Susan Boulton
The storyteller
- Joined
- Mar 15, 2006
- Messages
- 2,039
Started this, but not sure if it has enough going for it to make the effort and finish it. (It fits in with a number of stories I have written and planned set between 1900 and 1969. All with a supernatural edge to them.)
Christmas Story.
Mary put the form into her typewriter carefully, and made sure it was straight. She then pushed the carriage to the left and began typing.
Incident Officer’s Record Sheet No. 3: Last night had been a busy one.
First report made by: Senior Warden Sector Post E 7: Her boss.
Position and time of Occurrence…. The raid had begun about 9 ‘o’clock. Mary’s ears still hummed from the lingering noise of the previous night. The thump, thump, rattle of the bombs outside and the constant voices inside the underground station. She had tried to block the noise and the fear with keeping busy. Holburn.22.00 21.12.40.
No of incoming messages 3. All the teams were out last night. Things had got really sticky as the raid progressed, but it was procedure to list the messages as they came in.
From whom received, Leader Allen: He lived on Green Street. Mary hoped it was the north end. The south got it rough.
Purport of Message and Record of I.O’s and other Reports. Marsh St partly blocked, people reported under demolished air raid shelter. One casualty (female child) removed to Hosp. 12 dwelling houses demolished. Two bodies awaiting removal to Mortuary. Number of people trapped in wreckage. Was it anybody she knew? Mary’s mouth felt dry. She pushed the typewriter carriage back…
“Mary. How are the reports going?”
She looked up. It was Leader Allen.
“Nearly done, sir. I thought you had gone home?”
“I had. Had a few hours’ kip, but lots to do.”
Few hours’ kip. It told Mary that his wife, Agnes and their two boys were alright. Their house was alright. The breath she didn’t realise she had been holding escaped in a long sigh.
“Yes, sir.” Mary said and pulled the completed Incident Officer’s report sheet from her typewriter and placed it carefully down with its predecessors.
“Close to tea time. Can you make a few extra this afternoon? Got some civilians that have given us a hand, need feeding and watering before I send them on their way. Oh and Mary, Agnes sent these over.” He placed a parcel wrapped in newspaper on the edge of her desk. “Her final contributions to your, project.” He gave her a broad wink. As he did, Mary noticed that there still was a grey ring of dust round his eyes. It increased the depths of the wrinkles across his forehead. No. It wasn’t the dirt that had increased them. It was what he had seen last night, and the night before and countless nights since last September, when it has all started.
“Of course, sir.” She rose from her desk and made her way into the small kitchen at the rear of the office, taking the parcel with her. She knew what it contained. Babies’ bootees and mittens. Agnes was a superb knitter. Mary was glad she had plucked up the courage to ask her. Mary had been lost as to what to give the babies. Yes, she had put small balls of wool in with the French knitters, made from cotton reels and four well placed nails. But there had been so many odd half balls of wool for a while Mary had despaired at what to do with them. In fact not much had gone to waste, she had been able to make do and mend most of what was left after her parents, two brothers and sister had picked their way through Aunt Maude’s house.
“How many extra?” she asked Vera, who was already in the kitchen adding another doorstep sandwich to the pile on the plate.
“Five, no six, I think. God I smell like a pilchard.” She licked tomato sauce off her left pinkie, and reached out for another tin of fish.
“Better in tomato, than oil.” Mary said with a laugh.
“Much better.” Vera agreed. “Them the last of the knitting?”
“Yes.” Mary said and began to lay out a row of tin mugs.
“Joe’s got you some coloured pencils.” Vera said in a half whisper and pointed under the table.
“How did he?” Mary frowned.
“Smiths copped it. Front blown out.” Vera mouthed.
“I don’t think…” Mary looked behind her, expecting to see Leader Allen. Looting was a serious thing.
“Course you can, buggers are a burnt a bit and blackened, but you can cut them down. Besides, they would have been shovelled up with the rest of the shop front anyway.”
“Alright, if I have time.” Mary replied. She was fast running out of that. It was the 21st December today. The Christmas parties for the children in Holburn and Russell Square underground stations was planned for the evening of the 24th. The underground staff had agreed to put the gifts in the ticket offices and Mary had been adding to the stash each night. But there was still more to do and Leader Allen had been very good, but, she needed everything done and there by tomorrow night. Whatever had possessed her to give as many of the children as she could a small present. Where had the idea come from? But actually it hadn’t quite started out about Christmas and presents.
#
It had started out with Aunt Maude declaring that Hitler would be the death of her. He hadn’t. Two days before the first raid on London last September, Aunt Maude had gotten into an argument with a clippie on the Number 9 bus. Having won the heated discussion and sat down, Aunt Maude had had a massive stroke and passed away before the bus reached the end of the Street. This had left Mary’s father with the task of not only arranging his elder sister’s funeral, but having to clear out her two up two down terrace house within five days, else her landlord would be demanding another week’s rent.
This task was easier said than done. Aunt Maude had not thrown anything away since the 7th July 1916, when she had heard that her husband, Tom, had gone over then top on the Somme on the 1st and had never been seen again.
Mary’s mother had claimed Maude’s best china, linen and extra-large tin bath. Mary’s sisters-in-law had divided the contents of the front room, between them and Maude’s brass bed had replaced the wooden one owned by her sister. Still this left everything from old newspapers to forty years of beer bottles stuffed into every corner. The beer bottles were taken back to the off-licence and the pennies pocketed. Everything that could be sold for the benefit of the family of course, or recycled for the war effort was duly done.
It was while sorting out the mounds of fabric packed between layers of coloured crape paper, Mary found something that would start her project.
“Father Christmas?”
“Pardon, dear,” her mother asked as she heaved a box full of newspaper to one side.
“This.” Mary held up the piece of cross-stitch embroidery. It was old, the edges a tangle of loose threads. The mass of small crosses which made up the red-cheeked face of Father Christmas, complete with a red hood trimmed with white fur were faded, except for the metallic blue thread that depicted his eyes. This was bright and indeed, Mary thought for a second, it twinkled as she looked at it.
Her mother looked over Mary’s shoulder, “Goodness, I remember Maude sewing that at school when we were children. She put it up above the fireplace every year. “Mary’s mother’s nose wrinkled. “It stinks of smoke and look at the stains. I don’t think it will wash. The embroidery threads will run. Maybe we can unpick it and wash the thread, it might come in useful.” She tried to sound positive, but the state of the house and the amount of clutter, even in this time of austerity and make do and mend had worn out her patience.
For a second it seemed to Mary that the face of Father Christmas frowned. Mary blinked. No it hadn’t. She sighed, pity. She began to lay it aside. This coming Christmas was set to be a bleak one. With the bombing getting worse each night. All the talk of invasion. Mary had seen the fear in the eyes of her small nieces and nephews. They didn’t understand what was going on, but they knew the adults around them were frightened, so they were frightened more. Besides, they, like many children were not going to get much in their stockings this year, due to rationing and the lack of spare pennies in everyone’s pocket.
Mary made to lay the embroidery aside. Then stopped. Looked hard at the face of Father Christmas and said and to this day she had no idea why she did so. “Presents!”
“Mary?” her mother questioned.
“I could make presents.” Mary said.
“For whom and out of what?”
Christmas Story.
Mary put the form into her typewriter carefully, and made sure it was straight. She then pushed the carriage to the left and began typing.
Incident Officer’s Record Sheet No. 3: Last night had been a busy one.
First report made by: Senior Warden Sector Post E 7: Her boss.
Position and time of Occurrence…. The raid had begun about 9 ‘o’clock. Mary’s ears still hummed from the lingering noise of the previous night. The thump, thump, rattle of the bombs outside and the constant voices inside the underground station. She had tried to block the noise and the fear with keeping busy. Holburn.22.00 21.12.40.
No of incoming messages 3. All the teams were out last night. Things had got really sticky as the raid progressed, but it was procedure to list the messages as they came in.
From whom received, Leader Allen: He lived on Green Street. Mary hoped it was the north end. The south got it rough.
Purport of Message and Record of I.O’s and other Reports. Marsh St partly blocked, people reported under demolished air raid shelter. One casualty (female child) removed to Hosp. 12 dwelling houses demolished. Two bodies awaiting removal to Mortuary. Number of people trapped in wreckage. Was it anybody she knew? Mary’s mouth felt dry. She pushed the typewriter carriage back…
“Mary. How are the reports going?”
She looked up. It was Leader Allen.
“Nearly done, sir. I thought you had gone home?”
“I had. Had a few hours’ kip, but lots to do.”
Few hours’ kip. It told Mary that his wife, Agnes and their two boys were alright. Their house was alright. The breath she didn’t realise she had been holding escaped in a long sigh.
“Yes, sir.” Mary said and pulled the completed Incident Officer’s report sheet from her typewriter and placed it carefully down with its predecessors.
“Close to tea time. Can you make a few extra this afternoon? Got some civilians that have given us a hand, need feeding and watering before I send them on their way. Oh and Mary, Agnes sent these over.” He placed a parcel wrapped in newspaper on the edge of her desk. “Her final contributions to your, project.” He gave her a broad wink. As he did, Mary noticed that there still was a grey ring of dust round his eyes. It increased the depths of the wrinkles across his forehead. No. It wasn’t the dirt that had increased them. It was what he had seen last night, and the night before and countless nights since last September, when it has all started.
“Of course, sir.” She rose from her desk and made her way into the small kitchen at the rear of the office, taking the parcel with her. She knew what it contained. Babies’ bootees and mittens. Agnes was a superb knitter. Mary was glad she had plucked up the courage to ask her. Mary had been lost as to what to give the babies. Yes, she had put small balls of wool in with the French knitters, made from cotton reels and four well placed nails. But there had been so many odd half balls of wool for a while Mary had despaired at what to do with them. In fact not much had gone to waste, she had been able to make do and mend most of what was left after her parents, two brothers and sister had picked their way through Aunt Maude’s house.
“How many extra?” she asked Vera, who was already in the kitchen adding another doorstep sandwich to the pile on the plate.
“Five, no six, I think. God I smell like a pilchard.” She licked tomato sauce off her left pinkie, and reached out for another tin of fish.
“Better in tomato, than oil.” Mary said with a laugh.
“Much better.” Vera agreed. “Them the last of the knitting?”
“Yes.” Mary said and began to lay out a row of tin mugs.
“Joe’s got you some coloured pencils.” Vera said in a half whisper and pointed under the table.
“How did he?” Mary frowned.
“Smiths copped it. Front blown out.” Vera mouthed.
“I don’t think…” Mary looked behind her, expecting to see Leader Allen. Looting was a serious thing.
“Course you can, buggers are a burnt a bit and blackened, but you can cut them down. Besides, they would have been shovelled up with the rest of the shop front anyway.”
“Alright, if I have time.” Mary replied. She was fast running out of that. It was the 21st December today. The Christmas parties for the children in Holburn and Russell Square underground stations was planned for the evening of the 24th. The underground staff had agreed to put the gifts in the ticket offices and Mary had been adding to the stash each night. But there was still more to do and Leader Allen had been very good, but, she needed everything done and there by tomorrow night. Whatever had possessed her to give as many of the children as she could a small present. Where had the idea come from? But actually it hadn’t quite started out about Christmas and presents.
#
It had started out with Aunt Maude declaring that Hitler would be the death of her. He hadn’t. Two days before the first raid on London last September, Aunt Maude had gotten into an argument with a clippie on the Number 9 bus. Having won the heated discussion and sat down, Aunt Maude had had a massive stroke and passed away before the bus reached the end of the Street. This had left Mary’s father with the task of not only arranging his elder sister’s funeral, but having to clear out her two up two down terrace house within five days, else her landlord would be demanding another week’s rent.
This task was easier said than done. Aunt Maude had not thrown anything away since the 7th July 1916, when she had heard that her husband, Tom, had gone over then top on the Somme on the 1st and had never been seen again.
Mary’s mother had claimed Maude’s best china, linen and extra-large tin bath. Mary’s sisters-in-law had divided the contents of the front room, between them and Maude’s brass bed had replaced the wooden one owned by her sister. Still this left everything from old newspapers to forty years of beer bottles stuffed into every corner. The beer bottles were taken back to the off-licence and the pennies pocketed. Everything that could be sold for the benefit of the family of course, or recycled for the war effort was duly done.
It was while sorting out the mounds of fabric packed between layers of coloured crape paper, Mary found something that would start her project.
“Father Christmas?”
“Pardon, dear,” her mother asked as she heaved a box full of newspaper to one side.
“This.” Mary held up the piece of cross-stitch embroidery. It was old, the edges a tangle of loose threads. The mass of small crosses which made up the red-cheeked face of Father Christmas, complete with a red hood trimmed with white fur were faded, except for the metallic blue thread that depicted his eyes. This was bright and indeed, Mary thought for a second, it twinkled as she looked at it.
Her mother looked over Mary’s shoulder, “Goodness, I remember Maude sewing that at school when we were children. She put it up above the fireplace every year. “Mary’s mother’s nose wrinkled. “It stinks of smoke and look at the stains. I don’t think it will wash. The embroidery threads will run. Maybe we can unpick it and wash the thread, it might come in useful.” She tried to sound positive, but the state of the house and the amount of clutter, even in this time of austerity and make do and mend had worn out her patience.
For a second it seemed to Mary that the face of Father Christmas frowned. Mary blinked. No it hadn’t. She sighed, pity. She began to lay it aside. This coming Christmas was set to be a bleak one. With the bombing getting worse each night. All the talk of invasion. Mary had seen the fear in the eyes of her small nieces and nephews. They didn’t understand what was going on, but they knew the adults around them were frightened, so they were frightened more. Besides, they, like many children were not going to get much in their stockings this year, due to rationing and the lack of spare pennies in everyone’s pocket.
Mary made to lay the embroidery aside. Then stopped. Looked hard at the face of Father Christmas and said and to this day she had no idea why she did so. “Presents!”
“Mary?” her mother questioned.
“I could make presents.” Mary said.
“For whom and out of what?”
