Perseverance Street
Read Perseverance Street Online
Authors: Ken McCoy
Ken McCoy
was born in wartime Leeds and has lived in Yorkshire all his life. For twenty-five years he ran his own building and civil engineering company. During this time he also worked as a freelance artist, greeting card designer and after-dinner entertainer. He has appeared on television, radio and as a comedian on the Leeds City Varieties’
Good Old Days
.
Writing is now Ken’s first love – not counting of course his wife Valerie, to whom he has been married since 1973. He has five children and twelve grandchildren.
Change for a Farthing
Jacky Boy
Catch A Falling Star
Cobblestone Heroes
Two Rings for Rosie
Annie’s Legacy
Cleopatra Kelly
Hope Street
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 978-1-4055-1764-5
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Ken McCoy
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
To my daughter-in-law Gemma Louise Myers
Leeds. Saturday 21st April 1945
‘Hey, cloth ears!
I said ’ow old are yer? If yer don’t tell us, we’ll do yer.’
Michael looked up at the two boys towering over him. They were quite old, possibly as old as six. Everyone said how he looked older than his age, which was a problem right now. He screwed up his face in deep thought. What to say for the best? If he told them he was four they’d most probably think he was telling lies and
do him
, whatever that meant – it didn’t sound good. Then he thought of a great answer and looked down at his boots, which could do with a good polish.
‘Allus look at yer boots when yer tellin’ fibs,’ was what Tony Lafferty had once told him. ‘If yer look at yer boots they can’t tell if yer fibbin’.’
‘Five.’
One of them grabbed a handful of his jumper and snarled at him.
‘Yer little liar!’
Michael was a bit shocked that they knew he was fibbing. He’d been looking at his boots, so how did they know? He was now considering a second option – running away. He was a good runner, nearly as fast as Tony Lafferty who had something called rickets which gave him bow legs. ‘Poor lad wouldn’t stop a pig in a passage,’ Michael’s dad once said. ‘Never drank his milk, that’s his trouble. Drink your milk, son, or you’ll end up with bendy bones like Lafferty’s lad.’
If only this big
kid would let go of his jumper. Michael was wishing he
was
five. But if he was five he’d most probably look six. If they didn’t believe he was five they’d never believe he was four, which was how old he was. Four and a quarter, according to his mam. What should he tell them?
He felt a cuff to the side of his head that sent him spinning to the ground. He grazed his knee but he wasn’t going to cry. If they thought they could make him cry they had another think coming. His dad was a soldier and he wouldn’t think much of his son if he started crying just because he’d grazed his knee. It was just one more scab to go with the others that decorated both of his knees. At least no one was holding on to his jumper now. They were both standing over him and laughing, which wasn’t fair. His dad had told him it was rude to laugh at people. It wasn’t the sort of laughing that might make him laugh along with them. This was bad laughing because they were bad boys.
Tears arrived, despite his determination not to cry. In a fit of petulance he lashed out with the heel of his right boot, which was reinforced with brand-new steel segs. Great for kicking up sparks. He caught one of the boys on his bare shin. The boy let out an agonised howl. Michael sprang to his feet and set off running. He’d gone no more than half a dozen steps when the other boy caught him up and grabbed his jumper again.
‘Right, yer little
bugger! Yer’ve proper ’ad it now!’
Michael wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. ‘Leave us alone. I’ve done nowt!’ A low hum sounded in the distance, giving Michael a germ of an idea.
‘Yer’ve just broke me mate’s leg. That means yer’ll go ter jail.’
The low hum gradually built up to an echoing whine as the man winding the handle that worked the air-raid siren picked up speed. Michael knew there weren’t any German bombers coming because his mam had told him about them testing out the siren just before teatime, and he was due in for his tea any time now. He’d been standing at the end of Perseverance Street waiting for it to start when the two bullies arrived. He was wondering if they knew it was only a test. He pointed at the sky.
‘Look. There’s a load o’ German bombers over there.’
‘Where?’
‘Oh, they’ve just gone behind a cloud.’
It was a brilliant fib, one he was quite proud of. He’d tell Tony Lafferty about this. It’d make him laugh. The siren whined on. The bully looked up, uncertainly. His crony was staggering to his feet, hobbling on his injured shin.
‘This kid reckons he can see German bombers.’
‘I can,’ said Michael. ‘Up there, look. Oh heck! They’ve gone again.’
The siren’s whine grew to a crescendo as the man winding it got up to full speed. The siren was on the roof of Kershawe’s factory about a quarter of a mile away from the boys. A woman was hurrying down the road. The bigger boys looked around. Everyone seemed to be hurrying.
‘Me mam said I’ve got ter
go home, when t’ siren starts,’ said Michael. ‘We’ve got a shelter in our cellar. Me dad made it.’ He was backing away as he said it. His finger was pointing upwards once again.
‘Look, it’s a Messyshit.’
It was the only German plane he knew. Tony Lafferty had taught him the name. Tony was five and knew all sorts of stuff. Michael’s mam didn’t like him playing with Tony because he was a rough lad but Michael thought he was great. He turned and ran, as did the bigger boys, only in opposite directions.
Michael arrived home just as the siren was winding down. He had a grazed knee and a big smile on his face. He’d tricked the big boys. He’d tell Tony all about it tomorrow, but he wouldn’t mention it to his mam. If she knew what had happened she wouldn’t let him play out on his own again. She’d only let him if she was watching and he wasn’t a baby any more.
The door to number 13 was open and Michael shot straight into his house. His mother was in the scullery boiling eggs. They’d have two eggs each followed by an Eccles cake, with bread and jam to fill up any empty spaces plus a glass of milk for Michael. Michael always managed to have an empty space and, not wanting to end up with bendy bones like Tony, he liked his milk. Lily Robinson preferred a nice cup of tea. She turned and revealed the bump that housed the next addition to their family. Michael knew it was a baby brother or a sister but he wasn’t sure how it had got in there, or how it would get out. He smiled up at his mam. She smiled down at him.
‘Hello, cheeky face. Hey,
have you been crying?’
‘I fell on me knee.’
He showed her his injury.
‘That’s with running too fast. I’ve told you about that. Come in the scullery, I’ll have to get all that muck off before I stick a plaster on.’
‘What’s for tea?’
‘Boiled eggs and Eccles cakes.’
‘Ugh! Fly pie.’
‘I thought you liked Eccles cake.’
Tony Lafferty had told him that Eccles cake was really fly pie and Michael couldn’t understand why a pie made with flies should taste so good. He was a happy boy who knew no better than the circumstances in which he lived. Dad away at war; mam scraping to make ends meet; fly pie for tea.
Tuesday 24th April 1945
The telegraph boy wasn’t whistling
as he pedalled his red bicycle over the cobbles of Perseverance Street. Far from it. His chain needed oiling, but he usually whistled, creaking chain or not, as telegraph boys did back then. It was their way of heralding their arrival, followed by a cheerful knock. Any telegraph boy who wasn’t whistling had nothing to whistle about. At times like this he thought his was the worst job of the war – apart from being a soldier and being shot at by Germans. His first delivery was a notification of death and he was not to hang around. His instructions were to deliver it with politeness, respect,
and no whistling
.
‘And clear off sharpish before she starts moaning.’
His dispatcher wasn’t a heartless man, just practical. When the residents of Perseverance Street heard the creaking bike they glanced through their windows to see where he was heading; praying that he wasn’t going to slow down and dismount outside their house. Him and his bad tidings. Well-off people living in the more northern suburbs wouldn’t have been quite so worried, as they used the telegram service to exchange urgent messages. Not so the people of Perseverance Street whose messages were never so urgent
as to waste good money on their delivery. The telegraph boy would be a guaranteed messenger of doom at any of these doors.
Had it been a doctor at a Perseverance Street door it would have been a sure-fire way of knowing someone inside was on their last legs; the same went for a priest or a minister of any church. The watchers at the windows breathed sighs of relief that the boy had passed them by; relief that turned to morbid curiosity which took them to their doors where they stood with folded arms. He dismounted outside number 13 and propped his bike up by resting a pedal on the kerb.
‘Oh heck! It’s young Lily – it’ll be ’er Larry.’
‘And ’er over eight months gone an’ all.’
The watchers saw Lily standing at her window.
‘Oh, heck! She can see ’im!’
There were small bay windows in each house from where the occupant had a good sideways view of the street. Lily Robinson heard the creaking bike and glanced out of the window at the approaching boy. Her heart sank like a stone when she saw him swing his leg over the bike to dismount and cruise to a stop outside her house. He looked inside his bag, took out a brown envelope and double-checked the address against the house number. His knock was loud enough for anyone inside to hear but not so loud as to be disrespectful. Across the street the morbid watchers watched from beneath furrowed brows. Inside the house an icy dread rushed through Lily’s body, freezing all movement. On the doorstep the boy’s concentration was on the unpleasant job in hand. Glancing neither right or left, just at the door, waiting for it to open. Half hoping the lady wasn’t in.
Lily managed to move
to the door and stood behind it, a hand on her mouth, paralysed with dread. It might well be that she was worrying for nothing, but deep down she knew she wasn’t.
