Till the Sun Shines Through (40 page)

A woman gave a sudden shriek and sank to her knees and began to howl in distress, while another beside her began the rosary, playing the beads between her hands, saying the prayers like a litany.

Bridie's terrified eyes met those of her sister. ‘Oh God, I … I'm so s … scared,' Bridie could barely speak, her teeth chattered so.

‘We're all scared,' Mary said. Her thoughts were with her eldest son, no more than a boy, out in the teeth of the longest and worst raid Birmingham had ever endured so far.

‘What … what right have I got to put them through this?' Bridie said, indicating the children. Both were sitting on the bunk, dropping with fatigue, yet too afraid to sleep. ‘Why didn't I send them away when I had the chance?'

‘Hush, Bridie. This isn't your fault,' Mary said. ‘You made the same decision as me. We wouldn't send them to strangers.'

‘Not strangers no,' Bridie said. ‘But, maybe Mammy would have them. Didn't Daddy say they would?'

‘Aye, he did,' Mary said, and she drew Bridie to her and put her arms around her. ‘But remember Mammy didn't. Come on we'll talk about it later,' she said, frightened of Bridie's wild eyes and trembling body.

‘If we survive you mean,' Bridie cried. ‘And if we don't, if anything happens to my children, it will be my fault, a judgement on me.'

‘Bridie, that simply isn't true,' Mary said. ‘Here, sit on the bunk. I'll pour you a nice cup of tea from the vacuum flask.'

Bridie's hands shook so much Mary had to cover them with her own to stop her spilling the tea all over her. She wished she'd had a drop of brandy to put into it, for the trauma of the last few weeks had seemed to have eventually got to her sister. Katie and Liam looked on with wide terrified eyes and her own Mickey was in little better shape.

She took the cup from Bridie's shaking hands, but held her arms so that they faced each other. ‘Listen, Bridie,' she said, but quietly so the children didn't hear. ‘You must pull yourself together for the children's sake. Do you hear me? If you're scared, think how they're feeling.'

The children, Bridie thought. How could I let myself go to pieces like that and frighten my children further? She forced a tentative smile to her lips and held out her arms to the children huddled on the other side of the bunk. Relieved, they scuttled across to her and, enfolded in her arms, buried their heads in Bridie's breasts. ‘There now, there now,' she said, and began to rock them gently as they lay quiet. They knew their mother couldn't stop the noise, but somehow it was easier to bear when she cuddled them close.

Bridie sat like that for hours, unheeding of the ache in her arms, only aware that by not letting these children go, by being selfish, she could bring harm, even death to them, and she couldn't bear that thought. Whatever Mary said, she knew it would be judgement on her if that happened. She had to get them away before harm befell them, if it wasn't already too late.

Bridie knew it would be a great wrench to send her children away, but better for them than spending their nights cooped up like this and in constant fear of being buried alive, gassed to death, or blown to pieces. She should never have inflicted this on them. She should have taken them away when Tom suggested it.

She thought of the peace and tranquillity of her home on the farm and the marvellous childhood she'd had before Francis so terribly intervened. She wished she could say her children would enjoy the same. But, she couldn't, because at the centre of it was her mother and the hatred she still bore her.

She had analysed her behaviour at the funeral many a time since and knew what her mother had wanted was an explanation of why she had run away from them. When Bridie had been unable to give her that, her bitterness seemed to grow even worse.

But Bridie asked herself, would she care for her children? A sudden explosion made her jump and the children in her arms shuddered in fear and Bridie thought fiercely,
I'll have to make her see how bad it is. I must go over there and make her realise and beg her to make a home where my children can be safe
. With the decision made, she rocked her children backwards and forwards and crooned to them.

She'd gone past fear now. She felt she'd been sitting there for ever with the noises of Hell going on around her: the whistles of the descending bombs and the thump and crash of them exploding seemed not to touch her. It was like a background noise that had always been there. The shelter walls shook so hard that some of the unoccupied bunks at the far side became dislodged and fell to the ground with a clatter. Women jumped and squealed at the sudden noise, but Bridie barely raised her head to look through the blue fug of cigarette smoke to see what had happened.

There was little attempt at conversation now, and those who tried it murmured low. Mary lay on her bunk, holding Mickey. Her eyes were closed, but she was not asleep. Who could sleep in that noise?

Bridie wouldn't lie down. She couldn't; she felt she had to be ready. At one stage, she had the feeling that that night they would all die; no one could live through this carnage that was going on relentlessly. She and her children would be casualties of this war. God would have his revenge on them all right, but they would at least die in her arms – together.

The next moment, it seemed as if Bridie's predictions were right. A bomb landing close by sucked the doors from the shelter, even lagged as they were with sandbags, and plunged the whole place into darkness, taking, it seemed, the very air from the room.

And yet, it was not complete darkness, for through the door space a reddish-orange glow lit up the shelter. There was smoke circling around them and dust. Bridie could hear coughing and spluttering all around her, mingled with the crying and screaming.

‘Are you and the children all right?' Mary gasped at last.

Bridie's eyes were streaming with the effects of the smoke and yet she said, ‘Aye, are you?'

‘I'm fine,' Mary said. ‘And so is Mickey.'

‘What happens now?'

‘I don't know. This place isn't safe any more,' Mary said. ‘Maybe we'll be directed to another shelter.'

It seemed that way. The shelter warden was moving around, assessing the injuries of any hurt in the blast and telling people to keep calm, but to collect their belongings up and gather their children together.

‘I'm not traipsing the city in this,' Bridie said. ‘I'll take my chance in my own cellar for the rest of the night.'

‘Aye,' Mary said. ‘You're right. I'll come along with you.'

They left the shelter together, Bridie almost staggering because she'd stayed in one position for so long. No one tried to stop them; the shelter warden had her hands too full to even notice. But once on the pavement, despite the raid, they stood for a moment, transfixed, with the children beside them. It was as light as day from the fires, which raged all around and through the city centre. Great orange-red flames licked the black sky and smaller pockets of fire were everywhere they looked. The smoke swirled about them and the air was thick with the smell of heat and smoke and cordite.

The noise was incredible. The assault was still going on, bombs still toppling from the droning planes ahead, then pointing downwards, speeding towards the ground and the resultant explosion. The resounding barrage of ack-ack guns went on unceasingly and emergency services rang their bells as they went speeding through the city streets. Mary and Bridie stepped over the burst sandbags which had bled on to the pavements and to each side and in front of the shelter were piles of rubble where once buildings had stood.

But there was only further danger in standing watching and so Bridie hung her bag over her shoulder and, taking hold of the children's hands, walked up Bristol Passage towards home.

But there was no home. Grant Street was just a sea of rubble, Bridie and Mary stood stock still and looked wide-eyed at one another. ‘What is it?' Katie's shrill voice carried over the cacophony of sound. ‘Where's our house?'

‘It's gone,' Bridie shouted back. ‘Flattened.'

‘Ellen's,' Mary mouthed, and Bridie gave a brief nod.

Ellen drew them all inside. How welcoming were her arms that came around them, Bridie thought, and tears ran down her cheeks.

It seemed that in minutes, Ellen had them all down in her cellar, packed about with quilts and blankets, eating fish paste sandwiches and drinking tea.

The raid didn't finish until half past four in the morning and when the all clear sounded over the city, Bridie and Mary looked at each other shocked they had survived the night. Incredibly, the children had eventually fallen asleep, but Bridie didn't even feel tired anymore. ‘Shall we go and see what we can salvage?' Bridie asked Mary. ‘Ellen's here if the children should wake.'

‘You go,' Mary said. ‘I'm off to find young Jay.'

Bridie understood that well enough and so she went up the remains of Grant Street, while Mary went off towards Thorpe Street.

It was hard, under that sea of bricks and plaster roof beams and glass and the mangled contents of houses, to know where Bridie's house would be. But eventually she identified it, incredibly by the toy bunny rabbit Tom had sent Liam for his fourth birthday. Where he'd got it, God alone knew, but probably because his daddy had sent it, Liam had loved it and she spotted it squashed and battered and full of dust, trapped amongst the furniture broken to matchsticks.

She stood winding the rabbit's ears between her fingers and cried. It wasn't for the bricks and mortar, it was for the home she and Tom had built up, the things they'd saved for, the fun and laughter they'd had there, the memories, all wiped out by German bombs.

‘Kept your weans safe this time, ducks,' said the hated voice of Peggy McKenna beside her. ‘Though they've no place to lay their head this night. Mark my words, God will not be mocked.'

‘Get away from me, you hateful woman,' Bridie screamed. ‘Trading on the misery of others. Get your horrible venomous face away from me or I'll not be responsible for my actions.'

‘Have you forgotten what I know?'

‘As if I could,' Bridie said. ‘But, you know, after last night it matters less.'

She was bluffing; it mattered just as much as ever, but she had to get Peggy away from her before she leapt on her and squeezed the life blood from her. And she could have done, she was angry enough.

She watched the woman shamble away and told herself enough was enough. As soon as she could, she'd go home to Ireland and beg her mother to take her children in before harm came to them and then she'd sort out Peggy McKenna once and for all.

The way was blocked to Thorpe Street, with whole streets around it blown up with a parachute mine and a team of rescue workers trying to reach survivors. As there was no one to tell her anything, Mary stood stock still on the pavement not knowing what to do. Maybe at this moment Jay, having sat the raid out in a shelter somewhere, was at Ellen's and, knowing him, filling his face, while she stood in that freezing morning worrying about him.

She'd be better off waiting at Ellen's she thought and had actually turned away, when a warden stopped her. ‘You Mary Coghlan? Jay's mother?'

Oh God. The blood ran like ice in Mary's veins. ‘What is it? Is he hurt?'

‘Yes, but not bad,' the warden said. ‘I mean bad enough, like, but he'll live. Wall collapsed on him and another boy.' He didn't go on to tell Mary the other boy died, or that the two had lain trapped buried for three hours and he was one of the team who had dug them out.

‘Where is he?'

‘He was taken to the General,' the man said. ‘'Course, if they were full there, he might have ended up anywhere.' Mary knew that well enough, but still decided to try the General Hospital first.

It was no easy walk and several times she had to climb over mounds of rubble and glass, or step into the road to avoid them. Some of the people she passed looked bemused and stunned and stood aimlessly on the pavements, staring as if in disbelief at what had once been their home. Later, Mary knew she would mourn that loss too, but for now all that mattered was Jay.

In the distance, the town still burned fiercely, and as she drew nearer, she could even feel the heat of the flames. It seemed as if the whole city was ablaze. Much damage had been done in the raids earlier in the year, the October attacks being particularly severe, but this one topped them all in its ferocity and seemed intent on burning or bombing to the ground anything they'd left standing.

But anxiety for Jay nagged at her and she held on to the fact that he was alive, hurt the man said, but not bad. She knew until she saw him, though, had made sure herself that he was all right, that she'd not rest.

It was not at all like the early hours of the morning at the General Hospital. Most of the doctors and nurses, who should have finished their shift hours ago, had stayed and others who should have been off-duty had come in. They were all needed; the numbers already in casualty were being added to every few minutes. Mary wondered if in the mayhem around her, the mass of misery and human suffering, whether anyone would know or care about the whereabouts of one young boy.

But he was there and no one commented on her arrival at the ungodly hour or talked at all about visiting times. These were not usual days at all and rules had to be changed accordingly. A young and sympathetic nurse took in Mary's bedraggled, dusty clothes and her worried eyes and directed her to the ward Jay was in.

Her heart nearly stopped when she saw him. Bloodshot and scared eyes stood out in a face as white as the bandage enveloping his head, his left arm was in plaster and so was his right leg, which was raised by a contraption above the bed.

Later, much later, after stumbling back to Ellen's, her tears were finally released for she had been determined not to cry in front of her son. She accepted the tea Ellen pressed into her trembling hands and gulped at it gratefully. ‘The doctor told me he was lucky,' she cried. ‘Lucky, my God! He's a mass of bruises, black and blue all over his back and right side. He has a deep gash on his head and they had to shave his head to stitch it and his leg was twisted under him and is broken in three different places. Lucky! And yet the other boy's parents would change places with me this night – he was killed.'