Steve Morgan : London : 1940s

Perspiration beaded on Lily's forehead; pooled and trickled on to the pillow.

In fact, the whole bed was wet and uncomfortable since her water had broken only a few minutes earlier. Rose appeared with a damp cloth and gently sponged Lily's face. The twin sisters smiled at each other although Lily's smile was more of a grimace now as another spasm of pain flooded through her body. She made no sound, just squeezed her eyes tight and clenched her teeth. Words could not describe this frail woman's inner strength.

The bedroom was dark. Blackout regulations required the heavy curtains to be drawn tightly at dusk. Ghostly dancing shadows cast from the fluttering candles gave the room an eerie feel and an oily, toasted smell of burnt candle wax lingered throughout the stuffy room as windows had been closed from early evening.

Rose's husband, Arthur, was downstairs in the semi-detached with their two boys, eleven-year-old Roy and his nine-year-old brother Tom. Arthur was exempt from war service as his blacksmith skills were deemed an essential service to the war effort.

He got the odd accusing look and some sideways sneers from a few of the First Great War veterans, too old now to serve themselves but not too old to remember what they had sacrificed for King and country. As the war furnished more deaths, the taunts increased. The white feathers came much later. "Bloody coward!" was the worst he'd gotten from a one-armed man in his sixties who jostled him as he came out of the pub.

If it hadn't been for the disability, Arthur, with iron-hard blacksmith arms, would have flattened him on the spot.

Even though blameless, he still felt the sting of the barbs and gritted his teeth. Maybe I should join up, he thought. What would happen to Rose and the boys though if I didn't come back? Caught between protecting his country or protecting his family he was damned by one or the other no matter how he resolved the dilemma. His fractious mood matched the blackness of the night as he stumbled off home some half-dozen pints of ale worse for wear.

The banshee wail from above was not the final agonising throes of Lily giving birth but the gradual keening build-up of the air-raid siren, its wailing note a warning to all Londoners. Criss-crossing searchlights began their macabre swordfight across dark, leaden skies anxious to find the enemy while the distant crump of bombs reverberated from the London Docks.


Next >>