JOE AND NELLY A World War Two ghost story
CHAPTER 6

Joe felt the world tip to one side, like a run-down spinning top. He felt his lips move and heard his voice yelling from a distance, ‘I don’t believe you! I’m going to ask her!’

He hurtled past Nan and Granddad, and out the front door.

Halfway down the street, he stopped running. He looked back at the remaining houses and then at the bomb site. Where did Nelly go when he wasn’t around? She didn’t seem to ever have a wash. She wore the same blue ribbon, the same dress and socks every day. She only looked about eight or nine years old. Had that bump on the head make him see things? Maybe it was worse than he thought.

Only yards away, Nelly was sitting on the bottom step, pulling on the ribbon in her dirty, knotted hair. How could she be dead? She’d touched his hand, he’d felt her warm skin and the rough edges of her bitten fingernails. He shivered in the July sun. You weren’t supposed to feel ghosts. They were transparent. They could walk through walls, couldn’t they? A mixture of fear and excitement fizzed in his chest and he lost his balance again for a moment. He wanted to run back to the safety of Nan and Granddad’s house, a world he knew and thought he understood. But he felt the pull of the ragged little girl who was waiting for him, happy to have a friend to play with.

Pushing his ice-cold fear down into the depths of his stomach, he approached the flight of steps one foot at a time. Why didn’t her torn finger nails and the grazes on her knees heal? If she was a ghost, why could he see her, hear her, touch her? Why could he see her and nobody else? Her sugary high-pitched voice echoed in his head, making him feel queasy:

’She had a little hole in her frock,

Hole in her shoe,

Hole in her sock

Where the toe peeped through,

But Nelly was the darling of our alley ...’

Joe’s head throbbed. What if she was a figment of his imagination, a result of the bump on the head? Then again, what if she really was a ghost?

He focused his eyes and found he was already at the bottom of the flight of steps. And then he blurted it out: ‘Nelly, are you a ghost? Is it true you died in an air raid?’

Nelly stared at him, her forehead creased into a furrow. Her lips twisted as she chewed her bottom lip. ‘What a silly question,’ she said in a small voice. She stared into space for a while, her heavy lids fluttering over sad blue eyes, and then continued, ‘All I know is I can’t replace my mum and dad.’ She hiccupped and then started to cry.

Joe stretched out his hand to touch her - and then pulled it back again. He’d never met a ghost before and now he had to comfort a crying one. He edged up the steps until he was sitting with a couple of inches space between them. She was bent over, her head in her lap, shoulders heaving as tears soaked her tattered dress. He moved closer and heat of her arm mingled with his. She certainly didn’t feel like a ghost. He reached out a trembling hand and patted her shoulder. She was just a little girl. He put his arm around her and her warm body leaned into his. He couldn’t help but wrap his other arm around her.

‘You must be so lonely,’ he murmured. He felt tears trickle from his own eyes now. ‘Let me help you replace your mum and dad. After all, you helped me to replace my things’.

They sat huddled together on the top of the steps for what seemed like forever, bound by their crazy situation. Where would he start to look for the parents of a ghost? Who could he ask for help?

‘Can you remember anything about what happened to you, Nelly?’

Nelly sniffed. ‘I – the day the bomb fell – I don’t remember. I was so scared.’

‘Never mind,’ said Joe. ‘You don’t have to tell me now. It’s going to take some time and a lot of thinking to work out where to start.’

Nelly nodded. ‘I wish I could be more helpful.’

‘You are,’ Joe said. ‘But I don’t want to leave you here on your own. Why don’t you come with me to the other end of the road?’

‘I can’t. I’ve tried to leave before but I’m stuck here.’

Joe looked around. ‘I think it must be something to do with being a ghost.’

Nelly looked like she was going to cry again.

‘Don’t upset yourself, Nelly. It’s not your fault.’

Satisfied that Nelly wouldn’t be going anywhere, Joe set off for Nan and Granddad’s house on his own and arrived in the middle of chaos. The postman had delivered a letter from Belgium. Everyone was dying to know what it said but Mum wasn’t due back until later. They were all talking at once. It wasn’t a telegram, so Dad must be safe. Was he coming home?

Nan placed the envelope behind the clock on the mantelpiece. Joe stared at it. Was it thick enough for there to be a letter for him too? Perhaps he could write to Dad and ask for his help in replaceing Nelly’s parents. But how long would it take to think about and write, for the post office to get it to the army, and then for the army to deliver it to the roof in Brussels? What if they moved him to another roof, another town or even another country?

When Mum finally slumped into an armchair after a long and tiring day on the buses, Joe decided that he couldn’t trouble her with his strange problem. He was relieved to replace that there was a letter for him in the envelope. Mum gave it to him still folded and he took it up to their room to read it in private. It was written in blue ink, with the fountain pen Dad always kept in his jacket pocket. He described the city of Brussels, from his bird’s-eye view on the roof, the different types of plane he’d shot down, the antics of some of his comrades, and his hopes for the ‘imminent end of the war’.

Joe crept downstairs to the parlour, so as not to disturb Mum, and whispered to Nan that he needed some writing paper. She didn’t ask what he needed it for; she just went to a drawer and pulled out a pad of lined paper. Joe took it back upstairs and sat on his bed. But he didn’t write anything; his mind kept wandering. What should he do about Nelly? He came to the conclusion that the only person he could trust, and who was always around, was Granddad. He would understand and not make fun of him. But Joe didn’t get around to writing his letter until the next day.

Friday 7th July 1944

Dear Dad,

I was so happy to get your letter. I’ve been spending a lot of time with Nelly, looking for toys in the ruins of our house. We found some of my model planes and some toy soldiers but in all the time we’ve been looking, we haven’t caught sight of the box containing the plane you made for me. I hope it is safe and sound. It’s all I have of you.

I thought of you high up on a roof in Brussels and me down below in London. So it was a lovely surprise to get home to a letter from Belgium. We had to wait until Mum came home for your news. You have lovely hand-writing, Dad, which is easy to read. You’re a good letter-writer, too.

Early this morning, I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep. I raised the blackout curtain, just a little bit so as not to wake Mum, and saw a crippled V-1 losing height and approaching our street. Its engine had not cut out and all was silent. I shouted to Mum and ran onto the landing to wake up the rest of the house. We scrambled for our gas masks and ran downstairs, into the backyard and the Anderson shelter.

The explosion was terrifying. I could feel the vibrations through the shelter. There was no warning siren but Granddad made us wait for the all-clear before we returned to the house. The next morning we went to look at the damage. The doodlebug had struck the chimney pot of an empty house only one street away but most of the damage was in an old crater. Thankfully, no one was injured, but I don’t think Granddad will let me go back to the bomb site.

I hope you are safe and well in Brussels. Please write back and let me know when you will be coming home.

Lots of love,

Joe xx