Backstreet Child (15 page)

At closing time Billy walked back unsteadily from the Kings Arms to his empty house. In a week or two he would be going down to Gloucester to see Annie and the children but now time bore down heavily on him. He let himself into the house and went into the parlour. The fire had burned low and the room felt strangely cold. Billy looked around him, not bothering to sit down, and he sighed deeply. There was the piece of embroidery still lying on the shelf beside the armchair, and the photos of the children staring down at him from the mantelshelf. The drawn curtains looked crisp and fresh, one of the jobs his wife had done before leaving, and the grate was freshly black-leaded, another of Annie’s weekly chores which she had done early on the morning she left, before the rest of the house was stirring. In the corner by the window was Mary Jane’s old high chair, a piece of furniture that Annie would not part with, although Mary Jane had long since grown out of it.

Billy sat down heavily on the sofa and pondered what Terry Gordon had said to him that evening. ‘Yer’ve got time on yer’ands and in the evenin’s now that yer missus an’ kids are evacuated, Billy. Why don’t yer put a few nights in be’ind the bar?’ he had suggested.

Billy stared into the embers of the fire. Terry Gordon seemed a nice enough bloke, he thought, and his wife Pat was a friendly girl. The extra money would help too. He could take a few bits and pieces down to Annie and the kids on his visits, and maybe give her a few bob to help her out. Terry had been honest about the main reason behind his offer, too. There could be one or two undesirables coming into the pub and it would be Billy’s job to see that they were shown the door. Terry wanted the Kings Arms to remain what it had always been, a family pub that was trouble-free. It had all been spelt out clearly, and what he had been told about the landlord’s earlier life with the McKenzies and Dougal’s hatred for him convinced Billy that Terry’s life might well still be in jeopardy. The attack on him earlier could have been fatal, but fortune had smiled on him on that occasion.

As he sat in the quiet room, Billy thought about what Danny Tanner had told him a few days ago about the old man he met in the shelter. What the old man had said fitted with Terry’s account. Well, if there was to be any comeback from the recent fight, maybe it would be better to meet it head-on from behind the bar instead of standing at the counter with his back to the door, Billy reasoned to himself. On that thought he turned off the gas jet over the mantelshelf and took himself up to his solitary bed.

In the large gloomy house in Tyburn Square the fire burned brightly in the spacious front room. The old man sat alone into the late hours, his face flushed with the heat and the whisky he had consumed. Since early evening, after his visitor had left, he had sat there mulling over the tragic events in his life and trying to make sense of it all. Just a few hours ago the past had been suddenly resurrected and it had shocked him to the core.

George Galloway poured himself another drink with an unsteady hand and took a large draught. The whole thing had started with a telephone message which his housekeeper had taken. ‘A Mary O’Reilly would like to call round this afternoon at four. Very important,’ the scribbled note said. George had picked the message up from beside the telephone when he got home at two o’clock. There was no phone number to ring.

At four o’clock exactly Mary O’Reilly arrived and George opened the door to her. He recalled seeing the frail, ashen-faced woman standing on his doorstep and immediately feeling uneasy. There was something in the woman’s lifeiess eyes which troubled him. What could she want with him?

‘Yer’d better come in,’ he said, leading the way into his front room.

The thin woman seated herself in the chair he directed her to and removed from her handbag a bundle of letters, securely tied with a thin red ribbon.

‘I think yer should read these before I say anyfing,’ she began. ‘They’re from yer son, Geoffrey, an’ they were written ter me while ’e was in France.’

The old man looked at his visitor for a moment or two in disbelief, then without saying a word he undid the ribbon and stared down at the address on the top letter, written in what he recognised to be Geoffrey’s spidery handwriting.

‘They’re in date order,’ the visitor said quickly.

The old man read the letters, occasionally raising his eyes to glance at the frail woman facing him. He said nothing, but a shocked expression was frozen on his florid face. When he finally finished reading the dozen or so letters, he remained silent for a few moments, staring down at the last sheet of paper, while the woman sat quietly watching him and saying nothing.

Suddenly he looked up. ‘The child. Is it livin’?’ he asked quickly.

The woman nodded, a smile appearing on her ashen face.

‘A boy?’

The woman coughed into her handkerchief and then reached into her handbag, taking out a dog-eared photograph. ‘ ’Is name’s Tony an’ ’e’s twenty-one now,’ she replied. ‘That was taken when ’e was seventeen.’

George grabbed at the photograph and studied it intently for a while, trying to take in all he had just discovered. All his life the one thing he had wanted most since his two sons had grown up was a male grandchild to carry on the family name and the family business. His dearest wish had not been fulfilled, however, and he had resigned himself to the fact that the family name would die out. It had made him very sad. Now he had the letters that told him he did indeed have a grandson.

He looked up at the frail woman who had once been his dead son’s mistress. ‘Why didn’t I ever get ter meet yer?’ he asked in a gruff voice.

‘I can’t say fer sure,’ she answered, quickly taking a handkerchief from her handbag. ‘Geoffrey felt that yer never ’ad much time fer the few women ’e brought ’ome. I was married at the time as well, so that could ’ave bin why.’

‘Why did yer wait all these years before lettin’ me know I ’ad a gran’son?’ George asked sharply.

Mary O’Reilly looked him firmly in the eye. ‘Pride. Pride and anger in the beginnin’,’ she said. ‘At first I was angry at Geoff dyin’ while ’e was so young, so good an’ kind. I loved ’im an’ missed ’im. Then, when I got over the shock, I realised that I still ’ad a part o’ Geoffrey wiv me an’ I decided I’d bring the lad up ter be independent. My ’usband left me as soon as ’e found out I was carryin’ anuvver man’s child, but pride stopped me comin’ ter you fer ’elp. Besides, I didn’t know what yer reaction would be. I wasn’t ter know yer’d take kindly ter bein’ the gran’farvver of a bastard child. Fings are different now though. Tony’s bin called up fer the army. ’E might get killed wivout knowin’ the identity of ’is real farvver.’

‘Yer mean yer never told the lad about my son bein’ ’is farvver?’ Galloway asked angrily.

Mary’s eyes were watering as she tried to suppress her racking cough, and when she had composed herself she looked the old man squarely in the eye. ‘I did tell Tony what ’is real farvver was like, an’ ’ow much I loved ’im, when the boy was very young,’ she replied. ‘’E’d seen yer son’s name on the birth certificate as bein’ the farvver, but I never told ’im that ’is farvver was the son of George Galloway the local cartage contractor. After all, yer not the only Galloway. Besides, I’d met a good man when Tony was a few months old. ’E treated the lad as ’e would ’ave done ’is own. ’E was killed in the docks when Tony was eighteen months old.’

George Galloway nodded. ‘I see,’ he said slowly. ‘Well, I want ter meet ’im, yer understand? I’m the boy’s gran’farvver an nobody can take that away from me. I loved Geoffrey dearly, despite what yer might fink, an’ I want Geoff’s son ter get ’is dues.’

The woman dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her handkerchief. ‘There’s anuvver reason fer me comin’ ter see yer after all this time,’ she said quietly.

‘Oh, an’ what’s that?’ George asked.

‘I’m sufferin’ from consumption,’ she replied without emotion. ‘I dunno ’ow long I’ve got. I wanna see my boy comfortable an’ provided for. ’E’s all I’ve got, an’ I love ’im like yer loved your son.’

The old man stood up, his hard-heartedness softened by what he had heard. ‘I’d like ter give yer somefink,’ he said, turning away and going to the huge sideboard at one end of the room.

‘There’s no need, I can manage very well, fankin’ yer,’ she replied.

George opened a drawer and took out a folded wallet from which he withdrew two five-pound notes. ‘Take this,’ he said brusquely, waving away her protests. ‘Yer should get somefink to ease that cough. Brandy’s good.’

‘Well, if yer insist,’ she said, placing the money in her handbag.

‘When can I see the boy, my gran’son?’ he asked, trying to control the urgency in his voice.

‘I’ll get Tony ter come an’ see yer as soon as ’e gets leave,’ she told him. ‘I’ve got yer phone number. I’ll get ’im ter ring first.’

George showed Mary O’Reilly to the front door and stood watching while she walked slowly from the square, his mind still reeling.

The fire was dying now and George sat listening to the wind rustling the tall plane trees outside. For the hundredth time he cast his eyes on the bundle of letters lying on the small table at his elbow and he thought about the woman who had visited him and sat facing him in that room. His face was expressionless as he undid the thin red ribbon and once again read the contents. He picked up the one crucial letter that he had separated from the rest and held it in his gnarled hands, feeling its texture and trying to imagine how Geoffrey must have felt when he sealed that same letter shortly before he had been killed. It was sad that he never got the chance to see the boy. The lad had developed into a strapping young man, going by the photograph he had been shown. He did not seem to resemble Geoffrey to any large degree, but there was a similar bearing and colouring. Why had Geoffrey not brought his lady friend home before he went to war? George wondered. Would he have been so frightened of his own father? After all, he had stood up for himself at other times. He had intended to tell him, according to the letter, but he had not been given the chance.

Suddenly the hard old man collapsed into his leather-bound armchair and buried his head in his hands, sobbing like a child.

The room grew cold and dark. After a long time George stood up and composed himself, brushing a hand across his eyes as he poured another stiff drink. Soon he would meet Geoffrey’s son, his own grandson, for the first time. There was much to be done.

Chapter Ten

On a Monday afternoon in early October Carrie stood with Joe at the yard gate in Salmon Lane and watched her daughter walking away down the street on the arm of Ordinary Seaman Derek Bamford. The young serviceman carried a suitcase and Rachel held a small zip-up bag as they hurried along to the tram stop.

‘Young Rachel looks smart, doesn’t she?’ Carrie remarked. ‘I thought the lad’s lost a bit o’ weight though.’

‘So would you wiv the trainin’ they get,’ Joe said grinning, putting his arm round her shoulders.

‘I ’ope I’ve done the right fing allowin’ ’em ter go off like that,’ Carrie said with a sigh.

‘People are gonna talk anyway,’ Joe reminded her. ‘One day yer might be glad yer did agree.’

Carrie gave him a quizzical look. ‘What d’yer mean, Joe?’ she asked.

He merely shook his head. ‘Jus’ finkin’,’ he replied quietly.

At the end of the turning Rachel and Derek stopped to wave to them and then disappeared round the corner. Carrie sighed deeply and stepped back into the yard, and as Joe followed her she turned to give him a quick peck on the cheek.

‘What’s that for?’ he asked grinning.

‘Oh, jus’ fer luck,’ she replied.

At London Bridge the young lovers waited for their train to Brighton, both feeling happy and excited at the prospect of a whole week together. Servicemen and women stood around in large numbers and pairs of military policemen stalked the platforms, their eyes staring out mean and moody beneath stiff-peaked caps. Mothers with children, office workers and labourers waited alongside each other on the draughty platforms, looking tired and resigned. Bored porters pushed large laden barrows and station guards looking very important strutted along the platforms with green flags tucked under their arms.

An old lady walked onto the platform and put her small suitcase down near the two lovers. ‘Is this the Brighton train?’ she asked Derek.

He nodded. ‘It’ll be comin’ in in a few minutes,’ he told her.

The old lady smiled her thanks and arched her aching back. ‘It’s some time since I’ve bin ter Brighton,’ she told Derek.