Put That Light Out: a story

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This story was written on the theme of "Night" for Friday's session of the Hinckley Scribblers writing group. It is based on a real incident - although with a bit of enhancement and a few extra flourishes. Back in 2015 I researched some old newspapers to find out what was happening in Poole at the time of my mother's birth 100 years previously. The story is therefore based on a newspaper report from the time. Incidentally, my mother is still going strong, and still lives in her birth town, having never lived anywhere else! **************************************************** It might be thought that the idea of night-time blackouts as a form of civilian protection during wartime originated in World War Two with the legal requirement to hide all lights that might be spotted by would-be aerial bombers. Those who remember the TV comedy series “Dad’s Army” will recall the cry of “Put That Light Out” that was regularly issued by William Hodges, the long-suffering ARP warden. However, something similar occurred during World War One, although the main focus was not to protect against Zeppelin raids in London and other major cities but, in smaller coastal communities, to meet a threat that came from a different direction. The German Navy had a fleet of submarines that were known to patrol the seas around the British Isles. The danger they posed was brought forcibly to public attention when a submarine sank RMS Lusitania off the south coast of Ireland in May 1915 with the loss of nearly 1200 lives. Britain had few defences against such attacks, but the night-time blackout along the Channel coast was a measure that was strictly enforced. The idea was that a submarine proceeding along the coast would be able to see the silhouette of a ship if the latter was marked out against a brightly lit background. If the lights were not there, neither would the outline of a potential torpedo victim be visible. For example, in the town of Poole, which spread from the north side of Poole Harbour all the way to the clifftops next door to Bournemouth, police constables were soon on their guard against cyclists and the occasional motorist whose lamps were considered to be too bright for safety, and the local magistrates had a profitable time collecting fines from offenders, whether they were road-users or citizens whose properties were showing too much light to the outside world. One such case involved the landlord of The Lord Nelson, a pub on Poole Quay. The idea that a German U-boat could make its way into the shallow waters of Poole Harbour at night and then fire a torpedo at a quayside ship, only visible thanks to the merrymaking at a local hostlery, might sound fanciful, but that is the way the official mind works. Robin Giles, the landlord in question, could not say that he had had no warning. His wife, Molly, had provided plenty of that in the days before his appearance in court. “This place is a tip”, said Molly. “Don’t you ever do any cleaning or tidying in here?” She was remarking on the state of the bar shortly before opening time one Saturday evening in June. “It looks all right to me”, said Robin, whose standards were considerably lower in this respect than those of his wife. “There’s dirt all over the floors, half the tables are covered in dog-ends, and there’s hardly a clean glass behind the bar,” Molly said. “Three ships tied up today, full of thirsty sailors who’ll be pouring through this door the second I open it. You’d better shift your backside pronto and get to work for once”. Molly had never minced her words, which is one reason why she was the driving force behind this successful dockside pub, with its rough-and-ready clientele, in the early 20th century. “And another thing”, she told her husband as he reluctantly got to work on the glasses, “I told you weeks ago to get some proper blackout shutters fitted. Those old beer-crates shoved against the windows will do not good at all.” “Oh give over”, said Robin. “Nobody will notice. We’ll be fine.” But Molly ‘s advice proved to have been worth taking. On Monday morning, first thing, a knock on the door brought a summons to attend the Magistrates’ Court on a charge of not maintaining a suitable blackout during the hours of darkness. “I told you so”, said Molly, her statement being one with which Robin could hardly disagree. At the Magistrates’ Court, evidence was given by Constable Percy White, who, he said, had been having a quiet drink in The Lord Nelson – while off duty, as he assured the Magistrate – when he had noticed two things. “Which were, Constable White?” “Firstly, Your Worship, that my glass was extremely dirty, and secondly that the blackouts in the windows were just a few bits of broken beer crate.” “And when did you notice this, Constable White?” “I don’t follow you, Your Worship.” “He means,” Robin interjected, “was that after the seventh or the eighth pint of my excellent best bitter?” “Mr Giles, you should not interrupt,”, said the Magistrate, “but you are quite right, that was roughly the question I was going to ask next.” “That doesn’t matter”, said the constable, clearly getting a bit rattled, “the fact remains that the blackout was not sufficient to block light from reaching the outside world through the windows.” “And how do you respond to that, Mr Giles?” asked the Magistrate. “I say it was perfectly OK”, Robin replied. “And if you come down to my pub tonight I’ll prove it to you, and throw a free pint or two of best into the bargain.” “That would be an unusual move to take”, said the Magistrate, “but if you put it like that, how could I refuse?” So that is what they did. As darkness fell on Poole Quay, the Magistrate, his court clerk and Constable White stood opposite The Lord Nelson while Robin and Molly turned on all the lights and put their blackouts, such as they were, into place. A minute later Robin came outside. “How was that?” he asked. “Did you see anything?” “Nothing at all”, said the Magistrate. “Not so much as a gleam of light until you opened the door”. “You must have cheated”, said Constable White, “You’ve fitted some proper blackout shutters since this morning, haven’t you?” “Not at all”, said Robin. “Come and see”. So he led the party back into the pub where Molly explained the situation. “The fact is, Your Worship,” she said, “That my bone idle husband does not only not wash the glasses properly or sweep the floors, but he hasn’t cleaned the windows for at least seven years. They are so caked with muck and detritus that not a chink of light could possibly get through, as you have just seen for yourself. For once in his life, he’s actually got something right”. “Case dismissed”, said the Magistrate. “Now where’s that pint? In a clean glass, if you don’t mind.”