It cut off eventually, leaving a lazy drone in the background of Grace’s awareness, like a bumblebee drunk on nectar as it bobbed its way through the air. Except the drone seemed to grow louder, more insistent.
She peeked an eye open, squinting at the sky with its tufts of cottony white clouds.
“What is it?” someone beside her asked, craning their neck to look at the sky.
Grace blinked against the brightness of the sun. Dots of black flecked the cerulean blue. A distant whump echoed in the distance, followed by several others as puffs of black smoke somewhere in the city billowed upward.
It took a stunned moment for her to realize those specks were planes. And they were dropping bombs on what appeared to be the East End.
Ice frosted in Grace’s veins despite the hot day, prickling her skin so the tiny hairs along her arms stood on end.
London was being bombed.
She pushed up from her chair, her movements as slow as if in water. She ought to have run, to encourage others to a nearby shelter, take their names to ensure they were accounted for to notify their ARP warden. Something.
Anything.
After all, she’d trained the last several months for this very moment.
But she was rooted to the ground as the thumping of bombs continued. On and on and on.
A hand clasped on her shoulder. “You should get to shelter, miss.”
Grace nodded, not bothering to look at the man who’d spoken. How could she when the horrific scene kept her gaze locked on the bombing planes?
A woman screamed nearby, an ugly shriek pitched with fear. It was then Grace found her legs. But she didn’t go to the shelter. Not when Mrs. Weatherford would be home, most likely ignoring the warning as they all had.
The man, a fellow warden with a limp that must have kept him from conscription, was already directing people toward the nearest shelter. He turned to Grace, his eyes wide in his pallid face, and indicated she should follow.
She shook her head. “I’ll be home in minutes. We have an Anderson shelter.”
His gaze slid to the swarm of planes still unleashing a merciless assault on the East End and turned away in silent assent. She wasted no time making the short trek back to Britton Street.
By the time she arrived, the sky had turned from gray and black to an angry orange red, as if that part of London had become a roiling inferno. Grace pushed through the door of the townhouse, crying out for Mrs. Weatherford.
Grace stepped over a pile of mail in the doorway, not bothering to pick it up and add it to the growing stack on the table as she normally did.
The older woman’s feet were visible just beyond the wall of the parlor where she was most likely perched in the Morris chair.
“London is being bombed.” Grace tried to keep the fear from her voice as she went to her mother’s friend. “We must go to the shelter at once.”
But Mrs. Weatherford wouldn’t go, preferring to stay where she sat, her stare distant with despondency. After several failed attempts to nudge her to safety, Grace left her in the parlor and stood on the front steps of the townhouse, watching the German planes. If they drew closer, she would make sure Mrs. Weatherford took shelter, even if she had to drag the older woman.
But the planes didn’t come closer. Eventually, the residents of Britton Street joined her on their front steps, all watching in silence as the German planes continued their relentless assault through the burning sky.
Through it all, Grace could not stop thinking of the people. Had the residents there avoided the shelters as so many in the rest of London had? Would shelters even protect them in the face of such an onslaught?
How many would die?
She shuddered to even consider the casualties.
At long last, the rumble of falling bombs ceased and the all clear sounded. Grace turned to go into the townhouse once more and found Mrs. Nesbitt standing rigidly on the stairs next door. She lifted a brow at Grace. “Well, that’s that, I suppose.”
Grace said nothing and went into the townhouse to find Mrs. Weatherford in the Morris chair, exactly where she had left her.
That night, Grace wasn’t scheduled to perform her ARP work, doing so only three times a week. But before she could even prepare for bed, the wail of the air raid siren came again.
A spike of adrenaline shot through Grace, and this time she didn’t take no for an answer from Mrs. Weatherford. After opening the windows, cutting the mains and filling the tub, Grace forced Mrs. Weatherford down to the Andy. They stumbled in the near darkness, upsetting pots and gardening supplies on their way into the shelter.
The shelter smelled of wet metal, earth and disuse. More a shed than a place to remain for any length of time. The siren’s call cut short, and silence filled the emptiness in its place. It was an expectant kind of quiet, one that promised more of what London had taken earlier that day. Every muscle in Grace’s body remained tense, and her skin felt as though its fit was suddenly too tight.