Backstreet Child (62 page)

‘Look, Danny, yer know yerself that there’s a lot o’ labour battalions workin’ on the bombed places,’ he said with misgiving. ‘You’ve seen ’em, we all ’ave. They’re a right mix from’ere, there an’ everywhere. ’Alf of ’em can’t speak English. I bet some of ’em ain’t even Christians. What does a stone wiv foreign writin’ on mean ter the likes o’ them?’

Danny agreed with his old friend but he tried to placate him. ‘Some o’ the firms use their own labour. It’s best ter wait an’ see,’ he replied.

Billy went home and spoke to Annie about it. ‘I’m sorry, luv, but that stone means a lot ter me.’

Annie put her arms on his wide shoulders and looked up into his troubled eyes. ‘Now listen,’ she said. ‘I understand, but it’s no good you getting yourself upset. Wait and see what happens. You’ve got to trust Father Kerrigan. He wouldn’t lie to you.’

‘I know that,’ Billy replied, ‘but I don’t trust the demolition men.’

Annie sighed and shook her head, knowing her husband’s tenacity. ‘Well, they would have to be heathens to disregard a sacred stone,’ she said emphatically. ‘After all, it’s a war memorial and it’s been blessed by the church.’

There was no doubt in Billy’s mind that some of the workers in the labour battalions were heathens, but he tried his best to be calm. ‘All right, I’ll wait an’ see,’ he told her. ‘But I can see trouble.’

Annie slipped her arms round his neck and kissed him gently on the mouth. ‘Now sit down and take those filthy boots off,’ she told him. ‘I’ve got your supper in the oven.’

Saturday afternoon was an ideal time to go visiting, Nellie knew. The shopping was over and one of her friends would always have a hot filled teapot under the cosy. Sadie would be her first stop, she thought. Sadie always had a nice clean parlour and her chairs were spotless. After all, she was wearing her best coat and she had to be careful.

‘You ain’t seen Sadie in yer travels, ’ave yer?’ she asked Mrs Green a while later. ‘I’ve knocked twice an’ can’t get any answer.’

‘I expect she’s at Maisie’s,’ Mrs Green replied.

Maisie’s front door was opened by Fred, who greeted Nellie with a smile. ‘She’s bin gorn fer ages,’ she told her. ‘I should look in at Sadie’s. That’s where she’ll be.’

‘She ain’t at Sadie’s,’ Nellie told him. ‘I jus’ knocked there.’

‘Well, I can’t ’elp yer, luv. Sorry,’ Fred said with a shrug.

Nellie decided it must be Maudie’s turn to supply the tea this week so she went round to her place. After the second knock brought no response, she was puzzled.

The Dawsons’ front door was opened by Wallace, who stood grinning at Nellie’s new hat.

‘I said is yer muvver in?’ Nellie asked for the second time.

Wallace’s grin became even larger as he stared at Nellie’s hat and she gave him a wicked look as she walked away. Sometimes the women gathered at the Haggerty house, but not very often. Mrs Haggerty usually tried to monopolise the conversation and Nellie knew that Sadie could not abide the woman. Still, it was worth a try.

‘’Ello, Mrs Tanner. I ain’t seen yer around ’ere fer weeks. Are yer all right? ’Ow’s the children? I saw Carrie the ovver day, ain’t she a picture. Yer ’eard about ’im in Bacon Street, didn’t yer? That bloke who sells the cockles on the corner o’ Jamaica Road. Sorry, what was it yer asked me?’

Nellie drew a deep breath. ‘ ’Ave yer seen Sadie about?’ she repeated slowly and deliberately.

‘Sadie? No, I ain’t,’ Mrs Haggerty replied. ‘’E got done, yer know.’

‘Who did?’

‘Why, ’im out o’ Bacon Street.’

‘Bacon Street?’

‘’Im who sells the cockles in Jamaica Road.’

‘Oh ’im.’

‘Takin’ bettin’ slips, it was.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Arfur got six months.’

‘What, fer takin’ bettin’ slips?’

‘No, that was ’im out o’ Bacon Street.’

Nellie had had enough. The conversation was beginning to make her head buzz. ‘Well, I must be orf. Take care o’ yerself,’ she said with a forced smile.

‘By the way, I should try Maurice Salter’s place,’ Mrs Haggerty called out.

‘Maurice Salter?’ Nellie said disbelievingly.

‘That’s right. They’ve bin goin’ in an’ out o’ the Salters’ place like a fiddler’s elbow fer the past few days,’ Mrs Haggerty assured her.

Nellie was beginning to feel jaded. All she wanted right now was to sit down with a nice cup of tea. The thought of having to deal with Maurice Salter made her feel ready to turn for home. Suddenly she spotted Mrs Watson hurrying along the turning towards her.

‘’Ello, Nellie. ’Ow yer keepin’, luv?’ she asked.

‘Well, I was feelin’ fine when I left ’ome,’ Nellie told her.

‘I’m just orf ter Maurice Salter’s,’ Mrs Watson said. ‘Fancy comin’ along?’

Nellie began to wonder whether she was going mad. ‘What for?’ she asked.

‘Ain’t you ’eard? Maurice Salter’s sellin’ loads o’ stuff dirt cheap,’ Mrs Watson told her. ‘My Carol bought a silk camisole fer two an’ a tanner, an’ I got a smashin’ pair o’ silk stockin’s fer four an’ six. Why don’t yer come wiv me?’

Nellie decided that what she needed right then was to lie down and rest her tired head. ‘No fanks, luv,’ she replied as she turned for home. ‘I’ll stick ter me flannel drawers.’

Chapter Thirty-Eight

On Monday, 5 June 1944, a troop train from Southampton steamed into Waterloo Station. Aboard were men of the Eighth Army on leave after three years in the Western Desert. ‘Welcome Home’ banners and flags had been strung up on the station concourse and a military band was playing. It was a very emotional moment for the hundreds of loved ones and friends who waited by the platform barrier, and the hum of conversation turned into cheering and loud shouts as the train shuddered to a halt at the buffers.

The veterans of El Alamein and the Sicilian landings stepped down and hurried towards the waiting throng, their faces tanned leathery, their hair bleached by a fierce sun. They looked lean and appeared apprehensive as they faced the welcome-home festivities. Flashbulbs lit their startled faces and the newspaper reporters vied for stories as the men sought out their families and children. Station officials, policemen and military police tried in vain to intervene but they were all but brushed aside.

Rachel stood among the crowd, dressed in uniform, holding her cap in her hand and desperately searching for Tony. She almost allowed him to pass her by before she saw his wide grin and then she was in his arms.

‘It’s bin so long,’ she sobbed, unable to contain herself any longer.

Tony ran his hand over her fair hair and kissed her smooth white neck. ‘I’ve dreamed about this moment,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘Two whole weeks. It feels wonderful.’

They turned with arms round each other and found themselves suddenly surrounded by newspapermen and a photographer. One little fat man jostled his colleagues and looked up at Tony. ‘That’s the Military Medal ribbon, son. Did yer win it in the desert?’

Tony looked embarrassed as he nodded.

‘Where was it?’ the newsman pressed him.

The two young lovers were blinded momentarily by an exploding flashbulb and Tony’s hand went up to the knot of his tie. ‘Mersah Matruh,’ he said quietly.

‘That was one o’ the big battles. What was it like?’ another newsman cut in.

‘
South London Press
,’ the photographer announced, pushing the little reporter aside. ‘Give me yer names an’ where yer from, folks,’ he shouted above the general din.

The pressmen finally moved away and Tony took Rachel by the hand as they hurried from the station. During the tram ride to Bermondsey, Rachel kept glancing at her young man, intrigued by his tan and bleached hair. Tony was looking out of the window, as though still not able to believe he was back home at last.

‘Yer never mentioned the medal in yer letters,’ Rachel said presently.

Tony shrugged his shoulders. ‘I didn’t want yer ter worry. Yer might ’ave thought I was takin’ chances.’

Rachel squeezed his hand in hers. ‘I never stopped finkin’ about yer,’ she said, touching the tiny locket round her neck. ‘I kissed this every night an’ said a prayer for yer,’ she whispered.

Tony was holding coppers for the fare but the conductor ignored him, and when they finally alighted at Dockhead, the conductor turned to him and said, ‘Congratulations, son, an’ good luck ter the pair o’ yer.’

Tony nodded his thanks and Rachel saw he was blushing with embarrassment.

‘I fink I’ll ’ave ter leave this off,’ he mumbled, nodding down at the tiny ribbon on his chest.

‘You’ll do no such fing,’ Rachel said firmly. ‘I want ter show you off to everybody.’

They walked arm in arm along the wide Jamaica Road in the warm sunshine, laughing with each other and totally oblivious of the friendly glances and smiles of passers-by. How different this time together would be to their last one, Rachel vowed. Three years ago Tony had been in a state of shock. He had only the clothes he stood up in and they found very little time to be alone. The tragic loss of his mother and her friend Lola had cast a dark shadow over everything and she recalled how they had spent a lot of their leave in Tony’s neighbourhood, trying to find the person whose name was on Lola’s lips the instant she died. They had been unsuccessful in discovering who Gloria was and they finally had to give up the quest. Now they would make up for those lost years, and as they neared Salmon Lane Rachel looked up into Tony’s dark eyes and felt ecstatically happy.

On Monday morning a lorry pulled up in Wilson Street and a motley group of men in plain uniforms jumped down. They were unkempt and of varying ages: persons with no identity, displaced persons and men from internment camps who had been recruited to clear away war damage. Their sergeant was a huge, rough-looking individual, with black wavy hair and thick eyebrows. He shouted obscenities as he ordered them around and the men jumped to his commands.

Sergei was a Georgian, who had fought on both sides as the fortunes of war changed around him. Eventually he had joined the long, straggling lines of refugees and finally found himself in an Italian prisoner-of-war camp. He managed to convince the British that he was a stateless person and was brought over to work on the harvests. He had not been happy with the few shillings he got for toiling in the fields and so he volunteered for the labour battalions that were being formed. His large frame and frightening manner, and an adequate knowledge of English, fitted him for the part and he became works sergeant. The men working under him enjoyed extra rations and a few shillings for their labours, and the sergeant took advantage of it, supplementing his own income by extorting money from them with dire threats. The gang were terrified of Sergei and he liked to be reminded of it.

On that Monday morning the sergeant was barking loudly at them as usual and it was not long before the wooden fencing round Murphy’s Gymnasium came down. One man began kindling a fire in a brazier from the waste timbers and others set up a tarpaulin-covered contraption that passed for a tent. The rest went to work manhandling the slabs of brick and splintered timbers into separate piles ready for the demolition lorry. All the serviceable wood was to be used again but Sergei was keen to make a little money on some of the large timbers, though he had to be careful not to arouse the suspicions of the civilian supervisor who was due to call shortly.

At midday on Monday the work was well under way and when Billy passed Wilson Street on his way home to lunch he was horrified. He stood staring at the men sitting in the tent drinking mugs of tea and munching on thick hunks of bread and cheese. Sergei could not pass up a chance to make a few coppers and he came out of the tent and sauntered over to him.

‘You wish buy wood? We got plenty wood,’ he said, grinning to expose his gold teeth.

Billy gave the sergeant a malevolent glare. ‘No, I don’t wanna buy wood,’ he growled. ‘Who’s in charge ’ere?’

‘In charge? Me the boss. Sergei. What can I help you?’ the huge man said, prodding himself in the chest with his forefinger.

Billy decided that he would have to be careful how he handled the strange character. He motioned with his finger. ‘See that wall over there?’ he said. ‘That’s a memorial stone. Men who died in war. Got it?’

Sergei laughed and plunged his thumbs into his khaki belt. ‘Many men die in war. So?’