Saved by a Ghost

The droning grew louder and louder until it seemed that the whole sky was being invaded by a swarm of big, angry insects but it was the first “crump” that woke the little girl.

Shutting her eyes as tightly as she could she pulled the covers over her head and clamped her hands over her ears. But when an enormous crash heralded the start of mind-numbing wailing she realised that it was no good and gave up. Pushing the covers aside she crept to the window, knelt on her toybox, pulled the curtain back a fraction and peeped over the windowsill. Across the rooftops she could see beams of intense light slow-dancing across the sky, and looking down just make out their short garden path illuminated in a dull orange glow.

But wait! There was a man standing there, looking up to her window and beckoning. Could it be? Yes, it was, it was daddy! He had come home for Christmas at last, just as mum had said he would! Overcome with joy she pulled her overcoat from her bed, wrenched the bedroom door open and ran across the landing. Shouting “It’s daddy, it’s daddy” she ran down the stairs as fast as she could and pulled the front door open.  But he wasn’t there! The path was empty but he was now standing outside the gate, and still beckoning to her. Dimly aware of her mother behind her calling her name she hurried on, but by the time she had reached the gate he was looking back towards her from across the road.

By the light spilling from newly-opened front doors she could see her father more clearly. Hatless, wearing baggy trousers, heavy boots and clutching a leather flying helmet in one hand and with what looked like a yellow bag across his chest his beckoning turned to a farewell wave and he smiled. And then simply disappeared.

Totally bewildered she stood stock still with her mouth open until her mother, running up behind her scooped her up and continued until she reached the crossroads, where a Fire Warden hustled them into the communal air raid shelter.

Their eyes gummed closed with tears they drifted off to sleep still clutching each other. Staggering out into the street next morning they were met with a scene of absolute devastation. Brickdust blocked their noses and gritted their teeth as they walked hand-in-hand slowly back down their street until they found their gate, now lying flat on the ground in the middle of the road.

And when the telegram boy arrived a little later to where the house had stood all he found was a pile of still-smoking rubble without even a garden wall to prop his bicycle against.

And so he returned to the Post Office with the black-bordered “Air Ministry Regrets to inform you” telegram still in his pouch.