and sister, but Ada looked back and yelled, “Come on!” At the same moment, she saw a young woman she knew back in the crowd, one of the refugees she and her friends called Mrs. W. What was she carrying? Ada could make out the pretty bag—it was the same one Mrs. W. often brought into the shop—but she also had something across her chest. When Ada had been going to the shelter more regularly, she’d noticed how well Mrs. W. managed. She was registered for a bunk, and her bundle always included a pillow and sheets and extra blankets for privacy.
Blankets! Ada had left theirs by the door when they’d argued about food. All they had now for the night were the extra jumpers. She looked back again at Mrs. W. How did she do it? How did a refugee manage the dual existence so well?
The crowd was growing tighter, and suddenly a man’s elbow bumped Emma’s head. He turned immediately and said “Sorry” in a Yorkshire accent, but Ada frowned and pulled Emma close. Many more people than usual were going to use the shelter tonight, she realized. Of course. She should have thought of it sooner. She was both scared about what it meant—a terrible raid; everyone sensed it—and furious with herself for not planning better. She told the girls she’d get a bunk. What if she couldn’t?
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Mum?” Tilly asked. “Is everything all right?”
Ada looked at Tilly. Her daughter’s face was not beautiful, but it combined all the best features of hers and her husband Robby’s. His cheekbones, her brown eyes and pretty lips. Emma was actually the lovelier of the two, with blond hair and a set of features that seemed to be of her own invention or from generations long ago. Ada loved the two of them more than she ever said and was terrified the war wouldn’t end before they were grown. She’d told no one that she was haunted by a recurring nightmare in which she hovered over her girls in their last seconds, their faces perfect, their eyes appealing to her for help, the backs of their heads crushed by something she hadn’t seen.
“Yes,” she said. “Of course. Just keep moving. We’re almost there.”
The shelter in Bethnal Green was adapted from an unfinished Tube station. It opened officially in October 1940, though the East Enders had been using it, in desperate and chaotic fashion, from the start of the war. At first the makeshift space was dark and overcrowded. Criminals and rodents plagued it. Then the government, recognizing a disaster in the making, whitewashed the walls, put in bunks, assigned wardens, and turned the station into a model unit of deep shelter. It had only one entrance, however, in the corner of the public garden at the intersection of Bethnal Green and Cambridge Heath roads. The Church of St. John’s stood opposite, and the superstition, left over from the early days, was to turn and look over your left shoulder at the church’s blue doors before descending the shelter steps. A prayer for safety from any number of horrors.
Rev. McNeely, the young rector of St. John’s, often stood on the church porch and watched the shelterers descend. He’d come to Bethnal Green from the country, a small village church, and many in the area had had their doubts, particularly as he was half-Scottish and, rumor was, homosexual. But in 1939 he’d cleared the St. John’s crypt to give them a safer communal shelter, before the government even acknowledged what was happening in the Tube. They never forgot that when they needed shelter, he—a fresh young recruit from Bury St. Edmunds—had found it for them, without sermonizing on the sanctity of the space. In a neighborhood moving away from the stringencies of faith and tired of plans and pamphlets from the government, this established him as being appealingly unorthodox.
An iron roof covered the wooden gates of the shelter entrance. Just inside, nineteen steps led down to a small landing; then a second flight of seven steps turned at
Blankets! Ada had left theirs by the door when they’d argued about food. All they had now for the night were the extra jumpers. She looked back again at Mrs. W. How did she do it? How did a refugee manage the dual existence so well?
The crowd was growing tighter, and suddenly a man’s elbow bumped Emma’s head. He turned immediately and said “Sorry” in a Yorkshire accent, but Ada frowned and pulled Emma close. Many more people than usual were going to use the shelter tonight, she realized. Of course. She should have thought of it sooner. She was both scared about what it meant—a terrible raid; everyone sensed it—and furious with herself for not planning better. She told the girls she’d get a bunk. What if she couldn’t?
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Mum?” Tilly asked. “Is everything all right?”
Ada looked at Tilly. Her daughter’s face was not beautiful, but it combined all the best features of hers and her husband Robby’s. His cheekbones, her brown eyes and pretty lips. Emma was actually the lovelier of the two, with blond hair and a set of features that seemed to be of her own invention or from generations long ago. Ada loved the two of them more than she ever said and was terrified the war wouldn’t end before they were grown. She’d told no one that she was haunted by a recurring nightmare in which she hovered over her girls in their last seconds, their faces perfect, their eyes appealing to her for help, the backs of their heads crushed by something she hadn’t seen.
“Yes,” she said. “Of course. Just keep moving. We’re almost there.”
The shelter in Bethnal Green was adapted from an unfinished Tube station. It opened officially in October 1940, though the East Enders had been using it, in desperate and chaotic fashion, from the start of the war. At first the makeshift space was dark and overcrowded. Criminals and rodents plagued it. Then the government, recognizing a disaster in the making, whitewashed the walls, put in bunks, assigned wardens, and turned the station into a model unit of deep shelter. It had only one entrance, however, in the corner of the public garden at the intersection of Bethnal Green and Cambridge Heath roads. The Church of St. John’s stood opposite, and the superstition, left over from the early days, was to turn and look over your left shoulder at the church’s blue doors before descending the shelter steps. A prayer for safety from any number of horrors.
Rev. McNeely, the young rector of St. John’s, often stood on the church porch and watched the shelterers descend. He’d come to Bethnal Green from the country, a small village church, and many in the area had had their doubts, particularly as he was half-Scottish and, rumor was, homosexual. But in 1939 he’d cleared the St. John’s crypt to give them a safer communal shelter, before the government even acknowledged what was happening in the Tube. They never forgot that when they needed shelter, he—a fresh young recruit from Bury St. Edmunds—had found it for them, without sermonizing on the sanctity of the space. In a neighborhood moving away from the stringencies of faith and tired of plans and pamphlets from the government, this established him as being appealingly unorthodox.
An iron roof covered the wooden gates of the shelter entrance. Just inside, nineteen steps led down to a small landing; then a second flight of seven steps turned at
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