Chapter 8 Joyce #4
‘They have a combined age of about two hundred,’ Joyce remarked.
‘And they still have more energy than you and me combined,’ Adela intoned, raising one dark eyebrow.
Joyce’s laugh turned to a yawn. ‘Come on, I need a cup of tea.’
They wove their way up the busy station platform.
Some shelterers had already snuggled down for the night, or were quietly knitting or reading.
Family groups chatted or played cards. Not for the first time, Joyce felt grateful for the family atmosphere of their corner of subterranean London.
Wild rumours abounded at some of the nocturnal goings-on in underground shelters.
Some joked that in the Tilbury goods yard shelter, nicknamed Hell’s Kitchen, you’d have your wallet stolen and sold back to you by the time you’d made it to the other end of the shelter.
At the far end of the platform, a small makeshift stage had been erected, with a trestle table next to it serving mugs of tea. Taking one each for her and Adela, Joyce wondered whether she could even remember her old life back in Unwin Terrace.
‘Do you think we’re institutionalised, Adela?’ she mused. ‘You know, developed a troglodyte mentality?’
Adela blew the steam off her tea. ‘You think too much. Believe me, there are greater things to worry about.’
Joyce was mortified. ‘You’re right, I’m sorry, Adela. I must sound like such a sop. Earlier I felt like you were trying to tell me something, about your family back in Poland. Won’t you . . .?’
‘Greetings to you, our nightly companions, somnambulists, snorers, chatterers, moles and all who inhabit our underground world. Sleepers of the underworld, unite!’
Dore was on the makeshift stage, banging a spoon against the side of his enamel cup.
‘Inspired by London’s first mobile library, I bring you London’s first underground newspaper, The Swiss Cottager.’ He raised the newspaper above his head to wild applause.
‘Innovation, dear shelterers. Hitler thought he could bomb us into submission, smash our morale. Instead, he has unleashed our resilience, for look at us now . . . We have culture and companionship.’
‘And bloody foreigners,’ shouted a surly-looking man, glaring at Adela. ‘I’m sure ninety per cent of this shelter is foreigners.’
Joyce felt Adela stiffen.
‘What a crashing bore you are,’ said Mitsy, glaring at him over her feather boa.
‘How interesting,’ Dore said, his smile growing icy. ‘Someone stopped me on the escalator the other day to complain that ninety per cent of the foreigners have run off to countryside billets. I shall arrange for you both to meet and then you can hash it out.’
The shelter fell about laughing and the disgruntled man sloped off.
‘Let us not instil dissatisfaction where none existed,’ Dore continued, his voice echoing up the tunnel.
‘I am proud to say our little Tube station shelter is home to not only English folk but many foreign refugees including French, Dutch, Belgian, Hungarians and,’ he glanced at Adela, ‘our Polish friends.
The only difference between them and us is that they lost their homes and families first and learnt to hate Hitler before us.
Let us gather in friendship and harmony.
‘Now,’ he continued briskly, ‘the cost of the newspaper is a penny and profits will go towards medicine for the elderly and children, babies’ bottles, first-aid equipment and earplugs.’
A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. ‘A record 1,500 people slept in this shelter last night, 1,650 of whom snored.
‘As to the regularity of my newspaper’s appearance, I cannot attest. Perhaps it will be as spasmodic as Hitler’s hallucinations. Suggestions please.’
‘Here, how’s about funding for more lavs, Dore?’ shouted Lilley. ‘I had to take the Tube to Finchley Road the other day just to spend a penny.’
‘I have already put in a request for more Elsan closets. Now, I fear I am overstaying my welcome. Lastly, can we congratulate Swiss Cottage’s very own Joyce and Adela?
To add to the list of wartime curios, in addition to an underground newspaper, we have our very own mobile library, launched earlier today by these two highly competent women. ’
Joyce and Adela smiled bashfully as the shelter all turned to look at them smiling.
‘How about a bedtime story, girls?’ Rosie Cohen said. ‘My eyes ain’t what they used to be, and me and Jimmy,’ she gently patted her pet tortoise, ‘should so love to hear you read.’
‘Oh, I don’t know . . .’ Joyce glanced at Adela for moral support. ‘I only have Samuel Pepys’s diary with me this evening.’
‘Just the ticket, darling,’ Mitsy said. ‘I adore Samuel.’
‘Friend of yours, was he, Mitsy?’ Dore teased.
‘I’m not that old, you scoundrel,’ she laughed, wagging a finger at him.
Joyce found herself in the midst of a clamouring crowd.
‘You read before in the street shelter,’ Adela whispered. ‘You can do it again.’
Joyce looked out at the sea of faces. There must have been over a hundred people (and a dog, cat and tortoise) gathered round the stage. She swallowed, feeling her nerves creep up on her.
‘Go on, give them a story.’ Adela squeezed her hand encouragingly. What is it your society is so fond of saying? If people can’t get to the books, you take books to the people?’
‘You’re too smart by half,’ Joyce muttered, nervously making her way up onto the stage.
‘What period would you like? The Restoration, the bubonic plague or the Great Fire?’
‘This might sound queer, darling,’ Mitsy said, ‘but how about the Great Fire?’ She looked around at the crowd. ‘At least we can all relate to it.’
She leafed through the pages until she reached the fateful period in early September 1666. The curved roof gave the tunnel natural acoustics, and her voice carried clearly up the dimly lit platform.
‘. . . we saw the fire grow; and, as it grew darker, appeared more and more, and in corners and upon steeples, and between churches and houses, as far as we could see up the hill of the City, in a most horrid malicious bloody flame . . .’
A hush fell up the platform as people settled down on their bunks, wrapped themselves in blankets and listened intently.
And on Joyce read to the shelterers, her words landing in the hearts of each and every man, woman and child, who had all seen their own vision of fire and hell.
In the pauses, she allowed herself to study the faces of her audience. Lilley, Mitsy and Rosie sat in a line, eyes closed, nodding their heads in agreement. Dore reached into his pocket and discreetly dabbed at his eyes.
Pepys’s writing was unleashing a storm of emotions in the Blitz shelterers that had remained buried until now.
But perhaps that was the power of a good book?
The author had spoken to their experiences, his prose chiming so perfectly with their own feelings, it was as if he had found a time machine from 1666 to 1940, and it occurred to Joyce then, that books weren’t simply paper, ink and glue.
They were portals to other worlds. Hunkered underground with all the fury of fascism raining down on London, they had escaped to the past. Magical golden threads knotted around them, weaving them closer, so close that in that moment, they were no longer an angry, disparate crowd, but book-lovers bonded by a powerful shared story.
She closed the book as the guttering candle next to her began to flicker and fade.
‘Perhaps that’s enough for one night,’ she said. A heavy silence fell over Swiss Cottage Tube.
‘This might sound odd,’ Dore said, breaking the silence, ‘seeing as how many of us have lost our homes and witnessed such terrible suffering. But I draw comfort from Mr Pepys’s words.
What we can deduce from his marvellous diary is that cities can rebuild.
London was reborn from the ashes once before, and it will be again. ’
A rumble sounded up the tunnels and the metal tracks began to vibrate. The refreshments Tube train pulled into the station, accompanied by a roar of approval from the shelterers.
‘First a bedtime story, now a hot cup of cocoa,’ Lilley remarked, sitting up creakily. ‘I tell you what, when this war’s over, I won’t want to go home!’
Later that night, as the clock struck midnight and the shelter slept soundly, bellies full of Bovril and cocoa, Joyce fumbled for her torch and pen.
Pulling out her notebook, she wrote the date.
Sunday 29 December 1940. Two hundred and eighty years ago, Samuel Pepys had started writing; today, so would she.
She wrote her first line. ‘My dearest Dorotha . . . I did it. I finally did it. I started my mobile library. How I wish I knew where you were. I hope and pray that you are safe in your library.’