Like a spirit passes by,
Trailing from her crystal dress
Dreams and silent frostiness.
‘Poetry’s a wonderful thing, ain’t it?’ the man said carefully, picking his way over the remains of a banister. ‘Condenses my thoughts somehow, know what I mean?’
They reached the bottom of the stairs and finally emerged, blinking, into the street, and still the man kept walking her to safety, past the makeshift barrier and over to a WVS van.
‘Archibald Lampman, “Before Sleep”,’ he said, gently setting her down.
Behind them, the bus creaked and then finally crashed down into the ground floor, bringing the rest of the house with it in a cloud of choking dust.
Joyce couldn’t speak.
‘I love that poem. It depicts a lover’s longing to visit his lady at night. They weren’t half a sentimental lot, them Victorians, but I’m a romantic too, deep down.’ He winked. ‘Whatever the rest of my pals on Heavy Rescue might tell you.’
Joyce realised she was still clinging onto him and, embarrassed, she stepped back.
‘I’m sorry,’ she managed at last. ‘My actions endangered us both.’
‘That’s all right . . . Miss . . .?’
‘Kindred. Joyce Kindred.’
‘Sounds like a character from my favourite book growing up,Peter Pan.’
He wiped his filthy hand on the front of his boiler suit and extended it. ‘And I’m Harry Harding. Heavy Rescue by day, poet by night.’
Behind them, she was aware of a small crowd. Turning around, Joyce cried out in pure joy. ‘Mitsy!’ she exclaimed, taking in the familiar woman standing right in front of her, very much still alive. ‘I thought you were...’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Dead?’ Mitsy chuckled. ‘Takes more than a bus to finish me off, darling. I told you, I never make it up the stairs to bed. Just as well really, as I’d have been finished off by the 290. A very unglamorous end.’
Her words were pure bravado, but in that moment, she looked fragile and old, standing in the street in an oversized white nightie, her tiny ankles poking out underneath her, her hair wispy and white as spun sugar. Her trembling hands worked their way through Missy’s fur.
‘This delightful man came and rescued me, Missy and Library Cat. What a menagerie. We were in a bit of a pickle.’
Adela stood behind Mitsy, clutching Library Cat. Joyce could have wept.
Harry returned from fetching a cup of tea from the van and pressed the steaming tin mug into Joyce’s hand.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ she said quietly. ‘I feel very foolish. Thank you.’
‘No thanks needed,’ he said, lighting up a Woodbine. ‘I’m just doing my job. Now it’s been quite the night. Can I suggest you all go and get some sleep?’
‘Yes, yes. Good idea. Mitsy, you can come and stay with us in Unwin Terrace, just until the council rehomes you.’
‘Unwin Terrace?’ Harry frowned. ‘What number?’
‘Number thirty-five. Why?’
‘Sorry, Miss Kindred. Jerry hit Holborn hard last night, and the borough took quite a battering. One in seven houses got bombed. I’m afraid Unwin Terrace ain’t on the map no more. Can I recommend you head to Swiss Cottage Tube?’ Harry suggested. ‘I shelter down there. It’s a cut above the rest.’
Joyce turned to the disparate group, by this point in the day barely even registering that the home she had lived in all her life was no more. She looked at the women in front of her. A Polish refugee, a retired silent-movie star, a lap dog and a library cat with a knack for survival. For better or worse, they were all in the same boat now. Homeless but a long way from helpless.
‘Come on then,’ she said to the assembled group, ‘the Tube it is.’
‘I’ll drive us in Nan,’ Adela suggested, barely batting an eyelid that she’d lost another home. Together, they turned and made their way to the library van, Joyce and Adela linking arms with Mitsy. But Joyce couldn’t help but sneak a backwards glance as she walked. Harry was striding briskly back towards the bomb site, his broad shoulders quickly engulfed in the clouds of dust.
