Backstreet Child (33 page)

‘They’ve invaded ’Olland an’ Belgium,’ Fred announced as he reached them.

‘Who ’as?’ Maisie asked.

‘Well, it’s not us, yer silly mare,’ Fred said sharply.

The two women stared at the headlines. ‘Gawd! It looks bad,’ Sadie remarked.

‘It’s all gonna blow up now, mark my words,’ Fred told them. ‘They’re gonna put the ARP an’ civil defence services on the alert.’

‘Does that mean we’re gonna be invaded too?’ Maisie asked him.

‘Course it don’t,’ Fred said quickly, trying to reassure the frightened-looking pair.

Maudie hurried up to the group. ‘It’s jus’ come over the wireless,’ she said excitedly. ‘The Dutch ’ave opened the floodgates. They’re floodin’ the ’ole country.’

‘What they doin’ that for?’ Maisie asked.

‘Ter stop the Germans,’ Fred replied.

Maisie and Sadie exchanged puzzled glances while Fred walked into the house to hear the rest of the news. Maudie looked worried, her eyes going from one to the other of her old friends, hoping for some comment from them that would make her feel easier, but the two merely stared down the turning as though waiting for the hordes to appear.

‘I jus’ bin talkin’ ter that man at the fruit stall,’ Maudie said. ‘’E made me go cold all over wiv what ’e said.’

‘What did ’e say?’ Sadie asked, hardly interested.

Maudie pulled a face. ‘’E said that if the Germans got ’ere,’e’d cut all ’is children’s froats sooner than let them get ’em.’

‘’E should be locked up fer sayin’ such fings,’ Maisie growled.

‘Yer don’t fink we’ll be invaded, do yer?’ Maudie asked them, her eyes flitting nervously from one to the other.

‘Course not, yer silly cow,’ Sadie replied quickly. ‘Not jus’ yet anyway.’

Maudie picked up her shopping bag. ‘I’m gonna ’ave anuvver word wiv my sister an’ see if me an’ Ernest can go an’ stay wiv ’er,’ she mumbled. ‘I fink we’ll be better orf away from London.’

‘Where’s she live?’ Maisie asked.

‘Pratt’s Bottom.’

‘Never ’eard of it.’

‘It’s in Kent.’

‘Yer might be all right there,’ Sadie cut in. ‘I don’t s’pose the Germans ’ave ’eard of it eivver. They might give it a miss if they do invade.’

Maudie walked away mumbling to herself and her two friends exchanged grins. ‘I do feel sorry fer ’er sometimes,’ Maisie remarked.

‘I do too, the silly ole cow,’ Sadie replied.

Joe Maitland locked up the yard gate and went into the house just in time to hear the news. ‘It looks bad,’ he said.

Carrie sat back in her armchair and stared into the empty grate with a serious look on her face. ‘There’s bin no letter from Rachel,’ she said. ‘I’m gettin’ worried.’

Joe turned down the wireless and sat down facing Carrie. ‘I shouldn’t worry too much, luv,’ he said quietly. ‘She did say she was gonna be posted. It’ll take ’er a time ter get settled. Yer can’t expect ’er ter write too often.’

Carrie shrugged her shoulders. ‘I dunno what ter fink,’ she sighed.

Nellie walked into the parlour and Joe got up to give her his chair. ‘I’ll make us a nice cuppa,’ he said.

‘That’s Joe’s answer to everyfing,’ Carrie smiled at her mother.

Nellie took her seat and reached down for her needlework. ‘I’m gonna go round an’ see our Danny an’ Iris later,’ she announced. ‘The way fings are goin’, those kids o’ theirs should be evacuated.’

‘They’ll ’ave ter make their own minds up, Mum. Yer can’t interfere,’ Carrie replied, sounding a little sharp.

Nellie looked sternly at her daughter over her steel-rimmed spectacles. ‘Well, I fink they should ’urry up an’ make their minds up,’ she said. ‘If yer farvver was ’ere ’e’d ’ave somefink ter say about it.’

Carrie felt disinclined to continue the conversation, considering her mother’s mood, and she settled down to read the evening paper.

‘I dreamed about yer bruvver Charlie last night,’ Nellie said suddenly. ‘ ’E was standin’ in this field an’ there was all people around ’im. I waved to ’im but ’e just ignored me. It was the first time fer ages I’ve dreamed about ’im. Last time I did there was a letter from ’im a week later.’

‘P’haps yer’ll get a letter soon, Mum,’ Carrie said encouragingly.

Nellie put down her embroidery and reached for her handbag which was lying at her feet, rummaging inside it until she found the dog-eared photograph of her middle son. ‘ ’E looks thin in that picture,’ she remarked. ‘Mind you, it must take the weight off yer in that sort o’ climate. In ’is last letter ’e promised ter send some new photos of Lorna an’ the children. They must be gettin’ big now.’

Carrie looked up from the paper and saw that familiar wistful look on her mother’s lined face. She had often said that she never expected to live long enough to see her son again and she could well be right, Carrie thought. The war looked as though it would drag on for years and her mother was getting exceedingly frail.

Joe came into the room carrying cups of tea, and as Nellie sipped hers noisily, her eyes stared ahead, her mind going back through the years. Charlie was leaving for India and there was so much she wanted to tell him, so much to say, but the lump in her throat had choked the words and the tears had misted her last look at him. She remembered his heavy tread down the old wooden stairs of the tenement block, and she remembered in her misery cursing the very name of the man who had been the cause of his leaving.

Billy Sullivan had been true to his word and no longer worked at the Kings Arms. Terry had asked him to remain for a little longer but Billy was adamant. The parting was amicable and Billy still used the pub, along with his old friend Danny Tanner. On a warm Friday evening at the end of May, they were sitting together in the public bar discussing the latest bad news.

‘They’ve got fousands out already an’ accordin’ ter the paper they reckon they’ll get most of ’em ’ome,’ Billy said, sipping his pint.

Danny nodded. ‘I was lookin’ at the map o’ Dunkirk in terday’s paper,’ he remarked. ‘It’s not far from some of our ole battlefields.’

Billy nodded. ‘Once France falls, they’ll be facin’ us over a very narrer strip o’ water, Danny,’ he said raising his eyebrows.

‘Me an’ Iris ’ave decided about the kids,’ Danny said, picking up his pint.

‘Are yer sendin’ ’em off?’ Billy asked.

‘No, we’ve decided against it,’ Danny told him. ‘We give it a lot o’ thought an’ we came ter the conclusion that we’ll keep ’em wiv us. Iris can’t bear ter be parted from ’em an’ she said that if anyfing ’appens to us then we’ll all go tergevver.’

Billy nodded slowly, ‘Yer know, that was the way I saw it,’ he replied. ‘It was different wiv me an’ Annie though. She got the chance ter work at that ’ome and she’s still wiv the kids. I don’t fink she could bear ter be parted from ’em eivver. I know I miss’em all somefing terrible.’

Danny drained his glass and stood up. ‘Same again?’

Glasses refilled, the two sat in silence. Now in their middle years, the two old friends could sit together, comfortable and pensive, without the need to make undue conversation.

The beer dwindling, Danny looked across at his friend. ‘Let’s’ave a stroll down ter the gym,’ he suggested.

Billy nodded, and after they had drained their glasses the two left the pub and set off along the quiet Jamaica Road.

The evening was balmy, with birds chattering noisily in the tall plane trees that stood back from the road. Above them the evening sky was turning red and gold, and smells of spice and fruit drifted from the nearby wharves. Billy walked with his usual pronounced stoop, his shoulders rolling, while Danny walked upright, his head held high.

‘Yer know, I sometimes wonder why I bovver ter go in that pub again, after the poison-pen letter Annie got,’ Billy told his mate.

‘If yer’d stopped out o’ there, whoever sent it would ’ave beat yer,’ Danny replied.

Billy nodded. ‘Sometimes I look around at those familiar faces an’ find it ’ard ter fink that any of ’em could ’ave done such a fing,’ he said.

‘Well, somebody did,’ Danny replied. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it though. Yer’ll probably never get ter the bottom of it.’

They had reached Wilson Street and as they turned the corner they could see the red-brick building standing out against the evening light. They strolled up slowly, hands in pockets, and saw the civil defence sign by the front door. Next to it was a poster reminding people to carry their gas masks about with them and yet another poster warning against careless talk. The front entrance was shielded with sandbags, and a criss-cross of paper strips covered all the windows.

Billy sighed as he stared at the building. ‘I wonder what ole Farvver Murphy’s finkin’ about all this?’ he said.

Danny hunched his shoulders. ‘’E’s prob’ly lookin’ down an’ groanin’ at the blood stupidity of it all,’ he replied.

‘We ’ad some good times ’ere,’ Billy reminded him with a grin. ‘D’yer remember when we brought those two jack-the-lads back ’ere an’ duffed ’em up?’

Danny smiled at the memory. ‘We come near ter doin’ it all wrong that night, ole pal.’

Billy walked up to the front door and stood on the wide stone step, remembering the dream he had had, a dream nurtured and brought to fruition by the unsparing efforts of the much-loved old priest, Father Murphy. He turned to face Danny. ‘Remember the brick-stackin’ contest, an’ the look on Wally Walburton’s face when we offered ter buy ’im a pint afterwards?’ he asked.

‘’Ow could I ever ferget,’ Danny grinned.

Billy tried the locked front door and then walked back to the entrance that had once had an iron gate. ‘I’m finkin’ that by the time this war’s over, me an’ you’ll be too bloody old ter go back trainin’ the kids,’ he remarked.

Danny shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘It can’t go on fer ever, Billy. C’mon, let’s get goin’. I’m on early shift termorrer.’

Dusk was settling over the Bermondsey backstreets as the two strolled back to Page Street.

‘Come in fer a bit o’ supper,’ Danny suggested.

Billy shook his head. ‘No, it’s all right,’ he replied.

Danny slipped his arm round his friend’s shoulders. ‘C’mon, mate. Iris told me not ter take no fer an answer.’

As they stepped inside the front door of the Tanner house, a lone figure shuffled out of the turning, heading for the solitude of the evening river, unable to understand why there were now no lights over the quays or shining from the high stone towers of the bridge that moved up and down.

During the first week in June a visitor called at the Bradley transport yard, introducing herself as Mrs Robins and saying that she would like to speak to the owner in private. Joe showed her into the office where Carrie was busy with the worksheets and left the two women together. A short time later Carrie came over to Joe as he was fixing tarpaulin to the roof of the newly erected vehicle shed and beckoned him down. Her face was set grimly and when Joe reached the foot of the ladder, he could see she was holding back tears.

‘That was Jamie’s muvver, Joe,’ she said quietly. ‘Jamie got back from Dunkirk yesterday. ’E’s bin wounded an’ ’e’s asked ter see me.’

‘Is ’e badly wounded?’

‘Bad enough. ’E’s lost a leg.’

‘Good Gawd,’ Joe groaned. ‘The poor little bleeder.’

‘I can visit this Sunday. Come wiv me, Joe. I need yer wiv me,’ Carrie said, gripping his arm.

‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘What ’ospital is ’e in?’

‘Woolwich Military. It’s afternoon visitin’.’

On a bright Sunday morning George Galloway decided he could manage the short walk to his favourite pub. He leaned heavily on his silver-tipped walking cane and when he reached the Saracen’s Head and stepped into the cosy saloon bar, he was greeted by his old friend John Hargreaves. The two found their favourite corner and sat together drinking large Scotches.

‘That Dunkirk turnout was a masterful piece of organisation,’ Hargreaves said. ‘At least we got most of our army back in one piece.’

George nodded. ‘My gran’son got back safely, fank Gawd,’ he replied. ‘I got word from ’is muvver yesterday.’

‘Will you be seeing him, George?’ the elderly solicitor asked.

‘Soon as it can be arranged.’

‘How’s the lad’s mother? She’s not very well I remember you saying.’

‘It’s consumption,’ George told him. ‘The woman’s neglected’erself over the years. She should ’ave come ter me before now.’

‘Pride, George, it’s all a question of pride,’ his friend remarked. ‘We all have our pride.’

‘Well, she’s payin’ the price now fer ’er stupid pride,’ George growled. ‘Still, the boy’s a strappin’ lad. A chip off the old block right enough. Yer can see it in the way ’e carries ’imself. Proud lad, ’e is. Like ’is farvver. Geoff cut a fair dash in ’is time. I’ll tell yer what, John, if I’m around I’ll make sure that lad gets the right advice about settin’ ’imself up in business when this lot’s over.’

‘That’s if the lad has the inclination.’

‘Inclination? ’Course ’e will,’ George stormed. ‘’E’s a Galloway.’

‘Well, there’s a war to be fought first,’ Hargreaves pointed out, ‘and by the way things are going it’ll be a long, hard struggle.’