Threads of Gold

CHAPTER ONE
Liverpool, England 1944

 

The air raid siren sounded, shrill and piercing; falling chairs and loud chatter adding to the din. Some laughed to disguise their fear; others turned pale and began to push their way through the throng.

“Orderly, boys, orderly!” shouted Mr.Quinn, the Maths Master, or ‘Q’ as they called him.

The students slowed slightly, but nevertheless they jammed the doorway, each boy trying to get through first. They knew the drill and those in the lead began to run towards the stairs down to the basement, which served as the air raid shelter for the school. Even above the noise, planes could be heard overhead, and the whistle of bombs, still some distance away.

Underneath in the concrete-lined basement, there were rows of wooden bench seats, weak electric lights swinging on their lengths of cord from the ceiling. A pile of blankets was stacked in one corner together with wooden boxes filled with food supplies and drinking water. It was not imperative at first to have these supplies, as the attacks were aimed at London and Liverpool cities, but now things were far more serious with the outlying areas being targeted as well, so they could be needed at any time.

Tom could remember that first assault near his home in Liverpool. He had been home from boarding school for the end of term. It was dark in the evening when they heard the bombers approaching. Kathleen, his mother said, “Perhaps we should go to the shelter, but your father is not home yet.”

“That doesn’t matter Mother. We should still go, they are getting closer,” Tom said, taking her hand and leading her out the front door, down the three steps and through the wrought iron gate onto the street. His father’s office was next door to the house, and as they walked hurriedly down the street he came running towards them still dressed in his suit.

“Good, go quickly to the shelter, I have to help out here with the ARP. I will come to get you when it is over.” His voice lost none of its culture despite the desperation of the moment. He kissed his wife quickly on the cheek and turned back down the street. It was important to George that he help on the home front with the ARP (Air Raid Protection), which consisted of older men and others who could not be accepted into the armed forces, but who were invaluable organising necessary operations for the civilians in England.

Tom was tall like his father, with the same dark eyes and hair. He watched his parent hurry down the unlit street, feeling left out as usual that he was not farewelled like his mother. You’re thirteen, it’s time you got over that, Tom reminded himself.

In the distance they could see the flashes of exploding bombs, so mother and son ran to the corner and up the middle of the road in the next street, where a shelter had been built for the district. Down the stairs they hurried, and took their places on long wooden bench seats, which stood around the edges and in rows in the middle of the bunker. Here there were also stacks of blankets and boxes at one end.

Tom could see that his mother, even in these circumstances, chose where she sat, so she was not next to a person she felt was below her station in life. He did not care; they were people of this neighbourhood just like he was. He looked around the faces. There was the drunk who frequented the streets nearby, but who was now sitting on the floor, huddled up against the wall, dressed in an old ragged suit, hair long and lank hanging over his dirty bewhiskered face. Then there was the elderly couple from two doors up, in their night clothes and thick dressing gowns and slippers, holding hands, leaning close together, not daring to speak. Mrs. Dawkins and her eight children were all there, sitting quietly in a row. She sat upright, nursing the baby, who was howling loudly. She clucked and murmured to it, gently rocking from side to side in the hope that it would stop the noise. Nearly everyone stared at the baby as if it was responsible for the racket outside as well.

There were other children in their pyjamas, slippers and dressing gowns with mothers in disarray handing out drinks and biscuits; people still in their work clothes, only clutching a handbag or nothing at all, who probably had been walking home from work, and hurried into the shelter on the way. These were mostly women or older men, as the younger ones were away fighting in the war.

The shelter was not overcrowded, but still it did not take long to warm up on this chilly evening. Tom thought that many would not have had time to get there, and wondered how bad it would be when the winter snows came, providing the war was still being fought then. He could hear bombs close by now, everyone flinching as they felt the tremor of the earth, and Tom realised that many would have been caught in their houses, not getting away or refusing to leave as he had heard that many did.

He could not understand this. Why would people stay in their homes, when a bomb landing nearby would obliterate them and the surrounding buildings?

Before long the ‘All Clear’ sounded. He looked at his mother, dressed only in a light frock and cardigan. She looked cold, but had not moved, sitting stiffly in case she touched something unsavoury. In that moment Tom, even though he was only thirteen years old, felt sorrow for her. She could not relax her fastidious, finicky ways even if it was a matter of life or death. To her it only mattered that one spoke and acted properlyBut he could also see that she was afraid. She was so dependent on his father.

“Come on Mother,” he said standing up.

“But your father said he would come to get us,” she replied, seemingly not being able to act of her own accord. Yet, his mother was a smart secretary, and had had enough confidence in life to have a career, Tom recalled his father saying so. Now though, she was faced with a life-threatening situation, and obviously needed his father to be there to make the decisions.

“He is probably busy with the injured and the fires. We can find our own way home, after all we got here by ourselves didn’t we?”

She rose and without another word followed her son out into the night. Sparks from incendiaries burning on roof tops were still spitting into the dark and the air was cloyed with the acrid smell. Firemen were attending a shop on the corner, and turning into their own street Tom and his mother could see that the gutters were alight on the double-storeyed office building next door.

“There’s Father putting the ladder up to the wall. He is taking a hose up. Can you see him?” Tom said to his mother.

“Oh dear,” she sighed fearfully.

When his mother had gone inside their untouched house, Tom walked back down the street to his father. He could see quite well by the light of the many fires. Usually it was so dark with the blackout that he could not see a thing. George Linnell had by now succeeded in putting out the flaming guttering, and was taking his leave of the other officers. His face and good clothes were filthy, splattered with ash and water.

He looked at his son, dark eyes in a black face, and said in a tired voice, “your mother is all right Tom?”

“Yes, we are both fine Father. I see you managed to put out the fire on the office. I saw some houses burning along Burnside Road too, but the fire brigade was there. There must have been quite a lot of damage.”

“Indeed there was. The raid seemed to be concentrated on this area of the city tonight. The roof is badly damaged on the far side, but it can be repaired. You did well looking after your mother, thank you.”

Tom gave his father a small smile, appreciating the fact that he noticed what he had done.

“George, look at you,” Kathleen said as he came into the kitchen with Tom. “Oh and there are some holes burned into your suit,” she said crossly as she ineffectually brushed at his clothes.

“That is not important Kathleen, in times like these. I will change after I go down to see if my help is needed else-where,” he said, pushing her hands away impatiently.

“You must stop and eat George. I had dinner ready before we left. It will be cold now,” she said brusquely.

“That is not important either. I’ll eat later,” George replied stiffly. Then to Tom he said, “You should eat and go to bed, son.”

“Yes Father,” Tom said automatically.

Tom realised that his mother could not handle adversity. It was as though she was stunned by all the bombing and the hardship they could see around them, and could not adapt to the way things had changed so suddenly. All she could think about were the usual things like eating and being clean and tidy.

Tom, sitting the in school basement, suddenly became aware that there was silence. Rows of uniformed boys, eyes turned to the ceiling, waited. Then “thump!” the ground vibrated, the building shook, glass was heard shattering, together with other crashing sounds, then all was still. A huge collective sigh rose from the assembly, and voices broke out excitedly. Several of the teachers talked together as they waited for the ‘All Clear’.

Glass and debris crunched under their feet as the students and teachers made their way back through corridors, thick with dust still floating in the air, to their respective classrooms to see what damage had occurred. It was found to have been on one side of the school only, but not as bad as it had sounded. Windows were broken, and one room in...