From the Millennial Star, April 1944 —

The Siren Goes at Ravenslea

By Edith Russell

At half past ten the siren goes. The household is just in bed. Grumbling a little because Jerry has no respect for people whose sole desire is to sleep deeply and dreamlessly, we thrust warm toes into cold shoes and struggle to fit dressing-gowned sleeves into heavy coats.

“That’s ours,” someone remarks, as the guns bark.

“Thought we’d offended him when he’d stayed away so long,” someone else comments. The windows rattle. My teeth are chattering – with cold. At least – I think it is cold.

“Never mind, Paul, you can sleep down here. Don’t wriggle. I’ve got you. Angela, go with mummy.” The President’s voice – The guns again, and shrapnel falling like rain outside.

“Maura!” I breathe, though there is no earthly reason why I should whisper. “Shall we go down?”

“Janey Mack! I suppose we’d better.” A sleepy Irish voice – Sister Mogerley’s. I hear her groping for shoes. Shoes are always elusive things on occasions like this.

The shelter is a pocket edition, but it holds three beds. Sister Anastasiou is consoling Paul, who objects very strongly to being called upon to vacate his bed for the sake of a gentleman he has never even seen. The adventure of the thing fails to appeal to him. Little Angela, more resigned, is sleeping already in one of the beds.

There is a dull thud, and a tremendous response from the guns as we settle ourselves for the vigil.

“Cor lumme, that’s caused it.” Sister Coleby’s Suffolk drollery is proof even against war. I. for one, am grateful.

The tiny shelter is full. Outside, the noise is terrific. Strange, what thoughts one has at moments like these – did the disciples feel like this during the storm? – I never knew Sister Coleby liked pink so much – would anything stop the wee Taggart from knitting? – this is what fear feels like – Gustav was a Nazi, but he was gentle with my anemones –

“Where’s President?” someone asks.

“He’s with Alvin and Andre, fixing the pump. Listen.”

Something strange and rather horrible happens to the inner part of my anatomy as a noise like a muted shriek comes from outside. Yvonne is wrapping a blanket around her feet and says in a voice deliberate and entirely matter-of-f act: “It’s all right. They’re our rocket shells. They make a terrific row going up.”

It seems I am doomed never to know whether things are going up or coming down.

“Sister Russell, there are no clothes on that toe. Do you mind?” Angela, awake for a moment, smiles beatifically when I cover the offending toe, and returns immediately to sleep.

There is a drone like bees overhead, and a rattle of buckets more immediately above us. A voice of one sorely tried descends: “Sister Anastasiou, have you seen my scarf?”

“I say, where’s Dianne?” No one has seen Dianne.

“I think it’s on the dresser.” Sister Anastasiou seeks to alleviate the minor tragedy being enacted upstairs.

“Dianne, mummy, is not on the dresser. I left her in bed.” Yvonne is bored, and yawns irrepressibly.

Sister Mogerley lies down beside me on one of the beds. She has a reputation to uphold for an ability to sleep through anything. I realise I am shivering violently. I am only cold, of course Under cover of the blankets the Irish girl finds my hand.

Out in the grounds of Ravenslea Alvin and Andre patrol, tin-hatted and scarved.

“Looks like the real thing, bro.” The sky is crimson. They have all the Britisher’s genius for understatement.

“What’s that on the roof?”

We wait interminably. Warmth is beginning to seep through my limbs. The guns are less fierce. Paul is sleeping like an angel. Sister Taggart consults her knitting pattern and says, “Corks ” – a dropped stitch? – we shall never know.

A noise like a decrepit machine-gun. Surely –. Sister Anastasiou answers our unspoken question.

“It’s Joyce – typing. She’s finishing a report. I wanted her to come down.”

Feet are heard descending the stairs. The President, in tin hat and raincoat, comes in. He looks round the little group and smiles – justifiably. The danger is past, and “curlers” are unfortunate things to wear.

“All’s quiet up there,” he informs us.

I am nearly asleep. Then –

“Cheers, there it goes!”

“All clear, everybody!”

“Oh. thank goodness.”

There follows the exodus back to bed and welcome sleep. The raid is past for another night.

The blankets open arms wide to receive us.

A prayer first: “Thy hand has preserved us in safety” – then sleep – blessed sleep. There are flames licking the east, and they cast a sombre glow upon the wall.

When I open my eyes again. Ravenslea is drenched in sunshine. Only the sun burns in the east. Daffodils are blowing in a stiff April breeze.