Just a Game

The sirens would wake me up before Mum did. In the few seconds before she came bursting into my room I’d get out of bed and run over to the window. The glass had been smashed out months ago and Mr Arnot from next door had come over and nailed some planks up to keep the rain out. It didn’t matter, I’d press my face up against them, straining to look through one of the cracks at the sky above. The yellow spotlights darted about on the clouds, searching for the great machines, but I could never spot any.

               I wasn’t at my wooden window for long before I felt my mum’s hand grasp my wrist tightly. I nearly fell over as she raced down the stairs, dragging me along behind her – my legs were shorter than hers after all.

               In the kitchen, she flung the chairs aside and pulled me below the table with her. The boarded-up window in here had suffered the same fate as the one in my bedroom. I longed to watch what was going on outside, but the thrill of hearing yet not seeing made it all the more exciting.

               “Where’s my hat?” I asked. Mum just looked at me, eyes wide with a mix of terror and confusion. “Grandpa’s war hat!”

               Finally realising what I meant, Mum reached her hand up over the table and felt around before quickly pulling it back down. In her hand was my Grandpa’s helmet from the Great War. He’d left London when it all started, saying his nerves couldn’t take it again. Mum couldn’t leave because of her job, and she didn’t want me going anywhere without her – she’d been a bit strange since the Navy had sent Dad to somewhere called Singapore.

               Anyway, before Grandpa left he gave me his helmet – the war hat. He said he had worn it in some place called ‘The Trenches’. I don’t know why he gave it to me, but he said I should wear it whenever the bombs started falling. It was heavy and cut into my skin, but I felt invincible the moment I placed it on my head.

               The sirens were still wailing outside, but now another noise had joined them. A low hum, like a car in the distance. Everyone in our street turned their lights off at night these days, so it was pitch black – the only thing in the room I could just make out was Mum’s pale face. I was about to ask her if we could light a candle when the floor started shaking. This always happened when we were under the kitchen table. The vibrations worked their way up my body, making my teeth tingle. Mum placed her hand on my foot.

The whole room was shaking now, and I could hear some strange rumbling sounds outside. It sounded like trains were coming up our street. The sound grew louder and made the floor shake even more. The nice glasses on the shelf – the ones we could only use for special occasions – started rattling against each other. The plate that I had eaten my dinner on slid off the table, smashing as it hit the floor. Mum will be upset about that, I thought. It didn’t matter, for now I was too thrilled about what was happening outside.

I thought that maybe, when I get older, they would let me go outside and see what was going on. I saw those men in the uniform a bit like the one Dad was wearing when we said goodbye to him. They stood on the corner by the Underground station and always looked tired. Probably because they were allowed to stay up late and watch what was happening outside.

The rumbling had given way now to heavy booms, each one sending violent tremors through the house. It felt (and sounded) like a giant was outside, punching our little home with his massive fists. The nice glasses had jumped off their shelf, spraying me with shards as they shattered. Then the shelf they were on dropped off the wall as well. We’d have such a mess to clean up tomorrow.

I couldn’t see her now, but I felt Mum’s arms wrap around me, squeezing me tight into her chest. She had one hand on my head, pushing my face down into her shoulder. I wriggled until my eyes were free, focusing on the boarded-up window. Each great crash outside was accompanied by an orange flash which crept through the cracks in the boards. Every blast made Mum’s body tense up and tighten her grip on me.

Eventually, whatever was happening out there joined us inside. Something erupted in the rooms above where Mum and I had been sleeping only minutes earlier. The sound was deafening as our roof was ripped off in a ball of fire. Flames poured down the stairs and into the kitchen, licking their way forward until they stopped only feet away from us. I could feel their heat on my face. Sharp little bangs could be heard as the ceiling fell apart, sending bricks thudding down onto the table above us. I squeezed my eyes and mouth shut as dust and smoke filled the room, finding its way into my nose and ears. I was grateful that Grandpa’s war hat would at least keep my hair clean – maybe I’d still get away with not having a bath tomorrow?

Mum and I sat there, hugging each other closely as the explosions continued outside. Soon they became fainter, the vibrations softer. Eventually the only sound was an irregular tapping as bits of the ceiling continued to land on the table. My legs felt sore and my ears were ringing. I wanted to get up, but Mum held firm, not letting either of us move.

A man was shouting outside: “Is there anybody in there?” I heard a thumping against our door, before it flew open and two policemen carefully walked in, their faces etched with fear. They didn’t make it too far before they spotted Mum and me, sighing with relief.

Two hours later I was standing on the street outside with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. One of the policemen had given me his truncheon to play with while he checked on the neighbours. A lady from down the road had her arms around Mum, who was just staring back at what was left of our house, her face empty and still.

The policeman whose truncheon I was holding was writing something in his notepad. He flipped it shut and walked over to me.

“You’re lucky you had this, lad,” he said, tapping on Grandpa’s war hat.

Years later, when I had children of my own and Mum lived in a little flat nearby, I went over to visit her. She made us a cup of tea each and switched the TV on. A documentary about the Blitz was playing. I got up to change the channel – knowing that anything about the war upset her – but she stuck a foot out to prevent me. We watched in silence for a few minutes as a voice talked about how “Londoners proved to be tougher than Hitler’s bombs” while panning over shots of smouldering buildings.

               Mum turned to look at me. “Were you ever scared?”

               “During the Blitz? Not really,” I replied.

               “Even when that one hit our house?”

               I hesitated. We’d never spoken about this before. Maybe it was better to be honest.

“It was all just a game to me,” I said. “To be inches away from death but feel only excitement – that’s one of the blessings of being a child, right?”

She nodded, gave me a half-smile and turned back to the TV.

[I'm British so apologies for the UK spelling.]