Air raid sirens had become a common occurrence in London; sounding every few days, sometimes every night, as the Germans flew overhead, dropping bombs onto the streets of London with little regard for the British that wandered the streets, coming and going from school and work, trying to live their lives and ignore the realities of the war that existed just beyond the Channel. He sighed when the sirens started whirring just as he and a couple friends were sitting down to supper, ensconced in the tiny clinic they had just closed. With reluctance he grabbed what he could of his supper, wrapping it in a napkin as they made a hasty exit, coats and hats being donned as they went to the door, Jeremy grabbing a few blankets while Thomas snatched up a secreted bottle of wine.
"Going to be another long night of nothing," Thomas groused, tucking the alcohol into his coat while he followed Edward closely.
"At least it gives us an excuse not to finish our paperwork!" Jeremy grinned, following the line of people down towards the closest bomb shelter.
"I should have brought that paperwork with me. I could have finished it in the time we're going to be stuck down here," Patrick muttered, cringing as he was jostled slightly by other people trying to cram into the building.
"You're such a bore Turner," Edward teased, finding an adequate spot and sitting down once Jeremy had deposited a blanket to the hard ground, already pulling a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket, a deck of cards following soon after. Patrick ignored the others, choosing to lean against the wall and consume what he had brought of his supper, closing his eyes as the first few bangs and hisses could be heard from above.
"Are they actually going to attack this time?" Jeremy whispered, not wanting to alarm the women and children that were a mere few inches away. Some of the children had new toys with them, evidently presents from Christmas which had only passed a few days before, the children due to be shipped back out of the city come the New Year.
"Don't know," Edward replied, followed by a triumphant smile and an exclamation of "Gin!" Thomas frowned at them from behind the Bible he always seemed to have in his pocket, going immediately back to whispering the verses as the noise continued. Before long, it wasn't simple hissing and cracking, but the sounds of buildings exploding and the air raid shelter shaking with impact, the noises deafening as people screamed, clinging to one another as each explosion rocked the city.
Patrick took a deep breath, nails cutting into his palms as he tried to stay calm. This was all right. They would be all right. They were safe. They were in a shelter. But even as the mantra circled his head he knew that the old construction of this part of London wouldn't hold up forever. That the tenement flats that housed the endless poor of Poplar would be levelled within moments, if a bomb struck at the right spot. Glancing towards the entrance he could almost see the faint glow of fire that was coming from outside, an errant curl of smoke making its way down and through the tunnel of people.
"Shit," Edward hissed. "Shit!"
The next few hours passed the same way. Every few moments another crash would sound – some close by, others evidently in the distance. Heat spread throughout the shelter from the fires that raged on the streets, large portions of London alight from the bombs landing everywhere. Some of the refugees in the tunnel fell asleep, curled against one another, but the doctors at the end remained awake, wary of everything that was happening. Knowing that they would be called for the moment the raid stopped.
Finally, after what felt like eons, the all clear siren blared through the stillness of the night. The four men were instantly on their feet, climbing over the others in their various states of sleep and consciousness, as they scrambled up the stairs and into the streets, stopping dead at the sight before them. Fire licked at the building merely a hundred feet away, the rubble already crumbling to the ground as volunteer firemen desperately tried to extinguish the flames. The Isle of Dogs, not that far down, was completely engulfed, the river doing little to assist anyone in their attempt to control the damage. The other end of the street, however, was not beneath a blanket of fire, but rather piles of rubble, ash and smoke rising from where the dust had yet to settle as the building collapsed.
Patrick was off light a shot, already scrambling across the debris in order to shift it around, Thomas at his heels, the Lord's Prayer spilling from the older man's lips as they looked for people – bodies and survivors both, their path lit by the all consuming blaze behind them.
"How are we going to find anything in this mess?" Jeremy demanded, still standing at the bottom of the pile, his hands twitching by his side.
"Be quiet!" Patrick growled, crouching next to the rubble, the sound of coughing coming from beneath the stones. "Listen! We can find people if we listen!" he rushed, already starting to shove brick and mortar aside, vaguely noting how his companions fanned out, leaning over debris. Thomas was the first to start digging frantically, similar to that which Patrick was doing, his hands already aching as he moved stone after stone, chucking pieces of shattered and charred wood over his shoulder as he encountered various pieces of furniture and life from the shattered building. His lungs burned, both from the ash that floated through the air and the physical exertion, his heart seizing when he heard an anguished cry from Edward.
"Fuck, his entire head is crushed," the physician yelled, scrubbing a sleeve over his face as he turned away and towards the fire, the red and orange light shining against the sweat and tears that were present on his face. It wasn't a surprise that the collapsed buildings would yield casualties, but it was still a shock to see things in such vivid colour. Patrick turned away, not wanting to see Edward pull the man's body out and lay it on the street, continuing to search for more people as a few civilian volunteers started to join in, quickly pulling a little boy from the stones, calling for a doctor to help the lad who was bleeding profusely. Jeremy was instantly there, helping staunch the blood, his face dusted with soot.
As he shifted a board, Patrick was greeted with a tiny pocket of space, the body of a young woman curled in the abyss. He crouched down, reaching for her neck, stiff fingers caked with soot tracing over her dust stained skin until he felt for her pulse, a relieved breath puffing out of him at finding a beat. The hand that was clutched to the girl's ankle from beneath the rubble, however, did not yield the same results. Carefully, he moved another few bricks, finding that owner of the hand yielded no life, her body crumpled beneath a large portion of concrete that had fallen on her chest and throat. He wanted to sustain the girl's neck, to make sure that she did not have a head injury, but he knew there wasn't the time. Instead, he leaned forward, scooping up the slight form of the female and holding her tight to his chest, half sliding down the pile of rocks until he was on the street again, his hands skimming her body for injuries, finding nothing more than a broken arm. He grabbed a broken piece of wood, carefully attempting to set the bone, yanking his tie off to secure the splint. As he tightened the silken material he noticed her eyelids flutter.
"Shh, take it easy, you're all right," he said, leaning closed to her face, watching her scared blue eyes jolt open and jerk about, horror and confusion easily written on her face at the surroundings.
"Granny –" the girl rushed, voice thick with soot and an accent that took Patrick by surprise, his hands immediately falling to her shoulders as he held her down, not wanting her to sprint back to the building.
"I'm sorry," he said, tenderly catching her cheek in his hand and forcing her to look at him. "She's gone. I'm so sorry." The girl's lop wobbled for a moment before she clenched her eyes shut, tears slipping through her lashes and clearing the dust from her cheeks as they fell. The girl struggled to sit up, but instead of rushing to her grandmother's body as he was anticipating, she fell into his chest, sobbing into the thick wool of his jumper. Although he was startled, Patrick placed his hand on her back, rubbing small circles between her shoulders. Before he could think of his actions, he placed a kiss to the crown of her head.
"Turner! I need your help!" Thomas yelled, his voice breaking through the strange bubble of calm Patrick had found himself in, the older man's hands covered in blood as he pulled someone up from the destruction.
"Stay right here, all right? I will come back and check on you as soon as I'm able. Your arm is broken, so don't take off the splint." The words spilled out of him as he managed to stagger to his feet, the girl's eyes tracking his movement.
"Don't worry, I've got her," came the gruff voice of a woman from Patrick's left. He turned slightly to see a burly looking nun climbing from a motorbike, goggles pushed up on her head and medical bag at her hip as she carefully navigated to the edge of the disaster, crouching down next to the woman as Patrick turned away, regretful, as he rushed to help Thomas.
XxX
He went round to the emergency clinic that was set up in All Saint's parish hall the next day, the church and convent both being spared from the bombs the night before. The nun from the previous evening was sitting at a desk, sorting through papers, an exhausted air about her.
"I'm sorry Sister, I just wanted to check on a woman I saw to last night," he said in way of greeting. The nun looked up at him, frowning.
"And you are?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned back in her chair.
"Patrick Turner, I'm a GP," he responded, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I'm actually thinking of moving to the area to work in district practice," he added, hoping to earn her good graces. She looked him over once more before giving a curt not, motioning for him to follow her as she stood.
"I figured that might be why you were splinting bones and doing sutures in the dark," she said. "Although I wouldn't call that girl you cared for last night a woman, she's barely 13, poor thing. Lost her grandmother last night and her mother a few years ago. All on her own here, come down from Scotland for Christmas. Nasty gift to be given before going back home," the Sister said, voice melancholy as she pointed to the cot at the end of the room. Now that she was no longer covered in dust or shrouded in the dim light of the blaze, he could see how pale she was, blonde hair curling about her face as she slept, arm successfully bound in bandages and plaster.
"Were there any other injuries?" Patrick questioned, picking up the cart and skimming over the notes.
"Mild concussion, but nothing to be worried about. She'll be right as rain in a few days. Her father is coming down to collect her as soon as he's able."
He didn't wait for her to wake up, instead thanking the Sister for her time and ducking out of the hall, finding Thomas waiting for him.
"It's a decent parish to work in," the man commented, passing Patrick a cigarette as they set off along the street, both exhausted from the countless hours of pulling survivors and bodies from the ruins.
"I think I'll give it a go. Once this war is over. For now I think I might enlist," Patrick replied, scrubbing his hand over his face, laughing at the slap on the shoulder Thomas gave him.
XxX
Nearly twenty years passed before he thought properly about that night in December of 1940 again, his hands hesitating over the meager possessions his new bride had brought into his home.
"Shelagh," he called, standing at the edge of the bed, brow furrowed as he heard her hasten up the stairs, eyes wild as she stopped in the doorway of their bedroom.
"What is it?" she asked, crossing the floor until she was at his side, revelling in the heat of his body so close to hers.
"Where did you get that?" he queried, pointing to a strip of fabric that was nestled in with her clothes, the material tattered and dull, remnants of dust still clinging to the fibers. She cocked her head to the side for a moment before picking it up, stroking the silk reverently.
"I got it during the Blitz," Shelagh answered, tenderly rubbing a finger over the fabric. "It December 29th. I was here, in London, with my grandmother. A bomb took out her flat," she started, voice soft in the privacy of the bedroom, her body leaning into his unconsciously. "A man pulled me out of the rubble and was dying this to my arm when I woke up. Sister Evangelina told me he had pulled me out of the wreckage. I don't... I can't say that I remember it, but I do remember him trying to calm me after he told me my grandmother had passed away."
"He kissed you on the head," Patrick interjected, causing Shelagh to round on him with a shocked expression.
"How-"
"I kissed you on the head. I didn't know what else to do. How to make it better. I thought you were older," he added, chucking at the look of astonishment on her features.
"You saved me that night," she breathed, reaching up to cup his jaw in her palm, watching his eyes close as he leaned into her hand.
"You saved me every night thereafter. The entire time I was in the army, all I could think was if I could pull that girl from the ruins with my bare hands, I can do this in a medical tent. You kept me going Shelagh, and I didn't even know your name." She surged upwards to kiss him at that, tugging at his shirt collar until they fell onto the bed, his body looming over hers.
"I love you," she whispered, letting his tie from so many years ago tangle between their fingers, holding them together as he peeled the layers that separated them apart, making love to her slowly in the fading afternoon sunlight, the red and orange catching on her hair and making him fall in love with her all over again.