Esther glanced at the clock, Maisie had been gone a long time, she’d surely be back soon. Knowing her little sister, she’d probably been distracted by something or other. When they’d been young Esther had been like a second mother to Maisie. Despite the 17 year age gap, they were very close. She couldn’t complain, the roles were reversed now as Maisie spent a lot of her time looking after Esther since Derek had died. Esther sighed, how she missed him. She’d go and put the kettle on, they could have a cuppa when Maisie returned. Then she remembered, Maisie had gone out to buy her a new kettle. It was the damnedest thing about being 80, she could remember her youth vividly, but ask her what she’d had for breakfast and she’d struggle to remember.
Maisie rushed into the house like a mini whirlwind.
“Hi Esther, I’m back and I’ve got your new kettle. Come and look. I found a retro design, it’s just like the one you had when you and Derek got engaged, whatever happened to it?”
Maisie proudly lifted the kettle from its box and placed it on the counter.
“Ta da, isn’t it just like the one you had?”
Esther clutched the counter and sank onto the kitchen stool. The years rolled back to 1957.
Esther had just got engaged to Derek. Her younger sisters Mary and Maisie had saved their pocket money for weeks to buy her an electric kettle. They proudly presented the box to her, six year old Maisie scarcely containing her excitement. “Look Esther, it’s going to play a tune when the water boils, can we hear it. Pleeease.”
Esther carefully removed the kettle from the box. This was a thing of beauty, a far cry from the dented whistling kettle that sat on top of the stove. Dome shaped, in a shiny copper metallic finish and a curved black plastic handle, the kettle came with a lead to plug it into a socket. With her sisters looking on Esther filled the kettle with water and plugged it in. They all waited in anticipation for the water to boil.
Within a few minutes the kitchen was filled with the piercing sound of an air raid siren. Esther was frozen to the spot as their father rushed into the kitchen shouting “what the hell is that noise? Where’s it coming from?” Her sisters were frightened. They’d never seen their father so wild looking, he looked deranged as he flung his arms out searching for the source of the sound.
“It’s the kettle Daddy” Maisie whispered.
“Switch the damn thing off” he yelled clutching his head, pushing past Maisie as he ran out of the kitchen.
Mary hastily unplugged the kettle and emptied it. She hugged Maisie who was in tears as her beloved Daddy disappeared down the garden into his workshop. Esther meantime was transfixed. In her mind she had gone back to that awful time in November 1940 when she’d been just 6 years old.
The air raid sirens were wailing, a piercing sound that shattered the still night air.
“Mummy, where’s Daddy going? Why have we got to go in here? I don’t like it, it’s cold and dark. Why can’t I sleep in my bed?”
Her father dropped to his knees to hold her tightly to him.
“Listen Esther, you and Mummy need to stay safe in the shelter. Be a good girl and try to sleep. I’ll be back later.” Over Esther’s head he nodded to Doreen, “go to the shelter now, please. I need to know you’re both safe. I don’t know when I’ll be back.” With a quick hug and kiss he was gone.
Doreen took Esther’s hand and led her to the Anderson shelter which had been built in the garden following the air raids which had started in August that year. Since then, many of their neighbours had packed tents and sleeping bags and left the city to camp out overnight in Abbey Fields in Kenilworth. Come the morning there would be a steady stream of people returning to the city.
The raids tailed off in October, people had breathed a sigh of relief, hoping the bombing was over. It was, until the night of 14th November when bombing had begun again. It seemed that the Luftwaffe were determined to wipe Coventry off the face of the earth this time. Incendiary bombs rained down and marker flares lit up the night sky.
“I’m frightened Mummy” cried Esther as the ground shook. The sirens screamed, the sound jangling every nerve in the body. The noise was so loud that even with her hands over her ears and head buried in her mother’s lap, she was unable to block out the sound.
“We all are Esther, but we have to be brave. We’re safe here. I’m with you and so are our neighbours, see we’ll all be brave together.”
“They won’t be happy till they’ve flattened the city” snarled one man “I don’t see the point of staying in here waiting to die.” He pushed his way past the huddle of people crouching on the floor and stepped out of the door. They never saw him again.
Doreen made herself as comfortable as she could, cradling her daughter on her lap. She couldn’t sleep. Every noise, every shudder of the ground as a bomb fell seared her nerves. She prayed all night that people were safe, that Esther’s father was safe.
Esther supposed she must have slept. Someone pushed the door open a crack and they could see the cold light of dawn spread its fingers across the blackened, ruined city. It was eerily quiet.
“Mummy, I’m hungry. I need to go toilet.” Esther whispered, fearful of making any noise.
“Shush, use the bucket in the corner. We must wait for Daddy to come home and tell us it’s safe to come out, it won’t be long now.” Doreen hoped that she was right, that her husband would return and they could get out of this stinking hole in the ground soon. It felt like hours before the door to the shelter opened and there stood a figure she barely recognized. Esther hid behind her mother’s skirts as her father stepped forward, his face anguished. He stumbled and clutched Doreen’s shoulders.
“The cathedral. It’s gone. Just the walls left. All the city centre. People are buried in their houses. We couldn’t control the fires. There’s bodies everywhere and,” his voice broke “it’s hell out there. I have to go back, do what I can. Stay in the house.” With that he turned and retraced his footsteps toward the scene of devastation.
It was several days before Esther was allowed to venture out of the house. Each day her father went to the factory, working to get it running again. Each night he went out and returned, his face bleak, eyes sunken with exhaustion. She heard snatches of muted conversations between her parents. “No, it’s gone. We don’t know yet. Mass graves. Body parts everywhere.” When her father snatched a few hours rest she could hear him sob in his sleep.
When they were finally allowed out of the house to get food Esther was horrified. Where a row of houses had stood there was only a deep crater and a pile of rubble. “Where’s Aunty Sybils house gone, where are my friends?” Esther asked her father, gripping his hand tightly.
Her father’s face hardened. “They’re dead Esther. The bombs killed them.”
The town centre was no better. Inside the cathedral which had stood for hundreds of years, there was just rubble. Only walls and the tower remained.
“Why did the Germans do this Daddy? Why?” cried Esther, tears streaming down her face. “To win the war” he replied grimly, “To win the war.”
Back in 1957, Mary had hastily packed away the offending kettle.
“Esther, what’s wrong? Why are you crying? Why is Daddy angry?” Maisie rushed over to her and held her tight. Wiping the tears away, Esther was grateful that Maisie would never have to go through the horrors of that November night.
“I’ll go and see if Daddy wants a cup of tea, stay here” she said, gently disentangling herself from Maisie’s arms.
Esther hurried down the garden path relieved that her little sister seemed alright. She heaved open the heavy workshop door to find her father slumped on a stool, head in hands.
“Daddy, do you want a cup of tea?” she stopped short as her father looked up, tears streaming down his face. Instinctively she rushed over and flung her arms around him. They clung together till the tears subsided.
“It’s alright Daddy, it’s gone now. We’re safe.”
The memories fading, Esther reached a shaking hand out to Maisie. “I’m sorry love, you’ll have to take the kettle back.”