Backstreet Child (30 page)

Carrie looked at Danny pleadingly and her brother stood up. ‘I’ll go back ’ome an’ then I’ll pop in later,’ he said. ‘Somefink must ’ave ’appened ter bring Annie back ter London.’

The Sullivans’ parlour was clean and tidy and the hearth had been black-leaded. The fire was laid and in one corner a pile of fresh washing was folded ready for ironing. Billy sat facing Annie, his body arched forward in the easy chair as he stared down at the note she had handed him. Annie gazed down at her clasped hands as she waited for his reaction, fearing that he would be unable to deny what had been written on the lined sheet of notepaper. Her heart was heavy to breaking and the sickness in the pit of her stomach felt like it would be there for ever.

Billy looked up at her, his eyes cold and menacing. ‘If I ever find out who wrote this letter I’ll choke the life out of ’em,’ he grated.

Annie held his gaze, tears filling her eyes. ‘You’ve not denied it, Billy,’ she replied, her voice faltering. ‘Tell me it’s not true.’

He stood up, fighting to control the anger that threatened to overwhelm him. ‘Do I need to?’ he said in a loud voice.

‘Yes, you do,’ Annie cried. ‘I need you to tell me the truth, Billy. You’ve already lied to me once. You told me you’d packed up the job, and now you’ve admitted that you’re still working at the pub. Then I get this letter. What am I to believe?’

Billy reached out for her but she backed away. ‘Tell me! I need to know!’ she shouted at him.

He sat back down in his chair and drew breath, upset by Annie’s reaction. ‘Look, luv, I know I told yer I’d packed the job up, but it was ter stop yer worryin’,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m gonna pack it in soon anyway. Terry asked me ter stop on fer a few weeks more jus’ fer Patricia’s sake. They’re plannin’ ter leave the pub as soon as they can.’

‘But what about that letter?’ Annie asked, her eyes widening. ‘It says you’re having an affair with Patricia.’

‘It’s not true,’ Billy said with feeling. ‘It’s just a poison-pen letter written by somebody who don’t even ’ave the guts ter put their name to it. All right, I’ve waited be’ind in the pub until Terry came in, but it was never more than ’alf an hour or so. I don’t even do that now, since I said I was gonna pack up. Surely yer don’t believe that evil rubbish, do yer?’ he asked, glaring at her.

Annie looked down at her hands and then her eyes came up to meet his again. ‘When I got that letter yesterday I was sick, physically sick,’ she began. ‘I lay awake all night thinking about it, wondering about you, wondering about us and the life we’ve made together. I didn’t believe it could be true about Patricia and you, but being so far away from you, not being able to talk to you, got to me. I could see all sorts of things happening in my mind. Why should I feel that way? Why didn’t I just burn that evil letter and cast the whole thing from my mind?’

Billy sighed and leaned back in the chair, putting his hand up to his forehead. ‘Look, I’ve never lied ter yer, Annie,’ he said slowly. ‘What I’m tellin’ yer now is the trufe, or may I be struck down fer lyin’. When you an’ the kids left fer Gloucester I felt more lonely than I’ve ever done in me ’ole life. I used ter pace the floor when I got ’ome in the evenin’s. I missed the kids’ laughter and chatter. I missed us all sittin’ around the table at mealtimes, an’ I missed the warmth of yer beside me in bed at nights. Danny an’ Iris made me feel comfortable in their ’ome when I visited ’em, an’ they’ve bin really good ter me, but it’s not the same. I still ’ad ter come ’ome ter the silence, the loneliness o’ this place wivout yer. That barman’s job Terry offered me ’elped a bit. I could talk ter people, be amongst old friends. Patricia felt more safe wiv me bein’ there while Terry was out and she chatted wiv me when it was quiet. We got on well an’ she went as far as sayin’ that ’er an’ Terry weren’t all that ’appy tergevver. I could ’ave picked up on that an’ asked ’er out, if I’d wanted to, but I told ’er I was ’appily married an’ would never do anyfing be’ind yer back.’

‘You mean she tried to get you into her bed?’ Annie asked.

‘Yes, she tried,’ Billy replied, looking her squarely in the eye. ‘But there was nuffink out of order, nuffink fer you ter worry about, an’ that’s the trufe, so ’elp me Gawd.’

For a few moments Annie stared at him and then she looked down at the letter still held in his clenched fist. ‘Give me that,’ she said firmly.

Billy held out his hand and Annie snatched the note from him and tore it up into little pieces. ‘That’s the last time we will ever talk about this,’ she said, dropping the bits of paper into the hearth and touching them with a lighted match. ‘I’m tired an’ I’ve got to catch the early train back tomorrow. I want you to come to bed now. I want you to hold me in your arms and make me feel good. I want you to love me, Billy.’

He stood up and reached for her, his arms encircling her, his cheek against her soft dark hair. ‘There could never be anyone but you, darlin’,’ he whispered. ‘I love you and the kids more than life itself. Nuffink could ever come between us.’

Annie gave a long, deep sigh and nestled to him. She could feel his hands gently stroking her back and his lips nuzzling at her ear. ‘I love you, Billy Sullivan,’ she whispered.

The light tap on the front door made them both start and Billy chuckled as he released her. ‘I’ll bet that’s Danny,’ he said.

In the Salter household a delicate matter of the heart was uppermost in the three young women’s minds as they sat together one evening in early May.

‘Well, as far as I’m concerned, Brenda Massey ain’t right fer Dad,’ Barbara announced.

‘I agree,’ Brenda said. ‘There’s the difference in ages fer a start. Bloody ’ell, ’e’s twenty years ’er senior.’

‘I don’t see as that matters too much,’ Lily cut in. ‘Dad don’t look ’is age an’ that Brenda looks all of ’ers. Besides they seem’appy tergevver. At least Dad is.’

‘She’s also a married women, Lily,’ Barbara added.

‘Brenda Massey told me that she’s separated from ’im, an’’as bin fer years,’ Lily replied, working away at her fingernail with the edge of a matchbox.

‘Well, I don’t feel too ’appy about it,’ Barbara went on. ‘People are bound ter talk.’

‘Sod the lot of ’em,’ Lily said sharply. ‘It’s no business o’ theirs anyway.’

Brenda sighed. ‘I know we all wanted Dad ter find somebody nice but I fink ’e’s in fer a disappointment wiv that one,’ she said, snatching the matchbox away from Lily.

‘What d’yer do that for?’ Lily grumbled.

‘ ’Cos yer could poison yerself doin’ that. Besides, it’s irritatin’,’ Brenda told her.

The sound of the street door opening and closing was followed by a cheerful humming and then Maurice walked breezily into the room. He was carrying a large bunch of flowers wrapped in soggy newspaper and he laid them down on the table. ‘I got away early ternight,’ he announced. ‘What’s fer tea?’

‘There’s some brawn in the cupboard, Dad, or there’s a bit o’ cheese left. Mind it ain’t gone mouldy though,’ Barbara told him.

‘Fanks fer the flowers, Dad,’ Lily called out as he went into the scullery to wash his hands.

Maurice darted back into the room. ‘Those are Brenda’s,’ he said quickly.

‘Fanks, Dad,’ Brenda said, smiling sweetly at him.

‘Not you, my Brenda,’ Maurice said, rolling his sleeves up higher on his thick arms.

‘I always thought I was your Brenda,’ his daughter said, feigning disappointment.

‘Look, I ain’t got time ter muck about,’ he chided her. ‘I’ve got ter get ready. Me an’ Brenda are goin’ out ternight. It’s ’er birfday an’ we’re ’avin’ a meal out, an’ then we’re goin’ ter the pictures.’

‘Shall I put ’em in water?’ Lily asked him.

‘Nah, they’re wet enough,’ Maurice said as he walked out of the room.

‘They’re not all that’s wet,’ Barbara mumbled to her elder sister.

‘Don’t be ’orrible,’ Lily growled at her. ‘As long as ’e’s’appy.’

‘I really don’t know why dad bovvered ter buy ’er them flowers,’ Brenda said. ‘Granny Massey’ll chuck ’em out soon as’is back’s turned. She’s a bloody ole witch.’

‘’E bought Brenda those flowers because ’e’s a romantic. I wish I ’ad a feller that would buy me flowers,’ Lily replied with a deep sigh.

Barbara sniffed the air once or twice. ‘’Ere, what’s that funny smell?’ she asked.

Brenda pulled a face. ‘It smells like drains.’

‘No, it’s more like sulphur,’ Lily said.

Brenda leaned down and sniffed at the paper covering the flowers. ‘It’s that,’ she announced.

‘’Ere, dad, where ’ave these flowers bin?’ Lily called out to him.

‘Why’s that?’ Maurice called back from the scullery.

‘’Cos they stink, that’s why,’ Lily told him.

Maurice came back into the room, his face covered with shaving foam. ‘It’s all right. I got ’em durin’ me dinner break an’ one o’ the lads put ’em in water fer me,’ he said smiling.

‘Well, yer better ’urry up an’ get ’em round ter Brenda,’ Barbara told him. ‘They’re wiltin’.’

Maurice pulled the newspaper to one side and puffed angrily. ‘I’ll murder that Jackson. ’E’s put ’em in the sulphur tank, the bloody idiot.’

The girls laughed aloud and Lily picked up the flowers. ‘I’ll rinse ’em off an’ rewrap ’em,’ she said helpfully.

Maurice finally left the house looking very spruce. He had on his best suit, a blue, double-breasted pinstripe, and he wore a white shirt with a navy-blue tie. His shoes were polished and his thick greying hair had been well groomed and layered with brilliantine. He carried the bunch of flowers wrapped in white paper which Lily had found in the scullery. She had folded the paper over the top of the flowers and sealed it with a small safety-pin.

Maurice had not dared to tell his daughters that the flowers were not for Brenda. He had decided to buy them for Granny Massey as a peace offering, but he doubted whether it would make any difference to how the old girl felt about him. She had become a bane to his courting of Brenda and had openly told him that he was not the right sort of person for her daughter. The old lady had taken to calling out from her bedroom whenever he and Brenda settled down in the lounge for a little kiss and cuddle and Maurice felt that he would have to win her over somehow if he was ever going to make real progress with Brenda.

The evening was warm and sultry as Maurice knocked on the Massey front door, observed by Maisie and Sadie who were talking together.

‘Nice evening,’ he called out, and was rewarded by a smile and a nod from Maisie, and a scowl from Sadie.

Brenda opened the front door and gave Maurice a sweet smile as she took the flowers from him, then she caught sight of the two onlookers and flashed them a forced grin.

‘They’re fer yer mum,’ Maurice told her.

Rachel Bradley leaned back against the cushion and idly watched the passing countryside as the train puffed towards Euston Station. The other occupants of the carriage, two elderly gentlemen and a young soldier in the Royal Armoured Corps, were nodding off to sleep and she stretched out her legs. It was good to be finished with the training camp, she thought. If she was lucky she would be posted to a fighter or a bomber station. It would be much better than being sent to one of those supply camps she had heard about, where nothing ever happened to break the monotony. Maybe her training as a telephonist would be useful at a fighter station. She would just have to hope for the best.

The young soldier’s head slipped sideways and he woke with a start. He smiled sheepishly at her and closed his eyes again. Rachel returned her gaze to the greenery beyond the window, trying to get a clear picture in her mind of Derek. It was strange, she reflected. Since his death in action, and until she enlisted, she had been able to see him clearly in her mind, but now the memory of his handsome features was beginning to fade and the image in her head was misty. Maybe it was a turning point, she thought. Perhaps her decision to enlist had been the right one, despite her fears to the contrary during the first few weeks of training. She had missed her mother and Joe, and Uncle Danny and Aunt Iris, and even the carmen, who always had a smile and a few words for her. She had often buried her head beneath the itchy blankets and cried silently into her pillow with loneliness and sadness over her loss. The mornings had forced her to forget herself though. From just after dawn when reveille sounded the recruits were kept on the go, from the dining hall to the parade ground, the lecture room to the gymnasium. All through the day loud voices barked, cajoled, screeched and bullied as the recruits were turned from diverse individuals into an efficient working unit.

The train was passing the outskirts of London now and houses with back gardens took the place of rolling fields and wooded hills. The soldier was stirring, along with the elderly gents, and Rachel glanced at him. He was about her age, she thought. He had dark hair cut very short, with a shadow of stubble running round his square chin. He looked tall sitting slumped in his seat, and his thick neck and wrists gave her an impression of strength.

It was not long before the train was puffing into the centre of London. Buildings rose up on either side, and the familiar grime and bustle of the metropolis made Rachel feel that she was really coming home.

She stepped down from the stationary train and walked briskly from the platform, carrying her service gas mask and steel helmet slung over her shoulder. The soldier who had shared her carriage was a little way in front and Rachel noticed the confident swagger of his broad shoulders. She had been wrong about his height though, she realised. He was just an inch or so taller than she was.