'IN FOR A PENNY, IN FOR A POUND'

A WWII SHORT STORY, PUBLISHED BY Epic Unlimited - Volume Two (smashwords.com)

IN FOR A PENNY, IN FOR A POUND

Damn signposts. Turning them to point in the wrong direction, to fool the enemy, was a great idea, if you knew the area. But for a townie like me, on an excursion to purchase scarce-as-hen’s-teeth butter, taking the wrong turn in unfamiliar territory almost proved fatal. If it weren’t for the moonlight I’d have driven into the ditch. The hooded headlights on the van barely lit the road and the unknown corner appeared unexpectedly. Now I had to find my way back to the last signpost and go in the opposite direction. Hopefully, this would lead me home to Shieldend.

A farm gateway loomed and I stopped, left the van, and wandered around in the pale light, checking the area for roadside hazards. No drains or potholes but the smell of manure and the squelch underfoot told me this was a gateway well-used by cows. In daylight I might have pursued the opportunity and perhaps found another supply of butter, but instead I turned the vehicle around and drove back several miles to take the opposite fork in the highway.

The detour and effort had been expensive, but worth it. If I hadn’t been desperate to bake something other than bread and buns, I wouldn’t have bothered to chase the rumour of butter..The home-made pound blocks of gold nestled safely on the floor beside the gear-stick; if stopped I’d throw a coat over them. They were contraband classified, and I didn’t hold any ration coupons for butter, even though I was a baker by trade and designated as an essential worker. At least I had legal right to the dried eggs and the bags of flour I’d collected earlier. Some yeast had been available too, plus I had a mother-plant for sourdough at home. It didn’t appeal to some of my customers. An acquired taste, but in times of war we all had to eat strange combinations.

I drove through the moonlight, relieved to pass at last through a familiar village, and no longer lost in the wilderness of County Durham. I reached the top of the winding hill road and above the noise and rattle of the van came the thunder of low flying planes. My throat tightened. A steel band wrapped my heart and my head threatened to explode. Cursed blood pressure.

I pulled to the side of the road and stopped, calming my pulse with long slow breaths. Ahead the moonlight bounced off the barrage balloons floating like silver slugs on the horizon. The dark shapes of the Luftwaffe bombers crossed the moon’s face, like insects crawling over an orange; dozens of them. As they disappeared, fading into the indigo sky, more followed across the moon. Not dozens; more like hundreds. I’d never seen so many planes above my blacked-out town. Beneath them the ink-drawn lines of the dock’s cranes looked like the legs of upside-down spiders or dead ants, against the shining ribbon of sea. Shipping and coal kept our town bustling but now we were going to pay the price for our industry.

Then the searchlights switched on and began to dance and sweep across the sky, picking out the planes, with tracers of gunfire following their upward path. They lit up my town, the portside, and the factories, where everyone I loved, my whole reason for living, existed—my wife, my daughter and my aunts. I wanted to shout, ‘turn the lights off’ as they pinpointed Shieldend to the enemy above.

I climbed out of the van and stood on the grass verge, gulping in the cold air, trying to ease my panic.  The thin, faint wail of sirens reached me. Their cry rose and fell as the wind swept the sound around me. Rain had been promised for tonight. Clouds were supposed to be covering us, but some damn weatherman had messed up his predictions. The Germans had worked this out earlier and were now using the moon to seek out their targets. If we were under fire then London and other important towns on the East Coast would also be vulnerable.

I’d never have left if I’d thought there was a chance of an air-raid. Aileen and Caroline were under those searchlights. I had to get home.

Helplessness rolled over me, weakening my knees, bending my spine as I lost my pie and chips onto the verge. For minutes I trembled, wiping scalding tears from my cheeks until I took charge of my fearful body, forced myself into the cab and restarted the engine. No matter if I died, I had to navigate the falling bombs, the burning buildings and make sure my family was safe. If I hadn’t got lost among the county roads, I’d be home by now. Can’t wind-back the clock…must hurry on. 

Once down from the hills and on the flat I ripped the covering off the headlights. One lone vehicle wouldn’t attract a bomber when it had the docks and a town to play skittles with. I drove at reckless speed knowing the police would have more to worry about tonight than a racing van. With an hour of driving ahead I hoped to reduce the travelling time by half, with luck and Godspeed.

A while later I slowed for the approaching corner and once around it multiple torch beams waved up and down in front of me. Home Guards on duty and here I was speeding and with my lights exposed. I rolled to a halt and threw my coat over the contraband butter before I wound down the window.

“Evening all,” I called.

“Papers please,” a gruff voice demanded.

“Certainly, sir.” I retrieved my travelling authority and stock approval for the flour, eggs and yeast and patted my pocket to check I had my driver’s licence. I turned off the engine and climbed out of the cab. “Sorry I was going a bit fast. I got lost and I’m in a hurry to get home.” I pointed in the direction of Shieldend. “Bit of a do going on there at present.” I extended the authorisations.

While one man looked at the papers, by the light of his torch, another queried me. “Funny you should get lost. You sound local.”

“Good point,” the paper-holding Guard added. “Why are you lost when this paper indicates you are entitled to this weekly collection?” Suspicion rang in his voice, and he shone his torch in my eyes.

“I’m a baker by trade,” I said. “The supplies are usually delivered to my bakery but when they didn’t arrive yesterday, I rang the distributors. They said the regular driver had a family crisis and couldn’t do the run.”

“Lot of that about these days,” a third guard commented, and his torch beam moved away to track over the outside of my van.

“Let me show you.” I walked to the back of the van, drawing them away from the cab and the elicit butter. I opened the double doors, “See, here are the bags of flour and the dried eggs. That’s the yeast.” I pointed to a small packet on the floor well wrapped in brown paper.

Three torch beams crossed the interior, lingered in the corners and scanned the roof panels. One guard poked the side of the bags and sniffed to confirm their contents. Nothing more to find, except a spare tyre, some tools, rags and a small tin of petrol left over from the travel allowance. Their unhurried manner began to wind me up. I needed to be moving. Finally, they seemed satisfied.

“Right-oh. All seems in order.” He handed me my papers. “You need to cover those lights though and go a bit slower.”

“Thank you, I will. Just need to get home first,” and again I pointed toward the coast, to the weaving searchlights and the muffled booms in the distance. I climbed back into the van, threw the papers on the seat and restarted the engine.

With a cheery wave I pulled away, butter saved. Relief washed over me but it was a good mile before I increased my speed.

  I drew ever closer to the falling death, the exploding bombs and the fires that lit my town like a beacon, aiding the enemy in its evil destruction.

Finding a way to our home, with the bakery in the basement, took longer than the dash from the hills. I drove through streets blocked by fire-engines, water pumps, and bomb holes. People stumbled about and filled the roads, blocking crossroads. The flames from burning buildings lit their shocked dust-covered faces as they stood, silent, unable to make themselves heard over the noise of the night. I think I reversed more miles than I drove forward, but eventually I reached Wellington Street. Broken glass littered the road, as with every other part of town. Shattered tiles from neighbouring roofs piled onto front yards and pavements, slipped from their resting peaks, or blown skyward to land at random. Most of the houses were missing windows, and their doorways gaped like mouths, open in surprise, startled by the barrage of bombs. A few houses had disappeared completely leaving only craters to mark their existence.

I parked as close to the entrance as I could get. The tyres would never be the same. The van would probably remain in the garage for the rest of the war – if we still had a garage. I locked the precious cargo in the vehicle and prepared myself for what I might find, swallowing the fear that rose in my throat.  At least the house stood in one piece, minus all windowpanes. Our front door was absent without leave. Solid oak with a brass knocker, it had been my mother’s pride and joy – and a curse to polish, as I remember.

I crunched my way through pieces of the leadlight window panes, broken ornaments and furniture toppled and tangled. It looked as if a giant had come in, tossed all the contents about and not finding what he wanted, left the mess, and departed. The hat-stand from by the front door now hung from the banister halfway up the stairs. I hoped my family had made reached the air raid shelter because little could have survived this blast. We’d never had a raid this bad.

I checked the cupboard under the stairs. The toys and dolls house lay scattered down the hallway but the cupboard, our bolthole in an emergency, was empty. My heart skittered. They must have made the shelter.

The living room had furniture piled high in the middle as if someone was planning a bonfire. Dawn light peeped through the top corner of the ceiling, where the outside brick work had fallen from the walls. A steel rod with a bell on the end protruded into the room. A breeze sneaked in and a soft dong sounded as the bell swayed. I recognised it as being part of the Bell and Candles Pub’s sign. It had travelled two streets to end its flight speared into our front room.  

Convinced my family were somewhere safe I took the stairs down to the bakery in the basement. At least the ovens looked undamaged. Everything seemed in place although a patina of dust coated the large centre table, where I daily kneaded dough, shaped pies—and where all the magic happened. I ran my palm over the smooth wooden surface. A mistake. Fine shards of glass bit. All this could be cleaned up, but I doubted the man would arrive tonight to light the ovens, despite it being Sunday and his weekly appointment. The smell of gas wasn’t as bad down here but there had to be a ruptured line nearby. To be on the safe side I turned off the main gas tap in the basement.

I returned to the road, checked the van remained locked, and headed to the nearest air-raid shelter to find my family, picking my way through the mess in the eerie dawn light.

“Hoi-up,” I called and the singing of ‘Ten Green Bottles’ came to a ragged stop. “Any one seen Aileen and Caroline?” Glum faces stared at me from the wooden benches. Silence answered. The fug of sweat and excrement drifted over me as it escaped the enclosed space.

“No, haven’t seen them tonight.” The warden shook his head. “They never turned up here. There wasn’t much time between the sirens and the bombs.” He rubbed his eyes, red rimmed with dust. “Some bombs fell before the sirens could be sounded.”

“Perhaps they’re in the Nelson Street shelter?” Betty, our neighbour, approached out of the gloom and thick air. “Aileen said yesterday she might visit your aunts over there, after going to the market.”

Dread crawled up my throat again. According to a fireman, Nelson Street had suffered some direct hits. “Thanks Betty, I’ll go there.”

“The all-clear hasn’t sounded yet,” the Warden warned. I shook my head and hurried back outside.

The desire to find my family muddled my thinking. I got in the van and nearly drove off, then remembered the precious butter needed chilling and the flour and eggs had to be stored away in the basement. I couldn’t drive around the destroyed town with them on board. The moon had done her damage and sunk in shame below the horizon. A brighter light sneaked into my ruined home, slowly unveiling more carnage.

Common-sense prevailed. I decided to unload the purchases and take one last look around. The electricity would be off ,but the fridge would stay cool for a while and I walked back through the hole where our door once hung, to clear the floor. If I tried carrying stock through the debris to get to the basement bakery, I’d surely trip over something.

When I opened the back door to throw out some pieces of ceiling plaster, I saw our front door leaning against the old privy in the back garden. Another fireman had told me the bombing that night had been the worst he’d ever seen. Totally unbelievable what the power of a bomb blast could do—strong enough to blow our door off its hinges then suck it up and over the house. If I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t have believed it.

As I carried the butter down the hall, I heard a scuffle in the living room as if the pile of wood was shifting. I placed the butter on the stairs and hurried in, tripping over a chair on its side and then stood, listening. Had I imagined it? A soft cough came from under the heap of furniture in the centre of the room, a pause and then, a wail.

“Mummy, I can’t get the door open.” Caroline’s voice! Somewhere underneath the jumble my daughter was alive!

 “Aileen!” I shouted. “Caroline? Are you there?”

“Oh God,” my wife cursed. ‘I hate this bloody war. Is that you, Charlie?”

“It is. It’s me. How can you be alive under all this furniture and timber?” I began to throw pieces to the side, like peeling an onion, layer by layer until to my amazement I found a structure with wire-netting sides and nestled inside… my family.

“What’s this? How did you get inside this thing?”

“I bought it at the market yesterday and the man delivered it late afternoon. In exchange for a loaf of bread he assembled it, here.” Her face, creased from sleep, peered at me though the wire. “Stopotalking and get me out of here, Charlie.”  

She crawled out once I moved part of the dining table and I hugged her so tight she moaned.

“What a contraption. But it saved your lives.”

“It’s a Morrison Shelter. They’re all the rage in London. Of course ,Caroline insisted on spending the night in it.” I lifted strands of hair off her face as she continued. “Honestly, it was quite comfortable. We had quilts and blankets, food and drink—and best of all, ear plugs and earmuffs.” She looked around. Her hand flew to her mouth and her eyes widened as she took in the destruction.

“It was an excellent buy,” I said, the back of my eyes prickling, tears threatening. “Thank God you’re alive. I thought you might’ve been killed.”

“I hate this war,” she muttered.

“I don’t,” Caroline interrupted, standing on top of the Morrison shelter. Now exposed it looked like a hen coop, sturdy and low, a solid steel frame with wire netting around the sides.

 “I like war. It’s fun!” Caroline raised her arms, asking to be lifted. A precocious child at nearly three, we hoped her enthusiasm for life would carry her through future challenges. Nothing dented her optimism.

“That’s probably due to your good parenting,” I whispered in Aileen’s ear and put Caroline on my hip.

“Did you get the provisions for next week?”

I nodded. “And not only that, I got butter, pounds of it.” I put my finger to my lips. “Next week I’m going to make a rich pound cake with three quarters of a pound of butter. We’ll get the maiden aunts around and eat it until we feel ill.”

“But there’s no furniture,” she shivered, “… and I’m cold. There’s a door open somewhere. It’s warmer in there.” She turned, pointing to her purchase. For a moment I thought she would crawl back in, away from the shambles around us.

“The front door is in the backyard, but we can live in the basement until things are fixed. It’s safe and warm down there and I can continue to bake. There’ll be an uproar if there isn’t bread for the locals, and a few cakes for the firemen.” I kissed her cheek. “All that matters is you’re both safe.”

As if to signify heartfelt agreement, the ‘All Clear’ sounded.

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If you enjoyed this story you can read more from this anthology in Epic Unlimited Volume 2..

My latest novel ‘On The Wind’ is being released by Range Road Press on the 31st March. You can pre-order an e-book or paperback copy here:  https://geni.us/qFiwy

Here is the cover, to tempt you. This story features a wind phone. (You might have to Google this)

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