Blitzkrieg Blossoms

For years I suffered with bruises-upon-bruises, multiple black-eyes, and endless humiliation at the hands of one who should have cared, but deceived me at every turn. When my only dependable source of love and security withered away, I reached the end of my tether and fled my childhood home. Intent on carving out a better life, I headed for the one place I’d heard tell of that might help me achieve that aim as quickly (and cheaply) as possible. So far as good ideas go, it had to be one of my worst.

I stowed away on the Glasgow express, heading straight for London. After years of suffering cruel jibes about my height, I discovered there was actually a benefit to being small: I could fit into the tiniest spaces that other folk my age would never dream of attempting. So, I hid among boxes and bundles until the station porters slammed the doors shut ready for departure and the hiss of steam and the steady chug-chug-chug of the locomotive built up into a soothing, sleep-inducing pulse along with the clickety-clack of the rails.

Upon reaching my final destination, I remained in my hiding spot, convinced the authorities would never find me. Being in the freight waggon at the rear, I’d calculated there’d be plenty of time to emerge when the dark of night would conceal my retreat and I wouldn’t have to answer lots of urgent questions.

Since boyhood I’d listened to wild stories of London, that said it was the place boys should go to seek their fame and fortune. Most tales had me believing the streets were paved with gold. Anyone could make their living there; it was supposed to be as easy as picking up stray bits of sheep’s wool from barbed wire fences and clumps of thistles on the fells. Granted it might’ve been hard and smelly work, but it was free, and available to anyone who had the gumption to do anything about it. Little surprise then, that when I got there, I found I’d been lied to ... again.

I hadn’t the foggiest of where to go or what to do. Neither did I know a single soul, until Mr Jones stepped forward. He’d spotted me begging for scraps one day, took pity and gave me a job. Though not done entirely out of the milk of Christian kindness, he did do me a favour, and saved himself a shilling or two into the bargain, I dare say.

Working at the Electric Palace Cinema wasn’t my dream job, true, but it put some pennies in my pocket which was more money than I’d ever seen. In addition, he put me in touch with a landlady who had a spare room I could use. Yes, it was draughty, but I finally had a roof over my head, a bed with a mattress and a guzunda, exactly where you’d expect to find one – such luxury I’d never experienced until then, I can tell you.

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One day proved rarely like another. Sometimes I’d run errands for the manager, then I might empty ash trays in the auditorium or do some other job everyone else would wrinkle their noses at. The chore I loathed more than any other was standing in for the Rewind Boy, but it still fell to me because of my tiny hands. However, I didn’t complain too much about the claustrophobic projector room, or how the whizzing, whirring machine that reeled spools of flammable film through its seething innards, made my delicate ears buzz and burn to the touch. My old mam used to say, ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, my boy’, and working in there did give me chance to watch the films for free, even though I had to peek through a tiny hole in the wall, standing on an old wooden crate half the time. I kept up to date with current affairs by studying the newsreel features too, where flickering images danced across the screen showing battleships, tanks and aeroplanes laying siege to half of Europe, as well as goose-stepping morons who not only burned books but stomped down war-ravaged streets too. None of us seriously considered it might be our turn next to feel the crushing humility of the Nazi jack-boot, and preferred instead to dwell in a private delusion of our own making. Surely that could never happen to dear old Blighty? we told ourselves. How wrong could we be?

When I started worrying about planes and bombs and bullets galore, I sought solace from the ladies in the box office, and the young usherettes. I’d bring them cups of hot, piping tea, and they in turn flapped round me, providing much-needed sympathy. Once upon a time, I might have scrounged unsold ice-cream tubs, but those days had long since passed, singed by the heat of rationing. I did quite well, feeding on half-eaten packets of popcorn, mind though it often tasted more like sweaty socks than anything wholesome. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, can they?

Most of the British public felt the pang of righteous morality that insisted on the defence of weaker nations. I heard the call too. Most men were expected to enlist, and some who could get away with it signed up for military service earlier than the legal age. When I showed up at the army recruiting office though, the bully of a sergeant rejected me before I stepped through the door. This large, muscular figure with a military-style cropped hair-do, loomed over me and barked, “Get lost, sonny! Come back when you’re older!” spitting spinning balls of phlegm at me, and hitting me in the eye to show his utter contempt as he did so. I didn’t need telling twice, so I returned to Portobello Road.

Being a dog’s body boy was hardly a reserved occupation, and yet, while many shops were forced to close, the cinema continued its community service, boosting everyone’s morale amid the Third Reich’s vicious onslaught. When the sirens sounded, most of our customers headed for the nearby underground stations. Those who considered a stiff upper lip to be more British than turning tail and running, stayed behind and shushed anyone who dared make cowardly squeaks while they scurried for the exit.

We survived the whole of September like that without incident, but come the onset of more wintery conditions, and part way through the latest news, a small incendiary device crashed through the roof and landed on row four of the upper tier. It made a horrendous racket, but thankfully it failed to detonate, causing only slight pandemonium. Having a UXB in one’s business premises does not inspire confidence though, and the management finally ordered everyone to a shelter straightaway.

Once outside the relative protection of the cinema, I stepped into a chilling world, not just on account of the weather. In the half-light of dusk, street lights remained unlit, and homely windows had been blacked-out, at the risk of the Warden’s wrath.

Before the Blitz, the streets had teemed with life. Now, they matched the scenes from the newsreels. Buildings burned while fire crews battled the flames. Shops and houses hundreds of years old, crumbled before my eyes. Once those fires had been extinguished, the same relentless destruction unfurled, night after night after night.

Rubble blocked roads, wherever the eye would wander. Vehicles of all shapes and sizes remained where their owners had abandoned them when the sirens wailed their mournful cry, echoing over the roof-tops and emptying busy streets. A blackened and burned-out tram knocked part way off its tracks looked a real sorry sight and an empty delivery truck crushed by loosened masonry from a collapsing department store made me pray for the safety of the driver. Meanwhile, standing aloof as a beacon of hope for us all, St Paul’s Cathedral dominated the skyline amid plumes of smouldering rubble and raging infernos, epitomising that dogged frame of mind that encouraged everyone to ‘Keep Calm’ and ‘Carry On’.

Despite the sullen blimps that floated over us for miles on end, menacing shapes advanced over the horizon: wave after wave of Luftwaffe bombers droned onwards. Searchlights illuminated their bellies, and the air vibrated with the thunderous din of Heinkel engines and the thudding of the city’s defences. Some were lit up by tracers from the pounding of the anti-aircraft guns and the sweeping searchlights dotted around the city. Yet more lurked in the clouds above.

Small shadows detached themselves from larger ones and dropped at gut-wrenching speeds – clusters of fire bombs and high-explosives screamed from light-streaked skies. Pursuing Spitfires could do nothing about them, and the weapons did what they do best – they plummeted to the ground and went BANG, a matter of streets away. Explosions tended to catch up with another and the ground heaved skywards in a lazy lurch, but they don’t wait. They push and shove each other for attention like children in a queue at a fair ground ride. Almost as if on a pre-agreed signal, a ripple of flashes spread across the horizon, scattering destruction like the seedpods of an invasive, poisonous weed, and bathing the scene in lurid colours until everywhere had been drenched in the vicious shades of conflict.

I should have been scared, but I wasn’t. ARP Wardens flapped their hands at me, directing me to the nearest shelter. One started shouting, but it was only so much hot air. In my tender years, I’d been exposed to far more foul abuse than that. I’d never seen a war up close though: it was beautiful in a morbid kind of way. In the middle of all that destruction, encircled by collapsing buildings, and people dying right, left and centre, all I could do was admire the dreadful splendour of slow-motion fireworks, with every impact erupting into showers of a million stars, accompanied by molten metal, shattering glass and splinters of wood, brick and stone which drifted at a snail’s pace in every direction. Dumb struck, I remained captivated by the vivid flare of apocalyptic malice, when a brilliant streak of orangey-red tore across the sky. In the emotional sludge of my final moments, a fearsome flower bloomed overhead.