Chapter 2

Breakfast of a stale slice of bread with some of that horrid margarine did nothing to alleviate my exhaustion after another sleepless night, and I tripped down the last of the steps leading to the pavement, clutching the gatepost to steady myself. Me and the other girls from the boarding house had spent the night in the basement as what seemed like hundreds of planes droned over London, the thud, whizz and bang of bombs dropping only a cat's whisker away while our landlady, Mrs Puddleton, invited us all to join hands and pray. After that, my room-mate Betty passed round a bottle of whisky bought from under the counter at the corner shop because the owner was sweet on her. We splashed it generously into our mugs, singing ‘Knees up Mother Brown' and all the other songs in our repertoire as we dragged on cigarettes. Remaining calm was a struggle, although some managed more easily than others. Betty said she found the experience exciting, and Mrs Puddleton scolded her for finding joy in people being downright murdered in their homes.

The clear blue sky mocked my tiredness. Fumes from the incendiary bombs made their way into my throat, making me cough, and I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket to cover my nose and mouth while crossing Great Portland Street. I took a left and headed towards Oxford Circus and then turned right onto Oxford Street. As I observed the devastation left by the Hun overnight, my eyes fell upon part of a piano and clothes scattered all over the place. My stomach turned when I saw an arm, complete with a man's hand, a gold band on his wedding finger, just lying there next to a gramophone. I looked away, trying my best to shut the image out of my mind, but it was too late. This vision would remain embedded in my memory for the rest of my days, revealing itself at unexpected moments. This wasn't the first time I'd witnessed such horror, and it was a concern that I might become hardened to this sort of thing until it meant nothing at all. Would living through the war turn me into a cold, heartless person?

Several buildings had been destroyed and fires caused by the carnage continued to burn. The smoke was intoxicating; the handkerchief at my mouth doing little to protect me. Despite this, commuters emerged up the steps from Oxford Circus tube station, seemingly undeterred by the events of the previous night, and swarmed along the pavement, no doubt doing their best to reach places of employment, as I was. Regardless of the devastation, if we didn't turn up for work we wouldn't get paid, and money was needed for rent and food – if we could get hold of anything decent to eat. I stepped around broken glass blown from a shop window, almost bumping into a man wielding a broom as he swept it into neat piles by the gutter. Two men roped off the area around a crater in the middle of the road, and red double-decker buses queued to pass, stuffed with passengers, some hopping on and off. All I could do was share everyone's optimism and carry on as if we weren't living through a blitzkrieg.

As I neared Taylor and Stone, my chest tightened as I saw the fire engines that lined that side of the road, and firemen battling as best they could to put out the flames. Thank goodness no one was likely to have been in the building overnight. A crowd had formed on the pavement opposite the devastation at my place of work, and I recognised colleagues amongst them, who presumably like me had no idea what to do. Watching my beloved department store burn down broke my heart, but my only option was to stand and watch. After fighting so very hard to persuade Mother that I'd remain in London and be a shopgirl, my lifelong dream was now in tatters. Despite her letters, pleading with me to get away from the nightly bombardments, I'd insisted stubbornly on staying, assuring her that I always carried my gas mask – a broken promise as it was rather cumbersome.

My friend Geraldine, who worked in hats, was nowhere to be seen and I hoped she was all right. The manager of my floor, Mr Hicks, at six foot three towered above the throng, and I approached him.

‘What are we supposed to do now, Mr Hicks?' I said.

He looked down at me and let out a sigh.

‘We'll have to find other means of employment, Miss Bartlett. That's all one can do, as well as be grateful to be alive,' he said, shaking his head. He took a packet of cigarettes out of the inside pocket of his jacket and offered me one, but I declined. I'd smoked far too much the night before in the basement, and the fumes were already making my throat drier. He lit one for himself using a book of Taylor and Stone matches and drew on it deeply. Turning his head to one side, he exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘I'm sure you'll make a success of whatever path you choose to take, Margaret. Good luck to you.'

All I could do was nod and smile, and say, ‘Thank you, Mr Hicks,' hoping he was right. Unable to see anyone else I knew, and eager to escape a scene that saddened me, my only option was to return to the boarding house and write to Mother to reassure her I was all right. No doubt she'd hear about Taylor and Stone on the radio soon enough and jump to conclusions about my welfare. She'd write back by return of post, urging me once again to get in touch with Aunt Edith, who lived in a humdrum village in the Surrey Hills. Being a London girl, the thought of decamping to the countryside where I was bound to be bored didn't appeal to me. Aunt Edith was the widow of my father's brother, Uncle Reg, and she'd been offering to find me a means of employment locally for some time. Now I had no choice in the matter.

That night we huddled together once again in the basement at the boarding house, the cotton wool in our ears doing nothing to lessen the din as the Hun bombed our dear city throughout the night. The others were determined to stay as they still had jobs to go to, but I was well aware of my fate. My letter crossed with one from Mother that arrived the next morning. She was staying with my older sister, Mildred, in Brighton.

5 Bridge Road,

Brighton.

19 September 1940

Dear Margaret,

I was sorry to hear about the horrifying air raid on 18 September and it sounds as though London took quite a bashing. They said on the radio that your place of work has been destroyed, and now I urge you once again, and hopefully for the last time, to get in touch with your Aunt Edith in Surrey who has offered to take you into her home. Being the widow of a vicar, she is well connected in her local village of Gatley and she'll secure you a paid position within no time. I hope you'll now see sense and write to her straight away.

All my love,

Mother

What was the alternative? Mrs Puddleton needed rent, paid weekly, and I was no longer in a position to pay it. The destruction of my beloved place of work had me more shaken than I cared to admit, and so it seemed my destination was Gatley, a place not visited since I was a small child. Memories of the village came back to me – it was pretty with buildings dating back to the eighteenth century and even Tudor times. While Gatley had a certain charm, it wasn't the most exciting destination for a young woman; but it seemed I was destined for country life after all.