don’t know why we come in ’ere,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve arrested ’alf of ’em at one time or another.’
‘We come because it’s near to the hostel,’ she said lightly. ‘Blimey, Stan, there ain’t a pub in London where you won’t bump into someone you’ve nicked.’ She smiled at him uncertainly, not used to him being so sullen.
‘It ain’t my idea of a good night out,’ he retorted. He finished his pint and without another word headed for the bar again.
Julie watched him, knowing what was eating at him and unwilling to let him have his way. She could only hope he’d snap out of this mood, for it was spoiling the short time they had together, and she was beginning to wish she hadn’t bothered coming out at all.
The sirens went off just as he returned from the bar, and everyone groaned as the lights were switched off and they had to hurry into the blacked-out streets for the nearby shelter.
‘I should go to the shelter at the hostel,’ Julie shouted above the ear-splitting screech of the sirens. ‘I’ll be late back if this raid goes on for more than an hour.’
‘Don’t be so bloody silly,’ snapped Stan, who was obviously still in a dark mood. ‘Matron will understand if you’re late, and this shelter’s nearer. Come on.’ He grabbed her arm, and without so much as a by-your-leave, propelled her down the road.
His mood had soured the evening, and now his grip was a bit too tight for her liking, so she pulled away from him and ran on ahead. Reaching the shelter, she didn’t wait to see if he was behind her and hurried down the steps to try and find somewhere to sit.
It was already crowded, and she had to wriggle through dithering women and old men, and dodge round the bags and parcels and bits of household treasure that some of them refused to leave at home during a raid. Babies were wailing and toddlers were grizzling, and harassed women were shouting across to each other in the gloom and damp of the shelter, which stank of stale sweat, fag smoke and old socks.
It was not the nicest place to finish a disastrous evening, and Julie was already feeling claustrophobia creeping up on her. She found a space close to the door and plumped down, accepting rather ungraciously that she was probably stuck down here for the rest of the night with a moody Stan and the beginnings of a headache.
‘You might have flamin’ waited,’ Stan grumbled as he plonked down next to her. ‘Why’d you run off like that?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she replied, not wanting to start yet another argument.
Stanley lit a cigarette and grumpily surveyed their surroundings. The ceiling lights were flickering behind their wire cages and the warden was preparing to shut the door. The sound of the ack-ack guns could already be heard down by the docks as the RAF boys hurried to fend off the enemy approach in their fighter planes.
The door closed with a heavy thud that made Julie flinch. Listening to the muffled sounds of the battle being waged overhead, she hugged Stan’s arm and tried to quell the terrible fear that was squirming and growing inside her. She hated being shut in, hated the thought of how deep they were below ground, and hoped to goodness the flickering lights didn’t fail and plunge them into profound darkness.
It was a fear born in childhood after one of her brothers had locked her in the coal-hole as a lark. She’d screamed and screamed for what felt like hours before someone found her, and she’d had nightmares for weeks after. It was the only time she’d seen her dad take a belt to any of them, and Freddy had yowled and blubbered and said he was sorry, but it hadn’t made her feel better, and she’d done her best to avoid tight, enclosed spaces ever since.
‘Sorry, love,’ Stan murmured. ‘I know I’ve been a moody so and so all evening, but it’s ’ard for a bloke, you know?’
She nodded against his arm, the smooth material of his sleeve feeling cool and comforting against
‘We come because it’s near to the hostel,’ she said lightly. ‘Blimey, Stan, there ain’t a pub in London where you won’t bump into someone you’ve nicked.’ She smiled at him uncertainly, not used to him being so sullen.
‘It ain’t my idea of a good night out,’ he retorted. He finished his pint and without another word headed for the bar again.
Julie watched him, knowing what was eating at him and unwilling to let him have his way. She could only hope he’d snap out of this mood, for it was spoiling the short time they had together, and she was beginning to wish she hadn’t bothered coming out at all.
The sirens went off just as he returned from the bar, and everyone groaned as the lights were switched off and they had to hurry into the blacked-out streets for the nearby shelter.
‘I should go to the shelter at the hostel,’ Julie shouted above the ear-splitting screech of the sirens. ‘I’ll be late back if this raid goes on for more than an hour.’
‘Don’t be so bloody silly,’ snapped Stan, who was obviously still in a dark mood. ‘Matron will understand if you’re late, and this shelter’s nearer. Come on.’ He grabbed her arm, and without so much as a by-your-leave, propelled her down the road.
His mood had soured the evening, and now his grip was a bit too tight for her liking, so she pulled away from him and ran on ahead. Reaching the shelter, she didn’t wait to see if he was behind her and hurried down the steps to try and find somewhere to sit.
It was already crowded, and she had to wriggle through dithering women and old men, and dodge round the bags and parcels and bits of household treasure that some of them refused to leave at home during a raid. Babies were wailing and toddlers were grizzling, and harassed women were shouting across to each other in the gloom and damp of the shelter, which stank of stale sweat, fag smoke and old socks.
It was not the nicest place to finish a disastrous evening, and Julie was already feeling claustrophobia creeping up on her. She found a space close to the door and plumped down, accepting rather ungraciously that she was probably stuck down here for the rest of the night with a moody Stan and the beginnings of a headache.
‘You might have flamin’ waited,’ Stan grumbled as he plonked down next to her. ‘Why’d you run off like that?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she replied, not wanting to start yet another argument.
Stanley lit a cigarette and grumpily surveyed their surroundings. The ceiling lights were flickering behind their wire cages and the warden was preparing to shut the door. The sound of the ack-ack guns could already be heard down by the docks as the RAF boys hurried to fend off the enemy approach in their fighter planes.
The door closed with a heavy thud that made Julie flinch. Listening to the muffled sounds of the battle being waged overhead, she hugged Stan’s arm and tried to quell the terrible fear that was squirming and growing inside her. She hated being shut in, hated the thought of how deep they were below ground, and hoped to goodness the flickering lights didn’t fail and plunge them into profound darkness.
It was a fear born in childhood after one of her brothers had locked her in the coal-hole as a lark. She’d screamed and screamed for what felt like hours before someone found her, and she’d had nightmares for weeks after. It was the only time she’d seen her dad take a belt to any of them, and Freddy had yowled and blubbered and said he was sorry, but it hadn’t made her feel better, and she’d done her best to avoid tight, enclosed spaces ever since.
‘Sorry, love,’ Stan murmured. ‘I know I’ve been a moody so and so all evening, but it’s ’ard for a bloke, you know?’
She nodded against his arm, the smooth material of his sleeve feeling cool and comforting against
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