JOE AND NELLY A World War Two ghost story
CHAPTER 2

20th June 1944

In the stuffy carriage on a train bound for London, Joe leaned further away from the knees and elbows of the girl next to him. She sat cross-legged with her feet up on the seat, the wispy end of one of her carefully plaited pigtails tickling his ear. The noise from the crowd of kids of all ages was getting louder but it didn’t drown out the grumble in Joe’s stomach.

He jerked his head to escape the girl’s hair and squashed his nose against the cold, grimy window as trees, bushes and fields turned into the backs of terraced houses that lined the tracks. They looked similar to the ones in Ffairfach, the little town in Wales where he’d lived for nearly five years – only not so neat and clean. After a while he noticed bigger buildings and factories, and more bridges. The air smelled different, not of animals and grass but dust and traffic.

When he’d first arrived in Wales, he was just a little kid, scared of giants and dragons. He remembered that first day, walking in a crocodile to a gloomy church hall, where his name was called and ticked off a long list. He waited with the other children on the steps until a grey-haired old lady called Mrs Williams took him home to live with her. It hadn’t been so bad. In fact, he’d had fun. But he missed Mum and couldn’t wait to see her again. Would Dad be home too?

The force of the metal monster slowing down flung him back into his seat and then the carriage was filled with darkness as the train entered a tunnel. A patch of sunshine flashed, the engine puffed as its brakes groaned and creaked, and they pulled into the dimness of the station. Joe struggled up again and slipped the catch to pull the window down. He leaned out, watching the train’s smoky breath settle on the crowd of mothers, aunts and grandparents squeezed onto the platform. He was almost hanging out of the window, twisting his head right and left.

He held on to the handle as he was shoved and squashed by the children behind him, who were also scrambling to look out of the window to see who was there to greet them. Would he spot his mum after all that time? Did she smell of the same sweet face powder? Was her hair still blonde and curly? He couldn’t wait to hear her voice and feel her arms around him. He thought he saw her near the exit sign, but when he screwed up his eyes to peer closer, she was gone. He closed his eyelids on the crowd of faces and tried to swallow. His throat was gritty and dry, his stomach heavy and hollow.

A punch in the ribs reminded him it was time to get out. He twisted his head towards his case in the overhead luggage rack, wriggling his hand and arm up until the rest of his body followed. His sweater had caught on the buttons of another boy’s jacket

‘Oi, get off my foot, you bloomin’ idiot!’ the boy yelled.

He just managed to tip the case off the rack and catch it in both hands before he was trapped again by all those other bodies.

The train finally came to a halt. He turned the handle and pushed open the door, propelled onto the platform by the crowd behind him, his case toppling between his legs, almost tripping him up. He looked at the mass of people: women with the same wavy hairstyle, held in place by Kirby grips; a few old men in grey or brown trousers and blazers, with trim moustaches and slicked back hair.

As the platform started to clear, he caught sight of a man towering above the other adults, with a huge white moustache, waxed to two points like an elephant’s tusks, wire-rimmed spectacles, and a pipe fitted firmly in the corner of his mouth, thrusting out his broad chest in his plaid shirt. Could it be? It was. Granddad. Nobody else looked like Granddad. He focused on the face that looked so familiar, but older, and couldn’t let go of his breath. He moved his hand in the biggest wave he could manage and when he heard Granddad shout ‘Joe!’ his mouth stretched into a grin.

As he bent forward to pick up the suitcase, he tugged his short trousers down towards his knees. When he first arrived in Wales, they’d flapped around his legs; now they stretched tight across his bum. He had to bend his knees, afraid his trousers might split and his ‘b.t.m.’, as Mrs Williams called it, would be on display to the crowd. The suitcase wasn’t heavy; he had left most of his clothes and his worn-out wellies behind.

At least Granddad had recognised him; Mrs Williams said his hair had changed from almost white to a pale brown and it stood up like a string of homemade Welsh taffy. But Granddad must have known him from his eyes, like his father’s, and Mum’s turned up nose and smile. Where was Mum?

Joe felt the impact of elbows, the heat and damp of bodies as he shoved his way through the crowd, his cardboard suitcase a battered shield against his chest. He lost sight of Granddad and then – there he was. Joe threw his arms around Granddad’s waist; he had to twist his gas mask under his arm to hug him closer, feel his warmth. He smelled of tobacco and coal tar soap. Joe pulled back from their hug and looked around. Paddington was so different from the little station he’d left in Wales: there were so many wide platforms and more than one entrance.

‘Where’s Mum?’

A whistle blew and his voice was drowned by the clank and chug of a departing train.

‘Granddad, where’s Mum?’ he asked again.

‘At work,’ Granddad replied. ‘She’s doing her bit as a clippie on the buses. Started a few weeks ago. She asked me to fetch you. She said to tell you she can’t wait to see you. She’ll be home after supper.’

‘But couldn’t she have taken time off to fetch me? I wanted her to be here.’

The vaulted roof of the station seemed to swallow his voice. He hadn’t seen Mum for nearly five years. He missed her so much. Hadn’t she missed him too? He slipped his hand into his trouser pocket and felt crumpled thin paper, ridged with writing – her last letter. He’d packed the rest to keep them safe.

Granddad picked up the suitcase in one hand, took Joe’s hand in the other and hurried out to the bus stop, where Joe hopped up and down. He hadn’t seen let alone ridden on a red London bus since he was evacuated. He’d never needed to take a bus in Wales.

‘How about we sit in the front seat on the top deck?’ said Granddad.

Joe smiled as a number 36 trundled round the corner. Perhaps this was Mum’s bus and she’d be waiting on the platform for him. But when it pulled up alongside them and they clambered aboard, the clippie looked nothing like Mum. Granddad prodded him up the stairs, past the round fish-eye mirror, to the front, where they plonked themselves down. The bell rang and the bus rumbled off.

‘Look over there, Joe!’ said Granddad, pointing. ‘It’s Marble Arch – and there’s Hyde Park Corner. Do you remember that day out with Mum and Nan, just after your dad left for Belgium?’

‘When’s he coming home, Granddad?’

’Nobody knows yet, son. He’s on the other side of the channel, on the ‘ack-ack’ guns on top of a very tall building in Brussels. Imagine that, Joe! He’s protecting us all from enemy planes, shooting them down as they fly over on their way to England.’

Joe was silent. He was staring out of the window but not to spot tourist attractions. He was searching every passing bus for Mum, without success. What would it be like with Mum and Dad both doing their bit for the war?

‘Where are we now, Granddad?’ he asked in a quiet voice.

This wasn’t London. Where was the traffic? Where were the crowds of shoppers and workers? All around them buildings crumbled like rotten teeth. Grey ghost-like figures scrabbled in the bombed ruins of the Blitz, filling old prams and carts made from wooden crates with anything they could replace. This wasn’t his London.

The bus stopped and Granddad took Joe’s hand to get off. He pulled it away.

‘I’m not a little boy anymore.’

Joe staggered off the bus and looked around. He was on familiar ground. His house was at one end of the street and Nan and Granddad lived at the other, just around the corner from the bus stop. He sprinted ahead, down the Old Kent Road to the turning for Lovegrove Street.

‘Do you know what I’m looking forward to?’ he shouted over his shoulder.

‘Your Nan’s corned beef and tomato pie and a nice cup of tea,’ replied Granddad.

Joe stopped and waited for Granddad to catch up.

‘No Granddad, my own room and my things. Did Mum look after them for me while I was away?’

In Wales he had to share a cramped room and a bed with a younger boy, Peter, and neither of them had brought any toys – they weren’t on the list that was sent home by the school: two pairs of the essentials, washing things, strong walking shoes and a favourite book – he chose Swallows and Amazons by Arthur Ransome.

‘Has she still got the plane Dad made for me?’

‘Joe,’ said Granddad, ‘we’re not going to your house; you’re coming to stay with us. Mum’s going to be there and some other people you know, like your Uncle Tom.’

‘Why?’

‘Well,’ Granddad said, scratching his head. He looked away and swallowed. ‘A bomb dropped on the street and your house is gone, Joe. It’s gone.’