THE DEMISE OF POOLE STREET UNITED

 THE DEMISE OF POOLE STREET UNITED

By Bob French

It was starting to get cold on a late September day as Lucy stopped dead in her tracks, then looked up into the darkening evening sky.  She had heard the familiar noise many times and instinctively knew what to do.  Then she heard the sound of whistles,  some close by, others a long way off.  As if by magic, everyone started to run for the shelters.  No one screamed but for the hurried voice of a mother calling for her child.

          Lucy turned and yelled at her younger brother Thomas, who was carefully climbing down a huge mound of rubble that had, until five days ago, been their school.  A place where, according to Miss Jenkins, their class teacher, if they concentrated, they would learn more things about sums, famous people, music and countries far, far away, than their parents would ever learn.

          “Run Thomas Run! It’s the Germans. Head for the bridge!”

          Thomas, usually challenged his sister’s advice, but on this occasion, he dropped a cricket bat he had found in the rubble and started to run for the old railway bridge that spanned the River Lea. Just as it joins the Bow Creek. They had just made it under the iron posts that held the bridge in place when the first of the bombs hit a row of houses not far from Poole Street.  The ground shook; flames quickly spread across the street, sending scorched dust, splintered wood and glass everywhere.  Amidst the horrors of the explosions Lucy could hear the faint screams of those who were too slow or old to find shelter.  She hated this period, when the bombers had gone and all that was left was the dirty thick mist of debris and the faint wailing of those who had just lost everything they possessed.

          They both sought safety deep into the foundations of the old iron bridge.  As Lucy landed, she instinctively turned and grabbed hold of Thomas, pulling him in close to her and putting her hands over his head.

          After the first bomber had passed overhead, dropping its payload, the second was close behind and they felt the impact of the bomb much closer.  Lucy whispered into Thomas’s ear to reassure him.

          He forced his head above his sister’s protection and spoke.           “Blimey, was that Poole Street Lucy?”  When she didn’t reply to his question, he looked up to see his sister start to cry. With tears in her eyes, she replied.

          “Yes luv.  I hope Mandy and Victoria are safe.”

          “Blimey, if they aren’t, we’re short of two players for next Saturday’s Street footy against the Three Mills mob.”

          The sound of the bombers started to fade as they travelled further into the capital’s centre.  Lucy knew that what would follow was a walking nightmare.  Once the whistles sounded people would scamper up from their shelter and walk slowly through what was left of their homes. People would sink to their knees or stand and stare in shock at the total destruction of their street. A place where they had been born, a place they had played, danced and laughed with their friends, a place where they had got married. But that was a week ago and now several of their friends didn’t come out to play anymore.

          Lucy and Thomas, picked their way through the ruins of what had once been their home. It had stood proudly in East London, red-bricked and warm, until one of the many bombs of the Blitz had turned it into a skeleton of scorched beams and broken glass. Their parents were gone, evacuated, missing, or worse and the siblings had returned from their billet in the countryside without telling anyone, drawn by something unspoken.

          Lucy, the elder at twelve, led the way. Her coat was two sizes too big, the sleeves flapping like frightened birds. Thomas, just eight, clutched a wooden toy soldier in his pocket, fingers rubbing it smooth from habit.

          “I think it was here,” Lucy whispered, pointing to a half-collapsed corner of the house. The Parlour. The place they used to gather for tea and stories.

          They stepped over fallen timbers and twisted pipes, crunching glass underfoot. The fire had blackened the wallpaper, and the ceiling was open to the grey sky. And yet, as they stood there, a strange warmth crept in. The scent of toast and lavender, impossible, but real, floated on the evening breeze.

          “Do you hear that?” Thomas asked suddenly, tilting his head. A soft humming, like a lullaby. Lucy shivered. “It’s just the wind.”

          But it wasn’t. A woman’s voice, faint but familiar, sang a tune their mother used to hum when they were sick. The melody curled around them like a shawl.

          “Let’s go upstairs,” Thomas said, his voice hollow with curiosity and trepidation

          “There’s no upstairs,” Lucy replied, but Thomas was already climbing the splintered remains of the staircase. Lucy followed heart thumping.  At the top, or what was left of it, they found their old bedroom. The floor was mostly just a few sturdy boards clinging to the walls. But something shimmered in the air: a faint outline of beds, books, the teddy bear Lucy had lost.

          Thomas stepped forward. “Mum?” he whispered. Then they saw her. Or thought they did. A figure, more light than flesh, standing at the window, looking out as if watching for someone’s return. She turned, and for a breathless moment, smiled.

          Lucy reached for Thomas’s hand, squeezing tightly. The ghost, if that’s what it was, opened her arms, and Thomas made a move toward her. But Lucy held him back.

          “No,” she said softly. “We can’t.”

          The woman’s smile faded. Her form dimmed like a candle flickering in wind. And then she was gone. The humming stopped. Silence again. They stood there, cold and small against the vast, broken sky.

          “Do you think she was really here?” Thomas asked.

          Lucy didn’t answer right away. She stared at the space where the ghost had stood, then turned toward the stairs.

          “She was,” she said finally.”

          They climbed down carefully, the house groaning with every step. As they carefully made their way out into what was left of their street, the wind picked up, scattering ash like snow across the empty bomb site of Poole Street.

          Thomas stood for a moment looking at what used to be the street where the footy was to be played.  Then he spoke to no one in particular and Said;

          “Dya think Harry and the Three Mills mob are going to let us play with seven players?”  Lucy smiled down at him.

          “Maybe.” then gently took his hand and walked on, hand in hand, into the smoke-thick dawn.

Copyright Bob French