He Called Me Son (The Blountmere Street Series Book 1)

Barbara Arnold lives with her husband in Christchurch, New Zealand, where as well as writing novels, she teaches creative writing.
 
She has two sons and nine grandchildren.
 

He Called Me Son
is her debut novel and the first in the trilogy
The Blountmere Street Series
, followed by
The Best in Blountmere Street.
 
The third novel in the trilogy is expected to be available early 2012.

HE CALLED ME SON

By

Barbara Arnold

Published by B. Arnold

Copyright © Barbara Arnold 2011

This book is based on some true events.
 
However, it has been fictionalised and all persons appearing in this work are fictitious.
 
Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any mean, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

eISBN 978-0-473-18641-8

To Roger

With my love for your belief in me

Acknowledgements

With profound thanks to all those who have had input into this novel.
 
Writing can be a lonely craft and I am appreciative of your fellowship and encouragement.

To my “Editor In Chief”, Caitlin, for helping me download, upload and often offload!

To Simon Garner for his cover design.

To Sid1, Flickr.com for the cover image.

To Margaret, for her web design, and for being so patient with this queen of computer dummies.

To Janet, for designing promotional material.

Special thanks to Barbara, Bryan, Freda and Stuart, without whose input I would probably never have even begun this novel.

My deep gratitude to editors:
 
Judith, Gary, Aidan and Lisa.

To all those in my writing classes over the years and my many friends and writing colleagues for spurring me on to finish this novel and, of course, to edit, edit, edit …

To my sons, Simon and Nick for their unwavering support.….

With special love and thanks to Gwen for her sometimes thrice-daily calls. Go well, my friend!

AUTHOR’S NOTE

From the late 19
^th
Century, Britain operated migration schemes which sent more than 100,000 children to Australia, New Zealand, Canada and other Commonwealth countries.
 
These children did not travel with mothers or fathers but alone in groups.
 
Taken from poverty and disadvantage, it was believed that they would have a better life working in the clean expanses of the British Empire where they were a source of much-needed labour.

During the final period in which the British migration policy operated from 1947 to 1967, it is estimated 549 children, mainly between the ages of three and fourteen, were sent from the United Kingdom to New Zealand.

Excerpts from House of Commons Health Third Report and Liverpool National Museum – Child Migration Exhibition.

PART ONE

Chapter One

London 1949

I heard the sound of crockery as it hit the wall and The Old Man’s drunken bully-boy demands for food.
 
There would be more dents in our cardboard-thin walls, and the grey roses on the wallpaper would be drooping even further on their stems.
 
Worse, Mum’s face would be bruised and bleeding.

I pulled the threadbare blanket over my head.
 
In summer, it scratched and made my arms and legs itch.
 
In winter, I had to double it to keep warm.
 
I held my breath and curled myself into a ball.
 
I could hear my sister Angela doing the same, pushing her head down further, so that if the Old Man came in, he wouldn’t be able to grab hold of her hair and drag her out of bed.
 

I could hear a woman’s voice.
 
The Old Man had brought another of his floosies home from the pub and was ordering Mum to feed her.
 
The bedroom door opened with a telltale squeak and the light came on.
 
I peeped through a hole in my blanket.
 
Instead of the Old Man, a woman entered, bringing with her the smell of cheap perfume and gin.
 
She crossed to me and pulled back my blanket.
 
Her finger-nails, painted a gaudy red, penetrated its loose weave, tearing another hole.
 
Her face looked as if it had been
coloured
with crayons, crimson circling her mouth, deep blue, violent around the eyes, bumpy lines along the eyebrows.

‘
’eaven
preserve us, what ‘ave we ‘ere?
 
A couple of kiddy-winkies.
 
I thought it was the lav.
 
It might as well be; there ain’t much more in ‘ere.’
 
The woman bent closer to me and I pushed myself higher up the bed.

‘So Ted’s got a couple of sprogs.
 
They always ‘ave.’
 

The woman wore high heeled shoes.
 
They tip-tapped on the floorboards as she crossed to Angela and whisked the blanket off.
 
‘Not so bad looking either.
 
What’s yer names?’

Angela stayed sulky and silent.
 
The woman looked to me for an answer.
 
I clamped my lips together.

‘’ave yer got tongues in yer heads, or ‘as the cat got ‘em?’

‘Clear off!’ Angela eyeballed her.

‘So you
can
talk.’
 
The woman traced a finger down Angela’s cheek.
 
Angela shuddered and shoved her away.

From the kitchen I heard the ring of metal on metal and Mum’s muffled pleas.
 
It made me tremble inside, and I felt ashamed I couldn’t face up to the Old Man and rescue her.

‘Poor little perishers.’
 
The woman took a shilling from her purse and offered it to Angela, but Angela smacked it from her hand.
 
It hit the floor with a clink and rolled under the bed.
 

The woman shrugged and turned away.
 

I heard our Old Man yell, ‘Come on, Bunty, there ain’t no grub ‘ere.
 
Let’s get out of this ‘ole.
 
The stench’s getting up me nostrils.’

The woman put her finger to her lips as she tottered from our room.
 
‘It’s all right.
 
 
‘e won’t know I’ve been in ‘ere.
 
Poor little perishers,’ she repeated, closing the door quietly behind her. ‘’Ere I am, Ted, just been to the lav.
 
Fry you up an egg and a bit of bread at my place, all right loveykins.’

I heard our Old Man lurching his way towards the stairs, stumbling, half falling down them.
 
His final shot of, ‘I can promise yer one fing, I ain’t never comin’ back to this dump again,’ were welcome words.

As soon as the front door banged shut, I flung myself out of bed and on to the floor.
 
I ran my hands over the fluff-covered floorboards under the bed until I felt cold metal, and I scooped the shilling into my hand, tightening my fingers around it.

‘She gave it to me.
 
It’s mine.
 
Give it to me,’ Angela whined, already out of bed and standing over me.
 
She grabbed a handful of my hair, pulled me to my feet, and tried to loosen my grip on the treasure.

‘It’s mine now,’ I said, elbowing her away.

‘Let’s go half each.
 
Please, please.’

I held on tight and ignored her.
 
Suddenly I remembered Mum in the kitchen.
 
She was probably trying to tidy herself up.
 
A going-red-inside feeling burnt me up.
 
I had thought of the bob before I had thought of her.
 

I clutched it all night, and for the next two days, I held that bob tight, changing it from one hand to the other when it became sweaty.
 
I didn’t put it down when I went to the lav, trying to cling to my willie with one hand and the coin with the other.
 
Once I got my hands muddled.
 
The shilling clinked into the pan, and I had to roll up my sleeve and fish it out.
 
Having that bob made me feel rich.
 

The following Monday at school I sat at my desk fingering the coin.
 
It was sticky and stank of pee, but I didn’t care.

After we’d recited the Lord’s Prayer, our teacher Mrs Colby began calling the class register, sort of singing our names in alphabetical order.
 
Fascinated, I stared at her face.
 
I reckoned she had as many hairs sprouting from her chins as there were kids in the class.
 
Some of the hairs curled upwards towards her nose, while one particularly coarse one like an electric wire wound its way past her throat in the direction of her chest.

She began
The List.
 
‘Those paying for school dinners come forward.’

Alice Aborne - one shilling.
 
Tick.
 
Alice stepped up to Miss Colby’s desk and handed her a bob.

Victor Acton – one shilling.
 
Tick.

Tony Addington - one shilling.
 
Tick.

Usually there were thirty five names, thirty five shillings, thirty five thick black ticks for kids who could afford to pay for their school dinners.
 
But today there were thirty six.
 
I was off the poor list, at last.
 
I handed my shilling over.
 
My
shilling.
 
I didn’t care if the dinners smelt and tasted like cold sick.
 
I’d paid for them with my own shilling.
 
I gave the coin a final pat before passing it to Mrs Colby.
 
If I could, I would have thanked it out loud.
 
I scrambled back to my desk next to Dobsie.

‘You off the
Poor List
?’ he whispered.

‘The Old Man’s cleared off, and Mum’s got herself a job.
 
We’ve got money now.’

I sang it in my head when I was in class, in the playground, on my way along Blountmere Street to the Gang’s Camp on the bombsite, opposite our flat.
 
We’ve got money now.

That afternoon at the camp, as usual Dobsie took charge of our game of cowboys and Indians.
 
‘I’m Hoppalong Cassidy.
 
You can be Roy Rogers, Tony, and you can be Gene Autry, Herbie.’

‘What about me?’
 
Dennis asked.

‘You can be Gabby Hayes.’

‘But he’s old.
 
He can’t blinkin’ walk, let alone ride a horse.’

‘D’you want to play or don’t you?’

Dennis nodded grudgingly.

Dobsie began to move stones.
 
‘Come and help me with these.
 
We’ll pile ‘em up so we can hide behind ‘em and shoot at each other.’

‘What about Indians?
 
We’ve got to have some Indians.’

Dobsie considered for a moment.
 
‘Dennis can be an Indian as well as Gabby Hayes.’

But Dennis had already gone off the idea.
 
I had a suspicion he had been waiting for the chance to show off something he thought was pretty special.
 
He pressed his lips together in a smug half smile and fiddled with something in his inside pocket.
 
Then he brought out a crumpled copy of
The Eagle
which he spread on a moss-covered breezeblock.
 
‘Pinched it from Old Boy Barkers’ shop,’ he said, flicking over a couple of pages.
 
‘I nicked some liquorice while I was at it.’

‘How’d you do that?
 
If Old Boy Barker isn’t watching you every flippin’ minute you’re in his shop, Ma Barker is.’

‘Quick as a wink; sleight of hand.’
 
Dennis held his palms flat to show they were empty, then twisting them together in a mysterious move, he put them behind his back and brought them to the front again.
 
This time a stone sat in the middle of his hand.

‘Anyone with a bit of savvy can do that.’ Dobsie sniffed.

‘So why don’t
you
nick something then?’ Herbie asked.

Dobsie drew in the dust with a stick.
 
‘Done it ‘undreds of times.
 
Tony’s turn to nick them tomorrow.
 
Fags and a couple of comics.
 
Easy.’

‘I’ll nick ‘em.
 
It don’t make no difference to me.’
 
I said, but all at once the bubbles that had been fizzing in my stomach all day flattened and disappeared, leaving me feeling like a glass of day-old Tizer.
 
Even reading
The Eagle
wasn’t enough to keep me at the camp and the song in my head had gone.
 

Making some excuse about Mum not being well, I shinned the wall behind the camp.
 
With my hands in my pockets, I shuffled across the road to our flat.
 
Yanking at the string around my neck, I pulled the key from under my jersey and opened the door, I bounded up the stairs two at a time, and barged into our kitchen.
 
Mum and Angela were dishing Spam and potatoes onto our three remaining china plates.
 
Mum had her vague far-away look.
 
She looked sick.
 
Her face was the colour of cheese and there were lines like pencil marks around her eyes.
 
It made me feel scared.

‘Where d’you think you’ve been?’ Angela demanded.

I pretended not to hear her and snatched at the plate with the most food.
 
I took the plate to the table, plonked myself on a chair and began forking spud into my mouth.
 
I saved the Spam until last.
 
Spam was a treat.
 
I swallowed it with gulping noises, in a hurry to get to Lori Lorimore next door to listen to
Dick Barton, Special Agent
on her wireless set.

‘I said, where’ve you been?’
 
Angela looked to Mum for support, but Mum kept her gaze directed on the door.
 
I wondered if she might fly through it and far away.

‘Mind your own business.’
 
Mouth full, I spat bits of food onto the newspaper that covered the table.
 
It had been there for days and greasy stains smudged the ink.

‘Why should I?
 
‘Cos I’m a girl I have to do everything round here.
 
I can’t go out with
my
mates after school.’

There was no way I was doing the washing up and that was flat, so I ignored Angela’s carry on and concentrated on scraping every last bit from my plate.
 
It made Angela as mad as hell when I didn’t answer.
 
I repeated the word
hell
to myself.
 
Men who said
hell
could nick fags and comics without blinking.

‘Well!
 
What’ve you got to say for yourself?’
 

Nothing.
 
So that’s what I said - nothing.