Connie Willis- Jack.pdf

Jack

Connie Willis

The night Jack joined our post, Vi was late. So was the Luftwaffe. The sirens still

hadn't gone by eight o'clock.

"Perhaps our Violet's tired of the RAF and begun on the aircraft spotters," Morris

said, "and they're so taken by her charms they've forgotten to wind the sirens."

"You'd best watch out then," Swales said, taking off his tin warden's hat. He'd

just come back from patrol. We made room for him at the linoleum-covered table,

moving our teacups and the litter of gas masks and pocket torches. Twickenham

shuffled his paper into one pile next to his typewriter and went on typing.

Swales sat down and poured himself a cup of tea. "She'll set her cap for the ARP

next," he said, reaching for the milk. Morris pushed it towards him. "And none of us

will be safe." He grinned at me. "Especially the young ones, Jack."

"I'm safe," I said. "I'm being called up soon. Twickenham's the one who should

be worrying."

Twickenham looked up from his typing at the sound of his name. "Worrying

about what?" he asked, his hands poised over the keyboard.

"Our Violet setting her cap for you," Swales said. "Girls always go for poets."

"I'm a journalist, not a poet. What about Renfrew?" He nodded his head towards

the cots in the other room.

"Renfrew!" Swales boomed, pushing his chair back and starting into the room.

"Shh," I said. "Don't wake him. He hasn't slept all week."

"You're right. It wouldn't be fair in his weakened condition." He sat back down.

"And Morris is married. What about your son, Morris? He's a pilot, isn't he?

Stationed in London?"

Morris shook his head. "Quincy's up at North Weald."

"Lucky, that," Swales said. "Looks as if that leaves you, Twickenham."

"Sorry," Twickenham said, typing. "She's not my type."

"She's not anyone's type, is she?" Swales said.

"The RAF's," Morris said, and we all fell silent, thinking of Vi and her bewildering

popularity with the RAF pilots in and around London. She had pale eyelashes and

colourless brown hair she put up in flat little pincurls while she was on duty, which

was against regulations, though Mrs Lucy didn't say anything to her about them. Vi

was dumpy and rather stupid, and yet she was out constantly with one pilot after

another, going to dances and parties.

"I still say she makes it all up," Swales said. "She buys all those things she says

they give her herself, all those oranges and chocolate. She buys them on the black

market."

"On a full-time's salary?" I said. We only made two pounds a week, and the

things she brought home to the post — sweets and sherry and cigarettes — couldn't

be bought on that. Vi shared them round freely, though liquor and cigarettes were

against regulations as well. Mrs Lucy didn't say anything about them either.

She never reprimanded her wardens about anything, except being malicious about

Vi, and we never gossiped in her presence. I wondered where she was. I hadn't seen

her since I came in.

"Where's Mrs Lucy?" I asked. "She's not late as well, is she?"

Morris nodded towards the pantry door. "She's in her office. Olmwood's

replacement is here. She's filling him in."

Olmwood had been our best part-timer, a huge out-of-work collier who could lift

a house beam by himself, which was why Nelson, using his authority as district

warden, had had him transferred to his own post.

"I hope the new man's not any good," Swales said. "Or Nelson will steal him ."

"I saw Olmwood yesterday," Morris said. "He looked like Renfrew, only worse.

He told me Nelson keeps them out the whole night patrolling and looking for

incendiaries."

There was no point in that. You couldn't see where the incendiaries were falling

from the street, and if there was an incident, nobody was anywhere to be found. Mrs

Lucy had assigned patrols at the beginning of the Blitz, but within a week she'd

stopped them at midnight so we could get some sleep. Mrs Lucy said she saw no

point in our getting killed when everyone was already in bed anyway.

"Olmwood says Nelson makes them wear their gas masks the entire time they're

on duty and holds stirrup-pump drills twice a shift," Morris said.

"Stirrup-pump drills!" Swales exploded. "How difficult does he think it is to learn

to use one? Nelson's not getting me on his post, I don't care if Churchill himself

signs the transfer papers."

The pantry door opened. Mrs Lucy poked her head out. "It's half past eight. The

spotter'd better go upstairs even if the sirens haven't gone," she said. "Who's on

duty tonight?"

"Vi," I said, "but she hasn't come in yet."

"Oh, dear," she said. "Perhaps someone had better go look for her."

"I'll go," I said, and started pulling on my boots.

"Thank you, Jack," she said. She shut the door.

I stood up and tucked my pocket torch into my belt. I picked up my gas mask

and slung it over my arm in case I ran into Nelson. The regulations said they were to

be worn while patrolling, but Mrs Lucy had realized early on that you couldn't see

anything with them on. Which is why, I thought, she has the best post in the district,

including Admiral Nelson's.

Mrs Lucy opened the door again and leaned out for a moment. "She usually

comes by underground. Sloarie Square," she said. "Take care."

"Right," Swales said. "Vi might be lurking outside in the dark, waiting to pounce!"

He grabbed Twickenham round the neck and hugged him to his chest.

"I'll be careful," I said and went up the basement stairs and out on to the street.

I went the way Vi usually came from Sloane Square Station, but there was no one

in the blacked-out streets except a girl hurrying to the underground station, carrying a

blanket, a pillow, and a dress on a hanger.

I walked the rest of the way to the tube station with her to make sure she found

her way, though it wasn't that dark. The nearly full moon was up, and there was a fire

still burning down by the docks from the raid of the night before.

"Thanks awfully," the girl said, switching the hanger to her other hand so she

could shake hands with me. She was much nicer-looking than Vi, with blonde, very

curly hair. "I work for this old stewpot at John Lewis's, and she won't let me leave

even a minute before closing, will she, even if the sirens have gone."

I waited outside the station for a few minutes and then walked up to the Brompton

Road, thinking Vi might have come in at South Kensington instead, but I didn't see

her, and she still wasn't at the post when I got back.

"We've a new theory for why the sirens haven't gone," Swales said. "We've

decided our Vi's set her cap at the Luftwaffe, and they've surrendered."

"Where's Mrs Lucy?" I asked.

"Still in with the new man," Twickenham said.

"I'd better tell Mrs Lucy I couldn't find her," I said and started for the pantry.

Halfway there the door opened, and Mrs Lucy and the new man came out. He

was scarcely a replacement for the burly Olmwood. He was not much older than I

was, slightly built, hardly the sort to lift house beams. His face was thin and rather

pale, and I wondered if he was a student.

"This is our new part-timer, Mr Settle," Mrs Lucy said. She pointed to each of us

in turn. "Mr Morris, Mr Twickenham, Mr Swales, Mr Harker." She smiled at the

part-timer and then at me. "Mr Harker's name is Jack, too," she said. "I shall have to

work at keeping you straight."

"A pair of jacks," Swales said. "Not a bad hand."

The part-timer smiled.

"Cots are in there if you'd like to have a lie-down," Mrs Lucy said, "and if the

raids are close, the coal cellar's reinforced. I'm afraid the rest of the basement isn't,

but I'm attempting to rectify that." She waved the papers in her hand. "I've applied to

the district warden for reinforcing beams. Gas masks are in there," she said, pointing

at a wooden chest, "batteries for the torches are in here" — she pulled a drawer

open — "and the duty roster's posted on this wall." She pointed at the neat columns.

"Patrols here and watches here. As you can see, Miss Western has the first watch

for tonight."

"She's still not here," Twickenham said, not even pausing in his typing.

"I couldn't find her," I said.

"Oh, dear," she said. "I do hope she's all right. Mr Twickenham, would you mind

terribly taking Vi's watch?"

"I'll take it," Jack said. "Where do I go?"

"I'll show him," I said, starting for the stairs.

"No, wait," Mrs Lucy said. "Mr Settle, I hate to put you to work before you've

even had a chance to become acquainted with everyone, and there really isn't any

need to go up till after the sirens have gone. Come and sit down, both of you." She

took the flowered cozy off the teapot. "Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Settle?"

"No, thank you," he said.

She put the cozy back on and smiled at him. "You're from Yorkshire, Mr Settle,"

she said as if we were all at a tea party. "Whereabouts?"

"Whitby," he said politely.

"What brings you to London?" Morris said.

"The war," he said, still politely.

"Wanted to do your bit, eh?"

"Yes."

"That's what my son Quincy said. 'Dad,' he says. 'I want to do my bit for

England. I'm going to be a pilot.' Downed twenty-one planes, he has, my Quincy,"

Morris told Jack, "and been shot down twice himself. Oh, he's had some scrapes, I

could tell you, but it's all top secret."

Jack nodded.

There were times I wondered whether Morris, like Violet with her RAF pilots, had

invented his son's exploits. Sometimes I even wondered if he had invented the son,

though if that were the case he might surely have made up a better name than

Quincy.

" 'Dad,' he says to me out of the blue, 'I've got to do my bit,' and he shows me

his enlistment papers. You could've knocked me over with a feather. Not that he's

not patriotic, you understand, but he'd had his little difficulties at school, sowed his

wild oats, so to speak, and here he was, saying, 'Dad, I want to do my bit.'"

The sirens went, taking up one after the other. Mrs Lucy said, "Ah, well, here they

are now," as if the last guest had finally arrived at her tea party, and Jack stood up.

"If you'll just show me where the spotter's post is, Mr Harker," he said.

"Jack," I said. "It's a name that should be easy for you to remember."

I took him upstairs to what had been Mrs Lucy's cook's garret bedroom, unlike

the street a perfect place to watch for incendiaries. It was on the fourth floor, higher

than most of the buildings on the street so one could see anything that fell on the

roofs around. One could see the Thames, too, between the chimneypots, and in the

other direction the searchlights in Hyde Park.

Mrs Lucy had set a wing-backed chair by the window, from which the glass had

been removed, and the narrow landing at the head of the stairs had been reinforced

with heavy oak beams that even Olmwood couldn't have lifted.

"One ducks out here when the bombs get close," I said, shining the torch on the

beams. "It'll be a swish and then a sort of rising whine." I led him into the bedroom.

"If you see incendiaries, call out and try to mark exactly where they fall on the

roofs." I showed him how to use the gunsight mounted on a wooden base that we

used for a sextant and handed him the binoculars. "Anything else you need?" I

asked.

"No," he said soberly. "Thank you."

I left him and went back downstairs. They were still discussing Violet.

"I'm really becoming worried about her," Mrs Lucy said. One of the ack-ack guns

started up, and there was the dull crump of bombs far away, and we all stopped to

listen.

"ME 109s," Morris said. "They're coming in from the south again."

"I do hope she has the sense to get to a shelter." Mrs Lucy said, and Vi burst in

the door.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, setting a box tied with string on the table next to

Twickenham's typewriter. She was out of breath and her face was suffused with

blood. "I know I'm supposed to be on watch, but Harry took me out to see his

plane this afternoon, and I had a horrid time getting back." She heaved herself out of

her coat and hung it over the back of Jack's chair. "You'll never believe what he's

named it! The Sweet Violet!" She untied the string on the box. "We were so late we

hadn't time for tea, and he said, 'You take this to your post and have a good tea, and

I'll keep the jerries busy till you've finished.' " She reached in the box and lifted out a

torte with sugar icing. "He's painted the name on the nose and put little violets in

purple all round it," she said, setting it on the table. "One for every jerry he's shot

down."

We stared at the cake. Eggs and sugar had been rationed since the beginning of

the year and they'd been in short supply even before that. I hadn't seen a fancy torte

like this in over a year.

"It's raspberry filling," she said, slicing through the cake with a knife. "They

hadn't any chocolate." She held the knife up, dripping jam. "Now, who wants some

then?"

"I do," I said. I had been hungry since the beginning of the war and ravenous

since I'd joined the ARP, especially for sweets, and I had my piece eaten before

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