Come the Hour (17 page)

A faint sickly smell drifted out as the nurse opened the door. ‘It’s the infection,’ Tessa whispered. ‘Poor Kurt.’

He was swathed in dressings, his face, chest and arms. His hands, painted with mercurochrome, rested on the cover like the claws of a great bird. They couldn’t see his face – only his eyes and his mouth were free.

Tessa bent down to him. ‘Kurt,’ she said softly. He seemed to be asleep, though his eyes were open. ‘Kurt,’ she said again.

His eyes turned slowly towards them. ‘Tessa,’ he whispered, his voice cracked and hoarse.

‘Charlie is here,’ Tessa said. ‘He’s come to see you.’

Charlie bent down. ‘Hello Kurt,’ he said.

Something like a smile flickered in Kurt’s eyes. ‘You’re a flyer, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Like me.’ He winced. ‘Do you remember, Charlie, the good days?’

‘Yes,’ Charlie said. ‘I remember.’

The smile flickered again. ‘Perhaps it was you who killed me, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it was you who shot me down.’

Tessa began to cry, silently, the tears creeping down her cheeks.

‘It’s a dreadful mistake, Charlie,’ Kurt whispered. ‘It’s all a dreadful mistake.’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘After the war,’ he said, ‘will you tell my parents that you were here; that I have been well treated?’

‘Yes,’ Charlie said. ‘If I can.’

Kurt’s voice faded and his eyes glazed over.

‘I think you’d better go now,’ the nurse said. ‘It’s best if he sleeps.’ Tessa gently touched the clawed hand.

They left the hospital. ‘There’s a Lyons here,’ Tessa said. ‘I need a cup of tea.’

They went into the teashop and ordered tea. Charlie looked pale, Tessa thought, his jaw working. ‘You didn’t shoot him down, Charlie,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t you.’

‘It might have been,’ Charlie said. ‘I’ve shot down a few.’

‘You have to,’ she said. ‘Or they’ll get us.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘Don’t go on about it, Tessa.’

She saw the strain breaking through his composure, his eyes, hooded, withdrawn. ‘Let’s go home,’ she said.

At nine o’clock the hospital telephoned to say that Kurt had died. Charlie went up to his room and closed the door.

‘M
um,’ Sara said, ‘can I stay the night with Kathy on Saturday? Her mum says it’s all right.’

Nora was putting a cheese and potato pie into the oven. ‘I thought she was in Kent with her auntie.’

‘She’s come back home again.’ Sara said. ‘She says the Germans have been dropping bombs on the airfields and sometimes they just dump them anywhere, so she’s safer at home. She’s seen our planes having dogfights with the Germans. She says she saw a bomber shot down.’

Nora shut the oven door sharply. What a world, she thought – children watching men kill each other. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You go and have a nice time.’

‘Will you be all right?’

Nora straightened up and smiled. ‘Of course I will.’ She put her arms around Sara. ‘You don’t have to worry about me, love, I’m fine. Just as long as you’re all right. That’s all that matters to me.’

‘And Dad.’

Nora carefully arranged her face into unworried smiles. ‘And Dad, of course. He’s all right too. We had a letter from him last week, didn’t we? And I wrote back and told him what we were doing.’ Nora made a point of talking about Jim every day. Just to mention his name kept him in their lives, kept him there for her and Sara. She said her prayers every night in bed, longing for him to be with her to help her through the terrible things that were happening. She tried not to think about what might be happening to him. Imagining and worrying wouldn’t help anybody and would upset Sara.

‘I’ll go first thing Saturday morning, then,’ Sara said. ‘We’re going to play tennis.’ She went back to her books.

Thank God for children, Nora thought, playing tennis, doing what children do.

‘Dan,’ Amy said, ‘I want to bring my father here. I’ll make him come if I have to. He shouldn’t be on his own and he shouldn’t be in Kent. So much for us thinking it was safer in the country. They’re starting to call it Bomb Alley.’

Dan nodded. ‘Of course he should come here. Just make him. You know how stubborn he is.’

‘I’ll ring him,’ Amy said, ‘and read him the riot act, and I’ll go and get him on Saturday. I’d better tell Nora there’ll be one more.’

Nora was in the kitchen, washing up. ‘Would you like me to come with you?’ she said. ‘Sara won’t be at home. She’s spending the weekend with a schoolfriend.’

‘Oh Nora, would you?’ Amy took her hand. ‘I’d be so grateful. He’ll hate leaving and shutting up the house. He’ll probably pack everything but the kitchen sink.’

They drove to Kent on Saturday morning.

‘Sara’s friend was evacuated to Kent,’ Nora said, ‘but they brought her back. I suppose they’re really aiming to bomb the airfields, but they seem to be dropping them anywhere. And machine-gunning. Ordinary people in the streets.’

‘I know,’ Amy said. ‘My father’s told me a few tales. One woman hung out her nappies to dry and came out to find them full of bullet holes. And some woman near Biggin Hill watched her own son bale out – safely, thank God.’

‘How awful.’ Nora looked out at the passing suburbs. ‘I’ve never been to Kent before. I’d like to see the proper countryside – all the orchards. It must be beautiful in the spring.’

Amy smiled. ‘The garden of England.’ She chuckled. ‘Apparently they dropped a bomb near an apple orchard and all the apples fell off the trees. The farmer said he’d never had such an easy harvest.’

They reached Bromley. Amy drove down the familiar road and stopped outside the house. She sat for a few moments, looking at the
house, at the familiar front garden, the hydrangeas still in pink bloom, at the old front door under the little porch. She saw herself leaving for France in 1914; coming back again at the end of the war, changed for ever, to the solid, comforting, unchanging home she had left behind.

‘I was born here,’ she said. ‘My mother died when I was little and my father brought me up.’ She turned off the ignition. ‘He’s a dear. He won’t want to go. He’ll see it as a defeat. Let’s hope he’s packed and ready.’

They walked up to the house and Amy opened the door. Her father’s bags and suitcases were standing in the hall. He came out to them. ‘I’m all ready,’ he said. ‘I’ve got everything I need.’ His eyes filled. ‘I’m not just upset,’ he said. ‘I’m bloody angry. Being forced out of my own home.’

He must be devastated, Amy thought, to use that word in their presence. She put her arms around him. ‘It’s all right, dear. It’ll be here waiting for you after the war.’

He nodded and blinked his tears away. ‘I hope so. Perhaps it won’t be too long. We’ll have a cup of tea before we go.’

‘I’ll put the suitcases in the car,’ Nora said, ‘while the kettle’s boiling.’ After a few minutes she came back into the kitchen. ‘There’s just a couple of small bags to go. And where’s your gas-mask?’

‘In one of the bags,’ he said. ‘Never go anywhere without it and I’ve got my ration book in my pocket.’

Amy made the tea and they sat down at the kitchen table.

The sound of the siren startled them, the up and down wailing they had learnt to dread. Amy’s father put his cup down abruptly. ‘They’re early today,’ he said. ‘They don’t usually come till later.’

Amy paused, the teapot in her hand, uncertain what to do.

‘They go straight for the airfields,’ he said, ‘but they drop left-over bombs and machine gun anything that moves on the way back. They don’t care what they hit.’

‘What shall we do?’ Nora said. ‘Stay or go?’

‘We’d better not go till the All Clear,’ he said. ‘They’ve been shooting at cars on the roads.’

‘Well let’s have our tea,’ Nora said. ‘I’m parched.’

The droning sound of aircraft engines began in the distance, quickly
getting louder, an ominous regular thrumming. ‘Dorniers,’ Amy’s father said. ‘I know the sound of the engines. We’d better get under the stairs, just in case. Bring your tea.’ They squashed into the cupboard under the stairs and sat on the floor. The droning became a roar that seemed to go on and on. ‘There must be dozens of them,’ he said.

A silence fell, the planes passing away overhead. ‘We can get out for a bit,’ he said, ‘until they start coming back. Have another cup of tea.’

‘We’ll finish loading,’ Nora said, her voice shaking a little. ‘Then we can get off as soon as the All Clear goes.’ She and Amy carried the last of the bags to the car.

They didn’t even hear the solitary aircraft that dropped the bomb. All they heard was the scream of it dropping, and then a huge explosion. For a surreal moment time seemed to move into slow, slow motion and Amy could see everything with unreal clarity. She watched the windows of the house shatter into glittering shards, flying like silver arrowheads, sucked inwards by the blast. Then she was knocked violently off her feet and hit her head against the car. She found herself on her knees, dizzy and disoriented.

Nora seemed to be beside her at once. ‘Are you all right?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ Amy said. ‘I think so.’ She tried to get to her feet, but couldn’t seem to get off her knees. ‘Are you?’

‘Yes,’ Nora said. ‘I’m OK. I was round the other side.’

‘Father,’ Amy gasped. ‘Where’s my father?’ They watched, horrified, as smoke began to curl out of one of the gaping windows.

Amy began to struggle towards the house, staggering,
half-crawling
. ‘Father,’ she screamed. ‘Father.’

Nora ran to the house and disappeared through the empty doorway. Amy got herself to her feet and began to run. ‘Nora, Nora,’ she shouted. ‘Come back. I’ll get him.’

Nora appeared at the doorway, half carrying the old man. They were both black with soot. They staggered to the car together. ‘I’m all right,’ he said. He took a few deep breaths. ‘Didn’t know what was happening for a minute.’

They bundled him into the car. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Nora said, almost shouting. ‘There’s a smell of gas.’

As Amy got into the driver’s seat a fire engine roared into the road,
bell ringing. She got out of the car and spoke to one of the men. ‘There’s no one in here now,’ she said. ‘The house is empty. We’re taking my father away. There’s a smell of gas.’

‘Well get on with it,’ he said. ‘The gas main’s probably gone. Fast as you can.’

Amy drove away, away from the house where she was born, away from the kindly memories of her childhood. She was filled with rage, rage at the destruction, at the shattering of her father’s old age, at how close she had come to losing him. The tears ran down her face. ‘Nora,’ she said. ‘You saved my father’s life. And you risked your own.’

She felt rather than saw Nora’s smile. ‘All in a day’s work, Doctor,’ Nora said.

‘No more Doctor,’ Amy said. ‘Just call me Amy. I was going to say it anyway, you’ve been such a friend. And now you’ve saved my father’s life. Call me Amy. Just Amy.’

They arrived home to more cups of tea, baths, and a stiff whisky for Amy’s father. She insisted that he went to bed.

The two women sat in the kitchen, nibbling at a sandwich.

‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ Amy began, her eyes filling. ‘If there’s anything I can do…?’

Nora smiled. ‘I’m just glad I was there, Doc …’ She caught Amy’s eye and laughed. ‘Amy.’

Amy took her hand and they sat together in silence. Here we are, Amy thought. Nora’s husband and her own son were away and in danger, but they had had one little victory. The Germans had tried and had failed to kill her father. Damn their eyes.

Saturday, 7 September. Charlie and Tim and the rest of the squadron sat about at dispersal, ready to go. Charlie glanced around him. Most of the pilots seemed to be asleep. Tim was twitching a little, his eyes rolling under his lids. Charlie closed his eyes. If he could only sleep – real sleep, deep and unconscious. What was sleep now? Nothing but a dream-infested interlude between hours of frantic flying, dodging lines of glowing tracers, the rattle of guns, the frantic effort to stay alive and to destroy. And then the struggle home, to an airfield that had been blasted and bombed in his short absence. He wasn’t even sure, sometimes,
that he was actually alive, that it wasn’t all some hellish, prolonged, exhausting purgatory. The sun touched his face, kindly and warm. It was a lovely day; beautiful bombing weather.

He waited with his friends and comrades for the inevitable telephone call. Scramble, scramble, then the rush to the waiting Spits, the mad, exhausting fight. He didn’t question his commitment, the source of his physical and mental endurance. He deeply sensed that the battle was not only for his country, but was a battle between good and evil. One that they had to win. He had sensed the evil in Berlin, the oppression, lack of freedom, the stuck-up pride. It had to go. The NAFFI truck arrived with tea. Most of the pilots woke, squinting into the early sunshine. No one spoke.

An hour drifted by. ‘They’re late,’ Tim said. He closed his eyes again.

Another hour, and another. Charlie began to feel slightly sick. The waiting was the worst thing. Lunch was brought out to them. Cigarette smoke drifted up skywards. Some of the pilots went to sleep again.

‘I don’t like this,’ Tim said. ‘The bastards are up to something. They should be here by now.’

‘I expect they soon will be,’ Charlie said. ‘They’re not going to just give up, are they?’

The day wore on. Close by a blackbird began to sing, then it suddenly stopped. Perhaps it knows something we don’t, Charlie thought. He fell asleep at last. He was woken by the jangle of the telephone. The corporal put his head out of the hut door. ‘Scramble, scramble!’

Charlie glanced at his watch as he ran. Quarter past four. Something was definitely up. Something new.

The squadron took off, climbing to gain height before reaching their assigned position to join other squadrons. Charlie looked down and sucked in his breath. He could hardly believe what he was seeing. The sky was black with hundreds of German aircraft, Dorniers, Heinkels and Junkers flying in stacks and hundreds more Me109s flying as escorts. ‘Good God,’ he said. He felt oddly detached, as if this couldn’t be real – as if he were back in another hellish nightmare.

‘Tally-ho boys.’ His squadron leader’s voice broke over the radio. ‘Let’s surround them.’

In spite of stunned shock and the familiar empty feeling in his stomach, Charlie laughed. Yes, let’s do that, he thought. All twelve of us.

They dived out of the sun. In moments they were into the battle. The air was filled with screaming aircraft. The Spitfires attacked the fighters, leaving the waiting Hurricanes to deal with the bombers. Charlie saw two of the bombers go down, streaming smoke. Two bodies swirled through the air within feet of his cockpit, bringing his heart into his mouth. He felt a jolt. His Spit had been hit – somewhere – but it still worked, fuel OK, controls OK. He’d been lucky. He chased an Me109, spurting bullets, missing it. He ran out of ammunition and turned to fly back to base. There must be bullet holes in the fuselage, but they hadn’t hit anything important. Especially him.

He expected that the bombers would peel off and change course as usual, making for the airfields. We’ll never survive this, he thought, this number. They must have sent every aircraft they’ve got. The airfields would be bombed to smithereens. There’d be nowhere to go back to. End of Fighter Command. End of everything. But the stacks of bombers didn’t turn, or change course. They surged on, a horrifying, stultifying, relentless black swarm. My God, he thought. It’s not the airfields this time. They’re making for London.

Saturday, 7 September. A beautiful warm sunny day. Londoners were strolling or lying in the parks in the sunshine, or shopping in the West End. In the East End they were at home in the long rows of terraced houses, or working through the next shift on the docks. The women were chatting with neighbours, the children playing in the streets. The rows of houses stood together, close and neighbourly; the river glittered in the sunshine, the great warehouses and yards stood strung along the banks with their stores of wood and paper and tea and sugar and just about everything that the country needed. Just after four o’clock the sirens sounded. Everyone hurried to take cover, but they were not more worried than usual. There had been sporadic raids before, but they always attacked the airfields. They were
sleep-disturbing
nuisances. In the east the women called their children in. In the west the sleepers and strollers in the parks began to pack up.