The Girl in the Underground Station

"Take an extra blanket tonight dear," my mother said, tucking a bobbly crocheted shawl into my basket, alongside the flask of tea.

"Oh, and it's blackberry jam tonight. I thought you might enjoy Little Women too," she paused to brush imaginary fluff from dad's shoulders as he ducked past.

"I loved that book as a girl; Meg, Jo, Amy... and it starts at Christmas too, and—"

"Don't fuss so, mother," I scolded gently. "It's not a picnic." Dad met my gaze with a pained look, and I sighed dramatically.

Holding out my arm, I let her place the basket handle in the crook of my elbow, then pulled on my beret.

"And your sketchbook is on the top, Franny," mother continued. "Watch you don't get jam on it this time!" She smiled and rubbed her chin, scowling again as dad and I gave another conspiratorial chuckle.

"You'll be the death o' me," mother sighed. "You an' 'im." She gestured toward the armchair where dad was pulling on his warden jumper.

"You and 'im! Not Hitler, or this gawd-forsaken 'ouse!" She waved a hand in our direction. Her stubby fingers resembled little fat sausages, pink and mottled, and she'd nibbled them clean of their nails many weeks before. Dad suppressed a smirk.

"You, off to that shelter full of who-knows-who, and you— " She pointed to dad as he was tying his boots. "You getting put into that warden job!"

"It's alright, mum," I said gently. "Look, if you feel so strongly about it, why don't you come along with me? We can snuggle up together, and read one of your books?"

"An' who'll make tea and look after all the folk who's been 'it?"

I plopped a kiss onto her forehead and she sagged against me, breathing in my hair and cheek. I could always get round her. Her bark was much fiercer than her bite.

"Garn, off with you!" Her tone was softer than the sentiment as she shooed me out onto the pavement.

It was still fairly bright outside. The crisp December air washed me clean. It blasted ice cold and astringent, despite being heavy with brick and plaster dust. I stopped and adjusted the basket handle on my arm—this damned basket was getting heavier and heavier each night! She'd barely had time to shove my overcoat into my arms on the first night, when I'd sprinted off to the station alone, giddy with panic and terror. We'd cowered and whined like mongrels on the dark platform; strangers united in terror, our trembling bodies pressed together immodestly, vying for heat and comfort.

The flask of tea had followed during the second week, swiftly partnered with a jam sandwich and Anne of Green Gables. I'd arrived at Little Women via Black Beauty and an anthology of poetry donated by my dad. The poems were my favourite—perfect little nuggets of literary sagacity. Words were order amongst the chaos and I clung to every one, desperate for truth or prophecy.

People were meandering along the pavement as far as Frederick's Tailor's, then crossing onto the road by the old post office to finish their journey. The streets lay open and smashed, crumbling like ripe Wensleydale should a rare vehicle happen to trundle by. Everyone travelled by foot now. I didn't mind. I liked to walk, liked to think.

A group of gangly kids played in a pile of bricks, their faces, hands and knees peppered with ash and dust. Everything was white or various shades of grey. It was like being in a film. One of the boys fell into step alongside me.

"What'cha got in your basket, missus?"

"Never you mind, cheeky."

"Trade you one of my shrapnel bits for a bun?"

"Don't have buns."

"What'cha got then?"

I smiled sweetly at the boy but lengthened my pace. I'd learned early about the importance of economy. During those first few weeks I'd empty my basket long before the siren began. Kids, old women, mothers nursing; they'd got to me every time. Now I'd learned the value of trade I saved opening it 'til I was down below, swapping tea and my parents' allotment jam sandwiches for notebooks, pencils, tea loaf... One night a sweet old lady knitted right through the night to trade me fingerless gloves for Anne of Green Gables. Oh, how I was grateful for them tonight!

The queue had grown to some thirty long when I joined it. It snaked out of the station and curled along the railings to join the copper at the end. He was a young one tonight; looked about eighteen—barely older than me, stamping his feet and puffing on his fingers, his face sallow and resolute.

I'd no sooner sat down on the pavement when the siren began. Pin-curled women tutted as sharp elbows jostled for position. It was always the little ones who moved first; darting about the line checking the queue rate or bouncing like a jack-in-a-box to see the entrance to the station. One of the kids elbowed me in the ribs as he squeezed past toward the steps. I saw her then... gosh, she was a beauty! Scowling, I pushed the child indelicately out of the way to get a better look at her.

We were used to new faces, of course. Grubby, pale and haunted, they'd appear out of nowhere, and sit in silence all night, unspeakable terrors dancing in their minds, as they puffed against the cold, wringing their hands or pulling at their clothes for warmth. I'd lost many of mother's blankets during those nights, but she never seemed to mind replacing them; sometimes churning out freshly crocheted replacements with mock grievance, but most of the time I think she was just grateful for the distraction.

I stayed close to the girl as the crowd moved slowly down the stairs. She was tall enough to see above the undulating sea of heads. Her dark hair was flat and uncurled, but it was long and had a shine to it that gleamed in the station lighting. She took a seat on the platform by an exit arch. It would be cold there, she'd need a blanket.

I cleared a path to her with my feet, nudging fleshy bottoms aside with my brogues, muttering apologies. She glanced up at me as I approached but a sudden low rumble momentarily shook the ground above. It echoed in the pit of my stomach, as though I were hollow, and my heart answered with a resounding thump. Steadying myself with my arms held out at right angles and balancing the basket painfully, I passed the last of the people and sat down next to her.

She'd pulled a small ebony rosary from her pocket when the bomb had struck, and she was kissing it fervently, murmuring devotionals. Her thick-lashed eyes were closed so I took the opportunity to survey her appearance. Pale olive skin, darkest brown hair...thin, dirty, unkempt... inadequate clothing, no wedding ring; she was definitely living rough.

"Hello," I said gently. "Would you like a blanket?"

Her eyes popped open and she shrunk back in alarm. I pulled the softer shawl from my basket and held it out to her. Her green eyes darted like minnows from the shawl to my face, but she showed no objection as I draped it over her grazed knees.

"There you are," I soothed. "You might get a bit of sleep now, eh?"

Oh, how I wished that were true! But nobody slept down here. Well, nobody between the ages of three months and sixty! Many bedded down, but I could tell they weren't asleep; lying frozen with fear and cold while our city was being obliterated above.

I reached back into the basket and felt for the flask. Several needy heads swiveled curiously toward the tink of metal on porcelain, as I poured a cup of rosie.

"Tea," I said, pressing the cup into her frozen palms. "And I won't take no for an answer. You're blue with cold."

She nodded politely, and I was relieved when she took the cup. She sipped delicately, her chapped lips pursed against the rising steam. Where had she come from? Was she British? She had that exotic, Mediterranean look to her I was so envious of. Dark hair, elegant and classical, brimming with glamour and allure. The tea began to revive her. Slowly, imperceptibly, a pink flush rose in her face, settling high on her cheekbones and lighting her temples from within. It was like watching a great spring thaw; a spell breaking and the ice maiden coming back to life. Watching her warmed me to the core too, and I hugged my knees with altruistic satisfaction.

Three rows back, a couple of crimson-lipped sweater girl types began a raucous game of Old Maid, much to the delight of their rapt male audience.

"Do you 'ave,' asked the curvier one dramatically. 'a two?"

She accompanied the word 'two' with a shimmy of her shoulders, which jiggled her breasts like two mounds of jade green blancmange. The onlookers whistled, and the blonde girl flushed puce with elation.

My beautiful new friend gave a whisper of a smile and lowered her eyes modestly, but I caught her glance, rolled my eyes and wrinkled my nose. She coughed prettily, drained her cup and handed it back to me.

"I'm Fran," I said softly. "It's alright, you don't need to tell me your name if you don't want to. You don't have to tell me anything. I won't ask where you came from."

I paused to flash her one of my brightest smiles; the ones I reserved for dad and Teddy Johnson from the greengrocer's.

"You just let me know when you want some more tea."

I sketched her twice before the first All Clear. One in profile, the second, just her eyes. They were like pale green jewels with sparks of gold; marquise cut, and deeply set. Her eyelashes brushed her cheeks when she blinked. Expansive and full, they were darker than her hair, and so lustrous the tips appeared to sparkle under the yellow platform lights. I longed to sketch her in the daytime, perhaps classically styled and draped in gossamer-fine muslin. Or reclining in the dark, her fine skin lit by a single light source from above like Manet's Olympia.

"Are you hungry?" I asked her later, as a second quota of missiles began their unremitting percussion above.

"My dad grows the best blackberries for jam in the whole of east London."

I thought I saw her recoil at the word 'dad' but if I had, she'd managed to camouflage it quickly. She was still watching the card games but didn't reply. The two Jezebels had paired off with a couple of older gentlemen, donating their cards to a couple of young boys who were playing Snap.

"Would you like to play?" I asked, and she nodded, brightening, her full mouth parting into a tentative smile. My heart leapt. Her real smile was just as beautiful as I'd imagined it would be.

"We'll need cards, then," I said. And I needed currency. I dug back into the basket, feeling for the waxed paper packet my mother had carefully tied with string that afternoon. Retrieving it, I waved it at the boys.

"Blackberry jam, boys," I teased. Faces beaming, they made to scrabble over their mother's legs and I grinned, holding the thick parcel above my head.

"It'll cost you though. Cards."

The little one immediately thrust his card stash into my free hand, and stretched high for the package.

"Ah, ah ah!" I scolded. "All of them!"

His brother reluctantly dropped the rest into my lap. I tossed the sandwiches to their mother, and she smiled ruefully, tucking her boys by her sides, and wrapping her overcoat around their thin shoulders.

I dealt the whole pack for Snap while the girl adjusted her position to play. She was wearing a chestnut brown woollen skirt with a thin yellow cotton blouse, yet she didn't complain about the cold. As she drew closer, I noticed how dirty her goose-pimpled forearms really were, and wondered again where and how she was surviving.

"I am Anna," she said, so quietly I thought I'd imagined it. Her voice was deep and thickly-accented, though it was an accent I struggled to place. Startled, I cleared my throat.

"Pleased to meet you, Anna."

She never spoke any more. We played Snap 'til the final All Clear, each of her victories bringing more light to her eyes; then we shared the dregs of tea while the coppers cleared the platform.

"Pretty girl," my father said that afternoon as we shared a lunch of Woolton's pie. "Great sketch, Franny. Look at this drawin', Peggy."

My mother, who was piling steaming evaporated milk pudding into three bowls, paused and took the bundle of paper from my dad.

"Yes, she is a pretty thing," she sniffed, "but not as pretty as my Fran."

"Gawd, this bleedin' war!" dad continued, wiping a dribble of semolina from his chin. "Where's her family?"

"I don't know," I sighed. "didn't get a peep out of her. I'll ask her tonight."

Of course, I did no such thing. My parents' experience of the Blitz was one of action; of fire and thunder, gas masks and tin hats. My own was of uncertainty, superficial friendships, ghosts, graphite and blackberry jam. Besides, I never saw the girl again. Not with my eyes, anyway; although I have been able to recall her impossible beauty every single night since—each perfect line and smudge of her. Every shadow, wisp of hair, each curve and angle have somehow lodged in my memory as firmly as my children's first smiles. My sketchbook, however, I locked away. I suppose my children will one day go through my belongings and find it; the curling yellowed pages sticky with jam and the hastily-scribbled sketches dappled with tea stains and tears. In that cold, dark subterranean world I tried to find life among the chaos, humanity; something hopeful to cling to. I never thought I'd find beauty and sadness together like that...and I'll never forget it.

During World War II many London tube stations were used as air raid shelters during the Blitz. I wrote this story in response to researching several accounts of people's experiences during this time, as well as accounts of the treatment of Italian POW's. Many Anglo/Italian families were broken up, their businesses revoked, and many fathers were sent to POW camps. I invented Anna and made the interaction between the characters positive, but I imagine lots of people in her situation faced prejudice and maltreatment. Casualties of war are sometimes not caused by the opposing side.