Lost Angel. Kitty Neale
dangerous and the heavy rescue teams are here now.’
Exhausted, they were led from the devastation and not long after a mobile canteen arrived. They were given cups of tea, a woman saying sympathetically, ‘Are you all right?’
‘My parents, they’re under that lot. I’ve got to help,’ Hilda gasped, about to move forward again.
‘You won’t be allowed past the cordon. Leave it to the rescue teams. They know how to assess the risks, how to find people buried under rubble; it’s best if you stay out of the way.’
The vast area was a hive of activity now, firemen, policemen, ambulances, heavy rescue teams, ARP wardens, but all Ellen could think about was her beloved gran and granddad. She was aware of other people around them, women and children crying, but she felt strange, remote, the sounds coming as though from a distance. She swayed, a rushing sound in her ears, and then, as her knees caved beneath her, Ellen knew no more.
Hilda was reeling with grief. It had been a dreadful twenty-four hours and she was almost on the point of collapse, yet she had to hold herself together for her daughter’s sake. Her only relief was that Ellen wasn’t hurt; the fainting fit a combination of shock and nervous exhaustion. She was still whey-faced, her blue eyes bruised with pain; her daughter, like her, was grieving.
It had been hours before her parents were pulled from the rubble, both dead, and for the rest of her life Hilda knew she would never forget the night-marish sight of their broken bodies. Now she had the funeral to arrange, and even though her friend, Mabel Johnson – whose house was outside the bombed area and untouched – had taken them in, Hilda felt so alone. If only Doug was here; but at the outset of the war her husband had enlisted in the navy. He was on a ship, somewhere at sea, and, with so many naval losses being reported, she feared for his safety.
‘Here, get that down you,’ Mabel said, her kind, round face soft with concern as she handed Hilda a cup of tea.
‘Mabel, I’ve lost everything. My home, furniture and, until you all rallied round, we only had the filthy clothes we stood in.’
‘You’ll be found somewhere else to live, but in the meantime didn’t you mention once that your mum had a sister? I expect you’ll want to go to her.’
‘She died years ago, Mabel, and after that her husband and son moved away. They didn’t bother to keep in touch with us and I’ve no idea where they are.’
‘Until you’re re-housed you’re welcome to stay here,’ Mabel said soothingly. ‘With my Jack away fighting in this bloody war and both my boys evacuated to Devon, I’ve got plenty of room.’
‘Thanks, it’s good of you.’
‘Don’t be daft. We’ve been mates since we were nippers and I know you’d do the same for me.’
‘I still can’t believe my parents have gone. All I’ve got left of them is this necklace, Mum’s chain and crucifix. She always wore it, swore by it, but … but a lot of good that did her,’ Hilda said, once again overwhelmed by grief.
Mabel let her cry for a while, but then said, ‘I knew your mum well, although … I didn’t know she was religious.’
‘She wasn’t really, well, not a churchgoer. The necklace was my grandmother’s, passed on to Mum when she died. For some reason she used to say that wearing it made her feel as though Gran was watching over her.’
‘Who knows? Maybe she was.’
‘She’s dead, Mabel. My dad too. What was the point of believing in a daft cross and chain?’
‘From what you’ve been told, they didn’t suffer.’
Hilda nodded and, though thankful for that, she still felt lost, bereft. She clutched the chain, her mother’s face still so clear in her mind, and then slowly fastened it around her neck.
‘That’s it, girl. Sometimes we all need something to cling to, something that gives us a bit of hope.’
‘I don’t think this necklace has some sort of mysterious power. I’m only wearing it because … because it was hers …’ And with those words Hilda broke down again. She was a grown woman, a wife and a mother, yet now her parents were gone she felt lost. They had always been there for her to run to – had always loved her unconditionally. Now, without them, she felt so alone.
Bombs continued to rain down on London, and Hilda soon lost count of the number of times they had to flee to Mabel’s air raid shelter. The funeral had been dreadful and she’d barely managed to get through it. So many of her parents’ friends had been there, people like them who had lived in this neighbourhood all their lives. Now they were watching it crumbling around them as more and more houses were destroyed. Those whose homes remained refused to leave the area, stoically saying that the Luftwaffe weren’t going to chase them out, but Hilda had found it hard to listen to. If her parents had left Battersea, they’d still be alive. She had to get Ellen to safety and was still waiting to hear from Gertie, but the thought of parting with her daughter was almost more than she could bear. With her parents gone and Doug away, Ellen was all she had left.
Hilda stood in the queue now, there to beg for accommodation again, and when it came to her turn she said, ‘Please, you must have something?’
‘We’re doing our best, Mrs Stone. We’ve got so many families to re-house and at least you’ve got temporary accommodation with Mrs Johnson.’
‘My daughter’s in a dreadful state. Her nerves have gone and she needs the stability of her own home again.’
‘She should be evacuated.’
‘Don’t you think I know that?’ Hilda snapped. ‘I’m waiting to hear from a friend and if she’ll take her in, my daughter will be sent to Somerset.’
‘Perhaps you should go with her.’
Hilda stared at the woman, mouth agape, yet as her words sunk in, they gave her food for thought.
‘If you ask me, it would be the ideal solution,’ the woman continued, ‘or you could try some private landlords. I’m afraid you aren’t a high priority, Mrs Stone, but if anything becomes available, we’ll let you know. Next, please!’
Dismissed, Hilda moved aside, her place quickly taken by the next person in the queue. It was hopeless, she thought, dejected as she made her way back to Mabel’s.
‘How did you get on?’ Mabel asked when Hilda returned, footsore and downcast.
‘It was a waste of time. I think you’d have to be kipping on the street before they’d help. Oh, I shouldn’t moan, Mabel. I know there’s worse off than me.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. Pat Randle got re-housed – not that it was much, just a couple of rooms – but within a week she was bombed out again. It’s terrible, Hilda, and I live in dread of this place being hit.’
Hilda didn’t say it, but she too lived with the same fear. It broke her heart to pass through the streets where she and her parents once lived, the area a vast, ugly bombsite now, and Mabel was right, the same thing could happen to this house, to this street, and they’d be homeless again. Was it any wonder that they were all so jumpy and Ellen a bundle of nerves?
‘You’re miles away, Hilda.’
‘Sorry, I was thinking about Ellen. If I don’t hear from Gertie soon, I’ll have to think about having her evacuated.’
‘It’d be for the best. I know your mum used to take you to play with Gertie, but after what came out later I wouldn’t fancy sending my kids to her.’
‘Don’t be daft. Gertie wouldn’t hurt Ellen, she loves children, and