Threads of Gold

treasure?

CHAPTER ONE

Liverpool, England 1944

The air raid siren sounded, shrill and piercing; falling chairs and loud chatter adding to the din. Some laughed to disguise their fear; others turned pale and began to push their way through the throng.

Orderly, boys, orderly! shouted Mr.Quinn, the Maths Master, or ‘Q’ as they called him.

The students slowed slightly, but nevertheless they jammed the doorway, each boy trying to get through first. They knew the drill and those in the lead began to run towards the stairs down to the basement, which served as the air raid shelter for the school. Even above the noise, planes could be heard overhead, and the whistle of bombs, still some distance away.

Underneath in the concrete-lined basement, there were rows of wooden bench seats, weak electric lights swinging on their lengths of cord from the ceiling. A pile of blankets was stacked in one corner together with wooden boxes filled with food supplies and drinking water. It was not imperative at first to have these supplies, as the attacks were aimed at London and Liverpool cities, but now things were far more serious with the outlying areas being targeted as well, so they could be needed at any time.

Tom could remember that first assault near his home in Liverpool. He had been home from boarding school for the end of term. It was dark in the evening when they heard the bombers approaching. Kathleen, his mother said, Perhaps we should go to the shelter, but your father is not home yet.

That doesn’t matter Mother. We should still go, they are getting closer, Tom said, taking her hand and leading her out the front door, down the three steps and through the wrought iron gate onto the street. His father’s office was next door to the house, and as they walked hurriedly down the street he came running towards them still dressed in his suit.

Good, go quickly to the shelter, I have to help out here with the ARP. I will come to get you when it is over. His voice lost none of its culture despite the desperation of the moment. He kissed his wife quickly on the cheek and turned back down the street. It was important to George that he help on the home front with the ARP (Air Raid Protection), which consisted of older men and others who could not be accepted into the armed forces, but who were invaluable organising necessary operations for the civilians in England.

Tom was tall like his father, with the same dark eyes and hair. He watched his parent hurry down the unlit street, feeling left out as usual that he was not farewelled like his mother. You’re thirteen, it’s time you got over that, Tom reminded himself.

In the distance they could see the flashes of exploding bombs, so mother and son ran to the corner and up the middle of the road in the next street, where a shelter had been built for the district. Down the stairs they hurried, and took their places on long wooden bench seats, which stood around the edges and in rows in the middle of the bunker. Here there were also stacks of blankets and boxes at one end.

Tom could see that his mother, even in these circumstances, chose where she sat, so she was not next to a person she felt was below her station in life. He did not care; they were people of this neighbourhood just like he was. He looked around the faces. There was the drunk who frequented the streets nearby, but who was now sitting on the floor, huddled up against the wall, dressed in an old ragged suit, hair long and lank hanging over his dirty bewhiskered face. Then there was the elderly couple from two doors up, in their night clothes and thick dressing gowns and slippers, holding hands, leaning close together, not daring to speak. Mrs. Dawkins and her eight children were all there, sitting quietly in a row. She sat upright, nursing the baby, who was howling loudly. She clucked and murmured to it, gently rocking from side to side in the hope that it would stop the noise. Nearly everyone stared at the baby as if it was responsible for the racket outside as well.

There were other children in their pyjamas, slippers and dressing gowns with mothers in disarray handing out drinks and biscuits; people still in their work clothes, only clutching a handbag or nothing at all, who probably had been walking home from work, and hurried into the shelter on the way. These were mostly women or older men, as the younger ones were away fighting in the war.

The shelter was not overcrowded, but still it did not take long to warm up on this chilly evening. Tom thought that many would not have had time to get there, and wondered how bad it would be when the winter snows came, providing the war was still being fought then. He could hear bombs close by now, everyone flinching as they felt the tremor of the earth, and Tom realised that many would have been caught in their houses, not getting away or refusing to leave as he had heard that many did.

He could not understand this. Why would people stay in their homes, when a bomb landing nearby would obliterate them and the surrounding buildings?

Before long the ‘All Clear’ sounded. He looked at his mother, dressed only in a light frock and cardigan. She looked cold, but had not moved, sitting stiffly in case she touched something unsavoury. In that moment Tom, even though he was only thirteen years old, felt sorrow for her. She could not relax her fastidious, finicky ways even if it was a matter of life or death. To her it only mattered that one spoke and acted properly. But he could also see that she was afraid. She was so dependent on his father.

Come on Mother, he said standing up.

But your father said he would come to get us, she replied, seemingly not being able to act of her own accord. Yet, his mother was a smart secretary, and had had enough confidence in life to have a career, Tom recalled his father saying so. Now though, she was faced with a life-threatening situation, and obviously needed his father to be there to make the decisions.

He is probably busy with the injured and the fires. We can find our own way home, after all we got here by ourselves didn’t we?

She rose and without another word followed her son out into the night. Sparks from incendiaries burning on roof tops were still spitting into the dark and the air was cloyed with the acrid smell. Firemen were attending a shop on the corner, and turning into their own street Tom and his mother could see that the gutters were alight on the double-storeyed office building next door.

There’s Father putting the ladder up to the wall. He is taking a hose up. Can you see him? Tom said to his mother.

Oh dear, she sighed fearfully.

When his mother had gone inside their untouched house, Tom walked back down the street to his father. He could see quite well by the light of the many fires. Usually it was so dark with the blackout that he could not see a thing. George Linnell had by now succeeded in putting out the flaming guttering, and was taking his leave of the other officers. His face and good clothes were filthy, splattered with ash and water.

He looked at his son, dark eyes in a black face, and said in a tired voice, your mother is all right Tom?

Yes, we are both fine Father. I see you managed to put out the fire on the office. I saw some houses burning along Burnside Road too, but the fire brigade was there. There must have been quite a lot of damage.

Indeed there was. The raid seemed to be concentrated on this area of the city tonight. The roof is badly damaged on the far side, but it can be repaired. You did well looking after your mother, thank you.

Tom gave his father a small smile, appreciating the fact that he noticed what he had done.

George, look at you, Kathleen said as he came into the kitchen with Tom. Oh and there are some holes burned into your suit, she said crossly as she ineffectually brushed at his clothes.

That is not important Kathleen, in times like these. I will change after I go down to see if my help is needed else-where, he said, pushing her hands away impatiently.

You must stop and eat George. I had dinner ready before we left. It will be cold now, she said brusquely.

That is not important either. I’ll eat later, George replied stiffly. Then to Tom he said, You should eat and go to bed, son.

Yes Father, Tom said automatically.

Tom realised that his mother could not handle adversity. It was as though she was stunned by all the bombing and the hardship they could see around them, and could not adapt to the way things had changed so suddenly. All she could think about were the usual things like eating and being clean and tidy.

Tom, sitting the in school basement, suddenly became aware that there was silence. Rows of uniformed boys, eyes turned to the ceiling, waited. Then thump! the ground vibrated, the building shook, glass was heard shattering, together with other crashing sounds, then all was still. A huge collective sigh rose from the assembly, and voices broke out excitedly. Several of the teachers talked together as they waited for the ‘All Clear’.

Glass and debris crunched under their feet as the students and teachers made their way back through corridors, thick with dust still floating in the air, to their respective classrooms to see what damage had occurred. It was found to have been on one side of the school only, but not as bad as it had sounded. Windows were broken, and one room in particular had lost a wall and was left with the roof sagging. All the windows in the dining room were gone, leaving the unspoken question of ‘where will we eat’ yet to be answered. Glass littered the long tables and the floor, and a light wind blew through the empty window spaces. Outside, it could be seen that fortunately the bomb had landed in a vacant field close to that side of the school, a smoking crater the only sign of it now.

I thought we were finished when the whistling stopped, Tom heard ‘Q’ say to the Sports Master quietly. They all knew that when you could not hear the whistle any more it was very close.

Tom found it unnerving at first, but then he was more interested to see the crater in the field. They were sent outside temporarily until decisions were made about the school, but warned not to venture into the field where the bomb landed. So, disappointed, groups of them wandered around investigating the damage until a bell summoned them into the assembly hall. The Headmaster, in his cap and gown, stood on the podium to address them.

The dormitories are untouched, and only two classrooms will be unusable, the kitchens are also intact, but unfortunately for a few days at least the dining room cannot be used, but we will manage. Heads up boys, no great damage done, and no-one hurt, so we will press on. Being out here on the outskirts of the city we are better off than those in the suburbs believe me, and we have little to tolerate compared with them.  Remember that you must not touch anything in the ground as often bombs fall and do not explode. They are very dangerous if moved. As soon as it can be arranged messages will be sent to your parents to confirm that you are all safe. I will also remind you all that you must keep your eyes and ears open for further raids, particularly if you are outside when you must quickly run to the shelter.

Later that night, Tom lay in bed feeling relieved. He did not really want to be sent home, the holidays were bad enough, because he had to spend so much time alone. All his friends were here, and none lived anywhere near him, so this was his life, here in this school for well-off young English gentlemen. For the thousandth time he wondered why he had no brothers or sisters, and why his mother had come to Liverpool instead of staying in Ireland, where he would have had so many cousins to mix with, and where no bombs were dropped due to its neutrality. Living in Liverpool he had no relatives from either side of the family because his father came from Carlisle, in the north.

There were times when he felt bitter, even at his age, about the fact that his mother and father both went off to work every day, and always had, leaving him to his own devices, and only the maid to talk to, although she was very nice, and had been there since he was a baby. Even when his parents were home, he was frequently told to amuse himself elsewhere as his father was interviewing someone about business, or they were entertaining friends.

George Linnell was a lawyer. He worked long hours, and it seemed his career was more important to him than his son, Tom often thought. George and Kathleen were suited to each other, as their working lives were all they were interested in. Tom wondered if they had really wanted him as he was often in the way, and felt a nuisance. Of course he was well looked after, sent to the best boarding school at eight, well clothed and fed, and had plenty of expensive toys to amuse him, when all the time he had only craved their attention. Tom’s father had said that he would be expected to become a successful lawyer, as he was, and so they were making sacrifices to send him to this school, where he would get the best education and learn to speak and act properly.

Tom did not want to be a lawyer. He was an outdoors boy, and wanted to work out in the weather, in sun or rain, away from cities. As yet he did not know exactly what he wanted to do, but before he finished school he would.

The next morning the boys were roused and told to put on their casual clothes, as there was to be a working bee to clear up the mess in the damaged part of the school. Workmen were prepared to come in and patch up the building temporarily so it could be used as normal. There was so much work to be done for people’s houses that time was short and there were not enough workmen to finish the repairs properly. However the students were better off here than at their own homes, so their efforts were important.

In his weekly letter to his mother Tom mentioned the air raid, but did not give it any importance, only to say that they were all untouched, and it did not affect them. Mostly his letters were cursory notes to say he was well. His parents certainly would not be interested in the results of the athletics, cricket or rugby, all of which he enjoyed.

This year he was fourteen by the summer holidays. He had not been looking forward to the time at home, but found to his delight that his father was to have two weeks holiday. Perhaps they would do something together; take a train ride and walk in the mountains. Tom remembered once they had taken a picnic into the country, where he and his father spent many hours climbing nearby hills while his mother read a book.

However at this time the bombing in Liverpool had increased to almost nightly raids, and sometimes by day the V1 rockets could be seen, deadly and silent, on their way to a target. George and others who volunteered their services with the ARP, had an endless job, particularly after air raids with the cleaning up and delivering messages, and helping those left homeless.

Will we be able to take the train into the country one day for a picnic Father? Tom hopefully asked at breakfast one morning.

No son, it is more important at the moment that we stay here to help. However your mother and I have decided you should go to Ireland to your uncle’s house to stay. They are neutral and you will be safe there. Mother has left her job and joined the ambulance service for now. We must all pull together. With you out of the way we can concentrate on what is to be done. You can stay there until the war is over.

Tom did not know which surprised him the most. The fact that his mother had started driving an ambulance, or that they wanted to send him to Ireland.

I will not go to Ireland! Tom stated adamantly, feeling very insecure at the thought of being so far away at times like this. His father’s head jerked in his direction, annoyance written on his face, but before he could speak Tom went on, I can be a messenger on my bike. They are needed, you said, and I know my way around. And then I go back to school where I am just as safe as in Ireland.

Instead of reprimanding his son for answering as he did, George looked at Kathleen, thinking. He raised his eyebrows and she, with resignation, nodded her head.

Well, alright then, that is very brave of you, but you realise how dangerous it will be?

Of course, Father. But it will be better than doing nothing. I can look after myself, replied Tom, unable to hide his excitement.

Two years ago Kathleen and George had bought their son a bicycle for Christmas. He had ridden it around the suburbs quite a lot, and now he would be able to make good use of it.

Come with me Tom. We will go down to the district office and register you as a messenger. It is to be hoped they consider you old enough, George said, secretly pleased that Tom was showing such initiative.

At the local Post Office George spoke to the manager behind the polished wooden counter, a small, balding man, who was only too delighted to get a boy who knew his way around and could deliver important messages and telegrams, no matter that he was only fourteen by this time. He could start the very next morning.

CHAPTER TWO

Later Kathleen called Tom to her room. It felt strange to walk into his parents’ bedroom, a place that he had last been in when he was about two years old. He looked around in the dim light, noting how muted their voices were with the heavy green curtains and thick brown carpet. It smelled musty and old. Slowly he approached his mother as she sat on her seat in front of the dressing table, whose huge gilt-edged mirror reflected the pale green spread on the double bed against the far wall.

He stood at arms’ length and looked at his mother. Her light brown hair was neatly caught back from her face, the edges rolled, and her makeup was as usual, impeccable. Tom wondered what she would look like without lipstick. She wore a light cotton floral dress, with stockings and low-heeled shoes. He did not realise that she had carefully looked after her pre-war stockings as they were not procurable now. He tried to visualise her in an ambulance uniform, and found it rather difficult.

Kathleen took his arm and drew him closer. Then she opened a small wooden box on her dressing table, and took out a heavy silver ring.

Tom I want you to hang this ring around your neck, it would be too big to wear as yet. It has been handed down in my family for generations. I have only the one brother, Gerard, and he did not want it, so my father, Nathan, gave it to me before I left Ireland. There is a history to this ring. Supposedly it is very old, hundreds of years, but I really doubt that, you know the Irish are superstitious people. But the story goes that it is magic, and in the past has helped to heal and give warnings of danger. Nevertheless I want you to have it as you are the next generation, and seeing that you are going to be in dangerous places perhaps it will help to protect you. Do not lose it, and make sure you hand it on eventually to one of your own children. Some time when we visit your cousins in Ireland, you must ask Uncle Gerard to tell you the stories we heard as children about the ring.

She had a funny little smile on her face, as if she was half joking when she said it might protect him. He thought it sounded like she did not want to be known as an Irish person. She held out the ring to an astonished Tom, who carefully took it and stared at the gleaming circle with its delicately carved design in the palm of his hand. Then his mother threaded it onto a thin leather thong.

Here you are. Wear it always so that you do not lose it, she said, quite abrupt again, dismissing him by standing up and turning to some clothes she had lying on the chair beside her.

The intimate spell broken, Tom looked at her in silence, wishing he could think of another question to ask, but she had withdrawn into her own world again, so he silently left the room, the ring clutched in his hand with the thong dangling. He had wanted to ask her why she left Ireland, but now could not summon up the courage. How strange that she should have said to wear it all the time as it might protect him, when she had laughed at the supposed magic powers it held.

Suddenly Tom felt important, grown up, useful and even trusted. He was aware that his head felt a little light, with fleeting, ghostly images flitting in and out of his mind, so he put the thong over his head, tucked the ring inside his shirt, and patted it reassuringly.

There was no raid that night so Tom felt well-slept and fresh next morning as he rode down the street avoiding small pieces of debris, around the corner onto the main road and down the two blocks to the Post Office.

Ah, Tom. Already there are three telegrams to be delivered. Here you are. Mind yourself in some of the streets, there are holes and debris everywhere. And of course you will find shelter in the event of a daytime raid, won’t you?  Do you know these addresses?

Of course Tom knew them, he had lived here all his life. And of course he would find shelter, he was not silly. With his heart thumping he set out on his first job.

That day was busy until late in the afternoon. Tom found that many of the streets were totally blocked with fallen buildings. Bricks and wooden beams were blasted everywhere, there was a large crater in one of the main roads with water bubbling up in the middle of it and all the houses around it faceless, their front walls caved in. It was a revelation to the boy. He had not realised until now just how much damage the bombs were doing.

How did you manage today son? Tom’s father asked over the dinner table in the evening.

I managed very well thank you. I did not stop all day. I was very surprised to see the wrecked houses in some of the streets. There must have been a lot of people killed?  He noticed that his father looked quite scruffy, not his usual immaculate self, and realised that he must have spent the day helping as well.

His mother answered. Her voice was very tired. I felt the same when I first drove the ambulance last week. Thousands of people have been injured, and there are many deaths. We have been lucky. I feel proud of you Tom, getting out on your bike and doing your bit to help, surprising her son by giving him credit. Tom also noticed that his mother looked different too. Perhaps getting out and having to handle injured people showed her what other people have to suffer.

How is it that you are driving an ambulance Mother? I did not know you could drive? Tom posed the question he had been mulling over for two weeks, but had not dared to ask.

Your father suggested it when I said that my job as a secretary was finishing because most of the staff and my manager have gone into the war services. I was taught how to drive by volunteers in the ambulance service. There are quite a few women doing the job as the men have all gone. I am not a very good driver, and it is a big change for me, but I am getting better, she said.

Why didn’t you go to the war Father? Tom daringly asked. All the fathers of the other boys at school have.

I did apply Tom, but because I broke my ankle rather severely as a boy, I was left with a slight disability that would not be accepted in the services, he replied. 

Oh, said Tom, feeling rather relieved that his father had a legitimate excuse for not being away. The boys at school were always talking about their fathers who were fighting in the war, and he felt rather embarrassed to say that his father had not gone.

Father, I am to take my bicycle on the train when I go back to school next week. Mr. Quigley said that we will be going in groups to do work for the farmers. I will be able to take it on the train won’t I? Tom asked his father.

Yes. Anyone can take a bike on the train. Just make sure you put it in a place out of the way at the end of the carriage. That sounds like a very good idea, to use the boys to help farmers, his father said.

That week Tom continued to feel alive, excited, riding all over the suburb delivering endless messages and telegrams. Everywhere he went, particularly the morning after a raid, he saw men and women clearing debris, attending to the injured and looking after those who had lost their houses. He felt close to tears when he saw little children alone, crying, clutching a pet dog or cat, or a doll or bear, and often there was a dead pet lying beside the road. It made him think for the first time what it would be like if his parents were killed in a raid.

One afternoon he had not finished until quite late and he was still many streets from home when he heard the air raid sirens sounding. They are early tonight, he thought. He stopped and wondered where he could hide to protect himself. Over the road there was a small park with several stone walls that protected a seating area. That will be as good as anywhere, I’ll lay behind one of those walls. As he ran across wheeling his bike, it fleetingly crossed his mind that he could feel the ring cold against his chest, then he forgot that as he found that behind the wall there was a good place sheltered by several small bushes around one end. He put his bike under them and crawled in close to the wall. Already the explosions could be heard.

Suddenly he was startled to see movement under the bushes nearby, and a small brown and white dog came dragging itself towards him. It regarded him solemnly, then Tom held out his hand to encourage it to come closer. It did not seem to be able to walk properly, and when it came close he could see that it had a badly damaged back leg. It was bleeding, but the little mutt struggled closer until he was leaning against Tom. He felt sorry for the little chap, as he seemed to have nowhere to go, and was thin and shivering. The dog lay there appreciating the warmth from the boy’s hands running over his body. After a while his leg obviously did not hurt so much and when the all clear sounded he got to his feet, able to put the injured leg on the ground.

You look so miserable little fellow. I have nothing I can give you to eat and Mother would not let you in the house. But perhaps I could find a spot for you in the back yard, at least until your leg heals.

The little dog stood and looked into Tom’s face as if hoping for some food and care.

Come on, said Tom picking up the dog and holding him under one arm, while he mounted his bike and rode home guiding his bike with one hand.  When he appeared at the back door, the maid was startled and immediately ran to tell Tom’s mother he was home.

Where have you been Tom? his mother asked brusquely, and oh! What have you got there? She drew back in alarm seeing the dog. Do not bring it inside, it is very dirty. Why have you got it?

Tom explained how he was caught out in the air raid and subsequent events, saying that he felt he had to bring the poor dog home at least until he could heal its leg. He would make a bed for it in a box in the yard.

Kathleen Linnell said nothing at that. She just turned away, her face showing the disgust she felt.

Gwen, the maid, hurried off and soon appeared with a small wooden box. She smiled and patted the dog. I will find him something to eat while you put the box under shelter, and put this old rag in for him. Perhaps you should get some warm water and wash his wound, then dry it off well. It should help it to heal quicker.

Tom smiled his thanks and proceeded to do as she suggested. When he had finished, he placed the dog in the box where he would be warm and comfortable. He sat there for a time with one hand on the wounded leg, and absent-mindedly holding the ring in the other. He felt warmth seeping into the animal’s body. Surprised, he released his hold, and leaving the dog some scraps to eat and some water, went inside.

Tom pondered on this occurrence, his mother’s words about the ring’s healing qualities running through his mind. Unaccountably, a strong feeling enveloped him that if he was in Ireland he would not have to see all this tragedy, no bomb damage, no injured people or animals, no streets in ruins. But he shrugged it off, wondering why the thought had come to him.

  He rode to the station the day he was to return to school. He carried little back and forth in the holidays, so there was no need to be accompanied by his parents. When he left the house he felt that distance with both mother and father, neither of whom gave him a hug, merely a kiss on the cheek from his mother and a handshake from his father, before they dispersed to their various destinations.  Gwen, however, assured him that she would look after the little dog, and they would decide what to do with it later. Tom thought the dog was sorrier to see him go than his parents were.

CHAPTER THREE

The first few days back at school were spent cleaning up repaired classrooms and the dining room. The walls had been rebuilt, but the job of taking all the damaged furniture and rubbish out was left to the boys. Soon they were back to normal, and school work resumed.

Tom had been thinking a great deal about what his mother had said to him about the silver ring, and what his father had said about sending him to Ireland for safety. He had been over there once