Hari sat on the bed in Mrs Evans’s house and stared at the unfamiliar pictures on the walls. They had been placed more to hide the damp patches than for any aesthetic desire to enjoy the wonders of scenic Italy. She held a cup of weak tea in her hands, wrapping her fingers around the warmth for comfort. She would have liked some sugar in her tea but Mrs Evans had used up her ration. Well, the poor old soul would have no need of ration books or tea, come to that she would be laying on a slab somewhere.
Hari shivered; she would have to find somewhere permanent to stay for Meryl and herself, she couldn’t impose on old Mr Evans much longer. It was only twenty-four hours since the bomb had dropped, flattening her home; it was a miracle that everyone, except stubborn old Mrs Evans had survived. In such a short time, everything had changed and yet the air raid seemed distant now.
Hari wanted to put the horror of it out of her mind and yet she was reminded of the helpless feeling of lying beneath the rubble, dust in her eyes and mouth, every time Mr Evans chewed at the subject, his eyes begging Hari for some titbit of information about his wife, some talisman he could hold on to for comfort. Now, his voice penetrated her thoughts.
‘Tell me, girl, what did my Maud say, what were her last words, did she give you a message for me?’
Hari couldn’t remember Mrs Evans speaking at all, all she could see was the older woman’s slippered foot with one toe poking out of the hole.
‘My sister tried to pull her down on to the floor but Mrs Evans wasn’t having any of that.’
She could see that wasn’t much help. ‘But we were together,’ she said, ‘Mrs Evans wasn’t on her own when… when the bomb fell. It would have been quick, you know, she wouldn’t have suffered.’ She had no notion if she was right or not but some of the strain eased from the old man’s face.
Mr Evans rubbed his eyes. ‘That’s one bit of comfort I suppose—but if only I’d stayed in that night, let other buggers do the firefighting, she might have been all right. They would have let me off, see, one of the younger men, you know that boy from the mines, Tommy Trinder we called him because of his big chin. He said to me, “Granddad, why don’t you go home, put your feet up,” he said, “you’ve had your war.”’
His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his thin throat as he tried to control his tears. ‘His mate Dai Thresher offered to take over my duties but I felt sorry for him; “He’ll have enough to do when he goes back to sea,” I said. A sitting target he’ll be out there alone with the water all around him. Still, being a lighthouse man he won’t go to the front, not like my boy, Billy. Dai is in a “reserved whatdycallit”.’
‘Reserved occupation, Mr Evans.’ Hari took his hands. ‘Perhaps they’ll let your Billy come home now on compassionate leave.’
‘Aye, perhaps so—’ Mr Evans’ voice was dull—‘not much hope of that though is there? What with my boy being in the thick of it like.’ Abruptly the old man began to cry; he held his gnarled hands over his face and the thick veins stood proud, the brown liver spots almost joined so plentiful were they. Hari hesitated for a long moment and then put her arms awkwardly around the old man’s bony shoulders.
‘It’s bad, I know it’s bad but it will pass, you’ll see. They say time heals don’t they?’ She was mouthing platitudes and she knew it but the words seemed to help and Mr Evans rested his head against her breast and she patted his back as though he were a child.
‘Go to bed, Mr Evans,’ she said softly, ‘try to get some sleep. Meryl went up hours ago, I don’t think she’s recovered from the shock of the… well you know.’ She moved away from him decisively. ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll make us a nice drink of Ovaltine, how about that?’
‘Aye girl, you do that, it’ll have to be mostly water mind, there’s not much milk left.’
While the kettle boiled, Hari stood in the doorway of the house and stared at the road, her road. There was a gaping black hole where her home had once been, ‘The Big House’ as it was known in the neighbourhood. Jagged pieces of stone and timber looked like tombstones in the moonlight. Hari stared up at the moon, willing it to go behind a cloud so that the enemy bombers couldn’t see what was left of Waterfield Road. She felt like calling out to God to ‘put that light out’ but it was too late even for divine help for already she could hear the drone of engines and knew the enemy were on their way again.