“What do we do?” Lily asked, as much of herself as to Matthew.
Before he could reply, the air was full of droning, louder than the siren, louder than Lily had ever heard before. It filled her head and throbbed in her ears; she felt it thrum through her chest. It was as if she was being consumed by the noise, as if it had taken over her body.
She looked up, her mouth dropping open at the sight of a German Messerschmitt flying so low she could see the markings on its side, and the silhouette of the pilot in the cockpit. It took her breath away; it was all so real, so tangible, far more than a distant sound or far-off speck that the planes usually were, when she was safe in a shelter or the Underground.
She watched as the bomb was released elegantly from the plane’s underbelly and then Matthew yanked on her arm hard enough to make her cry out as he pulled her towards the only possible shelter nearby, the doorway of a house with a small porch overhang.
Lily fell against the doorway as Matthew completely covered her body with his. The air was full of noise and smoke—crackles and thuds, the whine of the plane and the breaking of glass, all of it loud enough to make her eardrums throb and her chest hurt.
Matthew had pressed his body closely against hers, so even through their heavy coats she could feel the joining of his limbs, the beating of his heart. It was the most intimate she’d ever been with anyone, his arms wrapped around her, her face buried in the curve of his neck, her eyes tightly closed as the world dissolved into a destructive whirlwind around them.
His body jolted and she realized he must have been hit by some flying debris—she prayed it was no more than that.
The raid seemed to go on and on, the screaming of the planes and the awful thuds of the bombs, until Lily thought they would surely die, they would have to die, because no one could endure this and live.
Then, suddenly, it was silent, as if the planes had simply disappeared, as if it had been a nightmare and she’d woken up.
Lily lifted her head from Matthew’s shoulder, blinking in the red-hazed gloom of a shattered world.
“Are you hurt?” she asked, and her voice sounded muted and faraway, as if she were talking underwater, the way she and Sophie used to do on those seaside holidays, having tea parties as they sat cross-legged on the sandy bottom. She realized the noise of the bombing must have damaged her hearing, hopefully only temporarily.
“I’m fine.” He eased away from her, his face grave. There was plaster dust sprinkled through his hair, and a bloody cut on one cheek. His coat was torn.
“Are you sure—”
“It’s nothing.” He turned to survey the street, and that’s when Lily saw the extent of the damage. The house immediately opposite had suffered a direct hit; it was nothing but wreckage now, practically flattened, timbers protruding from the rubble like giant matchsticks, it
ems visible amidst the rubble—the leg of a chair, the door of a wardrobe, a single cup.
Lily had seen plenty of bomb damage before; she walked past bombed-out buildings every day, had delivered cups of tea to neighbors who had suffered some damage. Yet she’d never seen anything as immediate, as overwhelming, as this, with the stench of it still in her nostrils, a haze of smoke hovering over the destruction.
Then her gaze moved from the destroyed house to the woman she’d locked gazes with before Matthew had pulled her into the doorway. She was standing in the middle of the street, staring sightlessly at her son, who was sprawled at her feet.
Lily caught sight of his head first; his eyes closed, his lips slightly pursed, like a baby sleeping. Then her gaze moved lower and she saw that beneath his middle he was nothing but a mess of blood and guts and bone. Her stomach heaved at the sight. He was most certainly dead.
“She needs help,” she said, nodding to the woman. Her voice still sounded faraway.
Somehow, she found the strength to walk across the street on wobbly legs; the air was thick was smoke and her chest hurt every time she breathed in, and her ears were ringing painfully.
“Let me help you,” she said to the woman, who turned her blank gaze towards Lily. “Come with me to get warm, have a cup of tea.” As if such things would make a difference, but what more could she offer? The woman couldn’t stay here. It wasn’t safe. At any moment more buildings could collapse, another raid could start.
“My son… Teddy…” The woman swallowed convulsively. “I can’t just leave him here.”
Lily glanced at Matthew, who had followed her into the street, and a silent conversation passed between them, as clear as if they’d both spoken out loud and come to an agreement. He would take care of the boy; she would help the woman.
“I’ll get someone,” he said. “The police, or an ambulance. He’ll be taken care of, I promise.”
The poor boy didn’t need an ambulance, but Lily knew Matthew would find someone to take his broken body from the street. She put her arm around the woman’s shoulders and drew her away from her son. The woman moved stiffly, jerkily, clearly still in shock.
“Come with me,” Lily said softly. “We’ll get you warm. Sergeant Lawson will take care of your boy.”
The woman nodded and let Lily lead her away like a child, her hand in hers as they walked down the street, past more bombed-out buildings, the few people wandering around as if they couldn’t believe how quickly it had all happened. A fire engine screamed down a nearby street. Lily felt as if the world had ended, and yet somehow it was still going on. It didn’t make any sense.
Ten minutes later, they were back at Holmside Road, which thankfully looked as if it hadn’t suffered any damage.
Carol opened the door, her face tight with anxiety, before relief crashed over as she caught sight of Lily. Then she took one look at the blank-faced woman next to her before giving a quick nod.
“Tea,” she said. “And brandy. Come inside.”