The Last Lifeboat, page 7
As if in reply to her renewed sense of desperation, the letter from CORB arrived that morning. Lily’s heart thumped as she opened the simple brown envelope – such an ordinary thing, and yet she felt as though her next breath was held inside it. She unfolded a single typed page, longing for the words she’d once dreaded.
Further to your application, I am pleased to inform you that your children, Georgina and Arthur, have been accepted for evacuation with the CORB programme, subject to satisfactory medical examination. They will proceed to the port of embarkation on Tuesday, 10 September and will be included with a party going to Canada. You should accordingly proceed to make preparations at once, along the lines of the instructions set out below …
Lily glanced at the kitchen calendar, then back at the letter.
The tenth was tomorrow.
10 September 1940
War arrived just after four on Saturday afternoon. The East End was burning by five. Black Saturday, they’re calling it. Unimaginable destruction. Hundreds dead and wounded – many women and children among them. Nothing else to say. No words can ever capture what we have seen.
Mass-Observation, Diarist #6385
9
Kent. 10 September 1940
The London train was unusually punctual. Alice watched with her heart in her mouth as it approached. This was it then. She was really going.
Around her, people began to say their farewells, but Alice stood alone on the station platform. She’d insisted she didn’t want anyone to see her off, or to make a fuss. She’d never liked goodbyes, always found the business of extracting herself from gatherings and parties embarrassing and awkward. She’d popped her head into the library to say goodbye to it, and to Maud, but she’d even kept that brief as her emotions had threatened to get the better of her. She’d left rather abruptly, a snivelling Maud in her wake, the little bell above the door jingling a poignant au revoir.
She was glad to slip quietly into the second-class compartment, place her small suitcase on the luggage rack overhead and take her seat. Others around her pulled down the windows and exchanged emotional farewells with loved ones as the locomotive lurched forward with a hiss of steam and a cloud of smoke. In the seat opposite, a red-faced woman flapped a newspaper frantically at a painted lady butterfly trapped inside the compartment. Alice pulled down the window to let it out and blinked back a tear as she took her seat again, conscious of the echo of her own release from her ‘narrow little life’.
‘Always sets me off,’ the woman said, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘There’s something so sad about a train pulling away from a station, isn’t there? Especially during a war. Everything feels so final.’
Alice nodded and bit her lip as she stared intently at the passing hedgerows, because the woman was right. Everything was intensified by the war. Everything was so much more because there was a chance it could become so much less, that the people and things left behind wouldn’t be there when – if – you returned. Entire communities were being decimated now, homes demolished, shocked and shattered people left to search for what bits of their lives they could salvage from the rubble that remained, and when it came to evacuating the nation’s children from the cities and towns most at risk, there wasn’t a moment to lose. Alice felt the momentum build as the locomotive gained speed, her heart racing in her chest, her breathing matching the rattle and thrum of the wheels on the tracks.
The glorious Kent countryside soon gave way to the hard industry and architecture of London. As the train pulled into Victoria station, Alice took a deep breath, gathered her things and double-checked the information she’d been sent. She was to report first to the CORB assembly point at Grosvenor House Hotel in Mayfair, then to Euston Station, from where the group would depart for Liverpool at 1500 hours. She’d hoped to see Kitty before she left, but the strict schedule didn’t allow for such sentimental nonsense as saying goodbye to your sister.
Alice left the train station and set out to walk along Grosvenor Place, past the Wellington Arch and up Park Lane. Her palms were clammy. Her small suitcase banged awkwardly against her legs as she picked her way past damaged buildings, and looked for alternative routes when a street she needed to go down was impassable. Shocked by the sight of sandbags everywhere and of the barrage balloons dotting the sky, she kept a close eye on the nearest air-raid shelter as she walked. She hadn’t been in a shelter yet, and hoped her first experience wouldn’t be during a raid on the nation’s capital. The smell from open pipes and damaged sewers was nauseating. Alice put her hand over her nose and hurried on, wishing she were back in the hushed familiar walls of Whitstable library, listening to Maud singing Gracie Fields as she made the tea.
She was relieved to finally reach the calm interior of the hotel where a sign in the lobby directed her to CORB ASSEMBLY, Grand Ballroom. She took a moment to compose herself before making her way up a flight of crimson velvet stairs. There was no turning back now.
She hadn’t fully appreciated the scale of the CORB operation until she entered the opulent ballroom, once used for elegant dinner dances and now transformed into something resembling a postal sorting office and a field hospital for broken hearts. The atmosphere was tense, the air thick with emotion. Children snivelled as they clung to their mothers’ skirts. Some openly bawled. Several played contentedly on the floor, unfazed by the prospect of leaving, or too young to fully understand what was happening. Ashen-faced women consoled and reassured one another. The few men present lingered awkwardly at the side of the room, chain-smoking cigarettes and desperately trying to maintain an air of composure. One young father burst into tears as he told his son to be brave and to look after his little sister. Alice looked away. She had a job to do. She couldn’t let herself become emotionally involved.
Seeing a sign for Escort Registration, she made her way over to a rather formidable-looking woman wielding a clipboard. She recognized her as the woman who’d conducted her interview.
‘Hello. I’m here to register as an escort? Alice King?’ She couldn’t conceal the uncertainty and hesitation in her voice.
The woman looked up briefly, nodded, and studied a list attached to her clipboard. ‘King. Yes, here you are.’ She added a tick beside Alice’s name, stuffed the clipboard under her arm and thrust out a hand. ‘Eleanor Heath. Lead escort. Welcome aboard, Miss King! Delighted to have you!’
Alice thought her arm would be pulled off, it was shaken with such vigour. ‘Delighted to be here.’
‘Everyone will be fully briefed when we reach Liverpool. For now, it’s a matter of rounding ’em all up, and I’m afraid you’ve two to collect from their home. Bit of an inconvenience, but we did offer the choice, so needs must.’ Eleanor gave Alice a piece of paper with an address in Clapham. ‘Georgina and Arthur Nicholls. There’s a bus stop outside. The number eighty-eight will take you there. We’ll see you at the train station, departing at fifteen-hundred hours sharp, and Miss King …’
‘Yes?’
‘Two things. We mustn’t show any favouritism, or become emotionally attached. And we will leave without you if necessary.’
Alice assured her she wouldn’t be late.
‘Excuse me. Am I in the right place to register for escort duty?’
Eleanor Heath looked up from her paperwork as Alice turned to the voice to her right. Both women stared at a very tall, rather striking man, a hopeful smile on his face.
‘Howard,’ he added. ‘Howard Keane.’ He took a piece of paper from his coat pocket. ‘I think I’m in the right place. Either that or there’s been a terrible muddle and I’m supposed to be somewhere in France.’
Alice laughed. She could listen to his Irish accent all day.
Eleanor Heath studied her paperwork again. ‘Keane, Howard. Ah, yes. Here we are. Welcome aboard, Mr Keane. All your young charges are being brought to the hotel, so there’s no chance of us leaving without you. Grab a cup of tea – if you can call it that – and I’ll direct your evacs to you as they arrive.’ She turned to Alice. ‘Still here, Miss King?’
Alice jumped to attention and checked the address again. ‘On my way. Thirteen Elm Street, Clapham. I’ll see you at the train station.’
Howard Keane offered an encouraging smile and wished Alice good luck.
Eleanor Heath tutted. ‘She doesn’t need luck, Mr Keane. She needs to get a move on.’
But there was one more thing Alice needed to do.
She found a public telephone box across the road from the hotel. She hadn’t telephoned Kitty at work before and hoped she would be able to talk. If anyone could settle her last-minute nerves, Kitty could.
‘Alice! Is everything all right? I’m not supposed to take personal calls at work, but they said it was urgent.’
‘It is. I wanted to talk to you, before I leave.’
‘You’re not nervous, are you?’
‘A little. But I didn’t call to talk about me. How are you? How are … things?’
Kitty paused before answering. She lowered her voice so that Alice could hardly hear her. ‘I made an appointment, a few days ago.’
‘Oh, Kitty. You should have said. I’d have come with you. Was it awful?’
‘I didn’t go in the end. There was an air raid.’
‘And? Have you rescheduled?’
There was another pause. ‘Not yet, but I think …’
The pips started to go. Alice fumbled in her purse for another coin, but she dropped it as she tried to put it into the slot. The line went dead before she could find another. Her parting words, ‘I’ll miss you, Kitty,’ were never heard.
Unlike many other streets Alice passed on the bus, Elm Street was remarkably undamaged. She felt calm and purposeful as she walked down the red-brick terrace, following the numbers displayed in the fanlights until she reached number 13. The generous autumn sun cast a golden glow over the olive-green front door. The garden gate squeaked as she opened it and walked up the narrow path. The house looked a little careworn. The small patch of front garden needed weeding, and the hydrangeas could do with deadheading. She lifted the knocker and rapped gently twice. She could sense the neighbours twitching at their net curtains.
After a moment, the door was opened by a tall narrow-framed woman, mahogany hair pin-curled into waves, olive-green eyes that matched the colour of the front door, a look of Katharine Hepburn about her.
‘Mrs Nicholls?’
The woman nodded. ‘Lily.’ She held out a hand.
Alice shook it. ‘Alice King. With CORB. I’ve come to …’
‘I know.’
Two children appeared in the hallway behind Mrs Nicholls. The boy hid behind his mother’s legs. The girl smiled broadly as she joined her mother on the doorstep.
‘Hello! I’m Georgina, but you can call me Georgie. What’s your name?’
‘Georgie! Manners.’ Lily placed her hand on the child’s shoulder.
‘I’m Miss King.’ Alice held out her hand. ‘Very pleased to meet you, Georgie.’ The child carried an air of confidence. A Girl Guide, no doubt. Through her years in the classroom, Alice had developed a knack for marking out those she could rely on to help, and those who would cause trouble. Georgie was definitely a helper.
‘And this is Arthur,’ Lily said as she gently encouraged the boy to step forward.
‘Hello, Arthur.’ Alice shook his hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you.’ She tried to keep her voice bright and friendly despite her own nerves.
Arthur didn’t share his sister’s confidence, but he shook Alice’s hand anyway. ‘This is Small Lion,’ he said, producing a small stuffed animal. ‘He’s coming on the ship with me.’ Like Arthur, Small Lion had an evacuee label tied around his neck.
Alice shook Small Lion’s paw. She suspected Arthur was the sensitive type. Eager to please, but vulnerable. He would, no doubt, be terribly homesick. She would need to keep an eye on him.
The two women spoke for a few moments, both of them painfully aware that the need for small talk and pleasantries only made the situation worse. Lily made sure the children’s cases were securely fastened and their labels firmly tied through the buttonholes of their coats.
‘Promise me you’ll wear your coats at bedtime,’ she said. ‘It’s very important, to make sure you’re nice and warm if you have to go up on deck suddenly in the middle of the night.’
The children solemnly promised.
Alice understood that the reason for Lily’s insistence was her fear of a U-boat attack.
‘Would you take this, Miss King?’ Lily pressed an envelope into Alice’s hand. ‘It’s a lucky talisman, a white feather, to keep the children safe. A silly superstition really but, would you mind?’
A little bemused by the notion of lucky talismans, Alice took the envelope and slipped it into her jacket pocket. ‘Of course.’
The girl was anxious to leave. The boy dallied at his mother’s side. Alice hated to rush them, but she was conscious of the time and Eleanor Heath’s stark warning about leaving without them.
‘We really should be going,’ she said.
Lily nodded, took a deep breath, gave the children a firm hug and a kiss on the forehead and told them to remember their manners and to be on their very best behaviour. There was a quiet strength about her, a determination not to give in to whatever emotions were raging inside.
‘SS Carlisle,’ Alice whispered. ‘Departing from Liverpool.’
She wasn’t meant to know, and certainly wasn’t meant to say, but she’d seen the name of their ship on Eleanor Heath’s list, and thought Lily Nicholls should know.
Lily nodded. ‘Thank you.’ Her voice was a whisper, as if she didn’t have the emotional wherewithal to make any greater sound.
Alice ushered the children ahead. The gate opened and closed with another squeak and they set off down Elm Street, their small suitcases in one hand, their other hand grasped firmly in Alice’s. She told the children not to look back because it would only upset their mother, but she chanced a quick glance herself.
The olive-green door was already closed.
Whatever was happening behind it was for Lily Nicholls to know.
At Euston station, Alice registered the two Nicholls children with a very flushed Eleanor Heath, who, despite her authoritative exterior, now seemed a little harried by the endless line of escorts and children who had questions for her or needed something from her. They were a significant group. CORB evacuees had come from right across London, collected up like scrap left out for the rag and bone man. They all looked so small beneath the great railway station arches, their shoelaces already undone, their bewildered little faces pale and tear-stained as they wondered what on earth they’d done wrong to be sent away from their mothers.
‘You made it back in time then?’
Alice turned to see Howard Keane, the man she’d met earlier at the hotel. ‘And with time to spare!’
Howard was keeping his young evacuees entertained by pretending to pull a coin from behind their ears and making it disappear again.
‘You’re very good with them,’ Alice said.
‘Learned everything from my da. With seven of us to keep out of trouble, he always had a trick or two up his sleeve.’
Alice wondered why a healthy young man like Howard wasn’t away fighting. She remembered reading something about men from Northern Ireland being excluded from conscription. Or perhaps he was a CO, like Walter. Whatever the reason, she knew better than to make assumptions. War was complicated. Assumptions were usually wrong.
Thankfully, the Liverpool train was on time. Alice was eager to get out of London. The bombing raids usually started at blackout and she didn’t fancy a night in a London bomb shelter with children who were already upset enough as it was.
‘Ready for the off, Miss King?’ Eleanor Heath went around the group, checking everyone off her list one last time.
‘Ready for the off,’ Alice confirmed.
‘Ready for the off,’ a small voice beside her echoed.
She looked down at a scrappy little boy who’d strayed from Howard’s group. Shoelaces undone, his cap falling over his eyes, grazes on his knees.
He pulled a marble from his coat pocket. ‘My best shooter,’ he said. ‘Bet they’ve never seen one this big in Canada!’
Alice bent down to inspect the marble, a clear glass orb with a swirl of aquamarine running through the centre. She checked the identification label tied to the buttonhole of the boy’s coat, picked a small white feather from his sleeve, pushed his cap back from his face and smiled. ‘I’d keep that in your pocket if I were you, Billy Fortune. And I think this belongs to you, too.’ She held out the feather.
‘That’ll be from the pigeons. I’m looking after them for Father while he’s away. Their bleedin’ feathers get everywhere.’
Alice noticed that the boy’s breath caught a little when he talked. The remnant of a stutter, perhaps, or maybe just excitement. She knew Billy’s type instantly. A hard worker, a charmer. He would become everyone’s friend.
He slipped the feather and the marble into his coat pocket, wiped his nose with the back of his coat sleeve and reached for Alice’s hand. ‘Have you brought any marbles, lady?’
‘No, dear. Grown-ups tend not to play with marbles.’
Billy thought about this for a moment, a frown on his face, as if he couldn’t understand that you would ever reach a point in life where you didn’t play with marbles. He wrapped his fingers tight around Alice’s. ‘You can borrow mine if you like.’
Alice looked at Billy Fortune, and swallowed a lump of emotion. Until then, she’d focused on the practical aspects of her role – dates, times, lists, and instructions – but in that instant, with a small hand in hers, something shifted. As she looked around the station platform, at Georgie and Arthur Nicholls, and dozens of other children whose welfare and safety she and half a dozen other escorts were now responsible for, she felt a crack in her heart. Despite Eleanor Heath’s warning not to get emotionally attached, Alice quietly accepted that she already was.
