Backstreet Child (10 page)

In July there were more departures. Granny Phillips left, followed soon after by her long-time suitor, the elderly widower Jack Whitmore. Nobby Smith and his long-suffering wife were next to go, leaving a quieter and less volatile atmosphere in the Kings Arms, and in August, as the war clouds were gathering, Page Street lost one of its most loved characters.

Maisie Dougall had finished her shopping on Friday morning and called in at the tobacconist shop on the corner of Page Street on her way home. The proprietor Albert Lockwood had recently bought the shop and was eager to build up his trade. Albert had realised early on in his retailing career that like it or not he was obliged to spend time chatting with his customers to get their confidence, and thus their regular custom. Maisie was a thorn in his side, for she spent many hours of each day chatting to all and sundry, and when she walked into the little corner shop Albert Lockwood groaned to himself. He need not have worried on that particular morning, however, because Maisie was preoccupied.

‘Two
Mirrors
an’ six pennerf o’ snuff, Albert,’ she said sighing loudly.

Albert weighed up the snuff on his brass scales and gingerly tipped it into the greaseproof paper cone, folding in the ends of the paper before handing it over. Now for the daily bulletin, he thought.

‘Tata,’ Maisie said as she turned to leave.

Albert wondered if he had upset the chatterbox in any way and he gave her a big smile. ‘Everyfing all right, Mrs Dougall?’ he said tentatively.

Maisie stopped in her tracks and shook her head. ‘Florrie ain’t too good,’ she replied. ‘She’s ’ad a fall.’

Albert winced. ‘It’s bad at ’er age. What ’appened?’

Maisie put down her shopping bag. ‘She’s bin pretty queer fer a few days,’ she began, ‘an’ yesterday she got out o’ bed ter make ’erself a drink an’ she fell against the chest o’ drawers. It must o’ stunned ’er ’cos when I called in last night fer a chat she was propped up against the edge o’ the bed. She remembers fallin’ but she couldn’t remember much else. I’d say she must’ave bin sittin’ there fer hours. She looked perished.’

‘I’m sorry to ’ear it,’ Albert said. ‘Did yer send fer the doctor?’

Maisie nodded. ‘’E was round in ten minutes. There was nuffink broken but ’e was worried about the shock. After all, Florrie’s no spring chicken.’

‘Well, give the ole lady my best regards,’ Albert said as another customer walked into his shop.

Maisie had not finished, however. ‘Yer know, I blame meself,’ she said. ‘I should ’ave gone in an’ made ’er a cuppa. Mind you, I did ask ’er but she said she’d be all right. I should’ave gone in anyway.’

‘Yer shouldn’t blame yerself,’ Albert told her. ‘It could’appen anytime. Yer can’t be there on call all the time.’

Maisie shrugged her shoulders. ‘No, I s’pose not. Ah well, better be orf.’

She left the shop and walked quickly down Page Street. She could see clearly the progress being made at the yard site. Lorries had been constantly going in and out of the little turning for weeks now and the unending rumble of the cement-mixing plant added to the sense of urgency. Wooden shuttering and reinforced bars of steel had grown upwards and the whole scene looked like a shipbuilding works. Maudie Mycroft seemed to have the most up-to-date news about the place and she said that when finished the shelter roof would be at ground level with a sloping path leading down to twin caverns. It was meant to hold two hundred and forty people in all, with priority being given to Page Street, Bacon Street and the adjacent backstreets. Maudie had also said that according to her sister’s husband, the shelter would stand up to anything short of a direct hit.

Maisie was serious-faced as she let herself into Florrie’s house. When she looked into the back bedroom she saw her old friend propped up in bed with her favourite black shawl round her frail shoulders. Her face was ashen, which accentuated the large circular patch of bruising on her right temple. She seemed to find it difficult to talk and Maisie patted her limp hand tenderly as she picked up the tiny snuffbox from the chair beside her bed and proceeded to fill it. The task done, Maisie adjusted the shawl round Florrie’s shoulders and straightened the bedclothes. ‘Right now, I’ll get yer a nice cuppa before I go,’ she said smiling at her.

Florrie nodded weakly and closed her eyes. Maisie hurried to the scullery and lit the gas jet under the iron kettle. It would take a few minutes, she reasoned, just time enough to hang out the bits and pieces of washing on the yard clothesline. At that moment she heard Florrie cry out in a high-pitched wail that filled her with dread. She turned out the gas instinctively before hurrying into the bedroom. She gasped as she saw Florrie lying forward on her side, her head hanging over the edge of the bed.

Maisie eased her onto her back and pulled the bedclothes up round her chin. Florrie’s eyes were closed and her breathing was coming in gasps now.

‘Oh my Gawd,’ Maisie groaned, rubbing her fingers gently over Florrie’s cold brow.

Suddenly the old lady’s eyes flickered open and her breathing quietened. ‘That you, Maisie?’ she said in little more than a murmur.

‘It’s me, gel,’ Maisie whispered, tears starting to fall down her face.

‘The clock. It’s be’ind the clock,’ Florrie mumbled. ‘They’re comin’ down the street. I can see ’em in their scarlet uniforms.’Elp me up, Mais, I wanna see the band.’

Maisie felt the old lady’s body stiffen as she made one last effort to rise, and then her shoulders dropped back against the bed.

For a time Maisie sat with her head held low, hardly able to believe that Florrie had died. Finally she stood up and leaned over the still form, brushing her forehead with a soft kiss before pulling the sheet up over her face.

The house was uncannily quiet as Maisie walked out of the bedroom and closed the door quietly. What was it Florrie said? she thought. ‘Behind the clock’, those were her words. She walked into the parlour and immediately saw the large green document resting beside the chimer in the centre of the mantelshelf. Feeling like an intruder she took it down and opened it. The document was a penny policy, and tucked in the folds was a sealed envelope addressed to ‘Mrs M. Dougall’ in Florrie’s spidery handwriting. Maisie replaced the insurance policy beside the clock and opened the envelope.

Dear Mais,

I’ve always paid my way and that’s how I want to go out, the same. There’s a few bob in the toffee tin next to the fireplace. What with the policy, that should be enough to give me a good send-off. Any money left is to be put behind the bar at the Kings Arms. Make sure that new bloke gives you full measure. Alec Crossley always did, after I told him of it that time.

Be a dear and put my snuffbox in with me.

Love to you, Mais, and the rest of the gels.

Florence Axford.

Tears fell onto the letter as Maisie stood there looking down at it. That was just like Florrie, she thought sadly. Always looking out for them all. Well, she shall have her last wish, she vowed, as she went back into the bedroom and picked up the tiny silver casket.

The day before Florrie Axford’s funeral, London was put into darkness by a trial black-out. In the little backstreets that ran down to the dark river no light led the way. Gaslights were extinguished and the new electric lights along Jamaica Road went out. Blackout blinds went up and everywhere police and the newly mobilised ARP wardens toured the streets and knocked on doors if any light was showing.

Thunder rolled, and streaks of lightning flashed across the dark night sky, as though some entity were demonstrating to mere mortals the awesome power that would very soon be unleashed upon them.

In the Kings Arms it was very quiet. Danny Tanner sat with Billy and they drank their first pint without talking. Neither felt able to encroach on the other’s private thoughts, and it was not until his glass was empty that Danny broke the silence. ‘Same again?’ he said.

The glasses were refilled and Billy leaned his elbows on the table-top as he studied his pint. ‘Is yer muvver up ter goin’ ter Florrie’s send-orf?’ he asked after a while.

Danny nodded. ‘Yer couldn’t keep ’er away.’

‘My muvver’s goin’,’ Billy said. ‘She’s gonna be missed, is ole Florrie. What a character she was.’

Danny smiled sadly as he gazed at his glass. ‘ ’Ere, d’yer remember that time you an’ me ’ad the barney wiv that copper? Florrie got us out o’ trouble that time, Billy.’

The ex-boxer stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, not ’alf. She was a good ’un all right,’ he said quietly.

The two lapsed into silence for a while and then Billy sat up straight in his chair. ‘I see Parliament’s bin called back then,’ he said.

Danny nodded. ‘They’ve called the reservists up too.’

Billy stared moodily into his beer and Danny searched for something to say. He knew the reason for his old friend’s glum-ness: Billy worshipped Annie and the children, and tomorrow they were leaving for Gloucester. Annie had managed to have a few hurried words with Danny that evening as he waited for his friend to get his coat. ‘Watch out for him, Danny ,’ she had asked. ‘My Billy loves you like a brother. He’ll listen to you. Just watch out for him, you know how scatterbrained he can be at times.’

‘I’m gonna go round the estate office termorrer,’ Danny said, trying to get a conversation going. ‘I’m gonna try an’ move back ter Page Street. That ’ouse of ours in Wilson Street is fallin’ down round our ears. There’s a few ’ouses empty now, so there shouldn’t be any trouble.’

Billy looked up, roused for a moment from his torpor. ‘Yer don’t fink ole Galloway’ll put the block on yer gettin’ a place, do yer?’ he asked.

Danny shrugged his shoulders. ‘I dunno really, but I shouldn’t ’ave thought so. The estate office manages the properties fer ’im an’ I’d ’ave thought ’e’d leave it ter them. Besides, they can’t be too fussy now.’

Billy cast his eyes down to his drink once more and Danny studied him. His friend had been prone to bouts of depression in the past, after returning badly wounded from the war, and it was only when he became involved in the setting-up of the gymnasium in Wilson Street that he began to change. His subsequent marriage to Annie, whom he adored, and the birth of his children had made a new man of him. He had made a success as a boxing coach, too, and he was highly thought of in the area. What was happening to him now, though, was a cruel reminder of the past, Danny felt. The club had suspended its activities when the recent evacuation scheme began in earnest, and now he was to be parted from Annie and the children and left to his own devices.

As though aware of Danny’s eyes on him, Billy suddenly picked up his pint and drained the glass. ‘Let’s get one more, then I’d better get back ’ome,’ he said with a frown. ‘Annie an’ the kids are leavin’ early in the mornin’.’

In the quiet of her parlour, Carrie was sitting with Joe and she was feeling excited. ‘It’s all fixed then?’ she asked him.

Joe smiled as he leaned back in the armchair. ‘Unless yer’ve changed yer mind?’ he said with a crafty look.

Carrie feigned a look of indecision. ‘Well, er, I . . .’

Joe got out of his chair quickly and reached down to her, taking her hands in his. ‘I’ve waited long enough, young woman, an’ there’s no way yer backin’ out now.’

Carrie yielded to him and slipped into his arms. ‘I love yer madly, Joe,’ she gasped as he squeezed her tightly. ‘We’re gonna be very happy, I jus’ know it.’

‘We are now,’ he said to her.

Carrie ran her hand down his arm as she nestled against him. ‘I know we are,’ she whispered, ‘but bein’ yer wife is gonna make it seem even better.’

Footsteps on the stairs made them move apart and after a few moments Nellie came into the room. ‘I’ve found me black bonnet in the back o’ the wardrobe,’ she said, ‘but that black coat needs an ironin’.’

‘All right, Mum, I’ll do it right away,’ Carrie assured her. ‘They’re deliverin’ the flowers at a quarter to eleven.’

Nellie nodded sadly. ‘It’s gonna be a big turn-out. I’m in the first coach wiv Sadie, Maisie an’ Maudie. We’re wiv Florrie’s relations. You’ll be in the second coach, Joe. I dunno who’ll be wiv yer.’ A sudden loud crack of thunder made them all jump. ‘I’ope it doesn’t do this termorrer.’ Nellie shook her head. ‘Florrie never liked thunder.’

Joe nodded. ‘She’s gonna be missed,’ he said. ‘I remember when I first come ter Bermon’sey. She looked proper stern when I knocked on ’er door fer lodgin’s. She turned out ter be a diamond.’

‘She always ’ad a soft spot fer you, Joe,’ Nellie told him. ‘She loved ter fink everybody was talkin’ about ’er ’avin’ a young man. That was Florrie all over. They broke the mould when they made ’er.’

Carrie noticed a look of distraction appear on her mother’s face and she became concerned. ‘Look, Mum, yer’ve got a long day in front of yer termorrer. Why don’t yer go up an’ get inter bed,’ she urged her. ‘I’ll bring yer cocoa up in a few minutes.’

As the evening wore on, the storm gradually lessened. Soft music was playing on the wireless as Carrie ironed Nellie’s coat in the scullery. Rachel sat at the parlour table writing a letter to Derek. Joe was lying back in his chair with his eyes closed, his feet resting on the iron fender. Suddenly Rachel looked over to him. ‘Is it one or two g’s in conflagration?’ she asked him.