Backstreet Child (43 page)

Nellie sat at the head of the table with Joe facing her at the other end; Iris and the children were together on one side, and Rachel, Danny and Billy sat facing them. The meal of roast beef, roast potatoes, minted peas and Yorkshire pudding was consumed with relish and Carrie breathed a sigh of relief. The gas pressure had been low all morning and the Yorkshire pudding had been reluctant to rise.

They talked about everyday things, and everyone was trying to act as though the air raids had never happened. Billy made them all laugh with his account of the fainting and Bert Jolly’s first aid, while Nellie relived old memories of her time in Page Street, telling the gathering about the time their driver got drunk on a street outing to Epping Forest and she had to drive the horse and cart home. Carrie talked about her childhood trips to the farms to fetch hay with her father and Rachel spoke about some of her more light-hearted experiences on joining up. They were all doing their best to make the meal a happy one, all trying desperately to put to the back of their minds the knowledge that last night’s air raid was only the beginning.

Billy was missing Annie and the children as keenly as ever, but he was glad that they were at least away from the bombing. Danny worried for Iris and his children’s safety, wondering if they had made the right decision in keeping the family together during these increasingly dangerous times. Carrie worried for Rachel who was leaving early that evening for her camp, and for her mother, who was getting very unsteady on her feet lately and looking very frail. Iris laughed with her children and talked of happier days with Carrie and Nellie, and occasionally she gave Danny a secret look. Joe sat quietly listening, his eyes straying to his beloved Carrie. All were trying to savour the fleeting moment and fix in their minds the happy event, albeit shadowed by the drifting smoke high above them, and the acrid smell of smouldering timbers that was carried into the yard on the light summer breeze.

In Page Street the gas pressure had caused a problem and many a dinner was spoiled. Granny Massey sat grumpily eyeing Brenda as her daughter pinned pieces of her dress together. ‘I blame that bloke o’ yours fer the gas,’ she growled. ‘What did ’e want ter put the furnace out for?’

Brenda sighed resignedly. ‘They ’ad to, Mum. The gasometer got bombed. It wasn’t Maurice’s fault the dinner was late.’

‘The bloody spuds weren’t browned, an’ as fer the meat, it fair made me jaws ache tryin’ ter chew it. It was tough as ole boots.’

‘You should ’ave put yer teeth in, Mum,’ Brenda told her.

‘Yer know I can’t wear ’em fer eatin’,’ the old lady replied irritably. ‘They make me gums ’urt.’

Brenda sighed again and stood up to slip her creation over the padded model in the corner of the parlour. For a while she worked at pinning and adjusting the length of the dress, and Granny nodded off. Brenda left the room to search for some suitable thread which was missing from the needlework basket.

Granny woke up suddenly when her arm slipped from the side of the chair. The sun had disappeared behind the rooftops and the light in the parlour had grown dim. The old lady grunted as she adjusted her position in the chair and then she saw the figure standing in the corner. ‘I fancy a cuppa,’ she told it.

When it made no effort to go and get it, Granny became irritable again. ‘Yer never consider my feelin’s,’ she moaned. ‘I don’t ask fer much. I wouldn’t mind if I was always askin’ fer fings. A nice cup o’ tea ain’t too much to ask for, surely ter Gawd.’

There was no answer and Granny got even more cross. ‘That’s right, jus’ ignore me,’ she went on. ‘I’d be better orf goin’ in the work’ouse. At least they’d give yer a cuppa now an’ then.’

In the dim light the old lady squinted at the tall figure standing in the corner. It seemed to be mocking her and she took out her handkerchief from the sleeve of her cardigan and dabbed away a tear. ‘Go on, stand there like a dummy,’ she ranted. ‘Yer’ll be sorry when I’ve gorn.’

Brenda finally found the desired cotton and when she came back into the parlour she saw that her mother was stirring. The old lady was in fact trying to get off to sleep again and she jumped when Brenda touched her arm.

‘Would yer like a nice cuppa, Mum?’ she enquired cheerfully.

‘Poke yer tea,’ the old lady growled. ‘I ain’t gonna beg fer a cuppa.’

Brenda sighed in dismay and went into the scullery to put the kettle on, wondering if the air raid had scrambled her mother’s brains.

Darkness fell and the dreaded air-raid siren sounded. On this occasion folk were ready and the exodus from their homes in Bermondsey’s backstreets took place in an orderly fashion. People carried pillows and blankets, flasks of tea and packets of sandwiches as they hurried out, ready for a long, terrifying night. Children took board games under their arms and babies cried at being woken suddenly as they were grabbed unceremoniously from their cots. Men shepherded their families into the safety of the shelter and stood guard under the concrete canopy, preparing for another dangerous night.

Soon the roar of planes was drowned by the crash of gunfire, and then the scream and clatter of falling bombs began. Explosions rocked the shelter to its foundations and people prayed to their particular gods for deliverance. All night the bombs fell, and all night folk strived to comfort their loved ones and catch some sleep. The hours of darkness were filled with unremitting terror for the shelterers, and on that night the Luftwaffe achieved what campaigners had failed to do for years. They destroyed Bacon Buildings.

Fires were started everywhere and an oil bomb landed in Salmon Lane, setting the pickle factory on fire. Down in the cellar of Carrie’s home the sound of the explosion was deafening and when Joe ventured up to ground level, he saw that all the windows in the back of the house had been blown out. Down on the Thames a freighter was burning fiercely, and fire boats lay offshore on the ebbing tide spraying their hoses on the burning wharves. Fire tenders hurried back and forth round craters and debris, and rescue squads battled to save people buried under tons of masonry.

In Bacon Street the scene was horrendous. People forgot their own safety as they struggled to dig their neighbours out from the downstairs flats where some of them had been taking shelter. Bombs and shrapnel were still falling from the sky, which was as bright as day.

The raging inferno that was London could be seen for miles, and when Rachel took a well-earned rest from the frantic activity of the plotting room at West Marden, she stood gazing up at the red sky with an aching heart. Fear for her family turned her stomach over and she felt distraught. She knew that more raiders were on their way and tears of frustration filled her eyes. Janie Hall stood beside her, her arm round Rachel’s shoulders. There was nothing she could say, nothing that would help to comfort her friend, and she too felt the tears coming.

A merciful dawn brought relief for the besieged river folk. There was work to be done, children to care for and meals to be prepared. Many people’s homes had been destroyed and friends and relatives took on the burden of caring for them, but for other homeless it was the rest centre or Salvation Army hostels. Gas and electricity were cut off in many homes and tea was brewed over coal fires. Some folk were wandering the streets in a state of shock, and piercing cries rang out for dead loved ones as they scrabbled through the rubble that once was home, or just stood gazing emptily at the debris.

On Monday morning people went to work as usual, weary and frightened at the thought of the coming night. At the end of the day a tired work force shook hands with each other and wished their workmates and colleagues God’s blessing.

Night by night throughout the first week of the blitz of London the air-raid siren sounded with dreadful regularity and bombs rained down. Countless fires were started and the beleaguered firefighters struggled vainly to contain them. Many burned out of control and others that were smouldering from previous nights flared up again. Hospital corridors were used as emergency wards and exhausted medical teams worked round the clock to tend the injured and give what comfort they could to the dying.

Late on the following Sunday night a bomb scored a direct hit on the Kings Arms, and it so happened that Billy Sullivan’s rescue team was the one sent to the scene. Jim Davis was first off the lorry and he soon had his men in action.

‘They’ll be in the cellar!’ Billy shouted as they set to work.

For a solid hour the men strained to move masonry and timbers, and finally they reached the stairway that led down into the cellar. One of the men eased himself down into the narrow opening and a torch was passed to him. Jim Davis leant over the hole. ‘Are they alive?’ he called out.

‘There’s nobody ’ere,’ came the answer.

The squad leader caught sight of a wardrobe that had been knocked aside, causing the door to fall open. It was empty.

A policeman wearing a steel helmet came up to Jim Davis. ‘Any casualties?’ he asked.

Jim shook his head. ‘Look at that empty wardrobe. They must ’ave gone ter shelter somewhere,’ he replied, scratching his sweat-matted hair.

Billy Sullivan could not help grinning to himself. The Gordons’ luck had held. They had picked the perfect night to take their leave of Bermondsey; they were most probably tucked up comfortably in bed far away from the carnage of dockland.

Later a policeman’s report was sent down to the Elephant and Castle police station on request and it was read with much disappointment by two senior officers.

Gloria Simpson stood looking out from the bedroom window at the angry red glow in the night sky over dockland. If it had not been for Frank Galloway, she would have been plying her trade back there and maybe even lying maimed or dead under a pile of rubble at this very moment, she told herself. Yes, she had a lot to be thankful for, but would her good fortune last? Would Frank lose his patience and throw her out of his house when she failed to provide him with the information he wanted?

Gloria sighed deeply and lit a cigarette, her thoughts troubled. She had helped Frank once, and she had grown to regret it, ashamed of what she had done to curry his favour. He was using her, and the information she had only just got from Lola would no doubt send him into a frenzy. He seemed the sort of man who was capable of anything, and the thought of what he might do when he discovered the truth about Tony O’Reilly scared her. If he harmed the boy she would be as much to blame as him. She could not let that happen, even if it meant her going back to the mean and dangerous life she had led before. It was a question of survival and her own freedom, something she would lose if Frank did anything bad because of what she told him. No, she would have to stay silent, pretend she had heard nothing more. It was the only way.

‘Draw the curtains and come back to bed,’ Frank called out to her.

Gloria put on her best smile as she sauntered across the deep pile carpet and let the bathrobe fall from her as she slipped in beside him. ‘Do I really please yer, darlin?’ she purred.

‘Of course,’ he said, stroking her slim back. ‘You’ve been very good, and I’m grateful.’

‘Well, show me,’ she whispered her hands going down to his round belly.

Frank winced as he turned to face her. There was a limit to his vital powers.

‘Love me,’ she sighed. ‘Love me the way yer did last night.’

Frank screwed up his face in the darkened room as he prepared to pleasure her. It was becoming hard work, he found; there seemed no end to her desire.

Gloria squirmed and writhed, her breath coming in pants and her nails biting into his back as she enjoyed his lovemaking, and when he was finally spent she spread herself out on her back, threw her arms up over her head and slept like a baby.

Frank could not sleep, however, and Gloria’s light snoring began to irritate him. He climbed from the bed and lit a cigarette, then he slipped on his dressing gown and moved over to the window. In the distance he could see the glow that was becoming brighter in the night sky and he thought about his father with anger in his heart. He had been a loyal son and had taken on the responsibility of running the business after Geoffrey was killed in action, but he had never been really appreciated. When he had tried to prise information from the old man he had been almost disregarded, merely being told that he was taken care of in the will. As much as he had come to detest Bella, he had to admit to himself that she was correct in what she said. He had good reason to know about the family’s assets, they would be his by right one day.