We'll Meet Again (11 page)

‘Do you know what happened to the baby?’ he asked her.

‘No, but I’ll try and find out for you.’ And she was gone.

June, who was drooping with tiredness, threw out the blood-stained water and rinsed the bowl. ‘Let’s get you up to bed.’ She put her arm about her husband’s waist and helped him to stand. Together they negotiated the stairs with Sheila behind them. ‘Thanks, Sheila,’ she said, at their bedroom door. ‘I am jolly glad you were here. Go back to bed. I can manage now.’

The fires had indeed been greater than the Great Fire of 1666, and had done extensive damage to some of the most beautiful and historic buildings in the city. Worse still, there were thousands of casualties. But there were tales of great heroism too, which resulted in St Paul’s Cathedral being saved, and on a smaller scale, one tiny month-old baby had been given a
second chance of life. The infant Bob had rescued was alive and apparently none the worse, they learnt when the nurse arrived the following morning to dress his cuts. ‘The poor thing lost his parents, but the Red Cross are trying to find relatives who might take him.’

‘We’ll look after him,’ June said. ‘Until they find his relations.’

‘Don’t you think you’ve got enough on your plate looking after your husband?’

‘I’ll heal,’ he said. ‘I’m better already and I feel sort of responsible for the little one.’

He was more shaken up than he cared to admit, but he did agree to stay in bed with June fussing round him. Sheila took the opportunity to visit the cemetery with flowers and then went to the Mortons’ shop.

Everywhere were signs of devastation and fires still burning. Firemen with blackened faces went off duty and fresh-faced ones took their place. She had to make a detour, stepping over snaking hoses, to pass a building that was declared unsafe and again when a road was closed because of an unexploded bomb which the army were dealing with. It was not only sights and sounds that filled her vision, but strange smells too, of scorched cloth and burning wood, hot tar and death.

The Morton shop had been badly damaged; for the second time it had lost its windows and door and for the second time the stock had been ruined. ‘If that wasn’t bad enough, the shop was looted while I was at the hospital with my wife,’ Mr Morton told her. His once-grey hair was now snow-white and his pale eyes reflected the strain he was under. He had a hopelessness about him as if nothing mattered any more. ‘How can people do such a thing?’

‘I am so sorry.’

‘Janet has been a brick. I don’t know what we would have done without her.’ He jerked his head towards the door behind him. ‘She’s in the stockroom. Go and say hallo.’

Janet was weighing sugar from a sack into stiff, blue paper bags, eight ounces into each. ‘Hallo, Jan.’

‘Sheila! Well I never. What brings you here?’

‘I’m on holiday and catching up on old friends. How are you?’

‘I’m OK.’ She looked behind her towards the door into the shop and then whispered. ‘Mrs Morton lost a leg in an air raid. She was caught out when the raid happened and went into a public shelter that got a direct hit. Poor Mr Morton is really cut up about it, he seems to blame himself for letting her go out. They can’t live upstairs any more, so rent a ground-floor flat somewhere. He doesn’t come in every day. Leaves most of the work to me. He’s talking of making me manager and letting me have the upstairs flat.’

‘That will be handy for you. What about Bert?’

‘In the army. He comes home on leave sometimes, but it’s not the same, is it?’

‘No. Nothing is.’

‘Have you seen Chris?’

‘He’ll be at work. I’ll go round after tea.’

The baby Bob had rescued had been brought to the house and June was busy mixing up baby food for him when a newspaper reporter and cameraman arrived. They had heard of Bob’s bravery and wanted to make a feature of it. Sheila, watching them fuss about asking questions, felt sure that the authorities at Bletchley Park would frown on any of their employees attracting publicity, and slipped away to see Chris.

His face lit up when he saw her on the doorstep. ‘Sheila!’ He dragged her inside, hugged and kissed her. ‘Why didn’t you say you were coming?’

‘I wanted to surprise you.’

‘Well, you have that.’ He looked behind him. His mother had just come from the kitchen to see who was at the door.

‘It’s Sheila,’ he said. ‘She’s back. We’re going out.’

‘But you haven’t finished your tea.’

‘Yes, I have.’ He seized his coat from a hook on the wall and ushered Sheila into the street. ‘We can’t talk with Ma ear-wigging,’ he said, taking her arm. ‘Tell me all your news. Are you back for good?’

‘No, I’m on holiday. I’m staying with Bob and June.’

‘So how’s life in Bletchley?’

‘It’s OK. My aunt is a bit of a tartar, but she doesn’t worry me, not any more. What about you?’

‘Same as ever. Work, eat and sleep. I think about you a lot, wondering what you are up to.’

‘I think about you too. Sometimes I get dreadfully homesick and then I realise there’s no home to come back to and I’ve got to put up with it.’

‘What shall we do tonight? Fancy the flicks?’

They queued up at the cinema to see Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine in
Rebecca
. They sat in the back row and he put his arm about her.

Halfway through the film, a message flashed on the screen. ‘Air Raid Warning.’ Half a dozen people left but the rest stayed where they were and the film continued. The noises outside were muffled by the soundtrack. After the main film, they watched the Pathé News. Pictures of London burning were shown with the St Paul’s Cathedral standing proud amid the smoking ruins, which were accompanied by stories of stoicism and bravery, of firemen directing hoses on burning buildings, just as her father had done – had died doing. There were pictures of the King and
Queen touring the damaged areas. Since Buckingham Palace had itself been bombed the previous September, the East Enders had changed towards the Royal couple and they were welcomed everywhere.

‘Charlie!’ Sheila cried suddenly, grabbing Chris’s arm. ‘He was there in the crowd just behind the King and Queen.’

People sitting near them were turning towards them, telling them to ‘Shush.’

Sheila got up, banging back her seat, and edged her way out, followed by Chris. ‘How can you be so sure?’ he said when they reached the foyer. ‘There were crowds of people and the camera was focusing on the King and Queen. I didn’t see him.’

‘I’m sure it was him.’

‘What do you want to do about it?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’ She paced up and down.

‘We could come back tomorrow and look at it again.’

‘You want to see that film all over again?’

‘If I’ve got you beside me, I’d see it a dozen times.’

‘Oh, Chris! I am a great trial to you, aren’t I?’

‘No, of course you’re not. You are my sweetheart. The girl I love most in all the world. I would do anything for you.’ The sound of the All Clear penetrated the foyer. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you home.’

She was silent as they walked. The night was clear and moonlit. The Londoners all wished for cloud to give them some respite, but there hadn’t been enough to deter the bombers. It was the first time he had said he loved her and it gave her a warm glow to think she mattered to someone, but was that enough for her to think of him as her sweetheart? She really didn’t know.

‘When do you think you will be coming back to West Ham again?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. It depends. We don’t get leave all that often. My work may be boring but it is war work. I’ll come when I can.’

‘Trouble is, I might not be here. I’ve had my call-up papers. I have to report for a medical next week.’

‘You’re going in the army?’

‘No, the navy.’

‘The navy?’ she queried in surprise. ‘Why? Your father died at sea.’

‘I know, but he loved the life and I don’t fancy being stuck in a trench, nor shot at it in the sky.’

‘Your mother will miss you.’

‘She’s as ratty as hell about it, but it can’t be helped. More to the point, will you miss me?’

‘Of course I will, but we can still write to each other and see each other when we’re both on leave.’

‘Can’t see that happening very often, can you?’

‘No, I suppose not. Blame the war and Adolf Hitler.’

They reached the Bennetts’ door. He kissed her. ‘I’ll call for you tomorrow at a quarter to seven if you want to see that film again.’

It was a different newsreel the following evening. She cried bitter tears of disappointment, especially as her certainty had begun to waver. One boy in a crowd, not even wearing anything outstanding, had flashed by in a second. She really couldn’t be sure, especially as she had to admit to June that she had often imagined she had seen him in the street, but on a closer look it had turned out not to be her brother.

She divided the rest of her leave between June and Chris. They wanted to make the most of their time together, going for walks, well wrapped up against the cold, visiting the cemetery with flowers, going to a dance on New Year’s Eve to see the New Year in, or simply sitting in June’s front room, holding hands
and talking quietly. The night before she was due to go back to Bletchley, he came to say goodbye to her. ‘I’ll write,’ he said. ‘You’ll write too?’

‘Of course I will.’

The next day she went back to her aunt, happy to think her old friends remembered her and Chris had not changed, probably never would change. But she was still in the dark about what had happened to her brother.

Prue was more sympathetic than June but she was still dubious. ‘It is so easy to imagine you have seen someone simply because that’s the person you most want to see,’ she said, when Sheila arrived back at Victoria Villa at the end of her leave and told her about the newsreel. As usual, they were talking in Prue’s bedroom. ‘The mind plays funny tricks sometimes.’

‘I know. I keep telling myself that.’

‘Have you said anything to your aunt?’

‘Lord, no! She’d laugh at me. I think you must be laughing at me too.’

‘No, I’m not. But supposing, just for a minute, that it was your brother you saw, what can you do about it? Just because he was on the film, doesn’t mean the news people know who he is. He was just one in a crowd, there and gone in a moment.’

‘I know.’ She sighed. ‘I’m trying not to think about it. But if he’s alive, that’s good, isn’t it? And there was that strange dream. Was Ma trying to tell me something?’

‘No, it was your inner self telling you not to worry.’

‘If it was, my inner self hasn’t made a very good job of it.’

Prue got up off the bed, and pulled Sheila up beside her. ‘Go to bed. We’re on early shift tomorrow.’

Sheila went to her own room leaving Prue musing on what she had told her. Had Sheila really seen her brother? But if he were alive, what possible reason could he have for not contacting her? Unless he thought she was dead along with the rest of her family. Being reunited with her brother might make up in some measure for the loss of the rest of her family but how could it be done? Not without Sheila seeing that piece of film again and pointing out the figure she thought was her brother. Newsreels, as Sheila had already discovered, were changed almost every day. Events moved on, yesterday’s news was yesterday’s news. And, really, should she be thinking about it? If they failed, which was almost certain, would the disappointment be too much for Sheila to bear? Best leave well alone, unless Sheila herself brought up the subject again.

‘Let’s go for a bike ride this afternoon,’ Sheila suggested, as they cycled home after coming off night shift at eight o’clock one morning. They had both bought second-hand bicycles which saved them having to walk to work.

‘OK, after I’ve had a bit of shut-eye.’ They were changing shifts and were not expected back on duty until the following morning which meant they had nearly twenty-four hours in which to please themselves, and being young and healthy, sleep was not a major concern. Although they had become used to changing shifts and sleep patterns, it was never easy to sleep during daylight hours. There were noises in the street, milkmen clattering milk bottles, the postman rattling the letterbox, dogs barking and errand boys whistling. After a couple of hours, Prue gave up and went to rouse Sheila.

Wearing slacks and wrapped up in coats, scarves and gloves, they set off away from the town to the open countryside. Prue was glad to be out in the fresh air, even on a freezing February day. Her work required unremitting concentration. Some phrases she was translating didn’t make sense at all and they often had to ask if the same message had been picked up elsewhere which might be clearer. A mistake could have been made by the original sender, or during the decode, or it might have been that the signal was just too faint. Sometimes the slip of paper was passed from hand to hand to see if anyone else could decipher it. If the translation was an educated guess, that had to be noted. Then there was all the technical jargon and abbreviations to interpret. By the end of her shift she was frequently exhausted and suffering from a headache. But she was no worse off than anyone else at BP. The war was testing the stamina of everyone.

Cycling along the lanes bordered by leafless trees, she reflected on the part of it that affected her, not only her job but that of others around her. Papa liked to pretend he was young again but he had been looking very tired the last time she had been home and Stevens’ death hadn’t helped. It was so unlike Mama to snap at Papa and no doubt they were worried about Gillie and what he was up to. At least her brother was still in England and not off to the Far East with his old regiment, though why that was she did not know; he was up to something.

Sheila was whizzing down the hill ahead of her with her feet off the pedals and stuck out in front of her, singing.

Prue smiled. The poor girl had had more than most to contend with but she had shown extraordinary resilience. Writing up that journal seemed to help and her singing bolstered her confidence, but she must have bad days when she felt overwhelmed by tragedy. She was clinging on to the hope that her brother had survived, but it was such a forlorn hope she was sure Sheila must realise it. ‘Oh, let there be some good news soon,’ she prayed, pedalling after her friend.

One of the recent messages translated in Hut Three was an admission by Hitler that the bombing campaign against Britain had not achieved the result he had hoped for and had had no measurable impact on morale or the will to resist; instead the bombing of shipping and ports would be increased. If he couldn’t terrorise the British people into giving up, perhaps starvation would. Whether this message would be made public she did not know, but what she did know was that its source would never be revealed. Knowledge like that lay heavy on her shoulders.

‘The Drama Society is going to put on a revue for Easter,’ Sheila said. They were toiling uphill now, side by side. ‘They want me to sing in it.’

‘Good for you. It’s a pity you are under age, or we could go to a pub for a drink.’

‘I’m not under age, not any more.’

Prue braked hard and stood down, making Sheila stop too. ‘You mean you’ve had a birthday?’

‘Yes.’

‘When? Why didn’t you say?’

‘Yesterday. I didn’t want a fuss.’

‘Oh, Sheila, I wish I’d known. But it’s not too late. Come on, we’re going to celebrate with a pub lunch and a bottle of wine.’ She got back on her bicycle and cycled back the way they had come.

Sheila followed her. ‘Is it all right for us to go in a pub without a man? My mother never would.’

Prue laughed. ‘Nor mine, but this is an enlightened age. If women can go into the forces and do war work, then they can please themselves what they do in their spare time.’ She stopped outside the Duncombe Arms. ‘This’ll do.’

Inside there was a good fire and they settled at a table in a corner. While Prue went off to order, Sheila looked about her. She had never been in a public house in her life before. Her father had not been a great drinker, unlike most of his mates, and she had never been required to go and fetch him from the pub to come home for his dinner, as so many of her young friends did. Even so, she did not think the pubs that stood on almost every corner of the East End were anything like this. It was warm and cosy and crowded with young people, some of whom she recognised as working at BP. Away from their working environment they lost the air of distraction they seemed to have when grappling with a problem and were cheerful and noisy. Prue knew some of them and went over to speak to them with the result they all turned towards her and raised their glasses in salute.

Prue returned followed by a waiter with two glasses and a green bottle, which he proceeded to open with a great deal of ceremony. The cork flew up and hit the ceiling, making Sheila jump.

‘Food will be coming in a few minutes,’ Prue said, handing Sheila a glass of sparkling liquid.

‘What is it?’

‘Champagne.’ She raised her glass. ‘Happy birthday, Sheila. May you have many, many more and live to be a ripe old age.’

‘Oh, Prue …’

‘You’re not going to go all tearful on me, are you?’

Sheila blinked hard. ‘No. I’ve never drunk champagne before. I’ve never even been in a pub.’

‘There’s a first time for everything and today is your initiation into the world of grown-ups.’

Sheila sipped her wine and twitched her nose when the bubbles went up it. ‘It’s nice.’

‘Well, don’t drink it too quickly, it’s got quite a kick if you’re not used to it.’

The young men and women at the bar broke into a chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ and then came over to shake her hand. ‘You are our lovely nightingale,’ one of the young men said. ‘I thought I was too old for panto, but you converted me. When are we going to hear you again?’

‘We’re doing a revue for Easter.’

‘Do we have to wait that long? Can’t you give us a taste?’

‘Yes, sing for us,’ one of the others said.

‘What, now?’ She gave Prue a questioning look and her friend nodded. She began to sing ‘Ave Maria’. Her clear voice silenced everyone as they listened. At the end, they all applauded, even the publican, who didn’t have a licence for music and would be obliged to stop any idea of an encore.

Riding home was a problem. Sheila was giggling so much she could hardly steer straight and her feet kept slipping off the pedals. ‘Whatever will Aunt Constance shay when she shees me?’ she said.

‘Who cares.’ Prue was riding beside her, watching she came to
no harm. ‘It’s not every day you have a birthday and it was mean of her to forget it.’

‘I don’ sh’pose she ever knew it.’

Thankfully, Constance was out and by the time she returned Sheila was asleep on her bed, cuddling Tiddles who had once again evaded Constance to reach the bedroom.

Prue went out again to buy her friend a birthday present and was browsing among the limited selection of perfumes at the chemist’s when one of the young men she had spoken to in the Duncombe Arms came in to buy shaving soap.

‘Your friend got home safely?’ he asked. He had brown hair, carefully parted, and thick, black-rimmed glasses.

‘Yes. I left her asleep and came out to buy her a birthday present. Poor thing, she had no one to remember it and she never told anyone, not even me until today.’

‘You work in Hut Three, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m in Hut Eight.’

Hut Eight worked on the German naval cyphers and they were the most difficult of all to crack, the coding being more complex than the army and air force messages Prue dealt with. She did not ask him any questions about it, and instead chose and paid for some perfume and they left the shop together. ‘I’m Hugh Wentworth, by the way,’ he said, holding out his right hand.

She took it. ‘Prue Le Strange.’

‘Lady Prudence Le Strange, I believe.’

‘How did you know that?’

‘Your friend, Alice, told me. I asked her when I saw you at the Christmas party. Mind if I walk with you?’

‘Not at all.’

They chatted inconsequentially as they walked, about the weather, the blitz, the rationing and their favourite likes and dislikes. She learnt that he was the only son of a doctor. ‘My father wanted me to follow in his footsteps, but I think you have to have a calling for that sort of thing and I didn’t feel called. I did an engineering degree and that got me interested in the technical side of radio. I hadn’t quite made up my mind about a career when the war started and I landed up here, fiddling with wires.’

She gathered from that he was working on the bombes. ‘Would you rather be here or in the forces?’

‘I don’t know, but I think I’m doing more good here. I’d make a lousy soldier. Besides, I’ve been told they won’t let any of us chaps into the forces in case we’re captured and spill the beans about BP. That pleases my mother.’

‘Mine too. She thinks I’m doing a boring office job. It’s dreadful how we have to lie, isn’t it?’

‘Well, not lie exactly, stretch the truth a bit. How did your little friend come to be working at BP? She doesn’t seem the type.’

‘Type? What type?’

‘Educated, classy, self-assured.’ He laughed. ‘Like you.’

‘The only difference between us is that my family had money and hers didn’t. She’s intelligent in her way, certainly very talented, and she’s had a rough time. She lost her entire family in the Blitz and the only relation she has is an embittered aunt. I’ve taken her under my wing.’

‘I didn’t mean it as a criticism.’

‘I certainly hope not.’ She stopped outside Victoria Villa. ‘This is where I’m billeted.’

‘I’ll say cheerio then.’ He paused. ‘Look here, I don’t want us to get off on the wrong foot. Will you come out with me some time? A drink perhaps, or we could go to the pictures.’

‘We haven’t got off on any foot at all, Mr Wentworth, wrong or otherwise.’

‘Message received and understood. I’ll be on my way then.’

She watched him go off down the road and went indoors. She had been rather brusque with him, but she hated snobbery of any kind, especially when it concerned Sheila. Pity, because he was rather good-looking and reminded her of Gillie, with his dark hair cut short, amber eyes and boyish charm. She hadn’t seen her brother for months, but they corresponded regularly. It was funny how it was possible to write long letters without saying anything of importance at all. She had not divulged what she did at Bletchley Park and he had not said exactly what he was doing. All he had said was that he was doing parachute training.

Constance, alone in the house, was doing some washing when she heard the front door knocker. It was too early for the postman and it wasn’t the butcher’s day, not that he brought her anything worth having these days. She dried her hands and went to answer it.

A young man in a scruffy suit stood on the doorstep. He took off his cap to her. ‘Is Sheila at home?’

‘Who are you? You’re not Charles, are you?’

‘Charles?’ he queried, then smiled. ‘No, I’m not Charlie. I’m Chris. Are you Sheila’s Auntie Connie?’

‘I am Mrs Tranter to you. And who is Chris, when he’s at home?’

‘Christopher Jarrett. I’m Sheila’s boyfriend. I came to see her.’

‘Boyfriend, ridiculous! She’s only seventeen, not old enough for boyfriends.’