point of her wireless broadcast today: to have her listeners feel they were contributing in whatever small way they could, including sending in their recipes and home front tips.

‘So how come you got involved with all this then? You don't look old enough.' The woman in charge was straightforward and to the point, which was probably why she'd got the job in the first place.

Mary smiled politely, though it still grated when her youth was pointed out. The same point had been made so many times.

‘My family run a bakery. I've been baking and cooking all my life. I've had to, really. My mother died when I was very young. The work's divided between me and my twin sister. We won a baking competition and the Ministry offered us a job. I did have a brother serving on a merchant ship, bringing in food supplies, but …' She took a quick sip of tea to quell the short sob that threatened to escape. ‘His ship was torpedoed.'

There was much mutual nodding of heads. They understood and sympathised.

‘We all got men away fighting. Even the old blokes 'ereabouts aren't out of danger what with all this bombing. Even an ARP warden can get killed.'

Somebody else asked if she had a sweetheart.

Mary found herself blushing over the rim of her teacup. ‘Yes. We're getting married next month.'

The women erupted with cries of congratulations.

‘Bin courtin' long?'

She shook her head. It was the one question she hated facing. ‘No. Not very long at all, but …' She shrugged suggestively.

‘Grab the chance, dear. A fighting man I take it?'

‘Royal Air Force. He's Canadian. Even though we haven't known each other long, he kept asking.'

Suddenly out it all came. They were complete strangers, yet in their company, a cup of hot tea in one hand and a bun in the other, opening up to them seemed the natural thing to do.

‘My sister is making me a wedding dress and a bridesmaid's dress for my cousin Frances. It could also lift my father's spirits; he's been so down since my brother was lost at sea.'

‘Never you mind, dear. It'll all turn out right in the end. You wait and see. When you seeing him again?'

Mary shrugged. ‘I'm not sure. He's a bomber pilot. They're pretty busy at present.' She didn't add that sometimes she couldn't help having second thoughts about their imminent wedding. It had all happened so quickly but she couldn't back out now. Everything was arranged around the leave he'd managed to get.