JOE AND NELLY A World War Two ghost story
CHAPTER 4

Joe was startled out of his sleep by the sound of an aeroplane engine rumbling overhead. It reminded him of his plane. Before the war, Dad had been a metal worker in a factory and he made the plane out of brass shell cases. Joe remembered how it felt in his hands, cold and solid, a Lancaster bomber. And Mum had promised to look after it. That’s what he would do after breakfast, look for his plane.

He opened his eyes. The bed was too big and lumpy, and he was the only one in it. Where was Mum? She must have gone to work. Joe listened to a pigeon’s throaty coo close by and then the flutter of wings. From not far away, traffic rumbled. There was only one window in the room, with blackout curtains. Mum must have opened them a bit so she could see when she got up for work; the morning sunshine sneaked in through the gap and picked out the dust like a searchlight. Joe pulled the curtains right back and looked out onto Lovegrove Street.

Nan called to him, ‘Joe! Are you up?’ Downstairs a wireless was playing big band music. The unmistakable smell of toast climbed the stairs and reminded him that he was hungry.

‘Yes, Nan!’ he shouted out the door. ‘I’m just looking for some clean clothes.’

Joe turned to the chest of drawers squashed in beside the bed. In the top drawer he found women’s undies – they must be Mum’s – and in the middle drawer some jumpers and blouses. Underneath the dressing gown on the back of the door hung skirts and dresses, all unfamiliar but definitely Mum’s size. They must be new or at least second-hand; Mum’s clothes had been lost in the explosion.

As the rest of his clothes were in the wash, he pulled on his shorts and shirt from the day before and bounced down the stairs two at a time. He stood on the threshold for a moment, listening to Monty whistling along to the music, before he pushed open the door and found Nan in the parlour, sitting at the table. It was covered with a clean cloth, and plates, margarine and a few slices of toast were all laid out. There was a pot of tea and a jug of milk.

‘Where’s the sugar, Nan?’

‘It’s on ration, Joe, so you’ll have to get used to tea without it.’

‘Can I have some of Mrs Williams’s jam?’

Nan passed the jar of damson jam he brought back from Wales.

‘Not too much, now, love. We have to make it last.’

Back in Wales, they had tons of jam. Mrs Williams made it from everything: damsons, blackberries, elderberries, raspberries and gooseberries. They even had real butter and cream. Nan had tried to spoil him on his first morning back but Joe could see there wasn’t much to go round.

‘What are we doing today, then, Nan?’ he asked.

‘We’re going to East Lane market to see if I can replace you some new clothes: trousers, a couple of dicky dirts and some plimsolls. When we get back you can help me mangle the washing.’

While Nan was clearing away the breakfast things, Joe slipped out of the front door and sprinted to the other end of the street. The sooner he got digging, the sooner he’d replace his plane. He stopped before he reached the rubble that used to be his home. Everything was just bricks and dust and the remains of front steps. The ground was full of craters and mounds. A burning smell hung in the air, as if a bomb had only just exploded – except there was no smoke or masonry falling from the sky.

He peered around, trying to make out where each wall and window had been. Mum had put the plane inside a biscuit box. She must have kept it in the sideboard, where it would be easier to grab it in an emergency. He scrambled past the doorstep, over mountains of rubble and crouched to peer in between the bricks. He couldn’t see anything. He picked up a brick and threw it to one side but before he could pick up another, he heard a girlish voice behind him, singing a song he recognised:

’Nelly was the darling of our alley.

On Mother Kelly’s doorstep down Paradise Row

Where little girl Nelly used to sit along with Joe …’

But when he turned around, there was nobody there. Just Nan with her shopping bag, waiting for him to go to the market.

‘Was that you singing?’ he asked.

‘No Joe, I’ve only just got here. I didn’t notice anyone else.’

Joe put his hand over his eyes to block out the sun and squinted. Only shadows and dirt.

’Come on, Joe, ’Nan said. ‘Let’s go and try on some clothes.’

The market was only a short walk away. Joe gaped at the huge open spaces where houses and shops used to be, all the way up the Old Kent Road and East Street.

‘I’m so glad you got out in time, Joe,’ said Nan. She looked at him through cloudy eyes. ‘You can see what it looks like now, so you can imagine what it was like then.’

‘It still looks terrible,’ he replied.

‘We’re not in the clear yet, Joe, you mark my words. I’m still not happy that your mum let you come home.’

‘She must have missed me,’ Joe said.

‘Of course she did,’ said Nan. ‘But she was also relieved that you were safe and sound in Wales when we got bombed.’

’Fresh carrots, get your fresh carrots ‘ere!’ a barrow boy yelled as they entered the busy market. Here and there were small pyramids of rosy apples, golden pears and bright red strawberries, and carts with boxes of onions, carrots and swedes, brought in from market gardens in Kent and Essex. Most of the stalls stocked second-hand clothes - many of them taken from bombed out houses; Joe crossed his fingers behind his back, hoping that Nan wouldn’t buy him anything that belonged to some poor boy who hadn’t come home.

Nan knew exactly where she needed to go – to the stall of an old friend, Mr Green. He was wounded in the Great War and had been working on the market ever since. He had one leg and a glass eye, which made him look at you with his head on one side, a bit like a pigeon. They came away with three shirts and two pairs of oversized trousers that Nan could easily take in. But they couldn’t replace any plimsolls. Then Nan spotted a stall piled high with second-hand shoes and boots.

‘Where do you think they all came from?’ Joe asked.

‘I haven’t a clue,’ said Nan. She had already dived into the pile and was holding up a pair of black boots that looked brand new. ‘These would do you for winter.’

‘It’s summer now, Nan, and they’ll be too hot. Anyway, my feet will have grown by winter.’

Joe delved and discovered a pair of plimsolls that were his size, with a few spots of mould on them. He dangled them by the laces to show Nan.

‘I can easily remove that mould with soapy water, a stiff brush and some elbow grease,’ she said as she paid the stallholder, who wrapped the plimsolls in brown paper and handed them back to Joe.

‘Here you are, young man. These should last you the rest of the summer. And remember to come back soon.’

‘Thanks,’ said Joe.

He trailed behind Nan as she went from one stall to the next - she seemed to know everyone and stopped every couple of yards for a chat. He had never been so pleased to get home and help Nan mangle the washing. Turning the heavy handle made his arm ache but it wasn’t as bad as his aching feet.

It took Joe ages to settle at his grandparents’ house. Everything was different. He couldn’t go into a room without bumping into someone. Even the bedroom was a squeeze. There was no room for him. Every day after supper, the grown-ups sat around the wireless, listening to the news and talking about the war. Joe had to sit quietly while the news was on. Every time he moved, Granddad told him to stop fidgeting and when he tried to say something, everyone shushed him. Even Monty had to keep quiet.

But Joe did enjoy listening to the wireless, especially when they all squashed into the parlour for his favourite show, ‘It’s That Man Again’ with Jimmy Handley. It was so funny he couldn’t stop laughing and everyone chuckled at Joe more than the show. One time, he almost slid off his favourite seat, a footstool Granddad made, which was covered with soft brown material like teddy-bear fur, pushed right next to the cabinet. Joe loved the way the wireless lit up the names of places like Luxembourg and Hilversum, places on the other side of the Channel, not too far from Dad. He waited for the announcer to say, ‘IT’S THAT MAN AGAIN!’ and then everyone sang along with the theme tune. They knew all the catchphrases and Joe giggled when Granddad said, with a wink, ‘Can I do you now, sir?’ Whenever Nan asked who would like a cuppa, everyone replied, ‘I don’t mind if I do’.

During the day, when everyone else was at work, Joe helped Nan with the household chores. But he only had Mum to himself at bed time and there was no one and nothing to play with, except for Granddad’s tobacco tins and the brass shell cases he kept on a dark wooden table next to his favourite armchair.

One night, not long after he got back from Wales, Joe woke up in the pitch black. He had a pain in his stomach. He nudged Mum.

‘What’s wrong, Joe?’ Her voice was muffled.

‘I need the lav.’

‘You’ll have to use the chamber pot. It’s under the bed.’

There was no inside lavatory. Since the Blitz, nobody was taking any chances; they didn’t want to be caught out by a night raid, so each room had its own pot.

‘Mrs Williams has an inside lav,’ said Joe, ‘in a proper bathroom with a sink and a tub. She likes to show it off to visitors and hides the toilet paper under a crocheted cover.’

‘You don’t say,’ said Mum. ‘We have to cut up newspaper and thread string through it! Now get that pot and do your business, so I can get back to sleep. I’ve got work in the morning.’

Joe slid off the bed and pulled the out the chamber pot. It smelled disgusting.

‘I’m not using that!’ he said.

‘Well then,’ replied Mum, ‘you’ll have to go outside – don’t wake anyone else up – and make sure you put your shoes on. There’s a torch by the back door.’ Joe heard the springs jangle as Mum turned over and sighed.

‘Don’t be too long.’

Joe tiptoed downstairs in the dark, following the hardness of the wooden bannister with his hand until he reached the end. He fumbled for his plimsolls in the footwear lined up under the coat hooks by the front door and slipped them on. The passage to the parlour was narrow and he pushed both hands against the cool walls on either side until he came to the door. The handle rattled and the hinge creaked as he opened it. As he made his way through the darkness of the scullery, he knocked against a metal stand of cooking pots. Luckily, it only wobbled. He groped around for the torch and then let himself out of the door.

Outside in the back yard, the air was fresher. Joe missed looking up at the stars from the bedroom window in Wales, where there were no black-out curtains. In London there were wardens who patrolled the streets, ensuring that not a chink of light escaped to guide the Jerry bombers. Looking up from the back yard he couldn’t see any stars through the smog that hung over London like a curtain, even in the summer.

Mum had told him about when she was a little girl and she heard Nan screaming at a rat she found sitting on the toilet seat. Sometimes in winter the water froze and the lav wouldn’t flush. He took a deep breath, fumbled with the stiff latch until it snapped up with a jolt, and pushed opened the door. It was damp and every corner had a spider’s web - but there was no rat. He shivered, even though it wasn’t cold, and did his business as fast as he could. The newspaper was crackly and rough. He was just tucking in his pyjamas in the dim light of the torch, when he heard a siren. He tried to open the door but the latch had fallen down and was stuck fast. He pushed and pulled at the metal bar with trembling hands. Just at that moment the torch went out. Somewhere outside he heard a voice.

‘Joe! Are you out there?’ It was Granddad.

‘I’m in the lav! I can’t get the latch to open. Can you help me, please?’

He heard Nan and Mum shouting over the screaming siren. ‘Get him out quick. We’ve got to get into the Anderson shelter, now!’

Uncle Tom was at the door with Granddad, saying something about hinges, and then something rattled - something big and full of metal objects – it sounded like Granddad’s toolbox. He saw the faint flash of a torch, heard the squeak of screws and the door fell away – just as a bomb went off.

Joe woke up in the Anderson shelter with his head on Mum’s lap.

‘It’s only a bump,’ Granddad said. ‘The corrugated roof was blown off the outhouse and you were in the way. There isn’t even any blood.’

He tried to sit up and everything began to spin. There was a buzzing sound in his ears and a muffled throb, as if his head wasn’t his own. He peered through the dizziness and shadows but couldn’t see the inside of the shelter for the crowd of concerned faces, so close he had to shut his eyes against a wave of sickness. There were too many people in the shelter - and the house.

It was a Saturday. Everyone was at home, talking about the local cinema and how it was re-opening that day, in defiance of the Germans and their doodlebugs.

‘If you feel up to it and your head isn’t too sore,’ said Granddad, ‘I can take you to the pictures.’

‘Not today, thanks, Granddad,’ Joe replied, ‘I’ve got something I need to do. Perhaps another time.’

He wolfed down his breakfast, pulled on his plimsolls without untying the laces and ran off to the bomb site.

It wasn’t until he was standing in front of the steps that he realised he didn’t have anything to dig with. He looked down the street. It wouldn’t take a minute to run back - but someone might ask questions. He would have to borrow some of Granddad’s tools when there was nobody else around. It felt like he was planning to steal them but he didn’t want the grown-ups interfering. He turned back, took a step towards the flight of steps - and came face to face with a small, pale figure sitting on the top step. He hadn’t seen anyone he knew when he came back on the train. There was only one other child who had lived at his end of the street. It couldn’t be… It was - the girl who used to live next door. He didn’t know anyone else with such an unusual birthmark; it was the shape of a bird or a plane.

‘Nelly, what are you doing sitting here on your own?’ he asked.

She smiled and held out a grubby hand. In it, glinting in the sun, was Joe’s champion marble with the purple and red swirl.