大象传媒

PART 4 (read "Farthings from Heaven" on www.housers.net)

Auntie Rose and Uncle Will are standing at the front door. Gaunt, white faces, eyes drained of life. All they have with them are two small suitcases. Billy, their only son, isn鈥檛 with them. For little Billy is dead. Killed in the air raid that demolished their house, leaving the pair of them buried alive for eight hours. Their bodies pinned fast with tons of masonry pressing into their flesh, heads held, face down, into brick dust, hardly able to breathe. And, worst of all, through those long agonising hours, not knowing what had happened to their little boy who鈥檇 they鈥檇 left tucked up safely in his bed.
I remember cousin Billy for the game we once played when we went to visit them just before the war. He was probably about three years old; fair, curly hair, dimpled cheeks and a quick smile. At the end of the garden of their new house was a low picket fence giving onto a narrow lane. In the fence was a wide, heavy gate with the property of slowly turning on its hinges until shutting itself with a clang on the post latch. I stood on the gate鈥檚 lower strut, both feet off the ground, being slowly carried by its own momentum until it struck the post, when I would pretend to fall off. The whole effect depended on the total absorption of my character in his affairs until, with a shuddering crash he ends up on the ground, arms and legs waving in the air with the suddenness of his downfall. Billy thought it so hilarious that I had to do it again and again. The actor in me demanding that each time I should play a new variation. I was, in turn; a policeman directing traffic; a ship鈥檚 captain scanning the horizon; a bus conductor collecting fares; an orchestral conductor conducting; a bird watcher scanning the sky through binoculars; and a balancing artist rehearsing his act. Billy would watch each pantomime intently. He, knowing what was going to happen, but knowing that my role depended on me not knowing what was going to happen. As the gate slowly swung, his eyes would widen with apprehension, his jaw gaping with the disaster that lay ahead. And when it did, he would instantly erupt with gushing laughter that left him red-faced and breathless. So, when he implored me 鈥溾�檊ain!鈥︹�榞ain!鈥︹�檊ain!鈥� I of course did it all over again. Only better. How else to repay such an appreciative audience?
And, even though there can be no 鈥榞ain again, I鈥檒l not forget you Billy.
One weekend, for a change, instead of cycling north into Hertfordshire, I went south, through London, and into Sussex. Partly because it held happy memories of our seaside holidays before the war, but also because this was where (it was rumoured) the Allied forces were building up for our invasion of France. A day that couldn鈥檛 come soon enough because surely it signalled that the end of the war was in sight.
On the face of it, nothing had changed very much. They鈥檇 been no bombing here and people went about their everyday rural lives as usual. The same half-timbered houses, small ancient churches, cricket on the village green. But it was as though the whole thing had been picked up, like a film set, and put down again in the middle of Aldershot. There were soldiers everywhere. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of them. Some stacking ammunition into neat piles as big as a cottage, covered in camouflage netting, that lined the roadsides for mile after mile; Others servicing tanks and bren gun carriers ; Convoys of army lorries, loaded with supplies, driving nose to tail in never ending lines; Despatch riders on motor bikes weaving their way through the traffic as though their life depended on it; Humber Super Snipe saloons with big fat tyres and identification pennants fluttering on the bonnet, taking high-ranking Staff Officers from one high-level meeting to another. All so busy that nobody takes the slightest notice of me peddling past.
I booked in for bed and breakfast at Petworth, the picture postcard of a small English market town. For one night in a single room over the fish and chip shop of the owner and his wife. After a delicious supper of 鈥� yes, you鈥檝e guessed it 鈥� I went for a stroll. In the summer twilight everywhere was peaceful and quiet. Few people about. No sign of all the clamour of the day. Feeling thirsty after my supper, and hoping to find someone to chat to, I decided to chance my arm and get a half pint glass of cider in a pub, even though I was still under the age limit. 鈥楾he Saddlers Arms鈥� was tucked away in a side street, suitably quiet and out of the limelight for my law-breaking escapade.
I鈥檓 astonished to find the place is packed. Crammed with soldiers. Large men with tanned faces, softly talking to one another between sips of beer. Heads turn towards me. Stares of curiosity as they try to make out what I鈥檓 doing there. And I them. But it鈥檚 too late to turn and go out again. It could be read as an admission that I鈥檓 too young to drink with real men or, worse still, seen as an insult. So I order my cider. The barman takes a long hard look at my youthful face and corduroy shorts and goes to open his mouth as if to ask me the dreaded question about my age. My answer would make me either a liar or the cause to shrink with embarrassment. I feel a blush rising up. But he changes his mind. Pours me my drink. I creep away into a corner trying to look as though I鈥檓 an old hand at drinking in a bar with half the Canadian army. Their shoulder tabs say it all:

Calgary Regiment鈥oyal Hamilton Light Infantry鈥egina Rifles鈥askatchewan Light Infantry鈥oyal Winnipeg Rifles鈥�8th Princess Louise鈥檚 Fusiliers鈥oyal Canadian Regiment鈥�

Could these be the same Canadian troops who were landed at Dieppe one day last summer? Some of the survivors of one of the bloodiest days of the war? From the six thousand who were landed, less than half returned. It was reported the action was to test how tough were the enemy defences on the French coast as part of the preparations for D-day. Well they certainly found that out. And now D-day itself is just around the corner. Now they鈥檙e going to have to go through it all once again. No wonder the bar is so subdued. Not a time for jollity and high jinks, but for sober reflection. The atmosphere reminds me of the dressing room just before a big match. Everyone locked in his own thoughts of the game ahead. Wanting to play his very best. Not to let down his teamates. To give the crowds of spectators something to cheer about. And above all, to be a credit to himself. What wouldn鈥檛 they give, I wonder, to change places with me? To jump on a bike and cycle home to their own family and climb into their own bed? As I walk back through the silent streets I reflect on my own good fortune and, on their behalf, offer a prayer for their safe return.
I鈥檇 just had my lunch and Mr Wesson gives me the list for the Fleet Street calls I was to make that afternoon. As usual I cross the junction with the Aldwych, and head towards the Law Courts. The Strand was busy with traffic and people strolling in the warmth of the June sunshine. I was passing the short row of shops just before Somerset House, thinking of the cricket match I鈥檓 playing in tomorrow鈥�
Suddenly, without the slightest warning, there鈥檚 a deafening scream from the sky right above me. Instinctively I throw myself on the ground, towards the shelter of the wall. Arms over my head. As I fall I glance over my shoulder. And, in that fraction of a second, see the blur of a large grey object disappear over the rooftops. There is a huge explosion. I scramble to my feet. Start running towards it. Across the Strand. Through the gates of Bush House. Into the wide terrace that cuts through its multi-storey bulk. Up the wide flight of steps that come out at the Aldwych. Right opposite where the flying bomb has dropped.
And even as I鈥檓 running I feel the strangeness of it all. It鈥檚 very quiet. No sounds but for the musical tinkling of glass, like Chinese wind chimes, as showers of it drop to the ground. And no people either. I seem to be all alone. Then, on the steps, coming down towards me, is a man. Not running or walking, but briskly hurrying as though late for an appointment. His face expressionless. His eyes fixed on something somewhere over my shoulder. Well-dressed but hatless, tailored suit, collar and tie. Perfectly ordinary except for having his trouser legs ripped completely off at the knees. He hurries past without noticing me.
On the Aldwych pavement, opposite where I am, is a pile of twisted metal. Flickering with licks of flame. And, what looks like bundles of old clothing, lying shapeless and still on the ground. No people. No traffic. No sound. Just by me, a lady lies on the ground, her back propped up against the great iron gates of the colonnade. As though she鈥檚 resting. She stirs. I go to her. Lean down. Ask if I can do anything for her. She opens her eyes. Dazed. Then says she seems to have lost her handbag. 鈥淒鈥檡ou think you might find it for me?鈥� Incredibly, by the wall of the opposite gate, my eye catches the gleam of shining metal. It鈥檚 a handbag. Totally empty. It鈥檚 bottom ripped out. The lining dangling through the hole like the ragged hem of a skirt. I show it to her. The hint of a grateful smile. She murmurs a 鈥榯hank-you鈥�. I lay it gently by her side. Her limbs loose like a rag doll. I think she鈥檚 very badly injured. Hurled by the blast against the ornamental ironwork. The extreme shock of the trauma acting like a momentary anaesthetic. I daren鈥檛 touch her. Feel totally helpless. As I look around the carnage, I become aware of distant running feet. Whistles blowing. Bells ringing. I bend low over her. Tell her to hang on. Help is on the way. I don鈥檛 know if she can hear me. Her eyes are closed. I think she鈥檚 past all help. There鈥檚 nothing more I can do. I feel overwhelmed by the enormity of the dreadful tragedy that surrounds me. So I turn and walk away. Carrying the lady鈥檚 handbag in my memory for the rest of my life.

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