Backstreet Child (12 page)

On Saturday night the rain started again and quickly turned into a storm that once more had the streets running with water as thunder crashed and lightning lit the sky. Children turned restlessly in their beds and adults winced at the loud thunder rolls. In Salmon Lane lightning struck a chimney and sent it crashing down onto the cobblestones, and in Page Street Maudie Mycroft sat in her parlour and held a hand to her cheek. ‘It’s the Lord’s anger against the people who want war,’ she told Ernest. ‘The Lord’s very angry.’

Her husband sighed. ‘It’s a storm, nuffink more,’ he told her.

‘Ernest Mycroft, you’re a wicked man for disbelievin’,’ Maudie rebuked him.

‘Look, luv , I’m not sayin’ that the Lord ain’t angry. We’re all angry,’ Ernest said quietly. ‘What I’m sayin’ is, the Lord ain’t causin’ the storm. It’s yer actual elements. I don’t fink we need ter go out an’ build an ark.’

‘Gawd fergive ’im,’ Maudie said, raising her face to the ceiling. ‘My ’usband is a wicked man, but Yer must fergive ’im.’

Ernest tried to hide a grin. ‘I don’t fink the Lord’s too worried about me, Maud. ’E’s got ’is work cut out at the ’Ouses o’ Parliament ternight. The Cabinet’s still sittin’, accordin’ ter the nine o’clock news.’

Dolly Dawson climbed the stairs to see if the thunder was disturbing her children and found that the two boys were sleeping peacefully. Young Joyce must have been frightened, she thought, for she had curled up next to Leslie and was now sleeping soundly. Dolly went back down to the parlour and got on with her sewing, occasionally glancing over to where Wallace was sitting in an old armchair in his usual place in the corner facing the window. The drawn curtains were of a thick material but still the flashes of lightning could be seen through them.

The storm did not worry Wallace. He was engrossed in his weekly comic, his long legs drawn up under his chin as he stared wide-eyed at the coloured drawings of make-believe characters in a world of flowers and eternal sun. The looming war was not on Wallace’s mind, nor were the problems of everyday living. The young man could not read and his damaged brain could not grasp the fast talk or the implications of the news bulletins which his mother listened to, and for which he had to be very quiet on pain of a cuff round the ear. He was happy in his own little world. When he was hungry he was given food and when he was tired he slept in a warm bed or beside the fire. Natural and basic needs did not trouble him too much, for when he felt an urge he simply followed his instincts. Other, more confusing feelings sometimes touched him but they soon faded, and only when a girl looked closely at him and smiled in a friendly way did Wallace feel a strangeness that made his neck hair tingle and his stomach churn. He would smile back, his lips struggling to form the necessary shape, and the smile would change to a leering, drooling laugh that reached up from his stomach and made his shoulders rise and fall rapidly.

Wallace was twenty-one, tall and gangling, with rounded shoulders, a pathetically friendly face, out of which stared the palest of blue eyes, and a ruddy complexion. His full lips were never still, constantly exposing his large white teeth. He was backward, brain-damaged from birth, and in the opinion of some folk who knew his father well, the product of a bad seed. Josiah Dawson had sired three normal children between his periods of incarceration in His Majesty’s prisons, long after Wallace was conceived, and those same folk thought that it was quite likely they were not of his loins. Dolly would have been sorely hurt had she known what they were saying. She had only ever been with one man, and she had suffered his bouts of violence so as to receive the infrequent loving that he had to offer her.

Now, as she sat sewing Leslie’s school trousers, she was feeling optimistic that her man would soon be released from prison. Word had it that many prisoners who were nearing the end of their sentences would be released now that war was inevitable. She awaited news of Josiah and dreamed of a repentant soul who would provide for her and the children, and give her the love she had missed for so long.

A clap of thunder louder than the rest made Dolly jump and she looked over at Wallace. ‘C’mon, lad, it’s time yer was abed,’ she said, nodding her head towards the door.

Wallace put down his comic and unravelled his long legs from the chair. ‘Milk,’ he slurred.

Dolly was used to his simple way of speaking, and she had decided long ago that telling him off for not using courtesies would just confuse him. ‘I’ll bring yer some up,’ she told him.

The storm was abating and Wallace lay awake beneath the bedclothes, his mind concentrating on noises. He heard the front door bolts slide, the sound of clinking glass as the empty milk bottles were placed on the doorstep, then the sound of bolts again. He heard the clatter in the scullery, the yard lavatory chain, and the back door bolts slide. The noise he was waiting for was the creaking of the stairs and the sound of the front bedroom door shutting. It was nearly time, he thought as he eased out of the bed and dressed. From the back of his bedroom door he took down a thick, grease-stained overcoat and scarf. One more noise would tell him that it was definitely time. He strained his ears and then he heard it, the sound of the bedsprings creaking in the front bedroom. With animal stealth Wallace let himself out of his room and crossed the landing. He knew that there was one stair which creaked loudly and he stepped over it. The bolts were simple to undo, and in no time he was walking briskly along the wet street listening to his footsteps echoing and the water gurgling down the drains.

It did not take him long to reach the river wall and it was there that he stopped, leaning his arms on the parapet, his eyes searching the darkness for the small tugs and the sea-scarred ships that came and went on the night tide. Here it was peaceful and secluded, and Wallace’s mouth hung open as he saw the large dark outline of the Baltic freighter swinging slowly out into midstream from a point downriver of Tower Bridge. It was quiet tonight, but Wallace was not disappointed. He loved to watch the twinkling lights upriver and the red glow from the smelting works by Galleon’s Reach; the river sounds held him in thrall, the soothing swish of muddy water lapping against the stanchions and the gurgling sound of bubbling mud. Nights like this touched a memory buried deeply in his mind of a time long ago, a Christmas when his mother carried him in her arms and his father was there with them. They had gone to the West End of London, and they stood watching the brilliantly illuminated fountains in Trafalgar Square splaying violet-coloured water into the icy pools. The splashing water shattered the light into spangles of changing colour like tiny glittering gems, rising and cascading endlessly. At that moment everything had been perfect.

As though guilty at tarrying too long, the young man turned away from the lights bobbing up and down on the river and set off for home, looking back once more before slipping his cold hands into his tattered overcoat and hurrying back along the deserted lane.

Chapter Eight

Rachel awoke early on Sunday morning and came down to the stone-floored scullery to light the gas over the large iron kettle. A few minutes later Carrie walked into the room and smiled sleepily at her daughter. ‘I’ve ’ad a restless night,’ she yawned.

Rachel sat down at the table and clasped her hands in her lap. ‘Well, I reckon we’ll know terday, Mum,’ she said quietly.

Carrie sighed deeply. ‘I would fink so,’ she replied.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs and then Nellie walked into the scullery to join them.

‘Don’t tell me, Mum, yer didn’t sleep very well,’ Carrie said, a smile on her face.

Nellie tightened the wrap round her and sat down in a chair. ‘I don’t fink I got a wink o’ sleep all night, what wiv the storm an’ the news,’ she said croakily. ‘They said we’ll know terday, Gawd ’elp us.’

Rachel turned out the gas jet and poured the boiling water into the teapot. ‘Derek’s gettin’ a ship soon,’ she said, stirring the tea. ‘I’m expectin’ a letter any day now.’

‘’E’ll get leave before ’e goes, though, won’t ’e?’ Nellie asked.

‘’E’s due fer seven days’ leave, Gran.’

At that moment Joe came into the scullery scratching his tousled hair and yawning widely. ‘I couldn’t sleep a wink last night,’ he groaned, leaning against the open door.

The two younger women laughed and Carrie stood up. ‘I’d sit down if I were you,’ she said with a warm smile. ‘I’m gonna put the wireless on. There may be some news.’

Maudie, Sadie and Maisie sipped tea at the Sullivan house and Maudie had a worried look on her face. ‘I didn’t want ter say nuffink while Ernest was ’ere, but they’ve opened the crypt at the church fer a casualty clearin’ station,’ she informed them.

‘I saw the police an’ a warden comin’ out o’ that shelter late last night,’ Maisie added. ‘I ’ad ’alf a mind ter say somefink but I changed me mind. They wouldn’t tell yer nuffink anyway.’

‘The monastery, yer mean?’ Sadie said with a crooked smile on her lined face.

Maisie looked peeved. ‘I ’ope we don’t ever ’ave ter use the place,’ she said fearfully.

Maudie had decided to be brave, come what may. ‘Well, if we do ’ave to, it’ll be a lot better than sittin’ in these places. A good shakin’ an’ the ’ole lot’ll fall down round our ears.’

Sadie and Maisie exchanged glances at their friend’s unusual forthrightness. ‘I’ll put the wireless on,’ Sadie said as she got up, ‘there may be some news.’

In the back yard, Fred Dougall, Ernest Mycroft and Daniel Sullivan were discussing the war crisis. ‘They’re makin’ a big fing about these gas masks,’ Ernest said. ‘I don’t reckon they’ll ever use poison gas.’

‘They used it in the last war,’ Daniel told him.

‘Yeah, but it wasn’t used ter that extent,’ Ernest persisted. ‘I fink the Germans ended up gassin’ ’alf their own blokes, what wiv the wind changin’. Besides, they’ll get it back in double doses if they ever did use it, yer can bet yer life.’

The other two elderly men nodded in agreement and Fred pointed to the chicken coop. ‘ ’Ere, Daniel, is that a Rhode Island Red?’

Daniel shook his head. ‘It’s a bloody crossbred, if yer ask me,’ he growled. ‘I got it down Club Row. The bloke said it was a prize bird, but it ain’t bin doin’ much treadin’ wiv my lot of’ens. Four bloody eggs we got last week an’ two of ’em was only the size of a pea. I tell yer what though, the bleeder must wake the ’ole street up wiv ’is cock-a-doodlin’. My Sadie reckons she’s gonna wring its neck if it keeps on the way it is. The ovver day she said ter me, “ ’Ere, Dan, that bird’s jus’ like you, all talk an’ no do”.’

Ernest chuckled and leaned against the lavatory door. ‘I bin’avin’ a bit of a ding-dong wiv me ole woman,’ he said. ‘Well, not exactly a ding-dong but more like a difference of opinion. Yer see, she reckons we should go an’ live wiv ’er sister in Kent. She’s got the ’ouse to ’erself since ’er ole man died, an’ Maud reckons we’d be better orf out o’ Bermon’sey if the bloody balloon does go up. I told ’er I ain’t budgin’ but she can go if she wants to. Blimey, I couldn’t live wiv ’er sister. She’s a right scatty mare an’ more nervous than our Maudie. I’d be a bundle o’ nerves meself if I ’ad ter live wiv the both of ’em.’

Fred and Daniel grinned as they exchanged glances, and then they heard Sadie calling out. ‘The Prime Minister’s speakin’ at quarter past eleven.’

‘Well, we’ll soon be put out of our misery, mates,’ Daniel remarked.

In the house in Tyburn Square, George Galloway sat in the large front room overlooking the square. The sun’s rays shone down onto the faded carpet and the black-leaded grate. Mrs Duffin the housekeeper had been in that morning and left the old man a cold lunch of cheese salad and pickles. Mrs Duffin had little to say. She would whisk round the place, leaving it spotlessly clean, and then prepare a midday or evening meal as required. She lived nearby and had been a good friend of Nora Flynne, George Galloway’s previous housekeeper, and having been well versed in the likes and dislikes of the old man, she had so far managed not to antagonise him.

Now, as he sat alone in the house, George ruminated gloomily. It only seemed a short time since the last war, he thought. It had been a Sunday morning then, when the military called to tell him his elder son Geoffrey had been killed in action on the Somme.

He stood up and stamped his foot on the floor in an attempt to get the blood flowing again and then he walked over to the wireless cabinet and opened the doors. For a short while he twiddled with the knobs and then the high-pitched oscillation faded and the clear tones of a theatre organ rang out. He sat down again to await the Prime Minister, glancing at the decanter standing on the small table at his elbow. Normally he would not have a whisky until midday but this morning George decided that the situation called for an early, stiff drink.

Across the River Thames, in a quiet and leafy avenue on the edge of Ilford, Frank Galloway was reading the Sunday papers with a miserable expression on his fleshy face. He had had a bad week’s racing and owed the bookmakers a tidy sum, and to add to that his wife Bella had been ill tempered and moaning at him at the least excuse. His daughter Caroline had been very testy lately too, and he was of the opinion that she should find herself a young man and flee the nest, preferably as soon as possible.

Bella was in the bedroom, still clad in a flowered wrap and with her hair swept up into a knotted white towel. She was in her mid-forties and beginning to look every bit her age. Her once beautiful face was lined around the eyes and mouth and her complexion was marked with patches of red on her cheekbones. Her blue eyes were puffy and she wore an irritated expression. War would certainly mean the closing of all the theatres in London, she reasoned, and her agent Hymie Golding had been less than helpful in finding work for her. What was worse, Barry Herrington had not been in touch and the rumour was that he had been seeing a young starlet lately. In addition to these tribulations, Caroline had come home very late the previous evening and boldly announced that she had finished with Desmond Controy. ‘After all the hard work I’ve put in to get the two of them together,’ Bella sighed to herself. After all, Desmond was progressing well in the theatre and there was talk of his getting a film part very shortly. True, a war would slow down his career but he had a good future, and he was short-sighted, a condition which would keep him out of uniform. Caroline was stupid to end the relationship, Bella fumed.