‘How was the journey?’ he asked, after giving her a brief hug.
‘Fine. Sorry I’m late.’
‘We’re still in time but we’d better get our skates on.’
‘A couple of old women were blethering on about how terrible the Germans are. And the Nazis are, of course they are, but not all Germans are terrible. I hate the way war makes everything us or them.’ She didn’t tell him about the scene in the library.
He smiled. ‘You know you sound very English. I don’t mean your accent. It’s the colloquialisms.’
‘Comes from spending time with Gladys.’
The Gaumont was the only cinema to reopen after the bombing of Exeter in 1942, and today there was to be a showing of a British war film. She viewed the outing as a stolen hour or so of hope in all the muddle of her life. The house lights had darkened as they took their seats and the Pathé news was already showing. The usherette shone her torch in the direction of where they were sitting, about halfway down the stalls, and they whispered their apologies as they sidled past the already seated and now grumbling people in their row.
She was disappointed the film was notCasablancabut an adaptation of a Graham Greene story –Went the Day Well?As the rousing patriotic music at the beginningbegan to play, Florence felt very aware of Bruce sitting beside her. His presence as close as this confused her, and she was wondering if they might spend time together afterwards at his house. Suddenly the screen flickered for a moment then turned black. People muttered and complained and there were a lot of ‘bloody hell’s and one or two shouts erupted from the audience. It wasn’t unusual. Films were always breaking down. But then the house lights came on and a shrill-sounding woman began to speak to them over the loudspeaker.
‘We apologise for the interruption, ladies and gentlemen,’ she said, and they all groaned. ‘The picture will be restored as soon as possible.’
As the lights went down again and the film stuttered back to life, Florence settled down and tried to enjoy it. But the subject matter didn’t help her state of mind. As a group of German paratroopers disguised as British Royal Engineers took over a peaceful English village, she became more and more unsettled. Gradually it became clear there was a traitor among the villagers who was enabling what they realised was a German occupation.
At that point there was a gasp from the audience as they turned to each other muttering their disapproval.
When the entire village was held at gunpoint in the church and the vicar, who’d tried to ring the church bell as a warning, was shot in cold blood, you could have heard a pin drop. But what really disturbed Florence were the scenes which, naturally enough, showed the villagers fighting back; even the postmistress took an axe to her German guard and killed him outright. It wasn’t that theyshouldn’t fight back, of course they should, but she couldn’t help feeling vulnerable. What might happen to Florence herself if anyone found out that her father was German? Now that Mrs Wicks had inadvertently hit the nail on the head she didn’t feel secure. Meadowbrook had been her sanctuary but was this going to follow her all her life?
‘The area is being evacuated,’ a gutsy woman in the film was saying. ‘We need to release the children first.’
But a young boy had already climbed out of a window to run for help and Florence flinched when he was shot trying to escape the German soldiers.
‘All right?’ Bruce whispered.
She nodded but didn’t speak.
At the end the audience cheered. The plucky British villagers had won the day and now people were standing up, laughing and chatting about the film.
The disembodied voice of the loudspeaker broke into the general hubbub. ‘An unexploded bomb has …’ A loud crackle broke up her words.
‘What was that?’ Florence asked Bruce and heard other people saying the same thing.
The voice continued, ‘… so, in the light of this will you please vacate your seats in an orderly fashion and head—’
They began to move but heard an explosion from somewhere outside the building, and the house lights went out again.
The older lady who had been sitting in the seat next to Florence gripped hold of her by the elbow. ‘Can I stickwith you, m’dear? I dropped my spectacles and I don’t see too well in the dark.’
‘Of course. Hold tight. We just need to head for the exit.’
‘Did she tell us where the bomb was? The lady on the loudspeaker?’
‘It went off already, somewhere outside. We heard it. Don’t worry,’ Florence said. ‘Just hang on to me. Best to get out quickly now.’
By then Bruce was a few steps away from her, heading up the aisle, although in the dark she couldn’t see him. Somehow, she’d let go of his hand but she could hear him call out to her.
‘I’m here,’ she shouted above the general noise and confusion. ‘You carry on.’
People were used to unexploded bombs, but you didn’t want to be trapped inside in the dark. She felt the sting of fear. You never knew if there might be another about to go off. She clasped hold of the woman and almost dragged her along the aisle. Whether there was any danger or not, people were still pushing and shoving, and you couldn’t help holding your breath until you were safely outside. But then an usherette appeared on the balcony above and shone a torch onto the stairs. The light made everything better and, relieved, Florence scrambled towards them making sure the woman was still holding tight.
A few moments later, along with a flood of excited people, they reached the top of the stairs and were swept across the foyer to the open front doors. Once outside, with unshed tears glistening in her eyes, the womanthanked Florence for her help. Florence smiled, told her it was nothing and then glanced around to look for Bruce. An acrid smell of burning filled the air and everyone was milling around asking each other what they’d seen.
Bruce waved and motioned for her to follow him, and they walked down a narrow alley to an area behind the cinema which was being cordoned off. Florence saw policemen, wardens, and parents in clusters clutching their children. She stared at smoke still drifting from scattered fires, and debris spawned by the explosion that had been propelled in every direction. But worse, a crater about fifteen feet wide with raised edges met her eyes, a dreadful wound in the earth. The children’s schoolyard had been destroyed. She glanced at the school itself, its walls blown outwards, drainpipes dislodged, windows shattered and evidence of the blast in the holes that peppered its walls. In the distance, the sound of children’s voices.
