The Story

“A grateful British Subject” by Richard Gibson October 2020

 

The slender girl pulled her coat collar tighter around her thick naturally curly hair. She pursed her lips tight as her face objected to the cold yet still showed a faint smile as, quickening her pace and kicking up the few remaining autumn leaves on the pavement, she hurried along the Hagley Road to the office.

 

Work provided a break from the dreary existence of wartime Birmingham. It was away from the crowded home she shared with her step family and it also gave her a sense of duty, which was important to her. It was 1944 and at 17 she was too young to make a serious contribution to the war effort but she could still do her bit ‘On His Majesty’s Service’ at the tax office.

 

She felt some guilty pleasure stirring as she approached the office. It was a huge house appropriated by the ministry to outhouse the tax records early in the war and was just off the busy main route into the City centre, down Meadow Road. It was a most important and worthy role, she once told herself when doubting the real need of such a function of the government during the war. She told herself that society would crumble if peoples’ expectations to pay tax weren’t met!

 

Jean would never have had access to such a splendid dwelling were it not for these strange times. Number 8’s attached stables with its high arched entrance for carriages were exactly how she imagined ‘stately homes’ would look from those cheap romances she devoured. The lofty reception hall was a clear sign of the wealth of the owners and the stained glass window painted a carpet of colour on the tied floor as the low winter sunlight reached into the far corners of the entrance.

 

She could imagine that during times of peace people might object to doing a night shift at the office. ‘Times of Peace’ were a dim memory as Jean was nearly a grown woman and when war was declared she was a mere 12 year old – a lifetime ago. She now had a full time job and had already planned the wedding for her and heartthrob Nelson Eddy (once she’d worked out how to get Jeanette McDonald off the scene). Her smile widened again, slightly and the thought of Nelson added a little extra colour to her cheeks as she arrived at Number 8

 

Tonight she was on 'fire watch'. She always got her name down as soon as possible for this duty. She felt this was the closest she would come to ‘military service’ as she was issued with that odd shaped helmet and was expected to carry its weight on her head every time she stepped out side. There was no extra money for the shift, rather the real attraction of working these odd hours was the loaf, yes a whole loaf, of bread that was presented with what seemed like a week’s ration of butter to share with the others on duty that night.

 

The food was wonderful and as the house’s gardener was retained there was always a couple of extra vegetables to take home. But Jean’s greatest delight on nights was the opportunity to draw a freshly laundered towel from the airing cupboard and enjoy a bath of seemingly unlimited, piping hot water. That would be later as, for the moment, having checked the countless windows for blackout, she sat down with her best friend Mary to savour every mouthful of that fresh starchy white bread. Although Jean and Mary lived relatively close to each other the division between Smethwick and Harborne, either side of the Hagley Road, was marked. Jean had once heard someone say that it was more than simply a road that divided the two suburbs but she saw no such differences to mention between her and Mary who was a great friend and had taught Jean to play table tennis and with Freida and Nancy they were a formidable team in the local league.
The two young women would probably have not even passed the time of day ordinarily. But the war brought people together in that shared misery of dull, dreary and occasionally frightening existence.

 

The pair relished every mouthful of bread and butter, then sat in uncomfortable silence. Actually feeling full wasn't a familiar sensation and even though they had chewed each mouthful deliberately and slowly there was a slight wave of nausea before the tea (With sugar! ) washed the sensation away.

 

"I've a surprise", said Mary.

"Hold that thought", replied Jean, as she reached into her well worn handbag, retrieving a small paper bag and placing it on the table, "this first".

Mary could have sworn she caught a faint whiff of the contents before the bag was even opened and knew that her news could wait.

Jean's step brother, Reg, who was currently away in the army, formerly worked at Cadburys. So when she took the 3d return bus journey to the factory for the family ration she was entitled to a small bag of 'scraps', odd shaped discarded waste. It was heaven, absolute heaven to get this extra treat. Could this evening be any better?

 

The question of whether or not these two 17 year olds would have even met a few years ago was irrelevant now. They spoke like old friends, often sharing their dreams for the future, whatever that may hold. Any thought of certainty for the future is difficult for most in their late teens but was a complete unknown in wartime, replaced only by a faint glimmer of a sense of hope. It was, in fact, a fantasy and not worth thinking of in detail.

"Ok", asked Jean, "what's your news?"

 

"Well I'm 18 in May and you're 18 in June, so ... I’m thinking. How about a joint birthday party?"

Jean smiled. She smiled so hard she thought she might cry. This gesture, at a time when things were tough for everyone, would mean that she could actually have something to look forward to next summer. She'd kept her date of birth secret, not wanting to have to explain to others what she was (or wasn’t) doing for her 18th. She knew it was unchristian to desire nice things, she knew she should be grateful for everything she had, the home which provided shelter, a family to be a part of. She loved her step siblings (in reality, cousins) dearly, but it was impossible to wash away that sense of knowing she was the cuckoo in the nest and, occasionally, she was reminded of the fact even if it wasn’t intentional. She didn’t miss her mother as she had died when Jean was only a few weeks old in Shanghai where she worked for the Baptist church mission. It might have sounded a glamorous start to life in the 1920s but not to Jean. It was almost someone else’s story of an unknown history and one rarely shared with others.

 

"Will John be there?", Jean asked, her query tinged with a small blush. She tried unsuccessfully to sound really casual and refused to look Mary in the eye.

Mary smiled, knowing that Jean found her boring older brother so fascinating since he qualified as crew on an Avro Lancaster in the Royal Air Force.

"Yes and so will his crew"

Jean, again trying unsuccessfully to hide her excitement, asked, "remind me of their names " and so Mary once more went through the list that John had written to her about so many times over the last few months and Jean, eyes closed seemed entranced. As she smiled at hearing of "Joe", "The Baron", "Corney", "Dinger" and the rest of the crew her smiling lips moved silently as they traced the outline of the verse that was forming in her mind.

Poetry seemed to flow quite liberally through her well read mind and the words formed easily and as she settled up to her neck in the hot water of the bath that evening she drifted off into a heady fantasy of noise and adventure in the dangerous flak filled skies above Nazi Germany in the Lancaster “Bei Mir Bist Du Schon”. She hummed the familiar Andrews Sisters tune after which the Lancaster was named (not caring that they pronounced it 'Shane' incorrectly) as she tried to imagine how dashing “The Baron” really was to earn such a title.

 

Christmas gave Jean a little more spare time away from chores at home to polish the verses she had written and by the time she returned after the Christmas break the poem was ready.

Jean was confident of her poetry skills and was desperate to share it with Mary. With no spare cash she decided to keep the poem as a present not just to John and the others but to Mary for her 18th. After all, Jean would have been delighted to have received something like this.

 

By mid January Jean couldn’t hold on to the secret any longer. She was sure that Mary would still love the gift, even if it wasn’t a surprise, but a slight uncertainty over the quality of the verse and her absolute excitement of sharing it were too great for her to keep it a secret. She had to read it to Mary. Anyway she needed help with the title as for the moment she simply had “In tribute to a Gallant crew from a grateful British subject … “, which was just too boring. She made a decision. Monday, that’s when she would read it to Mary. She had an uneasy night’s sleep on Friday night with disturbed dreams, unsure why, it was probably the excitement of seeing Mary’s reaction.

​

On Monday, Mary was late, which was odd and she didn't appear at her normal time outside the office. They usually caught sight of one another on Meadow Road and by 8.30 there was still no sign.  Having shaken the rain off her mac, that miserable Monday morning, and hung it on the stand Jean placed the hand written poem in an envelope on Mary's desk before settling at her own station to start on today's piles of files and associated administrative tasks. Even in the those high ceilinged rooms with their huge, high windows the dullness from those thick grey skies seem to suffocate all cheer.

​

By 9 o'clock there was still no sign of Mary and a small twinge of panic rapidly formed into a knot of despair as the girls' supervisor entered the room, closing the door softly but swiftly behind her. Jean had been evacuated early in the war, not long after that bomb had landed in their back garden during one raid. Yet in recent times, even though things had quietened down, it was unusual to hear of the death of someone on the home front. She’d seen whole streets disappear following a poorly execute raid on the city, but that was years ago. It’s 1944 now, for pity’s sakes.

But it wasn't Mary. It was John, her brother. Like thousands of other young men on bombing raids they had failed to return Saturday morning after a night time raid on Germany.

 

Jean quickly retrieved the poem from Mary's desk. This wasn’t a time for celebratory poems of ‘daring do’ or jokey nicknames of brave young men. There were now 7 more cold corpses in some foreign field. Lost brothers and sons. She was proud of her poem but even prouder of the sacrifice that had been made by that fateful crew. There would probably still be a party, there would certainly celebrate in whatever way their rations would allow. But there would be no poem. No-one would enjoy it's poignancy and the snapshot it gave of a moment in time nor recognise the skill with which it had been written by this creative, beautiful young woman, not for another 75 years. It was time, again, to bury those feelings deep down. With time maybe she could let her poetry bring them out. But not now, not for a long time.

 

Until I found it. And started a search to try to bring the names of these young men back from the dead, to celebrate their lives and acknowledge their sacrifice. Lost sons and brothers, certainly, but unknown to mum two of the aviators were married and soon to be fathers.

 

I hope that the story of this poem brings to life the memory of these young men, paying tribute to not only them but also to the countless other lives that were lost in the armed forces or on the streets of the civilian populations of Britain and Europe in those darkest of days. And also, my mum, who we miss dearly and thank for this legacy.