Backstreet Child (2 page)

‘Well, I ain’t gonna put the gas masks on me bleedin’ feet,’ Granny Phillips told him in no uncertain terms.

‘What I’m sayin’ is, one sniff o’ mustard gas an’ yer done for,’ Nobby persisted. ‘Yer ain’t gonna ’ave time ter put the bloody mask on.’

‘Oi, you,’ a voice piped up. ‘Why don’t yer stop frightenin’’er. Piss orf an’ frighten somebody else.’

Nobby turned to the wizened figure of Jack Whitmore, a pensioner who had been making eyes at Granny Phillips for the past hour. ‘Shut yer noise, you,’ he countered. ‘What d’you know about such fings? What I’m sayin’ to ’er is, that there mustard gas is terrible stuff. A lot o’ people don’t know anyfing about it.’

‘Well, I was in the trenches an’ I do,’ Jack replied, his eyes bulging with temper.

‘Yeah, but she’s never bin in the trenches,’ Nobby went on, slurring and blinking in an effort to keep his eyes focused on his adversary. ‘The silly ole cow ain’t bin nowhere.’

The diminutive pensioner had heard enough and he staggered to his feet. ‘I’ve a good mind ter smack yer in the chops,’ he said, his voice rising.

‘Yeah? You an’ whose army?’ Nobby goaded him.

Alec had been watching the confrontation. He lifted the counter flap with a sigh and walked over to the tables. ‘Look, Nobby, I’ve ’ad me fill o’ you. Now c’mon, out yer go,’ he said firmly, hands on hips as he jerked his head in the direction of the door.

Nobby could see that it was useless to argue and as he attempted to reach for the dregs of his ale, Alec took hold of his arm and propelled him to the door. Jack Whitmore meanwhile had taken his seat once more and he smiled in Granny Phillips’ direction, only to be given a blinding look.

The pianist had returned and as his hands moved quickly over the keys some of the customers began singing loudly. Billy Sullivan finished his pint and turned to Danny. ‘I’ll get this one,’ he said. ‘Same again?’

With their glasses refilled, the two men spoke of their own fears of a likely war, raising their voices to be heard against the din.

‘Me an’ Annie ’ave bin talkin’ about what we’re gonna do wiv the kids if the worst should come,’ Billy said. ‘She reckons we should get ’em evacuated.’

Danny stared down at his drink. ‘I dunno what we’re gonna do,’ he replied. ‘Ter be ’onest I’d sooner keep ’em ’ere. Iris feels the same way, though we ain’t decided fer sure yet. Trouble is, Billy, if war breaks out, this area’s gonna be a target, make no mistake about it. They’re bound ter go fer the docks an’ wharves, as well as the railways an’ factories. It could get really nasty. We’ll just ’ave ter wait an’ see.’

Billy nodded and took a swig from his glass. ‘’Ow’s your Carrie doin’?’ he asked after a while. ‘I ain’t seen much of ’er lately.’

‘She’s a different woman now,’ Danny replied. ‘Joe’s ’elpin’er wiv the business an’ she told me ’e ain’t touched a drop since ’e’s bin back. Young Rachel’s pleased as punch. After all, it was ’er doin’ they got back tergevver.’

‘Yeah, she’s a smart kid,’ Billy remarked. ‘She’s growin’ up fast too. I see ’er the ovver day, spittin’ image of ’er muvver when she was ’er age.’

Danny afforded himself a smile. ‘Rachel’s talkin’ about joinin’ up if there is a war,’ he said. ‘Carrie’s worried over ’er. She knows very well she wouldn’t be able ter put ’er off. The girl’s too strong-willed. Like the rest o’ the family I s’pose.’

‘Ain’t you gonna try an’ talk ’er out of it, Danny?’ Billy asked. ‘After all, you are ’er favourite uncle.’

‘Not me,’ Danny replied. ‘Young Rachel wouldn’t listen ter me or anybody else fer that matter if ’er mind’s made up.’

The singing grew steadily louder as the evening wore on and the fears of a probable war were forgotten for a little while by the Kings Arms’ customers as the pints of ale flowed. The fact that Alec Crossley was remaining quite sober on their last night in the pub did not go unnoticed by his wife Grace, and she could see that, like her, he was saddened about leaving the noisy metropolis for the comparative peace and quiet of the country. Grace had been flitting between the two bars talking to old friends and exchanging reminiscences, and she knew how sorely they would miss all the old locals.

‘Are you all right, luv?’ she asked Alec during a brief lull in the busy evening.

‘Yeah, I can’t fancy a drink ternight,’ Alec replied quietly. ‘I know it sounds stupid, but I feel sort o’ guilty.’

‘Whatever for?’ Grace asked, her eyebrows raised in puzzlement.

‘I dunno, really,’ he answered. ‘I feel like we’re runnin’ away at a bad time. I can foresee a terrible time fer this area an’ the poor sods who live around ’ere. I keep gettin’ this feelin’ we’re desertin’ ’em.’

Grace squeezed his hand fondly. ‘Now listen ter me, Alec,’ she began. ‘Ever since we’ve bin in this pub both of us ’ave tried ter be good listeners when it’s bin required of us. We’ve ’elped people when an’ where we could, an’ we’ve earned respect from the folk round ’ere. We can leave this pub termorrer mornin’ wiv our ’eads ’eld ’igh. Now pour yerself a stiff drink. Yer know yer get all mean an’ ’orrible when yer go wivout one.’

Sunday evening was quiet for Carrie Bradley. She had finished going over the weekly accounts of her transport business and she leaned back in her comfortable armchair. The fire was burning brightly and the warmth had spread throughout the small parlour. Opposite her, Joe Maitland dozed, his head to one side and his arms folded over his broad chest. The wireless was turned off and only the sound of Joe’s light snoring broke the silence. Her mother would be back from evening service at St James’s Church soon and then she would get Joe to lock the front gate for the night.

The Tanner family’s house in Salmon Lane was situated inside the transport yard which stood halfway along the street, wedged between a row of little houses on the left-hand side when looking down from the Jamaica Road. The houses leading on from the yard ended at a pickle factory, and facing them was an unbroken row of identical houses which reached along to a large warehouse. At the end of the turning a narrow walkway, bounded by a four-foot-high wall, ran past between the factory and warehouse and the swift-flowing River Thames. At high tide the water rose over the old banking and thick stanchions and lapped against the base of the wall, and when there was an exceptionally high tide the river threatened to flow over into the street.

Salmon Lane was one of the many little turnings which led off from the wide, busy Jamaica Road, and there had been a transport business sited there as long as anyone cared to remember. Carrie had bought the horse transport firm from a George Buckman after selling her transport cafe in Cotton Lane. With the business had come a couple of lucrative contracts with local firms, and Carrie had worked hard and successfully to build up the concern and win further contracts, despite the general opinion that a woman would never succeed in the fiercely competitive transport business. She was now held in high regard by all who knew her and she had earned the grudging respect of her business rivals, including the Galloways, father and son, who had played such a fateful role in the Tanner family’s fortunes over the years.

Carrie had called the business ‘Bradley’s Cartage Contractors’. It was her married name, and she had purchased the firm at a time when her husband Fred was very ill. He had known that he was not going to get better and he had given her his blessing in his own way, hoping that it would provide for her future in a way that their cafe business never could. Fred had been ten years older than she was and although she had never loved him in the way she now loved Joe Maitland, she had been a dutiful and caring wife until the day he passed away.

Inside the yard, the Tanners’ house stood on the right, and opposite was a small office and a stable for twelve horses. The carts were stored in a large shed adjoining the house and the four Leyland lorries that Carrie had recently acquired were parked in the yard itself. The house was well maintained and neatly furnished. The upstairs bedrooms were occupied by Carrie’s mother Nellie, who slept in the back bedroom, and Carrie’s daughter Rachel, who had the bedroom overlooking the yard. Carrie and Joe slept in the downstairs bedroom which led off from the end of the passageway. Since her father had died, Carrie had seen the gradual change in her mother and she worried for her. Nellie Tanner had lately become a regular attender at the local church, and in her daylight hours, if she was not visiting her old friends in nearby Page Street, she tended to spend much time shut away in her bedroom, usually sitting by the window which looked down onto the back yards of neighbouring houses and the pickle factory yard.

The years had been kind to Carrie. Her face was unlined and her pale blue eyes were bright and clear. Her fair hair reached down to the middle of her slim back, when it was not piled high on her head like it was now, and her figure was still shapely and slim. As she sat in front of the glowing fire, Carrie watched Joe’s handsome face twitching as he slept and she sighed contentedly. He had been her lover since the physical side of her marriage had ended.

Joe Maitland had once owned a thriving buying and selling business, until he fell foul of a powerful enterprise that not only put him out of business but got him sent to prison as well, where he spent five years. As she gazed at the sleeping figure facing her, Carrie remembered the time when he stood at the front door, looking gaunt and tired on his return from prison. He had stayed with her at first as a paying lodger, but there had been too much darkness inside him, and she remembered with a shudder the day he walked out of the house and out of her life.

Joe was stirring now, baring his even white teeth as he yawned, his dark, greying hair tousled. Carrie got up quickly and went to the scullery. She found it hard not to be a little frightened every time Joe woke up from an evening or afternoon nap. When he had been drinking to excess, those moments of waking had filled her with dread. He would be snappy and hard to talk to, and one day, when the drink had almost pickled his liver, he had raised his hand to her. That was when he had walked out on her.

As she waited for the kettle to boil, Carrie bit on her lip. How close she had come to losing him for ever, she thought. He was the only man she had really loved, and who had loved her with an all-consuming passion. She loved him still, and he loved her, but now their love was different. It had grown from the desolate wreck of their earlier relationship, and they were each determined to hold on to what they now had together.

Joe grinned drowsily as he took the cup of tea from Carrie. ‘What’s the time, luv? ’Ave I bin asleep long?’ he asked.

‘Not long,’ she replied, glancing up at the clock.

Joe followed her eyes. ‘Christ! I’ve slept fer hours,’ he said, stifling a yawn.

Carrie sipped her tea. ‘I’ve just finished the books,’ she told him. ‘You was in a good sleep so I left yer.’

‘Is yer mum back yet?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘I’m gettin’ a bit worried. She should’ve bin ’ome by now,’ she replied.

‘Shall I slip out an’ see if I can see ’er?’ he asked.

Carrie looked up at the mantelshelf clock once more. ‘Let’s give it a few more minutes,’ she said. ‘She might’ve called in ter see one of ’er ole friends. She’s done it before.’

Joe went out to the scullery where he splashed cold water over his face, dabbing it dry on a clean white towel. The desire to take a drink tormented him only rarely now but occasionally he found a sudden urge assailing him, and he threw icy water on his face and neck in an effort to shock it out of him. He stood in the cold, stone-floored room at the back of the house and looked through the window at the rising moon, half hidden behind a chimneypot. He wondered whether he would ever be totally free of the urge to swallow a strong drink and let it ease the feeling of want which had invaded his stomach. He dare not succumb to the desire, he knew that only too well. He owed it to Carrie, who had taken him back and given him her love once more, and to young Rachel, who had sought him out from the dark debris of humanity and led him unashamedly into the light once more.

Joe gritted his teeth as he recalled those terrible days and nights he had shared with the tragic figures who lived and worked in the fish market beside the river. Drink-sodden, cold and hungry, he had wandered aimlessly through the dark cobbled lane one evening and found himself on Tower Hill, and there he stood listening to a preacher who was addressing a small gathering. Joe remembered how he had looked down at his raw, shaking hand when the preacher ranted, ‘If thy right hand offends thee cut it off.’ He had wanted to do just that, but he had known full well that he would cheerfully sip from the gutter, had the liquid he craved flowed there – anything to sate the agonising pain he felt then in his stomach. Now, as he stood alone in the scullery, Joe looked down at his hand and turned it over slowly. He still carried the corns and scars from pulling the fish barrows up the steep lanes but his hand did not shake any more. He could remember well the rasping pain in his chest as his breath came in gasps at the top of the wet and slimy cobbled hill, and how the drivers of the horse-carts and lorries shouted abuse at him and the rest of the up-the-hill men as they struggled with the laden barrows.

Joe smiled to himself and took comfort. Just a few short months ago the shake had been marked. He knew that he was winning the long fight and nothing would make him slip back into that dark abyss of degradation and despair.

‘Joe?’

He turned quickly, startled by Carrie’s voice, and saw her framed in the doorway. She moved towards him and he encircled her with his strong arms.