The Pink Umbrella

I’ve never believed in ghosts or what believers call the afterlife.  Just because you haven’t got an explanation for  something doesn’t mean you have to resort to the paranormal in your reasoning.  One February my scepticism was tested.  

As I left the house the wind was gusting and the raindrops were pummelling the car roof.  Debris was billowing along the street.  There was a greyish cast to the light from the street lamps.   A storm had just arrived that afternoon fresh from the Atlantic.  It was a night when you’d rather stay indoors around a log fire catching up on a box set on Netflix.  But I was on duty as a volunteer on a helpline.   The beat of the windscreen wipers competed with Bruce Springsteen’s guitar as I used Radio2 to entertain  me on the drive to King’s Lynn.   It was 9:30pm as I drove past the Minster, one of the Lynn Lumiere sites.  The illuminated display on the building celebrated the human measurement of time.  A crowd, mainly elderly people, were leaving the Minster just as an ambulance, lights flashing, went past me at the same time.

I drove along the quay past the Old Custom House which was also lit up with archival images of the town set against the plasma blue sky.  The call centre was in the old part of town on a street of Georgian buildings - a mix of residential properties and offices.  I parked the car next to John’s, my shift partner for the night.   As I unlocked the front door of the creaking building I felt the presence of a figure behind me.  I turned around to see a small, young woman, hunched up, trying to make the best of the limited protection she had from the wind and the rain.  She was wearing a red raincoat and a woolly hat and holding a pink umbrella which was dripping water.  Her tears had washed away any make up she might have applied before leaving home.  She looked like a waif from another time.

“Hello, can I help you?”   I enquired.

“Is it possible to talk to someone?”

We weren’t open to face to face callers after dark but this woman was clearly in need of help.

“Come inside out of this storm.”  I led her into our interview room - a small space with a couple of chairs, a lamp and a coffee table.  “If you want to give me that wet umbrella I can hang it up for you ….. if you like.”

She folded up the umbrella and handed it to me.  I hung it on the coat stand in the hall where it could drip onto the linoleum floor.  Returning to the interview room I was intrigued by her clothes.   Her hat and coat looked old-fashioned.  Her legs were bare but for some short socks and some flat shoes which looked like they were due to be replaced.  She certainly wasn’t what anyone would call fashionable.

I settled in the chair opposite and waited for her to speak.  She was shivering.

“ How long have you been out there?”  I asked.

“Since 9 o’clock.  I’ve just been at the Minster.  Thank you for letting me in.  My name’s Sheila.”

“Hi.  I’m Mike.  How can I help you?  To be honest, you don’t look in a good place tonight.”

“I’ve not been in a good place for a long time.”

“Go on.”  I said.

“I’ve missed my baby.  Thank you for what you do here especially for looking after her?”  She began to cry.

I handed her some tissues which were always there on the coffee table.  I gave her some time.  I had no idea what she was talking about. 

“Tell me about your baby.”

“She was six months old when I lost her,”  she said.  “It was in the air raid when all those other people died.”  

I really wasn’t following what she was saying.  This was no war zone.  Where was she from?  Was she a refugee?  I didn’t want to interrogate her but I couldn’t avoid asking for some clarification.  “Where did this happen?”

She ignored my question.  “I’m a terrible mother.  I should have protected her.”

“It must be hard to lose a child.  I can think of nothing worse.”

“When you’ve lost a child death is a blessing.”

“Are you saying that you wish to be dead?”

“I would like to get some peace.”

I let the silence speak.

  “Can I have a glass of water, please?”

“Of course.”  I made my way into the kitchen, found a glass and poured her some water from the fridge before  returning to the room.  I’d only been gone a couple of minutes but she wasn’t there when I returned.  I searched the other rooms but she was nowhere to be seen.   I was puzzled.  I’d not heard her leave but the pink umbrella was still on the coat stand.  

I went upstairs to the duty room to find John.  He was already on a call.  I wanted to talk to him and tell him about my visitor.  His was a long call which gave me time to think.  Where was the air raid she talked of?  What about her clothes?  They seemed so shabby and old-fashioned.  Eventually John was free and I was able to tell him the story. He agreed that it seemed a bit odd and suggested that the grief must be all-consuming.  After all there can’t be anything worse than your child dying.  We both agreed that she’d broken the ice now and she could well come back another day.  He suggested I check the CCTV footage as that might give me a clue as to what prompted her to leave.

All visits were automatically recorded on the cameras but no sound recording was made.  I played around with the computer and eventually located the section I needed.  It showed me going into the room and then disappearing out of camera shot.  There was no clear shot of the young woman even though the camera was trained on the chair she’d sat on - just a blurred shape as if the camera wasn’t focussed but it was; the rest of the shot was clear.  It seemed strange.  I went back upstairs to do what I’d come into the branch to do that is listen to callers.

The rest of the shift went as normal.  By 2am we had had enough and it was time to end the duty for the night.  I phoned the leader, to offload my calls and told her about my visitor.  She listened and made sure I was ok.  I did admit that I found it a bit disconcerting.  We discussed the possibility that it was a hoax but soon rejected that.  I just had to accept that sometimes we don’t know what happens after a caller leaves.

John said goodbye.  He was driving home.  I decided to sleep over until the morning.   Not many volunteers slept over by themselves.  There was talk of creepy noises and people seeing and hearing things.  I wasn’t very bothered.  In any case I was tired.  The volunteer’s bedroom was on the top floor of the three storey building.  I made my way up the  creaky, old staircase.   The bedroom was a large room with a minimum of furniture just a single bed, a bedside table, a chair in one of the alcoves formed by the disused chimney breast.  There were a couple of standard pictures on the walls but nothing much else.  The room was rarely used.   Spiders usually had the place to themselves.  It was chilly too.  The rotting window frames barely kept out the rain and the draughts.  But I was exhausted.  I crawled into my sleeping bag and fell into a deep sleep immediately.

I was woken by the sound of banging, shouting and what seemed like gunfire.  The house was a large terrace.  I couldn’t believe the neighbours were watching a film so loud you could hear it next door.  But then my other senses slowly started to switch on.  I could smell smoke, see flashing lights through my half-closed eyelids and hear sirens too loud to come from a TV next door.  Eventually I opened my eyes.  It was dark but a flash illuminated the room.  I was looking at a fireplace which I hadn’t noticed before.  There was an old-fashioned analogue clock on it.  It showed 5 o’clock.  The carpet was different too - no longer fitted into the corners and edges of the room but a square with bare floorboards around it.  Another flash and I saw a cockroach running for the corner.  The blinds on the windows weren’t there now replaced by old, torn curtains.  On the wall was a family photograph - a man, a woman and a baby.  I got out of bed and pulled back the curtains.  Searchlights were scouring the sky.   I heard a plane and gunfire.  I turned back to the door to find the light switch.  I couldn’t locate it.   Another flash and I saw a baby’s cot on the other side of the bed.   The baby began to cry.  I moved towards it.  I remember the door opening and the figure of a woman, framed in the doorway, backlit momentarily by another flash.   Then - an explosion.   And that was the last I can remember.  

It was a few hours later when I woke up.  I was lying on the bed.  The dawn twilight must have woken me along with the noise from downstairs as the building was being opened up.  It was cold and I had a sore head.  I was also confused.  The room, when I looked around,  was as I’d remembered it when I went to bed.  There was the bed, the chair and bedside table but no fireplace, no photograph, no cot.  The carpet was fitted to the edges of the room again.  The window had a blind but no curtains.  Had I just had a bad dream?   But…it was all so vivid.  I could hear the cleaner downstairs.  She’d switched the radio on.

Ingrid was in the kitchen making a drink listening to Radio Norfolk.

“My God, are you ok.”   she said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

I wasn’t surprised Ingrid had jumped to that conclusion.  She was an imaginative woman with an interest in the occult.  However, for once I was thinking that she might have had a point but I didn’t want to admit it.   I just couldn’t get that dream out of my head. 

“I’ve never believed in ghosts.”  I said.  I recounted my experiences of the previous night. 

“I’m very sensitive to these things you know,” said Ingrid.  “When I’ve been here at night I’ve heard a baby crying as well .  It was just passed off when I reported it and they said that it was probably next door.   But I’m not the only one.  I’ve spoken to other volunteers who’ve heard the same thing.   Nobody’s described anything as graphic as you have though.” 

“You know last night was the 80th anniversary of the air raid on Kings Lynn during the war,” she said.  “There was a service of remembrance for the descendants of those who died that night.”

“So, that must have been the congregation I saw leaving the Minster as I drove in.   But what’s that got to do with it.   Are you saying there’s a connection?”

“It seems a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think? 

“Tell me about this air raid then.”

She handed me the previous day’s copy of the Lynn News.  “There’s an article in here about it.”

I turned to page 5 to see an article advertising the church service.  On the same page was the headline.

Over 40 dead after 5am Air raid.

It was the story of how a lone German bomber on its way back to Germany from an early morning raid on shipping over the Wash had discharged its bombs over King’s Lynn.  40 people were killed when the Eagle pub on Norfolk Street was obliterated.  Another bomb fell on Queen St killing a baby in its cot.  The mother was badly injured but survived.

“That service was for the descendants of the people who died,”  said Ingrid “and also for the last survivor.”

“Who was she?”  I asked.

“I’m sure it’ll tell you in the paper.”   

I scanned the article about the remembrance service.  “Here we are.”

The service will be attended by guest of honour, Sheila Tracy, the last survivor of the bomb raid.  She was 18 years old at the time.  Sheila lost her 6 month old baby in the raid.  In a further tragic loss her husband was killed during the D-day landings.  She never got over the loss of her family and didn’t marry again or have any more children but dedicated her life to helping others.  The Second World War was a watershed for the administration of childcare in the UK.  Sheila was at the forefront of that, dedicating her life to the restoration of missing children with their families.  She ran an orphanage in Kings Lynn and was a strong supporter of Dr Barnado’s.   Sheila  is now 98 years old and has spent the past few years in a care home in King’s Lynn.

“I just heard on the radio that Sheila Tracy died at the ceremony.”  said Ingrid.

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There was a photograph of the family accompanying the article.   “That’s the same photo I saw in the room last night.”

“Let’s hope she’s reunited with her husband and baby now and all are at peace.” said Ingrid. 

As I left the building I walked past the clothes stand.  The pink umbrella had gone.