The Windmill Girls. Kay Brellend
as she called it, and had done so for very many years. By anybody’s standards, the woman had had a run of bad luck that might send her to the bottle. She’d lost her husband to pneumonia when her daughter was just five, then her intended second husband had scarpered, leaving her pregnant with her son. But according to Eliza she felt unwell not because she drank too much but because of the weather. It was too hot or too cold, too dry or too damp, for a body to be healthy, she’d mumble while stacking up the empties under the sink.
Dawn and her brother knew why their mother vomited and looked like death warmed up on some days. Dawn tried to be tolerant but often lost her temper and shouted at her mother to leave the booze alone. But Eliza continued to empty a few bottles of gin or port a week, saying she needed a drop of medicine to steady her nerves.
Dawn was startled from her worries by the whine of an air-raid siren. She came to an abrupt halt, cussing beneath her breath. She’d just passed Piccadilly tube station and pivoted on the spot, wondering whether to hare back and shelter there. If the planes passed overhead she’d be safe enough in the open till the all clear sounded and she could get on her way home. Her mother and brother, of course, might not be so fortunate in Bethnal Green as the East End had been taking a dreadful hammering. But they had an Anderson shelter in their back garden that had done its job so far during the Blitz.
A hum of engines grew louder, making Dawn instinctively shrink back against a brick wall. Her eyes scoured the inky heavens and she was relieved to see that the moon’s milky surface was patterned with stringy cloud, hampering the Luftwaffe’s mission to obliterate London. Dawn attempted to count the swarm of aeroplanes but found it impossible to separate them, there were so many. She jumped in fright as an early explosion rocked the pavement beneath her feet. She skittered sideways into a shop doorway and crouched down, arms instinctively coming up over her head to protect it from any shrapnel.
The sound of a person sobbing nearby reached Dawn’s ears, as did the crash of falling masonry and shattering glass. She jerked upright, peering into the flame-daubed darkness. Finally she located a young woman hobbling along on the opposite pavement. At first Dawn thought the stranger might have been injured but then noticed that her uneven gait was due to her having one shoe on and one in her hand.
‘Here! Over here!’ Dawn called out, feeling sorry for the girl and hoping to comfort her.
The young woman swivelled about. Removing her shoe she pelted over the road in stockinged feet, breathlessly collapsing onto her posterior in the doorway.
‘It’ll all be over soon.’ Dawn crouched beside her.
An abrupt blast made them huddle together, heads so close they were in danger of cracking foreheads.
‘I thought I’d have time to get to the underground shelter.’ The newcomer swiped her wet eyes with the back of a hand.
‘Me too …’ Dawn returned in a soothing whisper. ‘Passed it by only moments ago. Unlucky, eh?’
‘Them planes came out of nowhere …’ the girl complained. ‘Warning came too late. Don’t think those damned Jerries will swoop down and strafe us, do you? Gonna get killed, ain’t we?’ she rattled off, peering up fearfully at the sky.
Suddenly a pane of glass on the opposite side of the street fell in smithereens from its frame to the pavement.
‘Told me dad I didn’t want to go out tonight, but he made me do some deliveries.’
‘Hush … we’ll be alright … the bombardment’s over there …’ Dawn hoped she sounded convincing because she wasn’t at all sure they were safely out of harm’s way.
‘We’ll get cut to bits if we stay here! I’d sooner have a bomb land on me head than get me face all scarred up.’ The girl agitatedly eyed the glass doorway of the shop in which they were sheltering, pressing her flat palms to her cheeks to protect them from any imminent flying shards.
‘The planes usually head towards the East End; perhaps just a couple of stray bombs have landed over this way.’ Dawn prayed that was so and that her mother and brother were safely inside their Anderson shelter. A burst of flames illuminated the street and Dawn got a better look at her companion. The girl was fair and pretty and about eighteen, three years Dawn’s junior.
‘What’s your name?’ Dawn hoped to calm the girl down by chatting to her. ‘What were you delivering for your dad at this time of the night?’
‘I’m Rosie Gardiner and it’s none of your business if I was running an errand or not …’ she snapped then broke off, listening.
Rosie started to rise but Dawn pulled her back into the shadows, sensing something was amiss.
She realised now why the window opposite had shattered despite no other premises having been affected by tremors: a brick had been thrown through it. Another missile hit the outfitter’s shop, demolishing what remained of the pane.
A trio of men, now in full view, immediately began crunching forward over the debris to ease clothes through the jagged hole. They appeared careful not to damage the merchandise as they began bundling goods onto a handcart. The smallest fellow then leapt agilely through the aperture and disappeared. Soon he was back to start lobbing his haul onto the cart.
Dawn squinted at him through the darkness; his stature was remarkably short and slim, putting her in mind of somebody, but she couldn’t recall who it was.
‘They’re stealing that stuff on purpose!’ Rosie gasped, turning to face Dawn. ‘They put in that window!’ Her astonishment transformed to glee. ‘Let’s go and help ourselves too. Me dad could do with a new overcoat.’
‘Fancy a spell in prison, do you?’ Dawn whispered, dragging on her companion’s arm to make her again sit down. ‘’Cos that’s what you’ll get if you end up mixed up in that lot.’
The courts were treating more and more harshly the ‘bomb-chasers’ who turned up undercover of raids to rob premises. While the police were otherwise occupied with saving lives, seasoned criminals exploited the mayhem, seizing the opportunity to go unhindered about their business. But there were grave repercussions facing the thieves if caught: prison terms and even a death sentence had been handed down. Dawn was shrewd enough to realise that she and Rosie could be in peril if these men felt they had nothing to lose by adding battery – perhaps murder – to their charge sheets.
The looters seemed well-organised; the barrow was already stacked high. Seething with rage though Dawn was at their vile behaviour, she’d no intention of interfering, or of advertising her presence. She hoped they’d soon be on their way so she and Rosie could also get going. They’d trouble enough negotiating the rubble and infernos, and finding some transport running to get them home, without these men adding to their problems. The gang would not want witnesses to their night’s work. Dawn realised she’d come to feel responsible for Rosie Gardiner’s safety yet she knew nothing about the girl other than her name. And Rosie had been quite rude to her when Dawn had tried to make conversation about what she’d been out delivering for her father.
The laden cart had been pushed about fifty yards along the street when Rosie’s impatience got the better of her. Shaking off Dawn’s hand she ran to the damaged shop front and scrabbled amongst discarded coat hangers and broken glass for something to take.
‘Greedy sods have taken the whole lot,’ she complained loudly. ‘Not even a bleedin’ scarf left for me dad.’
The slightly built man had heard her and swung about. He had hung back to light a cigarette while his cohorts – one tall and one stout – pushed the cart. At any other time Dawn would have thought them a comical-looking bunch: short, fat and thin. As it was she simply broke cover and yanked on Rosie’s arm to drag her away. Finally Rosie seemed to understand the peril in the situation. Hand in hand they hared in the opposite direction with the sound of flying footsteps behind them.
Dawn darted into an alley tugging Rosie after her. She kept going, her lungs burning with exertion, making sure to dodge around overflowing dustbins that smelled of cooking fat and rancid food, yanking