HMS Marlborough Will Enter Harbour (1947) (22 page)

So Godden’s thoughts wandered, as he turned into his own street, the dirty cul-de-sac off the Harrow Road, where they shared a seven-roomed house with two other families. What he didn’t think about, the thing he never gave a thought to because it had never yet crossed his mind, was why he felt as he did about the Army, and England, and joining up straight away, and helping people in air raids. No one had helped him for more than twenty years. His wife alternately laughed, sneered or raged at him, his daughter was growing up in the same dreary image. The place he lived in was the same ‘home fit for heroes’ he had finally found in 1919 – a damp and crowded little hell with, now, the cracked decay of 1939 and the drains of 1850.

The England which had welcomed his services, with a beaming smile in the Great War, was now baring its gums and getting ready to accept them again – but what it had done for him in the meantime was like some sordid confidence trick with a rotten-cored apple. And yet here he was, on the first day of another war, taking another bite of that same apple, ‘joining up’ without a thought, without hesitation, without really believing that he had any other course.

Not quite ‘without thought’, perhaps; but almost. Vaguely he realized that it wasn’t much of a world off the Harrow Road, that it was wrong that Edie should have to go out office cleaning in order to make up the rent and that Edna (as she had pointed out on one vile, unforgotten occasion) got more money as a ‘starter’ at Madame Marie’s than he himself now drew from public assistance. But he didn’t connect this with anything more complex than the circle of his own family: he didn’t think of it as the fault of any system or group or organization. What he did think, from reading the newspapers, looking at cinema posters, and listening to Edie, was that there must be something wrong with himself.

The delight of professional patriots, the despair of social historians, and the irrational pride of England, Godden went down the basement steps to the corner of the house where they lived.

‘Rescue work? You’re daft!’ Edie Godden banged down the plate with the overcooked, dried-up kipper on it, and put her hands on her hips again. ‘Why don’t you get yourself a proper job for once? What’s rescue work? Who could
you
rescue? I’d like to know!’

‘It’s air-raid precautions,’ answered Godden for the fifth or sixth time. He had known it would be like this, but it was impossible to explain why he had missed dinner, and why he would have to go out again after tea, without going into details of the job. He had thought she might be pleased about the money, but she wasn’t.

‘Are you one of those wardens?’

‘No,’ said Godden. ‘We go out when there’s a raid, and give a hand, like.’ (Shoring up and breaking through walls, Watson the squad leader had said, but he wasn’t going to say anything about that to Edie. It would only start her off.)

‘What sort of a hand could you give in an air raid?’

Godden, munching dry flaky fish and trying to wash it down with tea, didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said: ‘They’ll tell us all tonight.’

Edie Godden sniffed. ‘They’ll have to tell you a lot before it makes any sense. What do you want to get yourself mixed up in that lot for? Walter’s firm is going to make uniforms, he says. There’s thousands in it. Why don’t you get yourself a job like that?’

Once again Godden paused before answering. All he knew was that he didn’t want that sort of job at all. It wasn’t what you ought to do in wartime, not if you could help people other ways. Air raids were more important. For weeks now, he had had a picture of what an air raid might be like, and the number of people who might be needing help when it came. He’d seen a film once (the cinema in the Harrow Road put them on in the mornings, for the unemployed, threepence a time) with an air raid in it. Bombing in China, or something; a kid stretched out on the ground with its clothes torn and bloodstained, and a woman with her hair hanging down acting crazy over it, waving her hands and crying. Godden hadn’t liked that picture, or the things it meant: he had wanted to pick up the child, take care of the woman, giver her a cup of tea or something, tell her it would be all right.

He felt like that about all sorts of people – about everyone, in fact, who had a run of bad luck or needed a hand. There were plenty of those in the Harrow Road … his reverie was interrupted by Edie.

‘Hurry up with that plate,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to do some proper work, if you haven’t.’

‘It’s a government job,’ said Godden. ‘Because of the air raids.’

‘Government! You’ll be saying you’re in Parliament next. Another excuse for hanging about doing nothing, more like.’

Edna came in, from the bedroom she shared with her mother. (Godden slept on a camp bed in the kitchen where he was now eating.) Edna was dressed to go out, in a brown coat with a piece of fur round the collar, yellowish silk stockings, and a shining black handbag. Under the gaslight her hair had a thin metallic glint. Godden saw that she had been making up again – there had been a row about it a couple of days earlier: the childish mouth stood out in a straight wet gash, the red patches on the sallow cheeks were like fever marks. His daughter, fifteen years old, and looking like a Praed Street tart already.

‘You going out?’ he asked, rather sharply.

‘Pictures,’ said Edna. Even in that single word she achieved the whining tone she had now permanently adopted. It sounded like a sulky complaint. He wondered what sort of a place this Madame Marie’s could be, if they put up with that sort of thing from a kid.

‘It’s the first night of the war. You ought to stay at home with your mother, instead of gadding about looking like a–’

‘Like a what?’ said Edie sharply.

‘Nothing,’ said Godden.

‘You leave the child alone. Why shouldn’t she have a bit of fun? She pays for it, doesn’t she? I don’t see you doing much staying at home, either. Dad’s got a job,’ she added to Edna. ‘Rescue work in air raids, he says.’

‘Sounds soppy to me,’ said Edna. She looked at herself in the mirror over the mantelpiece, and pushed up her hair at the back. ‘Rescuing what, may I ask?’ she said, and giggled rapturously at her wit.

Godden said nothing.

‘I’m going out myself, anyway,’ said Edie, ‘so there’s no cause to go after Edna just because she wants a bit of fun.’

‘You and Edna ought to go away, really,’ said Godden. He had finished his tea, and wanted a cigarette, but the packet was crumpled and empty. The yellow gaslight, bubbling and purring, made the kitchen a cosy place to relax in: it might have been a nice little home. ‘Away from London, I mean,’ he added.

‘Where to?’ asked Edie.

‘Out in the country somewhere. There’s places. It says so in the papers. Evacuation scheme, that’s what it is.’

‘Lot of nonsense,’ said his wife. ‘That’s just for the kids.’

‘Grown-ups too. Everyone. I saw it in the papers. In case there’s big raids.’

‘Catch me going off to the country!’ said Edna. ‘No shops or anything. Give me the creeps.’

‘You’ll do what you’re told,’ said Godden.

‘Leave the child alone, can’t you?’ Edie broke in. ‘Anyone would think you’d bought the place, with your rescue work and your three pounds a week.’

‘Three pounds!’ exclaimed Edna, in a high affected voice. ‘Wonders will never cease. Well, I must be going. Goodbye, soaks – I mean folks!’ She giggled again, patting her hair.

‘Enjoy yourself, love,’ said Edie fondly.

‘You know me,’ said Edna. The door rattled behind her as she went up the basement steps.

There was silence in the kitchen after she had gone. Godden knew he ought to speak to Edie about the child, who was getting worse every day, but it would mean another row straight away, and he didn’t want to start that tonight. It was a special night for him – the war, a new job, a place in the same old team again … He kept silent until Edie, after tidying up at the sink had put on her hat and was ready to go out. Then he said, in an effort to be friendly: ‘Not working Sundays, are you?’

‘I’m going round to Mrs Lambert’s,’ said Edie briefly. There was no answering friendliness in her voice. ‘What about in the morning? What time do you finish at this job of yours?’

‘Eight,’ said Godden. ‘Back here about half past.’

‘I can’t cook you breakfast then. I’ve got to start early tomorrow, and Edna’s got quite enough to do getting ready for her work.’

‘I’ll do it myself, then.’

‘And there’s no need to be a martyr, either.’

Godden said nothing.

‘Don’t mess up the stove while you’re at it,’ Edie went on. ‘I’ve enough cleaning to do as it is.’

She put her hat straight before the mirror, buttoned her coat, and left the house.

Godden sat on, thinking of the coming night’s work, wondering what time the raids would start. In a way, he was looking forward to the air raids. It was a chance to do something at last.

For the first time for many years, he put on his medal ribbons before he set out for the depot.

It was good to walk out of the house, not pointlessly as so often in the past, but on his way to work.

Just before eight o’clock that night, ‘Rescue and Stretcher Party Depot No.1’ was a very full and noisy place. The day shift, rather a scrappy, disorganized collection on that first Sunday afternoon, were turning in their equipment and preparing to leave: the incoming night shift, after signing on in the Control Room, were waiting about until they had a bit of elbow-room to organize themselves. At the moment they were all mixed up together in one moving, aimless throng – rescue parties, stretcher parties, drivers, first aid instructors, with a sprinkling of Red Cross and St John uniforms here and there; but already, as they waited and watched the day-workers leave, there was a subtle tension in the air.

It was that prime tension of the war, the edge of something unknown but inevitable. September the third had been quiet so far, but they were now embarking on its crucial hours – the night shift; and from now on, as the crowds in the main hall thinned, leaving only themselves to take the weight, theirs was the true ordeal and the true danger.

So far the others had only been playing at it, filling in the time; but the real thing might break loose at any moment – the newspapers and the radio, with their brutal news from Poland, underlined this continually – and they themselves were left, the Stoic garrison, to live out the coming night.

Presently, as they waited, a tall man, in a well-cut dark suit, stood up on a chair and called for silence. The crowd in the main hall, who had been waiting for something of the sort, stilled expectantly; and the man began to speak, with a brisk confidence which they recognized and welcomed.

‘I just want to tell you,’ he began, ‘a few things about the job you’re taking on, and the sort of work you can expect. This depot is part of the Borough organization for dealing with air raids. I don’t know when they’ll come – tonight quite possibly – but we’ve got to be ready for them in any case. In the next few weeks we’ll have plenty of training, I hope: in the meantime we’ll have to do the best we can.’ He let his eyes go round the room. ‘We’re very glad to have so many volunteers: it’s been a splendid response, and a great credit to Paddington. You will probably find this place a bit crowded and uncomfortable until things shake down: but we hope to organize a proper meal system in the canteen, and beds and mattresses for those squads which aren’t at immediate readiness.

‘If there’s an air raid you’ll all be going out together as soon as an incident is reported in this district, whether the raid is still on or not. There’s a steel helmet for every man on the job, by the way, and we should have enough service gas masks for everyone by next week. The stretcher parties will deal with the casualties lying about the streets, in the first place; and the light and heavy rescue parties will get to work releasing people who may be trapped in houses, so that the stretcher-bearers can deal with them too. As soon as we can arrange it, there’ll be a full programme of first-aid training, with an examination, for all stretcher-bearers; and we may have to ask the Rescue Parties to take elementary training too. But that’s looking into the future a bit. For tonight I just want to be sure that you’re ready to move out if you’re called on.

‘You’ve all been organized into squads, as you know: stretcher-bearers and rescue parties alike. Make sure you know your squad leader and squad number. There’ll be sentries provided by these squads, to look after the lorries and to watch the doors. Squad leaders will fix the rotas for this themselves: they’ll also be responsible that their squads are ready to go out at short notice, any hour of the night. The warning system should give you plenty of time, as we’ll get a confidential warning before the sirens go. But,’ he smiled, ‘accidents do happen, and you’ve got to be ready to move quickly if necessary. Cars and lorries should be warmed up every hour, just to make sure they’re in working order. That’s about all, I think,’ he concluded. ‘If there’s anything you want explaining, go along to the Control Room and see the officer in charge. I hope there’ll be nothing happening tonight, but if there is, the best of luck, and I’m sure you’ll all do a good job!’

Unconsciously, Godden had been standing stiffly to attention all the time that the man spoke to them. The words and the manner of delivering them, had recalled very strongly the long-past war years, with their sense of some supreme effort soon to come, and the stimulation of being trusted by authority at a moment of crisis. So often had Godden’s platoon commander spoken to his men, when there was a job – a patrol or a raid – to be undertaken, and their comradeship in danger was nearing its testing-time. So often had Godden tensely listened, striving to feel he was worthy of the trust, and would not let his part of the undertaking down. So, now, the link with that past and all it had stood for made itself felt, pulling him into the team again, giving this job its final worthwhile feeling.