Out of the Blue Read online

  ‘I’m really very sorry, Charlie – I shouldn’t have taken it, I know that – I wasn’t thinking – I should’ve asked you.’

  ‘Derrick probably would’ve let you borrow it. He liked you.’

  Kitty hesitated, unsure what to say. Charlie hadn’t mentioned Derrick in a long time.

  ‘Did he?’ she said quietly.

  ‘He said he was going to marry you when we grew up. Only so as he and I could be brothers, mind you – I don’t think he was ever soppy for you, nothing like that. But I know he would have let you ride the bicycle if you’d asked him.’

  Kitty thought about what she wanted to say next and wondered if she dared say it. She imagined saying, Do you miss him? In the end she said, ‘He was a nice boy.’

  Charlie didn’t answer but made a small muffled noise in his throat. He had his face turned away from her and Kitty raised her hand and faltered, unsure whether to touch him or not. As she hesitated, Charlie suddenly sprung forward and raced up the stairs.

  ‘The bicycle better be all right, Kitty!’ he called down to her before slamming his bedroom door.

  May 1941

  It had been a cloudless night in London and the moon was full when the Danby family went to the Anderson shelter in the garden. After the all-clear in the morning they emerged into a haze. Charlie only once described to Kitty what happened to him that day.

  The news that there were direct hits down the street was yelled across garden hedges, and Charlie was desperate to go and see for himself and look for shrapnel for his collection. As soon as they got back into the house, Charlie ran upstairs saying that they should start breakfast without him. He banged the toilet door and slid the bolt noisily. Then he held his breath as he pushed against the door and silently released the bolt.

  Charlie crept down the first few steps of the staircase and leaned over the banister rail. He could hear his mum talking and he could see Kitty’s legs as she moved backwards and forwards. Good, he thought. They were busy in the kitchen. He raced down the stairs and had the front door open and was halfway through it before he called back, ‘Just nipping out, Mum, back in a jiffy!’

  Charlie slammed the door as his mum’s voice chased him into the front garden.

  ‘Charlie! Don’t you . . .’

  But Charlie put the door between his ears and the voice and he didn’t get to hear the end of the sentence. You’re not really doing anything wrong if you’ve not quite heard what it is you’re not supposed to do, he thought cheerfully, and felt a thrilling little skip in his stomach.

  Charlie was out of the gate at a run and hurtling round to Derrick Painter’s house. He had heard his mum say earlier that number seventeen had been hit during the night raid. That was where Derrick’s nana and grandad lived – they normally slept in a Morrison shelter in the front room, but they had been having their tea at Derrick’s house when the siren sounded and had spent the night in Derrick’s Anderson shelter. Kitty had said how lucky they were not to be at home when the bomb struck. But their mum had said, ‘It’s come to something when you’re lucky you’ve had your house flattened.’

  As Charlie turned the corner, he saw Derrick running up the road towards him.

  ‘Me grandad’s meeting the ARP man at the house in fifteen minutes – they’re gonna board up the downstairs windows. We’ve gotta be quick, Charlie. I’ll cop it if Grandad sees us there.’

  Puffing and red-faced, Derrick collided with Charlie and began pushing him back round the corner. Charlie wriggled free.

  ‘I was going to say we should go round the block and come up from the bottom of Hope Street. If me mum or Kitty sees us heading that way they’ll stop us.’

  But Derrick shrugged him off and kept going. ‘There’s no time to go all the way round – come on!’

  The two boys slowed down when they reached Charlie’s house and crossed the road. Once they were past it, they ran as fast as they could until they were opposite number seventeen before crossing back.

  Derrick’s grandparents’ house was an end of terrace and the bomb had hit the gable end. The front of the house was still standing, but the roof was gone and there was a gaping hole in the side. The rubble beneath the hole was smoking. Despite this chaos, the front gate was latched and most of the garden was neat and tidy. The two boys peered over the fence. Derrick was the first to speak.

  ‘Look at that.’ Derrick pointed at a pile of clothes that lay strewn across the path by the front door. ‘That’s my grandad’s best suit, that is.’

  Glancing up and down the street, Charlie unlatched the gate and went into the front garden and walked towards the smouldering pile of bricks. He picked his way down the side passage into the back garden. Here, there was a much bigger mound of bricks and rubble where the back of the house had taken the impact of the blast. Looking up, he could see the interior wall of the back bedroom. It was peculiar to see the wallpaper, pink regency stripes that no one but Derrick’s grandparents had looked at since it was hung, now exposed for all to see. Charlie saw what was left of the wardrobe; the splintered wood slumped to one side and the clothes bulging out.

  Charlie wasn’t aware of Derrick who had walked past him and stepped over the bricks and into the back room. His nana called it the dining room, but it was really the most used room of the house, where they ate their meals, read the paper, listened to the radio and sat together when there wasn’t a raid.

  ‘Streuth!’ Derrick murmured as he looked at the table crushed beneath the weight of the fallen bricks and plaster. ‘They can’t live here no more.’

  As Charlie turned his attention to where Derrick was standing, he saw the cast-iron fireplace in the bedroom above hanging from the wall at a forty-five degree angle over Derrick’s head.

  ‘Get out! It’s not safe!’

  Derrick turned his face and grinned at Charlie. And then, what remained of the ceiling, the bedroom wall and the fireplace collapsed in a sickening roaring rush.

  The following week, on the day of Derrick’s funeral, Mr and Mrs Painter received a telegram. Their elder son, Reg, had been killed at sea. The next day Mrs Danby made the arrangements to send her children to her brother and his wife in Kent and went to the town hall and volunteered for war work.

  ‘Pack your bags, you two – you’re going to stay with Auntie Vi and Uncle Geoff in the country.’

  ‘Aren’t you coming with us, Mum?’ Kitty asked.

  ‘I’ll take you down and stay the night, but I’m starting work on Monday in the munitions factory.’

  Kitty had looked over at Charlie, but he had his face turned to the window and he said nothing.

  The morning that Kitty and Charlie were set to catch the train to Ashford, Derrick’s father had wheeled the bicycle round. It had belonged to Reg.

  ‘Since Derrick’s not here to ride it, we want you to have it.’

  Mr Painter put an arm round Charlie’s shoulders and led him up the path. Mrs Painter stood beside the bicycle where it leaned against the lamppost.

  Charlie started crying. He hung his head, held his hands loosely by his side and cried.

  ‘Now lad, come on,’ said Mr Painter. ‘I’ve put the seat down a bit for you. Derrick would have wanted it – you see now? Don’t take on or you’ll upset Mrs Painter and she’s got enough sorrow. Good lad.’

  Charlie had covered his eyes with his forearm and gasped for air. Then he staggered forward and took hold of the handlebars.

  ‘That’s it, lad, on you get, try it out. You’ll get a hang of the gears, you’ll see.’

  Kitty had watched from the gate. She saw Charlie’s trembling back as he wobbled away on the bicycle. One of his grey socks had slipped down to his ankle.

  August 2006

  Kitty lifts her knitting from her workbox. The needles dip and click and Kitty sits and remembers Charlie. He had a thing about his socks being pulled up. She recalls how, when their socks became worn and loose through washing, their mother sewed circles of elastic to wear as garters. We made
do in those days, she thinks, we had to. And we had no say in things back then. Kitty marvels for a moment at the things children had to put up with. Kitty and Charlie went to stay with Uncle Geoff and Aunt Vi in May 1941. For years Kitty assumed that they had been sent away because of the Blitz getting worse. She had rightly guessed that what had happened to Derrick Painter had at last convinced their mother that London was too dangerous. It wasn’t until she was a mother herself that Kitty was able to imagine the rest of it. That Winifred Danby could not bear to have Charlie grow up where Dolly and Bill Painter might see him. How every sprint with a ball, every errand he ran, every time he laughed or yelled in their presence, the Painters would feel anew the pain of their loss and Win Danby would feel another pang of unbearable guilt. Kitty stirs herself from these thoughts. It doesn’t do to brood on the sadness of things long past.

  Kitty resumes her knitting, but soon, looking up for a moment, her eyes are drawn across the room to the mantelpiece. She checks the time and sees the letter protruding from behind the carriage clock. She hears the clock ticking and she stays perfectly still, her needles poised and thinks again of Sammy. Sammy Ray Bailey. She finishes the row and puts the knitting away. Sammy Ray Bailey.

  Kitty is smiling as she waits for the kettle to boil. She says his name slowly out loud. ‘Sammy Ray Bailey.’ She can see his face as clear as day. She ponders for a moment, then smiles again because she can hear his voice too. She decides, while she drinks her tea, to phone Bert Wright’s daughter. Bert will know the things a boy would like to hear about his grandfather. As she passes the letter she taps its edge gently with her finger.

  Kitty sits on the studded leather stool in the hall and takes up her address book. She finds June’s number and dials.

  ‘Hello, June? Is that you? It’s Mrs Poll here, Kitty Poll. How is your father dear?’

  Kitty listens and relaxes a little when she hears that Bert is frail, but still as sharp as a new pin.

  ‘I thought I might come and see him.’ Kitty speaks carefully and clearly into the telephone.

  She waits, listening and staring down at the calendar that she has brought with her from the kitchen.

  ‘Yes, dear, yes – Tuesday will be fine.’ She reaches for a pen and writes down Bert’s name. ‘June, can you tell your father that I’ve had a letter from Sammy Ray Bailey’s grandson in America. He wants – Sammy Ray Bailey, yes dear yes, your father will know who he is – he wants to know about the war. Okay then, dear – I’ll see you on Tuesday.’

  Kitty takes the calendar back to the kitchen and hangs it on the nail in the pantry door. Yes, she thinks, this is the right thing to do. Bert will know what to tell Sammy’s grandson. For a moment she considers Sammy as a grandfather, but the thought does not crystallise. In her mind she sees him as he was back then, the day he brought the bicycle back.

  May 1944

  Kitty had fallen from the bicycle on Tuesday evening and by Saturday morning her knees had hardened into dark-red scabs. She stood in front of the full-length mirror, holding up her skirt while Dora and Gwendolyn peered over her shoulders and studied her reflection.

  ‘It’s not too bad, chick,’ said Gwen. ‘Skirt lengths are shorter but we’ll still cover those knees up.’

  Gwendolyn took up the paper parcel that Kitty had brought with her. Aunt Vi had given her two old dresses for Gwendolyn to refashion. Though the dresses no longer fitted Aunt Vi, they were much too big for Kitty. Dora giggled as Gwendolyn held them up.

  ‘Don’t laugh, Dee, darling, this lemon is gorgeous material – it’ll look lovely against your dark hair, Kitty. And it’s good that there’s plenty of it and so little of you – if I cut it right, you’ll get a dress and a little jacket to cover your shoulders.’

  She placed it on the bed and shook out a long grey dress and pulled a face. ‘Cor, this one’s not much fun, is it? Still, we’ll get you a nice skirt or two out of it.’ Gwendolyn turned her attention to Dora. ‘So, what have you got, sis?’

  Dora’s face fell. ‘I thought you were bringing something . . .’ Her voice trailed away. Gwendolyn went to a case that was placed on a chair beside the bed.

  ‘Something like this you mean?’ she said, holding up a blue coat dress.

  ‘Oh Gwen, Gwennie it’s lovely!’ Dora squealed.

  ‘Well, it’s got a bit tight on me – I reckon I’m the only girl in London getting fat on rations! It’ll look lovely on you, Dor – we’ll add a dark-blue trim on the cuffs and pockets. I’ll show you how to do it.’

  Gwendolyn went downstairs to fetch the sewing machine and, while she was gone, Kitty told Dora about Sammy finding her after the accident. Dora was beside herself with excitement.

  ‘Are you going to see him again?’ she asked.

  ‘See who again?’ Gwen asked, returning to the bedroom and lifting the sewing machine on to a writing desk in the window.

  ‘Kitty has an American pilot!’ said Dora before Kitty could speak.

  Kitty laughed and blushed. ‘What she means is that an American pilot found me – when I fell off my brother’s bicycle. He helped me home.’

  ‘Sounds like Dora’s right for once,’ Gwendolyn said, smiling. ‘I’m sure you have got him, Kitty – smart move throwing yourself at his feet!’

  ‘Oh, but I didn’t, I mean he hadn’t arrived when – I had no idea he was there!’

  Gwendolyn laughed. ‘I’m only teasing you, you know.’

  ‘I looked like a scarecrow and my knees were bleeding.’ Kitty shuddered at the memory.

  ‘You’re so lucky,’ sighed Dora. ‘An American pilot. I’d give anything to be rescued by an American pilot! What’s his name?’

  ‘Sammy Ray Bailey,’ Kitty said and couldn’t help smiling when she said it.

  ‘Oh, it’s such a wonderful name! Isn’t that a wonderful name, Gwennie? Is he handsome?’

  Before Kitty could reply, Gwendolyn took her by the shoulders and sat her down at the dressing table.

  ‘Right, Kitty, if your young man isn’t smitten, he soon will be. Now, let’s look at you. You’ve got lovely hair, look how it curls – now that’s what I’d give anything for.’ Then to her sister she said, ‘Don’t be daft, Dora, of course he’ll be handsome, I’ve not met one yet who isn’t.’ Gwen picked up her hairbrush and began brushing Kitty’s hair.

  ‘He’ll be able to get you nylons – be sure to ask him, they get ever so much money, so he won’t mind. They really know how to have a good time the American boys do – they like to take a girl dancing, treat her right.’

  Dora wandered over to her sister’s bed and picked up a pair of stockings and let them trail through her fingers.

  ‘Did an American give you these, Gwen?’

  Gwendolyn glanced over her shoulder and Kitty grimaced as she accidentally tugged at her hair.

  ‘Don’t you go snagging them, Dor! Well, yes as it happens, they were a present from an admirer.’ Gwendolyn laughed at the younger girls who both stared expectantly at her. ‘Ooh, aren’t you a right nosey pair!’

  Kitty studied herself in the mirror while Gwen styled her hair, rolling it back at her brow and temples and fixing it in place with hairpins. She could see that it made her look older and she lengthened her neck and held her head carefully. It was a strange feeling, as if her own face were no longer familiar to her and she were looking at someone else. When Gwen announced that she had finished, Kitty thanked her and moved out of the chair so that Dora could take her place.

  Kitty sat on the edge of the bed and listened while the sisters chattered. She stole quick glimpses of herself in the mirror and decided that she liked her new hairstyle, and she even dared to think that she was pretty. When she thought about Sammy seeing her like this, she felt a wave of happiness and anticipation, but a sinking feeling of dismay quickly followed it. He had noticed her because she was hurt and crying and lying in the road beside a broken bicycle. She did not dare to imagine that he would have shown any interest in her otherwise.

  And
what did she know of proper grown-up relationships between men and women? She could not see herself being taken to a dance hall and nor could she imagine ever asking Sammy to buy her stockings. She watched Gwendolyn’s beautiful face as she teased Dora and felt certain beyond doubt that Sammy would prefer a glamorous girl like Gwendolyn to a choir girl with scabs on her knees.

  On Sunday, Kitty dressed carefully in her new dress and rolled and pinned her hair the way Gwendolyn had done it. She watched from her bedroom window and when she saw Sammy turn the corner, she ran downstairs and went out to meet him. But when she reached the gate, there was no sign of him. He must have stopped, or worse, turned heel and gone away. Kitty wished herself back indoors but couldn’t move; she was rooted to the ground by a mixture of embarrassment and disappointment. Then suddenly, there he was and Kitty lurched forward, any possibility of behaving naturally now completely lost to her. She reached for the latch at the same time as him and there was an awkward moment as they worked out who should open it. As Sammy’s hand brushed against her fingers, Kitty felt the sensation of his touch to be shockingly exaggerated. For some reason, she heard Gwendolyn’s voice in her head. Smitten – he’ll be smitten! Kitty blushed scarlet and lowered her head.

  ‘Do come in.’ Her voice struck her own ears as impossibly pompous. Do come in! Do come in?! Who did she think she was? The Queen?

  Aunt Vi stood at the open door smiling, her apron dusty with flour.

  ‘Come on, Kitty, bring the young man inside for his tea, don’t keep him standing in the garden!’

  ‘How’re your knees?’ Sammy asked, then immediately regretted it when he saw Kitty’s face flushed with embarrassment.

  He ducked though the doorway behind Kitty and followed her into a small room where the table was laid for tea. Sammy glanced at it – homemade biscuits, a loaf of bread, some cheese and a cake. He guessed they didn’t always eat a tea like this. Hovering over the table was a teenage boy who looked like he would happily scoff the lot.