Page 67 of The Girl from the Tea Garden (The India Tea #3)

T illy picked her way through the smouldering wreckage, trying not to gag at the stench of charred buildings and bodies.

A pall of thick smoke hung over everything, making her eyes stream and throat sore.

In the distance flames from the goods station on New Bridge Street lit the early morning.

Ambulance and fire-engine bells clanged.

Never in her worst nightmares did she ever think she would have to witness such scenes.

‘Over here!’ an ARP warden hollered. ‘I hear something.’

Tilly, armed with blankets, hurried over and peered into the half-collapsed entrance of an Anderson shelter.

The house had taken a direct hit; it was a pile of scorched bricks.

There was nothing much left of the whole street.

The night had been one of terror, as the city had been showered with scores of high-explosive bombs, incendiaries and parachute mines.

They had worked through the night to bring people to safety in the Shieldfield school that was a temporary rest centre and give them food and reassurance, not knowing if they would be the next target.

‘Wait,’ ordered the warden, kicking debris out of the way and venturing into the shelter.

Tilly felt completely exhausted. The air attacks had started again in April.

Would they ever be free of the fear of screaming bombs?

Had she been wrong not to try to get back to India with the children when she’d had the chance?

Too late for doubts. At least Mungo and Libby were safely back at their schools– Libby mutinous, but persuaded by Miss MacGregor to stay on into sixth form at least for a year.

Jamie had also had his arm twisted to begin his degree in medicine rather than enlist. He was somewhere in the city helping out at a first aid station.

The warden reappeared, carrying a whimpering bundle. Tilly went immediately to help.

‘Little laddie,’ said the warden.

‘Give him to me,’ she said, holding out her arms, swapping the infant for the blankets, keeping one to wrap around him.

He stared at her with huge eyes out of a face covered in soil.

‘There, there, little man,’ she crooned, gently rocking him, ‘you’re safe now.

’ She glanced at the warden. ‘Anyone else?’

He shook his head, his look harrowed. ‘Couple killed on the steps. Must’ve been on their way in. Maybe his parents.’ He held out a small metal cash box. ‘Mother was clutching this.’

Tilly swallowed down tears. Another child orphaned. What a hellishly cruel world they were living in. ‘Give me the box. I’ll take him up to the school and get him cleaned up. Poor wee scrap.’ She kissed the child’s head of matted hair. He was trembling in her arms, though his crying had stopped.

Back at the rest centre, the scene was less chaotic than a few hours ago.

The newly homeless were helping the volunteers rig up temporary dormitories, while others queued up for porridge and tea.

Through the steamy atmosphere, an acrid smell pervaded.

Perhaps it was on her own clothes, Tilly wondered.

‘You look done in,’ a fellow WVS worker said. ‘Go home and get your head down. I’ll look after this one.’

‘I think he’s just lost his parents,’ said Tilly, hanging on to the boy. Her eyes stung with tears. ‘I feel like taking him home. Who will look after him now?’

‘We will,’ said the matronly woman with a kindly smile. ‘And maybe someone in his family has survived and will claim him.’

Tilly left details of where they had found the boy and went home to sleep. A couple of days later she heard from a neighbour in the same bombed-out street that the boy was called Jacques, the only child of a Belgian couple called Segal.

‘Father was an electrician. Canny couple. Bonny mother.’ The neighbour shook his head in incomprehension. ‘Must have thought they’d be safer here than in Belgium.’

‘So there might be family abroad,’ Tilly said in hope.

The man gave her a glum look. ‘Didn’t know them well enough to know.’

Tilly found her greatest release after such upsetting days was to go to Herbert’s and share a pot of tea– however watered down– with Adela and Lexy.

Under Jane’s guidance the café had become a distribution point for free meals to the homeless– part of Newcastle’s Communal Feeding Scheme– and Tilly often called in on behalf of the WVS to liaise.

Her friends recognised that what she really wanted was a moment of snatched camaraderie and Adela’s gossipy banter about the theatre.

Adela had no idea how much Tilly relied on her to cope with the horrors and fears of their daily existence.

Tilly told herself constantly that if Adela at her young age and far from home could remain brave and cheerful, then she, silly Tilly, had nothing to complain about.

Sometimes Tilly felt a guilty stab that she hadn’t tried to persuade Adela to return home to her mother, and might even have encouraged Adela to stay by choosing to remain in Newcastle herself.

She hoped that Clarrie didn’t resent that she saw so much of her spirited daughter, yet Tilly was just thankful to have the girl nearby.

But today Tilly knew that after such a savage air raid, Adela and Lexy would be frantically busy coping with a new influx of dazed and destitute civilians.

So it was a few days later that she called round to the café. She found Adela in a state of excitement.

‘I’ve got an interview with ENSA,’ she told Tilly. ‘I’m to go to London next week. Josey’s been badgering me for months to apply, but it’s really thanks to Derek.’

‘Derek?’ Tilly said, trying to mask her dismay. ‘Didn’t think he’d want to lose you.’

‘He’s sick of me going on about wanting to help the war effort more– especially now they’re training up so many more troops to go out to North Africa.

Remember that BBC producer, Cecil McGivern?

Well, he’s down in London now, and Derek asked him to put in a good word for me with the ENSA lot,’ Adela explained.

‘I didn’t think I’d be good enough, but they’re taking on more amateurs now.

Anyway, I got a letter inviting me to audition at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane and see what I can offer. Isn’t that exciting?’

‘Of course it is.’ Tilly smiled. ‘I’ll keep my fingers and toes crossed for you.’

How pretty and animated the girl looked. Ever since Gracie Fields had visited Tyneside in July to boost morale after a series of attacks on the shipyards and city, Adela had been restless to do more than help out at the local canteen.

‘I want to sing for my country too,’ she had declared, high with emotion after attending one of the concerts for factory workers that Wilf had smuggled her into.

Tilly thought what a duller place it would be without Clarrie’s daughter.

At twenty-one, Adela had matured beyond her age.

Always vivacious and a little headstrong, the precocious adolescent of Belgooree days had turned into someone much more stoical and selfless.

Lexy, Jane, Derek and herself were just some of the people who relied on Adela’s tireless energy and good humour to get them through the day.

As she left, Adela walked out into the street with her. ‘There’s one thing worrying me about going,’ she said. ‘I wanted a word out of earshot of Jane.’

‘Go on,’ said Tilly.

‘It’s likely that Jane will get called up before the year is over. All women under thirty will be eventually, so it’s just a matter of time.’

‘You’re worried about Lexy coping without her,’ Tilly guessed. ‘I’d be happy to help out more.’

Adela smiled and put a hand on her arm. ‘That’s kind, Auntie Tilly. Lexy would be glad of the offer I’m sure. But that’s not my main concern: it’s Aunt Olive I worry about. Now that George is away training with the Fleet Air Arm, I can’t see her managing without Jane. She’ll go to pieces.’

‘I don’t know Olive well,’ said Tilly, ‘but from what I do know she’s a bag of nerves. In my opinion she should pull herself together and get out more.’

Adela’s look was reflective. ‘She hasn’t always had an easy time of it, but Aunt Olive finds the littlest things daunting. I’d hate to be that scared of life.’

‘Yes, me too.’ Tilly sighed. ‘So what are you suggesting?’

‘I wrote to Mother about her and she came up with an idea. It’ll either work or have Aunt Olive screaming the house down.’

A few days later, armed with half tins of unused paint from The People’s Theatre, Adela, Tilly, Jamie and Derek descended on Number 10, Lime Terrace. Jack, primed by his daughter, had persuaded Olive to go out for the day with him on a rare trip to the Tyneside Tea Company to taste a new blend.

By the time she returned, the sitting room at Number 10, where Olive spent most of her waking hours, had been transformed.

Gone were the drab wallpaper and sombre colours of mud brown and dark red.

It glowed yellow and peach, and across one wall was a huge mural of a whitewashed bungalow surrounded by lush green foliage and bright blossoms of pink and crimson.

Vivid green parrots flew through the air, and three figures stood at the veranda rail: two young women and a turbaned servant.

Adela could hardly keep still. She was jumpy with nervousness. Perhaps it was all too gaudy for her aunt’s taste. She knew she would take the brunt of Olive’s tongue-lashing if it displeased her.

Olive shrieked in horror at seeing it and sank into a chair. ‘What have you done? Jack, did you know what they were doing? I’ll never forgive you!’

Adela’s stomach churned. She bit the inside of her mouth to stop her tears. ‘You can blame me and Mother. It was our idea,’ she defended her uncle. ‘Mother said how you used to paint everything in bright colours. This dark room wasn’t your taste at all.’

‘How dare you!’ Olive spluttered. ‘What would you know about my tastes?’

‘Mam, don’t—’ Jane tried to intervene.

‘Did I ask for your opinion?’ Olive cried.