Fred spluttered the remains of his tea on his trousers. “Of course not. She’s just a nice little old lady, that’s all.”
A comfortable silence settled on them. A horse neighed somewhere in the fields. There was the sound of male laughter from one of the allotments. Sam noticed that both Fred and Iris’ heads were beginning to nod. A bee was buzzing around his outstretched legs and another flitted around between Fred and Iris. Sam looked at his watch. Half an hour and they ought to be getting back. He was on duty tomorrow and he wanted an early night. He closed his eyes. The bees carried on buzzing and Sam dozed off for a few seconds. The image of a baby came to mind. A baby with a cigar in its mouth. Winston Bridges. Hmm. Sam jerked awake. The drone of the bees had been superseded by a louder buzz and he looked up and blinked to see that the sky was filled with metal. What seemed like hundreds of planes jostled for space from one corner of the sky to the other. Sam focused his eyes and now saw a massive central core of larger aircraft, surrounded by crowds of smaller ones. The giant flotilla was heading north towards central London. This was on a different scale to the previous raids – it must be the big one – the long-awaited, major attack on the heart of the nation. The siren started to wail. A bit late in the day for that, Sam thought. He saw his wife and her father staring up with open mouths and looked back up to see a new formation of bombers blotting out the few available patches of clear sky.
“Come on, you two. Where’s the nearest shelter, Fred?”
Fred was still staring up in amazement. “Look. There are our boys. Go on. Get the bastards.” Iris grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the house.
They watched as waves of British fighters surged up into the sky and tore into the deadly storm cloud of German bombers. They saw some bombers and fighters spiralling down, but the vast bulk of the invaders continued inexorably on their way. A loud crashing sound came from the nearby fields and they were suddenly showered with sods of earth.
Sam shouted at the others, “Let’s get in!”
As they closed the kitchen door, Fred pointed towards the hall. He pulled open a door under the stairs and touched a light switch. “It’s too late to get to the shelter. Come down into the cellar. I’ve made it quite cosy. We’ll be alright there. Come on, Iris, give me your hand.” They made their way down the stairs. Two mattresses had been crammed into the cramped space. An old camp-burner, a relic of Fred’s army days, together with a teapot, a packet of PG Tips and some mugs rested on an upturned old crate. A book of Sherlock Holmes stories, a couple of faded issues of Picture Post and a copy of The Thirty-Nine Steps lay on one of the mattresses. Sam also noticed a bucket discreetly positioned behind the crate.
Another explosion thudded nearby and the cellar door above them clattered open and Sam jumped up the stairs to lock it.
“Alright, love?” Iris’ hands were shaking and Sam helped her down onto the mattresses. Fred reached out and patted her stomach. “The young lad’s got his first taste of action already. He’s going to be a soldier and a fine one at that.”