War Babies (35 page)

She was trembling. The explosion of rage and upset was swelling in her to bursting point.

‘Places?’ she managed to say.

Dr Evans swivelled round to face her. ‘The city has several institutions for crippled and imbecile children. It’s the best thing, very often. You’ll be able to get on with your
life – forget about it. He’ll be looked after – out of sight.’

Rachel could not speak. Clutching Tommy so tightly that she made him cry all the more, she hurried out of the room. She did not even see the other people in the waiting room. She had just tucked
Tommy back into the pram outside when a voice shrilled at her from the steps, ‘Excuse me!’ The receptionist sounded very annoyed. ‘That’ll be half a crown!’

‘Sod you – and sod your half-crown,’ Rachel muttered. She did not look up and set off, storming along the street. Running footsteps followed and the woman was officiously at
her side.

‘You owe—’ she began.

‘Here’s your
money
.’ Rachel pushed it into her hand without ever looking up.

Once the woman had hurried away and she was alone, she pushed the pram up against the side of a house and leaned over it, her tears flowing at last, unable to stop her anguish pouring out in the
street.

Head down, she hurried along the entry into their yard, praying that no one would be about. She didn’t want any questions, however kindly meant. No one was in the house
as Gladys had taken Melanie to the shops with her. All she wanted was to be alone with her son, to try and take in the doctor’s harsh words.

She took Tommy upstairs and lay on the bed with him beside her. The ride home in the pram had sent him off to sleep and now he lay there drowsily, eyes opening and closing. While Melly looked so
like Danny, she knew that Tommy favoured her. From the moment he was born there had been something about him she’d recognized, something beyond his shape or eye colour, that she could not put
into words. He was kin in some deep, blood way. She moved her face close to him, taking in the fine, fresh texture of his skin, the tiny mauve veins at the corners of his eyes. Very lightly she
laid her fingers on his chest, feeling the breath flicker in and out.

He’ll be a cripple . . .
The doctor’s indifferent tones rang through her mind. How could he be so cold and detached? Tommy would never walk. He might not talk. It was
impossible now, to take in, to know what it might mean, except that it felt as if Dr Evans had cursed her. It was like looking up at a cliff that she had to scale, that she could not see the top of
as it loomed above her. And no one else could do it except her. All she could see was that her life would never be free of care. She searched her mind for anyone she knew with a child the same. She
had seen one or two children wearing calipers on their legs. And a little boy in Floodgate Street who had had a lurching, ungainly walk. A cripple. Some of the other children had teased him, shamed
him. What would they do to a boy who could not walk at all?

Another of the doctor’s phrases threw itself at her:
You’ll be able to get on with your life
. . .
He’ll be looked after – out of sight.

She imagined wheeling Tommy to some unknown place, a big, brick monstrosity of a building, no doubt. A heavy door would open, a strange face and strange hands would grasp her son and take him
away forever, leaving her free . . . She felt a longing for this freedom course through her. She was eighteen years old, too young for all this. What if someone could just take Tommy and give him a
life? But even more powerful was the terror of someone taking him away from her, the dread and shame.

‘Oh, Tommy . . .’ The tears came then, from deep inside her, sobs which shook her, heartbroken for him and for herself. ‘My poor, poor little Tommy-babby. I won’t let
them take you away – I
won’t
.’

Laying her head beside him on the rough blanket, she wept for a long time, full of sadness, for him and for herself, and feeling fiercely protective of him. Her sobbing died and she fell asleep
next to him. The next thing she knew was the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

‘Rachel?’ Gladys came into the room, her face stony with concern. ‘You all right? What’s going on?’

Rachel pushed herself up and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. She felt utterly stunned, as if something heavy had knocked her down.

‘What did they say?’ Gladys sat on the bed beside her.

‘Oh, Auntie!’ Rachel burst into tears all over again. ‘He was horrible, the doctor! He said Tommy’s going to be a cripple. He said things I didn’t understand. But
he said his legs don’t work and his left arm – and his tongue. And then he said I should put him away in a home and forget all about him!’

She heard Gladys’s intake of breath. She waited for her to say something brisk and dismissive, that the doctor was wrong, that they should not take any notice and just wait and see. She
wanted her to say it wasn’t like that.

Into Gladys’s silence she cried, ‘And what’s my mother going to say? She’ll most likely be the same as the doctor!’

Gladys laced her fingers together in her lap and looked down at them. It was a long time before she said anything. Rachel found herself waiting. It was another of those moments when she looked
at Gladys afresh, and found her utterly mysterious. She could not guess what was going on inside Gladys’s head. But at last, gently, she said, ‘Tommy’s your son. Yours and
Danny’s. And he’s my nephew. He’s
ours –
our blood. God knows, we’ve lost enough of our family . . .’ She stopped, hesitating. ‘I’m not
saying it’ll be easy. I don’t want to sentence you to . . .’ she began, then stopped again. At last she said, ‘Your mother’s not the one who’ll be seeing to him
day after day, looking after him.’

‘No, she’s made sure of that,’ Rachel said bitterly.

‘None of it’s his fault,’ Gladys went on. Her voice was low, as if she was struggling with her emotions. ‘Or anyone’s. It’s no good getting in a state about
things when you don’t even know how it’s going to be. We’ll just have to take each day as it comes. That’s all there is to do – keep going and see. He’s your
son, Rach. For God’s sake, let’s look on him as a blessing. He belongs with us.’

With tears running down her cheeks, Rachel looked at Danny’s aunt beside her. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you – for being so kind.’

‘We’re family, wench,’ she said. ‘That’s how it is. You never know how precious it is until you’ve lost it.’ Her eyes filled and for a second she
reached across for Rachel’s hand, gave it a rough squeeze, then got up and left the room.

7 May 1945

They were drawn back to the wireless to listen to every bulletin. All weekend the excitement grew and grew. Hitler was dead! William Joyce, Lord Haw-Haw, whose sinister
voice had oozed propaganda through the airwaves all through the war, had signed off a few nights ago.

‘You may not hear from me again for a few months,’ he slurred.

‘He’s drunk!’ Rachel said. ‘Hark at that!’

He finished in a low voice:
‘Heil Hitler
. And farewell.’

‘He’ll need to be more than drunk,’ Gladys said with satisfaction.

German forces had already surrendered and, this Monday dinner time, the sound of wireless broadcasts sounded out of the windows into the yard and along every street. Waiting in silent suspense,
at long last they heard it: the German Supreme Command had surrendered at Rheims. The war in Europe was over!

Dolly erupted through the door almost before the newsreader had got it out of his mouth. The yard was filling with the neighbours, cheering.

‘Did you hear? Oh, I can’t believe it – it’s over!’ She flung her arms around Gladys, then Rachel. ‘Oh, I wonder if Mo’s heard – I feel like
running over and telling him!’

‘They’ll have the wireless on, won’t they?’ Gladys said.

‘Oh – it’s over!’ Dolly repeated, jumping up and down. Then she caught sight of Rachel’s face. ‘Oh, bab – no, it’s not, is it. Your Danny’s
out East . . .’

Rachel hardly knew what it meant. She was elated but it was hard to take anything in yet.

‘And poor Ma and Pa Jackman . . .’

Their faces sobered. The Jackmans had received word earlier in the year that Edwin had been killed during the Battle of the Bulge in the Ardennes.

‘There’s some won’t be celebrating,’ Dolly said. ‘But there’ll be no stopping some of ’em! Not after all this! Ooh – what a day to
remember!’

Rachel slipped back into the house as the others stayed in the yard, chattering with excitement.

The factory at the back had gone quiet, as if everyone had downed tools. Lil Gittins had taken their wireless outside and put some band music on. There she was, out there in one of her low-cut
dresses, teetering on her heels and calling to everyone to join in.

‘My Stanley’s coming home! He’s coming back to me!’

Irene had come out and danced about with her. She was like a different woman now, no longer pregnant, dressed to kill in a shimmery, copper-coloured frock, hair dyed white blonde. Rachel felt
like a bag of bones, a mousey frump in comparison. And she found Irene hard to put up with, especially since she had had Evie and the way she treated the child.

She went to check on Tommy. Dolly had said they could hang onto the old pram for as long as necessary and she had Tommy propped in it, on a pillow, a strap round his body to keep him upright and
safe. At twenty months old, he ought to have been up and running about like Evie and Netta’s Patrick, a pale, round-faced little lad like his father who Netta doted on. As she walked inside,
she saw Tommy’s eyes register her arrival and he made one of his spasmodic movements of pleasure, his left arm clenched close to his body. His right arm worked quite well and in that hand he
was holding his favourite toy, a little wooden rattle with bells on the end. Whenever she found time she did massage his stiff limbs as the doctor had suggested. She had no idea whether it was
doing any good but at least it was something she could do.

‘All right, babby?’ She sat down beside him, looking into his sweet, round face, his head covered now by a cap of mouse-brown hair like her own. He made a lot of sounds – no
actual words yet, but he was trying. His mouth didn’t work quite normally. His tongue had a tendency to pop out without him being able to control it. She still had to feed him, though his
right arm was strong and she thought maybe one day he might be able to do it himself. But when the food went into his mouth, his wayward tongue pushed a lot of it out again. He had a permanent
trail of drool from his lips which made his chin red and sore.

‘So you’re saying he’s not . . . right?’ Peggy said, when Rachel first got round to telling her about Tommy. He was about eight months old by then and
clearly not doing the things you would expect from a child that age: rolling over, sitting up, perhaps even starting to try and get onto his hands and knees. Although he was still light for his
age, in her overwrought, weak state, Rachel found it exhausting getting over to the Coventry Road with Melly walking and Tommy in her arms. It was especially tiring when there was no prospect of
support or affection at the other end.

At least it had been a warm spring day and not raining, but she was already at the end of her tether by the time they got to the flat. She waited until Peggy had reluctantly stirred herself to
make some tea and they were all in the upstairs sitting room, a faint breeze coming in through the window, before she broached the subject.

‘You mean, he’s some sort of cripple?’ An expression of horror came over Peggy’s dainty features.

‘Steady on,’ Fred Horton said. He happened to be around that afternoon. ‘He looks a happy little chappy despite it . . .’

Rachel warmed towards her stepfather in that moment. After all her years of trying to get on the right side of her mother, however mean and selfish she could be, today she felt an immense,
bursting rage on Tommy’s behalf. She’d had more than enough of it. Mom could be nasty to her but she wasn’t having it with her son! She clenched her hands, waiting to see what
else Peggy would come out with.

‘Well, he may be cheerful enough,’ Peggy said. ‘But what use is he going to be if he can’t walk, as Rachel seems to be saying?’

‘Use to who?’ Rachel flared up. ‘Is that all anyone is –
useful
?’

She could see Melly listening in hard to this conversation, but there was nothing she could do about it.

‘He may not be useful to you,
Mother
, but he’s
my son
.’ She was so overwrought that her voice had sunk almost to a snarl. There was so much more she wanted to
say:
You never loved me, all you ever think about is yourself – don’t you dare ever let your stupid, selfish attitudes near my little boy . . .
All her rage and tension were
ready to pour out, as if from a bursting boil, on the person who most seemed to deserve them.

‘Eh now, steady on,’ Fred intervened. He stepped over and closed the window, as if he was worried that someone might overhear.

‘Oh – I suppose having a
cripple
in the family might be bad for business as well!’ Rachel said.

‘Rachel, for goodness’ sake!’ Peggy said. ‘All I said was . . . I just
asked
what the state of things is.’

‘
Things
? What d’you mean, “things”?’ Rachel sat on the very edge of the chair, her arms waving as she spoke. ‘Tommy has a . . . a condition where his
legs don’t work and his left arm as well and his tongue. There – that’s
the state of things
. You may not like it –
I
don’t like it. But that’s
how it is. That’s Tommy.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ Peggy said again. ‘There’s no need to be so unpleasant—’

‘
Unpleasant
!’ Rachel heard her own caustic tone. ‘Unpleasant for you? Oh,
poor you
.’

As she snapped at her mother she saw Melly move over to her little brother and tweak his nose playfully. Then she put her arm around him where he lay, half-propped on a cushion. Cissy followed
her and sat on the other side of Tommy and tried to make Melly laugh. But Melly was staring very solemnly at her grandmother, as if protecting Tommy from her.