Annie Groves - Wartime for the District Nurses

‘Gillian! No, put it down.’ Mattie Askew, nee Banham, pushed herself to her feet and padded on swollen ankles across the family kitchen to try to stop her daughter from pulling a china bowl off the low shelf where it shouldn’t have been in the first place. ‘Ma, stop her, I’m too slow.’

Flo Banham swung around from where she was peeling potatoes at the kitchen sink and in one swift movement rescued the bowl with one hand and caught her granddaughter with the other, lifting her up and holding her so their eyes were level. ‘No you don’t, my girl,’ she said lovingly but firmly. ‘You know that’s not a toy. Heaven knows you’ve got enough of those, so when I put you down, you’re to play with them and not with my china.’

Gillian roared with laughter and tapped her grandmother’s nose.

‘Don’t you try and get around me like that.’ Flo put the little girl back on the mat and wiped her hands on her faded and threadbare apron. ‘Oh, she’s got a surprise coming. Just wait until her baby brother or sister arrives.’

Mattie groaned and rubbed her growing bump. ‘Can’t come soon enough for me. Whatever was I thinking of, carrying a baby through the heat of summer. We’ll both melt before it’s due. Nearly three more months! I don’t think I can do it.’

Flo tutted. ‘Of course you will. That’s Lennie’s child you’ve got there, and you owe it to him to bring it safely into the world.’

Mattie rolled her eyes. ‘You don’t have to remind me. As if I’d forget.’ Her husband Lennie had been taken prisoner at Dunkirk, only weeks after she’d written to him to say he was going to be a father for the second time. He’d been beside himself with joy at the news, and it was knowing that which kept her going. That and caring for their firstborn: Gillian, now nearly eighteen months old, and growing better at walking and talking every day. The toddler assumed, quite rightly, that she was the centre of everyone’s attention, and wasn’t old enough to miss the people who should have been there: her father and her doting Uncle Harry.

The third missing face belonged to Mattie’s older brother, Joe, who was in the navy. Nobody knew exactly where he was or what he was doing, as letters arrived home in no regular pattern, depending on if and when he was in port. He was a master at writing long, funny, affectionate letters without actually telling them anything. She looked forward to them, as they were as entertaining as reading a real book. Lennie, even Mattie would be first to admit, wasn’t a great one for letters, but he had managed to send one from his prison camp to assure everyone back home that he was alive and as well as possible. Mattie had already sent off one parcel via the Red Cross to make his stay more bearable.

Mattie sank back down onto the comfy chair, keeping a close eye on Gillian, who had found her teddy bear which had rolled under the kitchen table. Then came a gentle waft of welcome cool air as the door to the back kitchen opened and Stan Banham strode in. He was an imposing figure, tall and straight-backed, although his face had grown etched with new lines ever since the news had come through about Harry. He was the local trusted Air Raid Precautions warden, as well as working full time, and Mattie knew that whatever happened, her father would be there to make everything better. He was the rock on whom they all depended. She struggled to her feet. ‘Fancy some tea?’ she asked as brightly as she could, despite the heavy weight of the growing baby.

Stan smiled at his only daughter and then at his granddaughter, who ducked out from beneath the table and held her arms up, demanding a cuddle. Stan obliged. ‘No, you sit yourself down, I’ll just have a glass of water to cool off,’ he said, tousling Gillian’s fine brown hair before gently putting her down again. ‘It’s warm out there. The heat will have died down before I go out on my rounds; that’s something to be thankful for.’

Flo looked at him. ‘Well, that’s good,’ she said slowly. ‘Have you heard anything more today? About what’s going on? Down the market there are all sorts of rumours. Some say Hitler’s just waiting to pounce, that he’s got all his tanks lined up on the French coast.’

Stan shook his head. ‘You know better than to listen to rumour. People will repeat any old rubbish.’ He took a deep breath, easing off his light jacket. While he didn’t want to give anyone false hope, one of his foremost duties as an ARP warden was to prevent panic and keep everyone calm. If necessary that applied to his own family too. ‘We’ll take whatever comes and do our best. That’s all we can do. We won’t be frightened by silly tales or scaremongers. Worrying never solved anything, you know that as well as I do.’

Flo nodded, reassured as ever by her husband’s presence. ‘Then that’s what we’ll do,’ she said with determination. ‘And we’ll start with my potato pie.’

Billy Reilly wiped his itching eyes. They were red from tiredness, not helped by his underlying anxiety that this was the calm before the storm. He gazed up at the darkening sky, searching for any enemy planes. They’d been spotted in small numbers in Kent and along the south coast, sneaking over the Channel, as was common knowledge down at the docks where he worked. You couldn’t stop sailors and dockers talking to each other. How much everyone else knew was anyone’s guess, but he had a pretty good idea of what was going on.

He forced himself to concentrate on the job in hand. As well as working his full shift of hard manual graft, he now had an evening of ARP duty, walking the streets of Dalston, checking that everyone had put up their blackout blinds correctly and generally helping out whenever he was called upon. He’d learnt most of what he needed to know from his colleague Stan, who everyone looked up to. Billy had known Stan since he was at school, as Stan’s sons were two of his best friends. Or, rather, they had been; now there was just Joe left.

He was used to his duties now and found it easier to confront householders who refused to obey the regulations. In some ways it was easier in summer, as the longer hours of daylight meant nobody needed to use their gas – or, in rare cases, electric – lamps until late in the evening. During the winter months, when he’d been new to the work, there had been plenty of rows, as people pointed out that the expected air raids and gas attacks hadn’t happened and so what was the point of putting up ugly black blinds? Some wardens were lenient, insisting on the blinds only when there was a warning siren, but Billy thought that was the start of a slippery slope and aimed to be equally strict with everybody. Lives might depend on it.

He wondered whether he could find an excuse to call in on Kathleen. He wanted to more than anything else in the world but didn’t like to push his luck. He could tell himself it was out of simple concern for her welfare, as she had nobody else to look out for her and her little son. She struggled to make ends meet and he loved helping her out in small ways. Yet, if he was honest, he knew the real reason was that he’d been in love with her for years but had missed his opportunity to tell her.

She’d been another person Billy had known from school, and he’d always thought she was the prettiest girl there. Gradually they had drifted into the same circle of friends and they had all stayed in touch after leaving, when Billy had gone to work down at the docks. Just as he was gathering his courage to tell her how he felt, she’d met that handsome wastrel Ray Berry, and before you could say knife she’d gone and married him.

Billy drew a sharp breath at the thought of the man who had treated Kath so badly. She’d hidden his true nature from them all for ages, but it had got to the point where anyone could see the bruising. And it wasn’t only Kath who’d suffered. Ray had resented their baby son, which was unforgivable. When the news had come that Ray had not survived Dunkirk, most people had felt relief.