The Orphan Thief. Glynis Peters
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uncaring. It puzzled Ruby, for she’d expected an older male to look back at her, not one with youthful features. She moved along with the crowd and, when she glanced his way again, he’d moved away towards the back of the cemetery and out of view.
The town buried everyone in an open grave of tagged bodies. There was no time to look and see if it was your loved one’s name scribbled on the label in the large vat of beloved bones, huddled together after life, but there was time enough for someone to record their pain. All she could do was remain calm. Her duty was to pay her respects, shed tears and move forward at a snail’s pace. Ruby returned her focus upon the words of the officials performing their last task for over five hundred residents of their city. Her city. This war was beyond cruel. Its actions were vicious, and Ruby pledged there and then to bring back a little joy to her small community, however she could.
Once home, Ruby composed herself and wrote to Stephen’s sister. She’d put it off, unsure she’d want to learn of her own brother’s death by post, but there was no other way. In true Stephen style, all was in an orderly fashion at his desk and she sat to write in her neatest hand. It took several attempts, but the final version satisfied Ruby enough to hunt out a stamp. She’d seen the postman tramping across town and had been amazed by how soon things were returning to normal practice. Water dribbled through the house pipes once again, and for an hour she’d enjoyed electricity. Every day the city moved one step towards recovery. The clanging of factories repairing themselves gave renewed hope. Warnings to boil the water were called out on regular occasions, and Ruby heeded the instructions – surviving was to be her tribute to her family.
Rereading the letter for any possible additions, Ruby knew once Stephen’s sister received the letter and arrived she’d be without a roof over her head yet again. The letter was not a comfort to her, but she hoped it would comfort Stephen’s sister to know someone from the city cared about him.
Wednesday 20th November 1940
Ruby Shadwell c/o S Peabody, Accountant,
Garden Cottage,
Spon St,
Coventry.
Dear Mrs McBrae,
This is a difficult letter to write for several reasons. One, it is to inform you of your brother’s death. You might not be aware of what happened, but we have been attacked in the most vicious way. Fortunately, if that is the correct word to use, he was not killed by a bomb, as my family were in the dreadful attack upon our city. Instead, Stephen’s heart gave out with shock.
My own family were killed, so I am the only one able to write this letter. Sadly, Stephen has already been buried. The council organised a mass grave at London Road Cemetery. I’ll be willing to show you when you visit. Stephen’s house is in good order despite the crumbling surroundings, and I am staying here to ensure it is kept safe and clean. I keep a bed aired in anticipation of you receiving this letter and coming to Coventry to sort out your brother’s affairs.
My deepest sympathy and kind regards,
Ruby Shadwell, Miss
After posting the letter, Ruby took a walk around town. The queues still held strong, longer than ever. People wore an assortment of clothing, and held their heads high, the days of despair waning due to the united spirit to not allow the enemy to beat them down. The further she walked, she could see areas cleared of debris and personal items piled high in large mounds. She stood and watched lorry after lorry drive away, loaded with the city’s rubbish. After seeing the same thing street after street, she headed towards the Council Office, the only place she could think of to find someone to speak to about the seedling of an idea. For the first time since the bombing, Ruby had a purpose in life and was prepared to queue for an answer to her question.
Three hours later a woman beckoned her to a small room. Efficient and tidy in her brown suit, the woman gave the impression of someone who could be trusted. Her blonde hair was neat with buoyant curls seated at the nape of her neck. Her skin, peach and blemish-free, was a stark contrast to the dirt and grime gracing Ruby’s. For one moment Ruby experienced a sense of shame; her mother would not have approved of her sitting in such an important office looking like a vagrant.
‘Please, take a seat,’ the woman said, her voice soft and encouraging. A delicate hand directed Ruby to a chair with a gentle wave.
Ruby’s feet and legs ached, and she expelled a deep sigh as she sat down across the desk from the woman.
‘It’s hard work getting back on our feet, isn’t it? My name is Helen Morgan, but feel free to call me Helen. What can I do for you, Miss …?’
‘Shadwell – Ruby Shadwell,’ Ruby said, and watched as Helen frowned in recognition of the name.
‘My entire family were killed – gone. There was nothing left of them. They were crushed beneath our house.’
The woman put her hand to her mouth and Ruby heard a sharp intake of breath. She continued talking, wishing she wasn’t so blunt with her speech, but she needed to keep control of her emotions.
‘I believe you knew my mother, June Shadwell, and am grateful for you seeing me like this,’ Ruby said and tried not to speak in a monotone downbeat voice, but all strength and energy had left her in a dark mood. A fear of what was to come swamped any feeling of hope.
Another gasp left Helen’s lips and she moved both hands as if in prayer to her mouth. ‘I did know your mother. Very well, as it happens. I’m sorry for your loss. Your mother made my wedding dress several years ago. And I am … was a regular customer of your father’s. I am blessed enough to have not lost either my home or any member of my family, and I cannot imagine how you must feel,’ Helen said, and Ruby saw tears glisten in her eyes.
Ruby twisted the piece of damp scrap paper in her hand. She’d written notes whilst waiting in the street, but now she sat talking with someone she no longer needed them.
‘I feel numb, lost. Confused.’
‘I cannot register you here, Ruby. I’m a secretary manning the offices. Although I have more jobs every day. There’s so much to be done for recovery. Everyone else dealing with reissues are out there, in the temporary buildings.’ She pointed to the window.
Ruby shifted in her seat; there was nothing comfortable about it and her tense body ached. It was time to move the meeting along. Her future depended upon it and Helen had a long queue of desperate folk waiting outside.
‘I can deal with the registering. I’ve come about something different. I’ve questions to ask about personal items lying around the streets.’
‘Ask away, and I’ll see what I can help with. Your family’s items are yours to claim, Ruby,’ Helen said.
‘There’s nothing left. Nothing. I borrowed – no, took, as I still have it, a blanket which had blown from a house. There was no one there, no house. When I went to my gran’s I found a few things. Silly things, but they are mine, and it got me to thinking – what happens to all the other things lying around if no one claims them? Can they just be taken, collected and sold on, or given to those in need? I saw a mound of perfectly good items scooped up and put into a truck with mud and rubble. Such a wicked waste when so many have lost so much. I’ve an idea to set up a collection business. To repair, sell and, if possible, return to the rightful owners. It is something I can manage alone, and I’ve a feeling it would be useful to others.’
Helen stood up from her chair and walked to a filing cabinet. She tugged open the drawer and pulled out a form. She placed it in front of Ruby and tapped it with a manicured nail. Ruby sat on her hands, ashamed of her own dirt-ingrained ones.
‘You will need permission from the owners of the houses if they are contactable before you touch anything.’
Ruby flinched and thought of Fred’s photograph. She’d find him as soon as possible and return it to him. The last thing she needed