The Red Bicycle

This is a true story my Nana (Pat) told me from when she was growing up in London during the Blitz. I obviously have fictionalized it a bit, but it is a true account. She passed away recently, so I'm writing this as a tribute to her and also so the stories of people who went through World War Two won't be forgotten.    

Pat and Joan skipped along the street, innocent to the destruction that surrounded them. Buildings transformed into nothing but piles of rubble and dust scarred the landscape, but the two children played happily.    

  Joan was the older of the two; she would be turning eight tomorrow. Pat would be eight in February, still a good few weeks away yet.

  "What do you want for your birthday Joan?" Pat asked, inbetween skips.

  "I don't know. Lots of things! I think what I want most is a red bicycle. What about you?"

  "The thing I want is for my Daddy to come home. Oh, you are so lucky that your Daddy is home on leave!"

  "I just want this silly war to end! I don't see the point in it, at all" Joan said.

  In the distance, Pat heard the church bell chime six.

  "Mummy said I had to be home for tea-time. I'll see you tomorrow at your party. I can't wait!"

  Joan grinned. "If you can't wait, think how I feel! Let's all wear out best frocks tomorrow."

  With that, the two friend parted. Pat trotted down the street back to her home, where her mother, Margaret, greeted her.

  "Did you have a nice time playing with Joan?" she asked, looking up from her cooking.

  "Lovely." After a pause, she said, "Mummy, when will the war end?"

  Margaret didn't how to respond to her daughter's question.

  "I don't know, darling."

  She didn't want to frighten her daughter, she knew one thing: the war wouldn't end as soon as Pat thought. In a way, Margaret was almost scared of the end; who would be the defeated? She was sure that being controlled by Nazis would be a whole lot worse than what they were living through now.

At Joan's house, the mood was less cheerful than the little girl had expected. Her father had been called away unexpectedly, and was unsure when he could return.

  Lucy, Joan's mother, knew how much her father being there for her birthday meant to her daughter, and how much it meant  to her husband too. 

  "Cheer up darling. Daddy might well come back tomorrow, and wouldn't that be a lovely surprise?'

  Joan nodded glumly. "But I want him to be home now," she wailed.

  "I know darling. So do I. So do I."

Pat was awoken by the air raid siren.

  She hated that noise. It sounded like millions of wailing people, all lost hope.

  She grabbed her knitted pullover and her most prized possession, Mr. Snuggly, her teddy bear just as her bedroom door was flung open by Margaret, who took her daughter by the hand and led her down the stairs and out to the air-raid shelter.

  Pat screamed as a colossal explosion shook the very ground.

  At last, they reached the tin anderson shelter, where Margaret lit the oil lamp which cast a dim yellow glow over the wooden bunks.

  "Right now, darling. Shall we carry on with the story?" Pat found her solace during the Blitz by being read to by her mother. At the moment, they were reading Alice in Wonderland.

  "...be herself a grown woman; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood: and how she would gather about her other little children, and make their eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long ago: and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days," Margaret read, trying to ignore the distant explosions, and wondering how many families were being destroyed at that moment.

The next morning, Pat skipped along the pavement, carefully avoiding anything that might dirty her best party dress.

  She soon reached Joan's street. She hurried a little, excited by the prospect of her friend's party.

  She realized she had come too far. But how? She hadn't missed Joan's house. She broke out into a cold sweat and ran back up the street.

  Joan's house was no longer there. Standing in the middle of the wreckage was a man in an RAF uniform. Pat clambered over to him.

  "What happened?" she asked the man, who she now recognized as Joan's father.

  "Bomb..." he croaked.

  "Do you know where Joan is? It's her birthday today."

  To Pat's horror, he then stated to cry.

  "I'm sorry... Joan was killed. And her mother. Oh God..!"

  Pat ran from the wreckage, tears running down her face. Joan...

It was a week later when a knock came on Pat's front door. She ran and opened the door, where Joan's father was standing.

  "Hello, Pat. Is your mother in?"

  "No. She's out getting rations. She'll be back later, though, if you want to see her."

  "It doesn't matter. It was you I wanted to see. I– I brought this for you."

  Curious, Pat stepped outside where she saw a gleaming, brand-new shining red bicycle.

  "I– I brought it for Joan's birthday. I know she would have wanted you to have it."

  "I can't accept this..." Pat started.

  "Please. It would make me so happy."

  With that, he left without another word.

Every time she rode the bicycle, she though of her friend Joan.

  Pat was one of the lucky ones; her father came home safely, and her home survived the Blitz. But she knew what it was like to lose someone you were close to.

Joan's father never remarried. He never got over his loss, and died soon after the war ended of a broken heart, many said.