Two Days (re-write)

(I've rewritten this, the first part - hopefully it works better!)

      ‘Get the baby’s bottle!’ Kathleen’s Ma screamed. ‘Quick it’s on the mantelpiece’.

Kathleen jumped up from the cold bunker floor and raced off into the dark night without saying a word.

Overhead the heavy drone of engines drowned out the warning wail of the air raid sirens, yet her racing heartbeat seemed to pulse even louder in her ears. She got home to Radnor Street, scrambled up the stairs, flung open the door and grabbed the baby’s milk bottle. It still felt warm. Back on the street she ran past the Mitchells, a family in the next close, they’d been having a party and thought that the Germans were just taking pictures again. Kathleen tried to coax them to come with her, but they said they’d wait it out; ‘it was nothing to worry about,’ they’d said. Clutching tightly onto the bottle as she ran back towards the bunker, the night sky lit up suddenly with sweeping bands of light that looked like giant beams coming from a torch. She heard a low pitched whistling sound above her that seemed to be getting louder and louder. Shaking, she reached the bunker just as she heard a terrifying thud that shook her off her feet.

       A day earlier on the 12th March Arthur Bleesdale was cycling from the Solicitor’s office where he worked as a clerk on his way to the Regal picture house. His trouser pocket was bulging with a red apple that he’d bought using his ration token. He’d had to queue for ages for it but it looked a nice shiny one. Cycling past Finnegan’s pub he heard a sing-song going on in full force. The singing suddenly got louder as the door was flung open- roll out the barrel; we’ll have a barrel of-

       ‘Arthur!’

       ‘Ed,’ he shouted whilst gently squeezing on his squeaky brakes, ‘I dinny know you were back.’

The pub door swung back shut behind Ed as he strode over to Arthur. Always smart was Ed thought Arthur, taking in his crisp striped shirt with sleeves neatly rolled up.

        ‘I’m back to see Cavan O’Conner the morra night; I hear he sings a song about your girl,’ said Ed smiling whilst ramming his fists into beige trouser pockets.

        ‘She’s no ma girl yet I’m asking her the night,’ laughed Arthur as he glanced at his black wristwatch.

         ‘Aye well I’ll be singing ‘I’ll take you home again Kathleen,’ if you dinny get a move on,’ said Ed raising his eyebrows.

        ‘Aye you keep smiling Ed,’ said Arthur spinning up his peddle, ‘I’ll catch up wi you soon- afore you go back.’

        ‘Right you are,’ said Ed as Arthur cycled off.

       You’d hardly think there was a war on Arthur thought to himself as he continued up Radnor Street. He waved to the Mitchell family who were just coming out their close, a right nice family they were, so his Ma said. Nicely turned out, the four young lads had their hair all combed and the two young lassies in flowery frocks held tightly onto their granny’s hands. On reaching the Regal picture house Arthur hopped off his bike and propped it up against the brick wall. Then licking his fingers he tried to smooth over his springy brown hair, as his eyes anxiously searched through the crowd gathered outside. Reaching into his pocket for the apple, he cupped it in his hand and then shined it up on his white shirt sleeve, hoping all the while that Kathleen would be there and that she’d say yes.

                                                         **

      The following night Arthur ran into the Mitchells house on Radnor Street, he’d heard Kathleen had been there not five minutes ago. Mrs Mitchell and her family, kids an all, were dancing around like they were having a right old knee’s up. She shouted to him that Kathleen had already gone but he best stay now that he was here. ‘The close was as safe as any bunker,’ she said, her eyes all glistening and her warm breath smelling like petrol. Shaking her off as she tried to grab him in for a dance, he ran back into the close just as he heard the air raid sirens; they sounded eerie and more menacing tonight. He was about to make a dash for it but as he looked up at the night sky it went bright with white light then he heard a loud whirring banging noise unlike anything he’d ever heard before.

                                                       **

     Climbing across the red brick rubble that had once been her home, Kathleen wiped her nose on her grubby sleeve. Someone had given her a long green wool coat down at the shelter. It was far too big coming over her wrists and almost down to her ankles but she was grateful, she felt bitterly cold. It had felt weird walking out of the bunker into such a bright spring morning, she had squinted her eyes trying to take it all in, everything looked different and she felt a bit disorientated. Looking up at all that remained of Radnor Street she saw rows of chimneystacks upon chimney stacks standing like giant tombstones, with thick black dust clouds pluming and soaring up into the bright blue sky. She took in each floor, the different coloured walls, tarred wallpaper; what was left of each family’s fireplace.

        Looking at the second floor in one of the rows her heart almost stopped in her chest as she spotted the yellow colour her Ma had painted. It looked like it didn’t belong there now, like a piece of broken coloured pottery you find on the beach. It felt strange to see the innards of her house out on show; it looked sliced open like a dolls house. She turned away. She felt strange all of a sudden, like she wasn’t really there, like she was floating as she clambered over the rumble of planks of wood and bricks. Her eyes had felt raw and dry from all the dust but now they felt like they were swimming. She wiped the rough jaggy sleeve of the coat across her eyes and looked down the street. A tram car was lodged amongst the rubble all squashed up like it was set for the scrappies. Hoses were blasting thin jets of water onto charred houses and cars.

        But it was the noise she couldn’t get her head round. Radnor Street always had something going on, the young bairns screaming, or playing kick-the-can, neighbours shouting out to each other. But now, today, there was a strange kind of silence. All she could hear was the distant muffled shouts from the firemen down the road. Even the people all huddled at the end of the street sitting on bricks and battered suitcases were quiet including her Ma and young George. All the bairns were quiet. She coughed again and watched as little white specks of wispy ash floated up through the air, thinking to herself that’s how she felt; like she could just float off. She took a breath in, the smell was unlike anything she’d smelt before, like everything was burning. Plaster, wood, paper, dust and flesh.

      She still couldn’t believe what the patrolling warden had said when he blew his whistle and told her to climb down from those bricks, his tin hat sitting lopsided on his head with a red R on it. He’d got a bit snappy with her when she kept asking him to tell her again, and again and again. He’d pointed and told her to go and join the queue they were to stay at the La Scala and she’d find out more there. But his words replayed in her head as she walked back down the street hearing the crunch of glass under her shoes. With a worn out look like he’d said it all day, he’d told her that a whole family from the next close down to hers had been wiped out; from the youngest bairn right through to the granny. The Mitchells he thought they were called, he knew the Da he’d said shaking his head and spitting. Along with a young clerk, he’d said clicking his blackened finger’s; Arthur. Arthur Bleesdale.

(re-worked from 500 word story inspired by my gran's expereince of Clydebank Blitz)