Drop in for Christmas

A thin layer of ice lined the inside of the window pane and there were ice crystals in Jean’s toothbrush. She smoothed the thick, warm eiderdown and climbed into her cold, damp clothes. Jean and her mother, Edna, lived in an old farmhouse close to the main road from Hull to the east coast. Edna had gone to live in the house as a new bride in 1920 so Jean had lived there all her life. They had kept pigs, chickens and a big Clydesdale called Bonny, who pulled the milk cart and knew every inch of East Hull like the back of her hoof. If Jean stopped at a shop, Bonny would set off without her and go to their next customer with Jean running behind.

Over the years the animals had gone when the farm buildings were condemned; the city boundaries were changed and urbanisation encroached. The Council were threatening to buy the house and remaining land to widen the increasingly busy road when the war came. A year later, Jean’s father died leaving mother and daughter to endure the war years together, facing the hardships, stresses and strains as best they could.

“Isn’t this a game?” Edna would say to everyone she encountered on the milk-round. The latest bomb damage was evident on every street and the plight of those who the District Office had re-homed while repairs were hastily carried out was discussed. Sometimes events overtook the beleaguered officials and residents had to find new accommodation for themselves, making the milk-round more and more complicated.

One morning a full double-decker bus pulled up opposite Jean and Bonny and the driver leaned out of his window to yell,

“Mr and Mrs Jackson are living with us in Laburnum Avenue. Leave us an extra pint for ‘em, will ya?”

There was plenty to talk about during 1940 and 1941 with air raids nearly every night and, on the nights when the Luftwaffe didn’t come, the threat was still there.

“We only got soot down last night”, was a regular cry of relief.

“I thought the whole street would be flattened. Back door was blown right off its hinges”.

The conversations were endless and Jean often had to chivvy Edna along to make sure the morning deliveries were completed before it was time to start the evening round.

During the blitz of 1942 the farmhouse suffered. Parachute bombs destined for the docks missed their target, blowing out window frames and tearing slates from the roof. The hard-pressed local joiner replaced the windows and organised repairs. The weather was warm but on windy nights the tarpaulin covering it would flap and the bricks which held it down would make an ominous thud against the walls. Not pleasant in such uncertain times.

There were food shortages. Some things could not be found such as oranges, bananas and timed fruit; others were rationed until there was barely enough to go round and what was available was of such poor quality that shoppers wondered if they were worth bothering with at all. Edna was fond of telling people that the “spring lamb” she had bought had been so tough that it must have come for a sheep that had been roaming around since World War I.

But the air raids were the worst. The way fear struck to the pit of the stomach when the sirens went off; the panic in the first few moments after a warning when dogs barked, people ran around, doors banged and frantic shouts filled the air. Then came the unbearable waiting. It was worst in the middle of the night. Many times, Jean and Edna made their way to their isolated air-raid shelter at the side of the farmhouse, fearing they would be injured or buried under rubble and left undiscovered for days.

Jean reflected on all that had happened in the past few years as she dressed that cold morning; how her life had changed so dramatically from the carefree school days of just a few short years ago. It was not all doom and gloom; it was almost Christmas, there had not been an air raid for more than a month and they had even managed to get themselves a few seasonal luxuries. On top of that, Jean’s closest friend, Beryl, was home on leave over the festive season.

It was Sunday, 20th December 1942, bright and clear whereas most of the autumn had been wet and dull. The muddy ground was hardened by a heavy white frost and the weak sun already glistened on the leafless branches. The milk round was quickly finished and the chores tackled.

“It might be nearly Christmas but the fire-places still had to have a good polish”, Edna rebuked Jean as she tried to rush through her chores. Edna was a stickler for routine, having spent many years of her youth in service. Jean worked her way through everything to Edna’s satisfaction and eventually, her good humour rubbed off onto the older woman. By darkness fell they were both anticipating a lovely evening with Beryl, her family, friends and neighbours.

The high spirits were soon dashed. As they arrived at Beryl’s house, the unmistakable sound of high explosive rattled across the fields from the direction of the docks, followed by the haunting wail of the sirens.

“Don’t worry”, Beryl’s father said jovially, “let’s get the party going in the shelter, there’s room for everyone”. Jack, always the extrovert, saw humour in every situation and made a big show of greeting them all and seating them comfortably as if they were going to a formal dinner. Sandwiches, beer and sherry were served, several card games were completed, arguments and accusations of cheating placated and all manner of tall tales told before alert ears picked up the drone of aircraft engines. There was a communal intake of breath as planes passed overhead and the letting out of a collective sigh of relief as the noise receded.

The drama of the moment prompted the men to go outside for a smoke. The women grumbled and told them to hurry back inside. The cheerful banter drowned out a faint murmur. Gradually, they all fell silent as the monotonous murmur grew to a roar.

“Get in, hurry up”, the women implored their menfolk. Jack was last to step into the doorway. By now the noise was deafening; like an express train and, mingled with it, the sound of people running very fast. Jack paused and looked back towards the road. The click-clack of a woman’s high heels together with the pounding of heavier feet came nearer and a young couple rounded the corner, running for their lives. Jack ran towards them, intercepted their headlong flight and, without a word bundled them into the shelter. Hands reached out to pull them round the blast wall and they fell to the floor at the same time as the roar of the train abruptly stopped. There was a split second of silence before the explosion. Debris rained down on the concrete rood for a long time before everything became quiet again.

Those assembled in the shelter slowly pulled themselves to their feet and dusted themselves down. Ashen faces peered at each other through the dust and realised that Jack was not there. He had not made it back into the shelter. The young man who Jack had pushed into the doorway turned in shock and went outside. No one spoke. The silence stretched until, coughing and spluttering, a very dirty Jack, supported by the young man appeared in the doorway.

“You daft beggar”, was all his wife could splutter, but the relief that Jack had survived could not rekindle the party atmosphere. The group huddled together in the shelter until the first grey strains of dawn showed in the sky. Then, one by one, they stumbled back to their homes to face another day and wonder what the following night would bring.

For Jean and Edna it was a short walk back to the farmhouse. To their right they saw a huge crater where the bomb had fallen. Past experience told them that this must have been one of the largest bombs ever to fall in the area. Fearfully, they turned their eyes to the house which was splattered with mud thrown up by the blast. The glass was gone from the windows and the frames were broken. There was a gaping hole in the newly tiled roof. The back door was hanging by one hinge but the stone-flagged kitchen and dairy looked unscathed.

In the living room plaster covered the floor and in the front room, which was only used on special occasions, four curious black objects protruded through the shattered ceiling. The pair ventured upstairs, carefully testing each creaky step. The clump of earth which had created the hole in the roof and shattered the ceiling had landed on Jean’s bed. The weight of it had pushed the legs of the bed through the floor and the four corners of the eiderdown which Jean had carefully straightened only the previous morning were all that showed under the mud.

Jean and Edna had milk to deliver and life had to go on. After all, it was not the first time. Jean set off to summon the joiner,

“Wait a minute”, he shouted, “that big blast knocked the key out of the door and I can’t find it”.

Their conversation was conducted through the locked door and he promised to come. When Jean and Edna returned from the morning round they found the windows boarded up, except one which used up all the glass they were allowed, the tarpaulin was back on the roof and the cat was helping the joiner to secure it.

Washing, drying, ironing and scrubbing was soon under way and Christmas seemed a long way off.

BARBARA OSWALD