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Mission summary:
Episode may contain the following warnings:
IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER:
“All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical figures, are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
SOME OF THESE EPISODES CONTAIN VERY STRONG LANGUAGE, VIOLENCE, HORROR AND SEXUAL REFERENCES. They are AGE RECOMMENDED suitable for persons aged 12+ years only. Some episodes are rated HIGHER at 15+ and ALL the 'ALEXANDRA' Series versions are AGE RATED at 18+”
Stephen Williams
THE AUTHOR.
Author’s notes about this episode:
[1] A little extra warning: this episode contains descriptions of violent death and suffering. For details about the 'Blitz' [from the original German expression '
[2]
The original Title for this episode was: ‘GHOSTS OF THE BLITZ.’
[3]
A ‘Jericho Tibbs’ original story. This episode is a very early one.
[4]
There is NO 'Alexandra' series adult extended version currently available.
[5] "THE GHOSTS AND MISS JESSICA MARTIN.” The original illustration for this episode was created by the author, as was this episode, which was also conceived and written by him. Copyright © 2011-2025 Stephen Williams. Please, no reproduction of any part without written permission.
Concept
date: 15th March 2017
First
published: 16th August 2017
Status: COMPLETED & PUBLISHED.
Location: BOOK SERIES 1 – EPISODE 3.
Revisions: 6 [last revised December
2018]
Version:
Final.
Published
Episode No. 03
Previous
episode: “The Dunmore witch trials.”
Next
episode: “Doctor Alexander Harris and
his battle with God.”
Age
recommendation: 12+
Average
reading time: Approximately 60 Minutes.
Angel-in-charge: Margret
Team Assigned: Team 74
Mission: 8 - 533871 - 3 -1941
Human times:
Gregorian Calendar: MCMXCL
Muslim Calendar: 1358 - 1359 [AH]
Hebrew calendar: 5700 - 5701
Christian Calendar: 1940AD
Hebrew calendar: 5700 - 5701
Christian Calendar: 1940AD
Episode preview:
1. MISS JESSICA MARTIN.
Miss Jessica Martin ran quietly down the worn and broken steps from her front door and reached the old iron gate, that lay to one side, before her mum shouted after her. She sighed loudly and adjusted the annoying Gas mask bag that hung off her shoulder and called back; ”Bleedin’ ‘ell ma, I’m gonna miss the bleedin’ bus at this rate!”
Her mother stood in the front doorway and waved the small brown paper bag; “I queued for an hour yesterday for that bloody cheese, so get back here and get your lunch... and I managed to get an apple for you!” Helen folded her arms over the long white apron that covered a drab dress which had seen better days. She shook her head in mock despair, but smiled as Jessica sauntered back up the garden path and accepted her lunch with a big grin.
The bottom windows were boarded up and the house had clearly seen better days - but it was their home, and Hitler wasn't about to drive them out.
“I’ll try and get back before ten, but it depends on those bleedin’ buses. This new war timetable is bleedin’ useless. I’d be better off on a flamin’ pushbike!” Miss Jessica Martin gave her mum a little kiss on the cheek and with a wave, headed for the bus stop and the fifteen minute journey to “Arnold Packer & Sons Ltd.” Where young Jessica would work a late shift in the canteen, serving behind the works counter, cleaning tables, washing up and making endless cups of tea throughout the shift – and all for 25 shillings a week, having left school just last month. She didn't like this shift because it meant travelling home in the 'Black-out', but at least no-one noticed her old worn clothes in the darkness.
Jessica had no real money to buy work clothes - she gave her mother all of last weeks wages; just to pay the back rent. Charlie's home allowance that he sent monthly, put food on the table and her father's maintenance Postal Orders had a nasty habit of not appearing on time. She still could not forgive her dad for running off with some posh speaking tart from the Co-Op Store last year, leaving them in real poverty.
She couldn't even afford to purchase the subsidised meals provided at work - hence the lunch bag. But she was very grateful that the factory provided its canteen staff with quite a nice uniform: Black dress, white blouse and floppy mop cap.
But no stockings, they were really expensive and already in short supply, so Jessica wore white ankle socks – like she always did to school, where she admitted to herself; that she learnt ‘bog all’ of any use. It was the skills that mum had taught her, which landed Jessica the factory job – she could cook really well and knew how to clean thoroughly, but most important of all; she could brew a cracking cup of tea!
She pulled her worn brown coat about her and peered up at the two barrage balloons floating above the docks; she could see several others in the distance, all moving gently on their cables. “Fat lot of bleedin’ good they’ll do when Mister Hitler calls again with his bloody Luftwaffe.” She laughed to herself and then thought about her brother; Charlie, now serving in the Royal Navy and wondered what he would think of the bombing over the last couple of days.
Jessica had heard that several families in Park Road and Green Avenue had been killed and the rescue people were still trying to dig out survivors. Her mum; Helen, said she knew one of the families and all four had been killed, trying to hide under the kitchen table.
Jessica stared up at the clear sky and thought she could see little dark spots heading away from the City towards the coast.
“May as well try and use bleedin’ catapults to bring the buggers down.” She grinned broadly and remembered Charlie and the things he smashed with the catapult, which he always kept in his rear pocket. Jessica wondered if Charlie still had it; maybe he had packed it in his kit bag when he was posted to HMS Cornwall. The last letter mum had received hinted he was in South Africa, and Jessica really envied him the opportunity of real travel, the last place she had visited was bloody Southend-On-Sea – but it had been a real laugh – lots of ice-cream, paddling in the cold sea and a trip down the pier, where a gust of wind stole her hat.
Then she noticed the bus was already waiting and she ran to the stop, joining the queue of several women and one old man who was clutching a little black book and he appeared to smile directly at her; if about to speak. Glancing behind, she saw the young RAF Pilot emerging from Albert Road, still clutching his flying helmet and dusting himself down. He grinned at Jessica and started to walk towards the bus stop slowly, looking about and smiling.
The Conductor, Mavis, a big woman with a wide smile and ill-fitting trousers shouted; “Three downstairs and three up top, come on, before Adolf clips your ticket for good!” The queue, with a little ripple of laughter, started to shuffle forward and Jessica cursed her luck, there were seven in the queue and she was last – again. The women climbed onto the bus and the old man waited at the rear and waved his little book about, as if trying to attract someone’s attention.
Then the sirens screamed into action and Jessica looked up to see large dark spots appearing in the sky, someway in the distance – but heading for her.
“Oh flippin’ hell!” She shouted and remembered there was a Public Shelter in nearby Christopher Street, by the Gaumont Theatre. She recalled the sandbagged entrance by the sign declaring the forthcoming feature; Errol Flynn in the ‘Prince and the Pauper’. She ran quickly, clutching her lunch with the awful gas mask bag slapping against her bum, she glanced up to the see that the dark spots were indeed planes - lots of them: she shouted angrily to herself; "Where the ‘ell are our fly boys?”
The first explosion made the ground tremble and a large white and orange flash filled the sky some streets away, then a dark grey spout appeared and she could smell burning. A second one followed close to the first and Jessica was now running full pelt into Christopher Street which was filled with screaming, frantic people pushing their way into the Shelter by any means.
Unable to pass through the wall of struggling people, she glanced behind her and could see the bus she was about to board on its side – ablaze. Two flaming figures struggled from the wreck and collapsed onto the roadway, she knew one was Mavis, the big, cheerful conductor, she didn't know the other woman and never would. The smell of burning flesh filled her nostrils and Jessica wanted to vomit. But with shaking legs, she again tried to push through the hysterical crowd until her arm was grabbed by the young man in the dirty RAF uniform; “You’ll never get in there, there are too many bloody people!” He shouted and dragged her towards the large stone doorway of the Library which was also heavily sandbagged.
“We’ll stand a better chance in here!” He yelled above the noise of more explosions nearby. Jessica followed the young Pilot into the semi-darkness of the fortified doorway and they crouched down in a corner as the terrible noise of dying people continued unabated outside. "For gaud sake; it's raining bleedin' bombs!" Jessica whispered, then more explosions followed and the ground appeared to move in ripples, one was close, causing sand and dirt to fly about the confined space. The young couple coughed loudly and the Pilot shouted; “There are more of the bastards than usual, Herr Goering is after the docks and he really doesn’t mind who he kills!”
Jessica realised she was crying and wiped her damp face with a shaking hand; “Where the ‘ell are our flying boys?” She repeated with real anger in her voice and the young Pilot crouching next to her laughed; “Well, this one is really close Miss!” Jessica brushed away more tears and then chuckled; “Why you down here and not up there then mate?” The young man offered her a clean white hankie and sighed; “I was, but didn’t see a sneaky jerry come up from below me – bang! – I ended up here with my crate in pieces.” He smiled and dusted himself down again and pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one up, offering it to Jessica, who shook her head and fumbled in her coat pocket for a couple of humbugs she knew were hiding there.
The young couple sat nervously chatting in the semi-darkness, swapping backgrounds and even laughing at each other’s daft comments. The raid had lasted for about an hour and evening was moving in. Pilot Officer Daniel ‘Danny’ Hart had only qualified as a Pilot two months ago and had fought in one ‘sorte’ before – without any luck; he suffered instrument failure and had to return to the airfield. It had been his twenty-first birthday just two weeks ago. He grinned at Jessica and chuckled; “Most men get the key to the ruddy door at 21. I got a bloody big Spitfire and a bloody big war to match it!”
Unknown to the pair – and everyone else at the time – some five or six streets away, another couple were walking slowly through the carnage, looking about at the death and destruction.
Mr. Jericho Tibbs and Lady Alexandra Cappanni passed unnoticed by the rescue crews, struggling to reach survivors buried in their own homes. The dead and dying suddenly appeared on nearly every street corner, placed outside shattered shops and homes, sometimes on a stretcher, but most under a dirty sheet or Fireman’s coat.
The rescuers struggled over broken roads, soaked by ruptured water pipes and fire hoses; frantically trying to reach buried survivors before the planes returned.
Jericho glanced towards a burning Newspaper shop; outside was a mangled bike and a grey canvas bag from which newspapers had spilled onto the road. Red streaks of blood directed his eyes to the shattered body of the child – torn apart by the bomb he couldn’t see or escape. Alex commented on his wonderful mop of blond hair, and then realised it was no longer connected to his head. She covered her mouth in horror and the pair hurried past the awful sight.
Night was now falling and there would be no relief from the horrors, as Germany would now be bombing at night, having suffered heavy losses in daytime raids.
They passed a couple of Collectors with several souls in tow - one raised his hand and shouted 'Hello Mr. Tibbs!' Both Jericho and Alex returned the greeting with Jericho muttering; "They're going to be busy for the next few years!" Alex nodded her agreement and they walked on.
“Perfect environment for the ‘Dark One’ to strike, don’t you think?” He quietly asked Alex, who was staring up at the darkening sky, as more planes filled the air. Jericho sighed and glanced down at the report about the strange apparition that had recently appeared on the streets of London’s East End; right in the middle of the Blitz.
He looked up and pointed towards Cuthbert Street; "Down there and his address is just minutes away. He should be able to give us a full update on the sightings - he's been part of my human team here for some time."
“Here they come again.” Alex said simply and the pair de-materialised from their human form – for now.
Her mother stood in the front doorway and waved the small brown paper bag; “I queued for an hour yesterday for that bloody cheese, so get back here and get your lunch... and I managed to get an apple for you!” Helen folded her arms over the long white apron that covered a drab dress which had seen better days. She shook her head in mock despair, but smiled as Jessica sauntered back up the garden path and accepted her lunch with a big grin.
The bottom windows were boarded up and the house had clearly seen better days - but it was their home, and Hitler wasn't about to drive them out.
“I’ll try and get back before ten, but it depends on those bleedin’ buses. This new war timetable is bleedin’ useless. I’d be better off on a flamin’ pushbike!” Miss Jessica Martin gave her mum a little kiss on the cheek and with a wave, headed for the bus stop and the fifteen minute journey to “Arnold Packer & Sons Ltd.” Where young Jessica would work a late shift in the canteen, serving behind the works counter, cleaning tables, washing up and making endless cups of tea throughout the shift – and all for 25 shillings a week, having left school just last month. She didn't like this shift because it meant travelling home in the 'Black-out', but at least no-one noticed her old worn clothes in the darkness.
Jessica had no real money to buy work clothes - she gave her mother all of last weeks wages; just to pay the back rent. Charlie's home allowance that he sent monthly, put food on the table and her father's maintenance Postal Orders had a nasty habit of not appearing on time. She still could not forgive her dad for running off with some posh speaking tart from the Co-Op Store last year, leaving them in real poverty.
She couldn't even afford to purchase the subsidised meals provided at work - hence the lunch bag. But she was very grateful that the factory provided its canteen staff with quite a nice uniform: Black dress, white blouse and floppy mop cap.
But no stockings, they were really expensive and already in short supply, so Jessica wore white ankle socks – like she always did to school, where she admitted to herself; that she learnt ‘bog all’ of any use. It was the skills that mum had taught her, which landed Jessica the factory job – she could cook really well and knew how to clean thoroughly, but most important of all; she could brew a cracking cup of tea!
She pulled her worn brown coat about her and peered up at the two barrage balloons floating above the docks; she could see several others in the distance, all moving gently on their cables. “Fat lot of bleedin’ good they’ll do when Mister Hitler calls again with his bloody Luftwaffe.” She laughed to herself and then thought about her brother; Charlie, now serving in the Royal Navy and wondered what he would think of the bombing over the last couple of days.
Jessica had heard that several families in Park Road and Green Avenue had been killed and the rescue people were still trying to dig out survivors. Her mum; Helen, said she knew one of the families and all four had been killed, trying to hide under the kitchen table.
Jessica stared up at the clear sky and thought she could see little dark spots heading away from the City towards the coast.
“May as well try and use bleedin’ catapults to bring the buggers down.” She grinned broadly and remembered Charlie and the things he smashed with the catapult, which he always kept in his rear pocket. Jessica wondered if Charlie still had it; maybe he had packed it in his kit bag when he was posted to HMS Cornwall. The last letter mum had received hinted he was in South Africa, and Jessica really envied him the opportunity of real travel, the last place she had visited was bloody Southend-On-Sea – but it had been a real laugh – lots of ice-cream, paddling in the cold sea and a trip down the pier, where a gust of wind stole her hat.
Then she noticed the bus was already waiting and she ran to the stop, joining the queue of several women and one old man who was clutching a little black book and he appeared to smile directly at her; if about to speak. Glancing behind, she saw the young RAF Pilot emerging from Albert Road, still clutching his flying helmet and dusting himself down. He grinned at Jessica and started to walk towards the bus stop slowly, looking about and smiling.
The Conductor, Mavis, a big woman with a wide smile and ill-fitting trousers shouted; “Three downstairs and three up top, come on, before Adolf clips your ticket for good!” The queue, with a little ripple of laughter, started to shuffle forward and Jessica cursed her luck, there were seven in the queue and she was last – again. The women climbed onto the bus and the old man waited at the rear and waved his little book about, as if trying to attract someone’s attention.
“Oh flippin’ hell!” She shouted and remembered there was a Public Shelter in nearby Christopher Street, by the Gaumont Theatre. She recalled the sandbagged entrance by the sign declaring the forthcoming feature; Errol Flynn in the ‘Prince and the Pauper’. She ran quickly, clutching her lunch with the awful gas mask bag slapping against her bum, she glanced up to the see that the dark spots were indeed planes - lots of them: she shouted angrily to herself; "Where the ‘ell are our fly boys?”
The first explosion made the ground tremble and a large white and orange flash filled the sky some streets away, then a dark grey spout appeared and she could smell burning. A second one followed close to the first and Jessica was now running full pelt into Christopher Street which was filled with screaming, frantic people pushing their way into the Shelter by any means.
Unable to pass through the wall of struggling people, she glanced behind her and could see the bus she was about to board on its side – ablaze. Two flaming figures struggled from the wreck and collapsed onto the roadway, she knew one was Mavis, the big, cheerful conductor, she didn't know the other woman and never would. The smell of burning flesh filled her nostrils and Jessica wanted to vomit. But with shaking legs, she again tried to push through the hysterical crowd until her arm was grabbed by the young man in the dirty RAF uniform; “You’ll never get in there, there are too many bloody people!” He shouted and dragged her towards the large stone doorway of the Library which was also heavily sandbagged.
“We’ll stand a better chance in here!” He yelled above the noise of more explosions nearby. Jessica followed the young Pilot into the semi-darkness of the fortified doorway and they crouched down in a corner as the terrible noise of dying people continued unabated outside. "For gaud sake; it's raining bleedin' bombs!" Jessica whispered, then more explosions followed and the ground appeared to move in ripples, one was close, causing sand and dirt to fly about the confined space. The young couple coughed loudly and the Pilot shouted; “There are more of the bastards than usual, Herr Goering is after the docks and he really doesn’t mind who he kills!”
Jessica realised she was crying and wiped her damp face with a shaking hand; “Where the ‘ell are our flying boys?” She repeated with real anger in her voice and the young Pilot crouching next to her laughed; “Well, this one is really close Miss!” Jessica brushed away more tears and then chuckled; “Why you down here and not up there then mate?” The young man offered her a clean white hankie and sighed; “I was, but didn’t see a sneaky jerry come up from below me – bang! – I ended up here with my crate in pieces.” He smiled and dusted himself down again and pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one up, offering it to Jessica, who shook her head and fumbled in her coat pocket for a couple of humbugs she knew were hiding there.
The young couple sat nervously chatting in the semi-darkness, swapping backgrounds and even laughing at each other’s daft comments. The raid had lasted for about an hour and evening was moving in. Pilot Officer Daniel ‘Danny’ Hart had only qualified as a Pilot two months ago and had fought in one ‘sorte’ before – without any luck; he suffered instrument failure and had to return to the airfield. It had been his twenty-first birthday just two weeks ago. He grinned at Jessica and chuckled; “Most men get the key to the ruddy door at 21. I got a bloody big Spitfire and a bloody big war to match it!”
Unknown to the pair – and everyone else at the time – some five or six streets away, another couple were walking slowly through the carnage, looking about at the death and destruction.
Mr. Jericho Tibbs and Lady Alexandra Cappanni passed unnoticed by the rescue crews, struggling to reach survivors buried in their own homes. The dead and dying suddenly appeared on nearly every street corner, placed outside shattered shops and homes, sometimes on a stretcher, but most under a dirty sheet or Fireman’s coat.
The rescuers struggled over broken roads, soaked by ruptured water pipes and fire hoses; frantically trying to reach buried survivors before the planes returned.
Jericho glanced towards a burning Newspaper shop; outside was a mangled bike and a grey canvas bag from which newspapers had spilled onto the road. Red streaks of blood directed his eyes to the shattered body of the child – torn apart by the bomb he couldn’t see or escape. Alex commented on his wonderful mop of blond hair, and then realised it was no longer connected to his head. She covered her mouth in horror and the pair hurried past the awful sight.
Night was now falling and there would be no relief from the horrors, as Germany would now be bombing at night, having suffered heavy losses in daytime raids.
They passed a couple of Collectors with several souls in tow - one raised his hand and shouted 'Hello Mr. Tibbs!' Both Jericho and Alex returned the greeting with Jericho muttering; "They're going to be busy for the next few years!" Alex nodded her agreement and they walked on.
“Perfect environment for the ‘Dark One’ to strike, don’t you think?” He quietly asked Alex, who was staring up at the darkening sky, as more planes filled the air. Jericho sighed and glanced down at the report about the strange apparition that had recently appeared on the streets of London’s East End; right in the middle of the Blitz.
He looked up and pointed towards Cuthbert Street; "Down there and his address is just minutes away. He should be able to give us a full update on the sightings - he's been part of my human team here for some time."
“Here they come again.” Alex said simply and the pair de-materialised from their human form – for now.
"THE GHOSTS AND MISS JESSICA MARTIN" CONTINUES IN 'TEMPORAL DETECTIVES' BOOK SERIES 1 [EPISODE 3.]
End of Preview.
Copyright © 2011-2024 Stephen Williams. No reproduction of any part without permission.