The Chilbury Ladies' Choir(97)
“I’m glad you think that racing around like a demented rescue dog marks me out as caring.” I laughed back. “In any case, who knows what kind of person I’d get billeted with next time.”
“When did you get here?”
“Around quarter past nine. Litchfield Park was a ball of flames. I heard that one of the shelters had given way.”
“Yes, horrendous. We lost half our aerial defense team, truly wonderful people. An absolute tragedy.”
“But you weren’t in it?”
“No, I was one of the lucky ones. I was in a different shelter on the other side of the compound.” He looked at me with remarkable sadness. “It’s just a case of luck, isn’t it?”
“Sometimes,” I answered, and then more slowly, “Sometimes.”
A thunderous explosion went off in the burning school, an unexploded bomb perhaps or something volatile that had just caught light, a bottle of paraffin or paint or something. I saw men running out, some with new flames on their clothes, and we ran forward to help them.
It was a long night, arduous and distressing. I had to head back to the hospital and my line of injured. A different atmosphere had taken over the place, a quiet resignation, with the grunts and groans of those in pain combined with the odd snores of those who fitfully slept. The lights had been dimmed to get everyone to calm down and go to sleep. Lines of people and children on blankets of all textures and wear paved the floor, the white bandages of limbs and heads standing out in the darkness.
“How utterly dismal,” I said to a fellow nurse.
“At least they’re not in the morgue on the other side of town,” she replied. “They haven’t enough room inside, so they’ve lined them up on the pavement outside. The munitions factory said they can put them in their warehouse, but no one’s keen. It’s better than being left on the pavement, but I’m not sure I’d want to be surrounded by bullets after an awful death.”
I cycled home slowly at dawn, leaving the hospital in a state of relative calm. When I got back, I had a wash and went to bed. The Colonel wasn’t home, and I wondered if he’d found a place to sleep for a while. He would have to be at work today, after all, taking charge of the pile of rubble that used to be Litchfield Park.
THE VICARAGE,
CHILBURY,
KENT.
Monday, 19th August, 1940
Dear Clara,
Today they kicked me out of hospital as they need the beds for the new lot of wounded. Trembling I was when they brought in some clothes for me to wear. Strange to think I have nothing except the slightly singed nightie I came in and these wretched old slippers. The secondhand skirt and blouse they brought were all right, but the shoes were too tight, rubbing my bunion something rotten. I didn’t complain, though. Too petrified of what was out there.
I had the whole day planned out in my head. First, I needed to get that money back from Ralph Gibbs. Without it I have nothing, no way of running away from Mrs. Tilling, who threatened to hand me in to the police, or the Brigadier, who promised to kill me.
But I had to get the money before Mrs. Tilling or the Brigadier saw me. I had to be quick, quiet, resolute.
Of course I wasn’t expecting Ralph Gibbs to just hand over the money. I’d decided I would threaten him with telling the police about his black-market business and the ration book stamping being quietly forgotten for under-the-counter favors.
I also had the scissors. I stole them off the nurse’s desk when she wasn’t looking, a big clunky pair as heavy as a hammer. Although they weren’t as threatening as a knife or a dagger, I knew how to wield them to best effect. I wasn’t thinking of killing him or anything, just brandish them around to let him know I meant business. I’d asked for my old nightie, ration book, and gas mask to be put in a paper bag for me to carry, and I slipped the scissors in between, a comforting security in their solid weight.
As I stepped out into the warm August morning, I took a deep breath and set forth, getting on the bus for Chilbury (they’d given me the fare at the hospital—my last pennies in the world), and chivvying myself on as we circled the fields before pulling up on the square. I limped off the bus and set my sights on the shop. Pushing open the door, setting the bell jangling loudly, I watched the solid form of Ralph Gibbs appearing at the counter, appraising me with malice.
He looked different. I remember him as always being a slight, small kind of lad, tagging along behind the big kids, playing silly tricks and making a fool of himself. Well, that had changed all right, there was no fool here. He looked bigger, bulkier, more muscular and rugged. A long uneven scar raged red down his face beneath a growth of tawny stubble. His eyes were marbled and ringed with the deep maroon of blood, a theme that was repeated in the little scrapes and cuts on his face and hands.
It hadn’t crossed my mind how the army might have changed him, how fighting on the front line can make a young man dangerous. I recalled someone saying that he’d been damaged in the brain, that Mrs. Gibbs was having trouble with him. I’d thought that meant he was a bit down.
But now I could see precisely what kind of trouble they’d meant.
“What are you doing back around here?” he growled.
I stood firm, clenching my paper bag.
“I want my money,” I said with more determination than I felt.