The Heart of the Family. Annie Groves

was already too late and the man’s screams as the lorry fell on top of him were filling the street.

      Luke and his men ran towards the scene. The collapsed lorry had disgorged its contents, covering the street in the debris they had spent four hours clearing up, but none of them gave that a second thought as they rushed to the aid of the suddenly silent driver.

      Luke had known that there would be nothing they could do – the full weight of the lorry had fallen sideways onto the driver – but he and his men still worked frantically to lift it.

      The American sergeant’s voice was thin and strained with shock as he muttered, ‘How the hell did that happen?’

      Luke turned to look at him, saying fiercely, ‘You killed him. You know that, don’t you, Sergeant.’

      ‘It was an accident. We were trying to help.’ For such a big man, now he seemed oddly diminished and very afraid, but Luke was in no mood to show him any mercy.

      ‘No, you were trying to win a bet,’ said Luke coldly.

      Inwardly he was shaking with a mixture of savage fury and despair. Hadn’t the city lost enough lives without this? But what did these Americans know? How could they understand? They weren’t even in the war.

       FOUR

      Even though it was now late morning, the small rest centre where Jean worked as a volunteer as part of her WVS duties, handing out cups of tea and offering words of comfort to those who needed them, was packed with people who had been bombed out in other parts of the city, and whose local rest centres had been demolished along with their homes.

      Jean had to squeeze her way past them, calming the fraught nerves of people queuing, who thought she was trying to jump in front of them by showing them her WVS badge and explaining that she was on her way to the kitchen to relieve one of her colleagues. The heartfelt apologies that followed her explanation brought her close to tears. People were so frightened and so grateful for even the smallest amount of help.

      ‘Jean, thank goodness you’re here.’ Noreen Smith, who was in charge of their small group, sighed in relief when Jean finally made it through to the small kitchen. ‘We’ve been rushed off our feet, with last night’s bombing. Bootle got hit ever so bad and we’ve got folk coming in from there with nothing apart from what they’re standing up in. I don’t know how the city’s going to cope, I really don’t, what with so many roads blocked, and no proper supplies or outside help able to get in.’

      ‘Well, my Sam and our Luke will be doing their best to get the roads cleared, along with everyone else on clearing-up duties, that I do know,’ Jean told her stoutly, a small frown creasing her forehead when she remembered that just before he had left for work this morning Sam had told her that there was something he wanted to discuss with her.

      ‘What is it?’ she had asked him but he had shaken his head and told her gruffly, ‘There isn’t time now. They’ll be waiting for me down at the depot.’ ‘Sam …’ she had protested, but he had shaken his head, making clear that he wasn’t going to be coaxed into saying any more.

      ‘I don’t doubt that,’ Noreen was saying, dragging Jean’s attention back. ‘We’ve all seen the way in which everyone’s turned to and got on with things.’ She shook her head, her composure suddenly slipping as she added, ‘Even my Frank is saying now that we can’t hold out much longer.’

      The two women exchanged mutually understanding looks as Jean removed her coat and hung it up.

      Every rest centre had a store of second-hand clothes and blankets it was able to hand out to those in need to tide them over. The rule was that all blankets had to be returned as soon as Government coupons and fresh papers had been supplied, so that they could be put back in store for the next person in need, but as Noreen had pointed out two nights ago, increasingly people weren’t returning the blankets, because they were virtually all they had. The council was doing its best, but the sheer number of people being made homeless meant that supplies were running out.

      ‘At least we had that convoy of Queen’s Messengers get in from Manchester before the roads got blocked,’ Noreen told Jean.

      The Queen’s Messengers was the name given to a mobile canteen service provided by the Queen, with convoys based all over the country, staffed by the WVS and ready to rush to any emergency where food was required.

      ‘And it’s a mercy that they did. I don’t know how they’d have gone on in Bootle if they hadn’t, from what my Frank’s said.’

      Noreen’s husband, Frank, worked for the Gas Company, and like Jean’s Sam he was spending long hours helping to repair bomb damage.

      ‘From what I’ve heard they nearly got bombed themselves,’ Jean told her.

      ‘Where’s that billeting officer?’ Noreen continued. ‘She’s normally here by now.’

      On the morning after a bombing raid every rest centre that was operational and not bomb damaged received a visit from one of the City Council’s billeting officers, carrying with her lists of available accommodation.

      ‘It’s all very well the council saying that no one’s ever had to spend a second night at a rest centre on account of them finding them accommodation, but what about all them trekkers?’

      In her indignation Noreen’s voice lost its careful gentility, her accent becoming stronger.

      ‘And don’t tell me that it’s not them that’s responsible for all our blankets disappearing. After all, blankets don’t just walk out by themselves, do they? No. It’s not right, that’s what I say. No decent folk would want to go roaming around the countryside sleeping in barns and that, like that lot do. Stands to reason, doesn’t it, if they choose to do that when the council says it can find them a proper roof over their heads?’

      ‘I wouldn’t fancy it myself,’ Jean admitted, ‘but then I haven’t been bombed out, and we’ve had some in here that have had that happen to them more than once. I dare say there’s some folk that are just too plain afraid to stay in the city at night.’

      ‘That’s all very well, but in that case they should stay in the country and not come back here expecting to be fed and taking our blankets.’

      Noreen was normally a good-natured soul and Jean suspected that her current snappiness could be put down to the strain they were all feeling.

      It was also true that there was some hostility to and suspicion of the trekkers, as they were unofficially called, with some people even suggesting that their number included men who were trying to avoid conscription.

      From what Jean had seen, though, they seemed decent enough sorts, albeit from the poorer dock area of the city, which had been more heavily bombed, with a lot of them coming in to work during the day before trekking back out to the country at night.

      ‘I’ve even heard as how the City’s putting on special trucks and handing out tickets to them for places on them, to get them out at night.’

      If that was true surely it must mean that the city was in an even more desperate situation than anyone was saying, Jean thought worriedly. The only reason the council could have for encouraging them to leave at night had to be because they couldn’t provide accommodation for them because so many buildings had been destroyed.

      Removing her hat-pin, then taking off her hat and putting it on the shelf above her coat, Jean reached for her apron, ready to relieve the WVS volunteer who was manning the tea urn.

      After the first and even the second night of bombing the mood of those who had come to the rest centres had been defiant and determinedly cheerful. Jokes had been cracked and heads had been held high, but now that had all changed, Jean acknowledged as she poured a cup of tea for an exhausted-looking young woman with three small children clinging to her side.

      ‘’Ere,