a bit agitated.
Just as I was dishing up, this voice said, ‘This is the BBC Home Service.’ I’d just called Mom down and we looked at each other expecting something else to happen.
‘The what?’ Mom shrugged and stepped over to look at herself in the mirror – ‘What a sight’ – then, as the light was waning outside, went round the windows, pulling all the black curtains she’d made. ‘This should’ve been done earlier,’ she said accusingly, pulling the ordinary curtains over them. ‘I’ll have to do upstairs tomorrow. Well this is going to be jolly I can see. Feels like the middle of winter.’
My liver and onions wasn’t out of this world, though no worse than Mom would’ve managed, but she still turned her nose up at it.
‘Gravy’s lumpy. And how did you get the liver so hard?’
We waited, tensed up as the nine o’clock bulletin came on, but there was nothing new, nothing definite, except that Australia had said she’d support the Allies if war broke out.
‘Who are the Allies?’ I asked.
‘Us of course.’
When we turned Gloria off, finally, to go up to bed, it was eerily quiet. There wasn’t a sound from outside. Wasn’t something supposed to be happening?
‘I wonder what Victor’s doing,’ Mom said, turning all soggy again. ‘How could he do it to me?’
Saturday 2 September. The day of waiting.
It had been a golden afternoon, the city’s dark bowl lit by autumn sun. Two blokes whitewashing the entrance to an ARP post whistled at me on the way home. The balloons sailed in the sky, tugging gently on their lines.
What’s up now? I wondered, stepping in from work that evening. The house was quiet again but I could hear music in the distance. They were out in the garden, Gloria too, on a paving slab with her accumulator. Someone was playing ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ on the organ with twiddly bits.
At the end of the garden, next to the wizened lilac tree, its mauve flowers now brown, stood Mom, Len and Mr Tailor from two houses along. They were all looking at a big, grey loop of corrugated iron and two other flat bits which were leant up against the fence. The Anderson shelter had arrived.
‘’Ullo Genie!’ Len boomed across at me. The others didn’t seem to notice if I was there or not.
Mom was all worked up. ‘Isn’t this just the limit?’ She lit one cigarette from the stub end of another and sucked on it like a sherbet dip. ‘Isn’t it just like Victor to go away the day before the shelter gets here. How am I ever going to cope with all this?’
‘Look, love, you’re awright – I’ve said I’ll do it,’ Mr Tailor said. He was always the philosopher, Mr Tailor. Maybe because he had a grown up son whose testicles had never come down. Nan said with something like that in the family there was no point in getting worked up about anything else. He’d most likely be there on his own deathbed in the same grey braces saying, ‘Yer awright, bab – things’ll look better in the morning.’
‘I’ll sort it out for you, soon as I’ve finished my own. I’m not going anywhere, am I? Too long in the tooth for that caper. Look – you just have to dig down and put this bit in the ground—’ He pointed to the big curved bit which I saw was two sheets of metal bolted together at the top. ‘Then you put the soil back over the top, these bits are the front and back, and Bob’s your uncle.’
Len had already got the spade and was all for starting off.
‘He could do it if I show him,’ Mr Tailor went on. ‘Big strong lad.’
Mom was hugging her waist. I could see the shape of the Players packet in the pocket of her pinner. ‘Looks more like a dog kennel. I certainly don’t fancy sitting out in that of a night.’
‘It’s tougher than it looks,’ Mr Tailor said, slapping his thick, hairy hand on the side of it. ‘I’ll come and give Len a hand finishing it tomorrow – how’s that?’
Mom nodded. ‘Look, I’ve got to get in and finish these
Just as I was dishing up, this voice said, ‘This is the BBC Home Service.’ I’d just called Mom down and we looked at each other expecting something else to happen.
‘The what?’ Mom shrugged and stepped over to look at herself in the mirror – ‘What a sight’ – then, as the light was waning outside, went round the windows, pulling all the black curtains she’d made. ‘This should’ve been done earlier,’ she said accusingly, pulling the ordinary curtains over them. ‘I’ll have to do upstairs tomorrow. Well this is going to be jolly I can see. Feels like the middle of winter.’
My liver and onions wasn’t out of this world, though no worse than Mom would’ve managed, but she still turned her nose up at it.
‘Gravy’s lumpy. And how did you get the liver so hard?’
We waited, tensed up as the nine o’clock bulletin came on, but there was nothing new, nothing definite, except that Australia had said she’d support the Allies if war broke out.
‘Who are the Allies?’ I asked.
‘Us of course.’
When we turned Gloria off, finally, to go up to bed, it was eerily quiet. There wasn’t a sound from outside. Wasn’t something supposed to be happening?
‘I wonder what Victor’s doing,’ Mom said, turning all soggy again. ‘How could he do it to me?’
Saturday 2 September. The day of waiting.
It had been a golden afternoon, the city’s dark bowl lit by autumn sun. Two blokes whitewashing the entrance to an ARP post whistled at me on the way home. The balloons sailed in the sky, tugging gently on their lines.
What’s up now? I wondered, stepping in from work that evening. The house was quiet again but I could hear music in the distance. They were out in the garden, Gloria too, on a paving slab with her accumulator. Someone was playing ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ on the organ with twiddly bits.
At the end of the garden, next to the wizened lilac tree, its mauve flowers now brown, stood Mom, Len and Mr Tailor from two houses along. They were all looking at a big, grey loop of corrugated iron and two other flat bits which were leant up against the fence. The Anderson shelter had arrived.
‘’Ullo Genie!’ Len boomed across at me. The others didn’t seem to notice if I was there or not.
Mom was all worked up. ‘Isn’t this just the limit?’ She lit one cigarette from the stub end of another and sucked on it like a sherbet dip. ‘Isn’t it just like Victor to go away the day before the shelter gets here. How am I ever going to cope with all this?’
‘Look, love, you’re awright – I’ve said I’ll do it,’ Mr Tailor said. He was always the philosopher, Mr Tailor. Maybe because he had a grown up son whose testicles had never come down. Nan said with something like that in the family there was no point in getting worked up about anything else. He’d most likely be there on his own deathbed in the same grey braces saying, ‘Yer awright, bab – things’ll look better in the morning.’
‘I’ll sort it out for you, soon as I’ve finished my own. I’m not going anywhere, am I? Too long in the tooth for that caper. Look – you just have to dig down and put this bit in the ground—’ He pointed to the big curved bit which I saw was two sheets of metal bolted together at the top. ‘Then you put the soil back over the top, these bits are the front and back, and Bob’s your uncle.’
Len had already got the spade and was all for starting off.
‘He could do it if I show him,’ Mr Tailor went on. ‘Big strong lad.’
Mom was hugging her waist. I could see the shape of the Players packet in the pocket of her pinner. ‘Looks more like a dog kennel. I certainly don’t fancy sitting out in that of a night.’
‘It’s tougher than it looks,’ Mr Tailor said, slapping his thick, hairy hand on the side of it. ‘I’ll come and give Len a hand finishing it tomorrow – how’s that?’
Mom nodded. ‘Look, I’ve got to get in and finish these
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