A Rose in No-Man's Land (26 page)

“The shipping company should garnish his wages and give it to her,” Amy said. “Five children, and the poor thing looks about fifty, but I suppose she’s only about thirty-five.”

“Wouldn’t be more than bloody twenty-six or so. Had her first baby at fourteen and lost several others. Her husband does nothing for them. Only comes around when he wants to empty himself in her. There’s other men, as well. She’ll sell herself to anyone who gives her a few pennies or a roof over her head. Nothing lasts, so she comes back here with her brood and, likely as not, another baby growing in her belly.”

“Who delivers the babies?”

“I’ve helped with a couple. Before that, who knows? No one, I suppose.”

“Can’t the welfare or the church do something?”

“The local church does run a soup kitchen, but there’s too many like her. None of them wants to go to the workhouse. It’s the bloody government’s fault. Run by gentry who don’t give a bugger about the poor.”

All the floorboards had been ripped up and either used to cover the broken windows or burned in the rough fireplace Charlie had built out of old bricks. An ancient iron pot hung over the fire, and Molly put all the scraps in it to make a stew. Any worn-out blankets and clothes Olive could scrounge she passed on to the Dawsons.

Amy could hear rats scurrying around in the filthy, semi-darkened room. The only time the Dawsons left this miserable place was to scavenge for food or pieces of coal.

“I’d like to be able to do more for them, but I just can’t afford it. Things are harder in winter, with customers at the café dropping off. If it wasn’t for my lodgers, I’d be out of business.”

Amy slipped her arm through Olive’s as they walked across the road. “I’m living off you, too. You could be getting good money for my room.”

“Rubbish. You more than earn your keep.”

“I hate to ask, but I don’t suppose you could spare me a shilling or so. Just enough to get me over to the convalescent home to see poor Harry Peters, my shell-shocked friend. I thought I’d go tomorrow, as the café is closed.”

“I should have given you some wages, but I’ve been a bit short. You’re supposed to have Sunday off anyway.”

“You’ve been good to me. I didn’t like to ask before, and I wouldn’t now except for poor Harry. Jake, his brother, isn’t able to come over from France very often, and unfortunately there’s no one else.”

When they arrived back at the café, they took off the wraparound aprons that completely covered their clothes and put them in the washhouse before scrubbing their hands thoroughly. This had become a ritual after visiting the Dawson family, because they were filthy and crawling with vermin.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget the smell of that miserable place,” Amy said.

“Bloody terrible, but there’s only so much a body can do.”

“Of course. I’m not blaming you.”

****

On Sunday, Amy caught a bus some of the way, then walked the rest to visit Harry Peters. Would Mark be at Mrs. St. John’s? Have another woman set up there?
I must stop thinking like this. Otherwise I’ll go mad.

Matron was not on duty, but an orderly took her to the day room to see Harry.

“Hello, how are you, Harry?”

A roaring fire burned in the hearth, and she hurried over to it, holding her cold hands out to the warmth.

“I’m good.”

She stared into Harry’s childlike eyes, still as blank as ever.

“I’ve got a bird.”

“Have you?” She followed him over to the corner of the room, where a large cage stood on a table. A bright yellow canary fluttered around.

“It’s mine. I feed him bread and seeds. He likes me.”

She watched as Harry squatted down, put his finger in the cage, and wriggled it about. Surprisingly, the canary landed on his finger and sat there while Harry made bird noises for him.

“The bird is a good idea for your patients,” Amy remarked to the orderly. “Calming for them, I should think.”

“It’s Harry’s bird. Seems he’s got a benefactor,” the orderly replied.

“Oh?”

“Yes. He’s taken out for fish and chips once a week, and he regularly gets boxes of chocolates, too.”

“From his brother?” How could Jake afford this kind of thing? She hoped he hadn’t done anything rash to get the money.

“Some captain pays for it.”

“What captain?”

“I don’t know, miss. According to the grapevine, he came here and fixed everything up with Matron.”

“Do you know his name?”

“No.”

It couldn’t be Mark, surely, and yet…

“Did you know Harry’s being repatriated to Australia next week? Someone pulled strings, apparently.”

Her hands flew to her mouth. She couldn’t believe she was hearing right.

“I’ll leave you to it, miss.”

“Oh, yes, thank you.”

Harry wandered back. “You like my bird?”

“Yes, he’s lovely. Do you know who gave him to you?”

“My friend.”

“Your friend? What’s his name?”

Amy somehow knew even before the word came out.

“Mark.”

How on earth did he find out about Harry? Mrs. St. John must have told him some details, and he high-tailed it over here to confront Harry. Probably decided to help him out of guilt. No, that wasn’t fair. Mark had mentioned his cousin Edwina’s retarded daughter, and how he always wrote to her and sent presents from every country he visited. Friends in high places certainly described him, though. She had to rid herself of this bitterness before it poisoned her whole system and destroyed her. Mark didn’t want her. It was as simple as that. He had obviously grown bored with her and used Harry as an excuse to get rid of her. The pain of rejection sliced through her heart like the blade of a recently sharpened knife.

Harry tugging at her hand intruded on her bitter thoughts. “I want to play checkers.”

“All right. Have you seen Jake lately?”

“He’s dead.”

“What! Are you sure?”

Harry’s eyes filled with tears, and she put her arms around him.
Dead. Rough and ready Jake, with his gentle hands and devotion to the wounded. Why am I not surprised? There will be no soldiers left soon.

“Let’s start our game of checkers.” She forced herself to sound cheerful. If he broke down, she would join him, and if the tears started, she would never be able to stop them. She diverted him with the checkers, and they were soon involved in a hard-fought contest. Harry was an accomplished player, determined to win at all costs, even if it meant cheating. A couple of other patients drifted in and watched them for a time before wandering off again.

They shared hot chocolate and freshly baked scones for afternoon tea, and she watched Harry devour the scones with relish.

“I’m going home to see my mother soon.”

“Yes, I heard. I’m glad.”

She kissed his cheek before leaving. “Good luck, Harry.”

He flung his arms around her, clutching her tightly, as if he somehow sensed this would be their final goodbye.

On the way back to Olive’s, Amy closed her eyes, letting her mind drift. Poor Mrs. Peters, one son dead, the other so traumatized he had reverted to his childhood. The mind did strange things under stress, Dr. Heinrich said. Maybe in the peace and tranquility of home, with familiar people around him, Harry might improve.
I hope so. God, please, let it be so
.

****

Since the end of November in 1916, the Germans had waged a relentless bombing campaign over London. How despicable, Amy thought, raining destruction from the skies on innocent men, women, and children going about their daily business.

Surprisingly enough, the campaign of terror failed to work. People took refuge in their basements or in doorways during a raid, then stoically returned to whatever they had been doing before.

“Those barbarians aren’t forcing me out of my house,” Olive declared one morning as Amy helped set up a few supplies in the basement. They stockpiled tins of condensed milk, a box of tea, and some other supplies. “I’m not going without my cuppa for anyone,” Olive panted, flopping down on a chair with the stuffing hanging out of it. “I don’t care if I have to rub two sticks together down here to get a fire going.”

Amy laughed. “Back home, the aborigines used to light their fires that way. My cousin Guy knows how to do it.”

“Really?” Olive chortled. “I’m joking.”

“I know. A couple of mattresses, blankets… What else do we need down here?”

“Candles. Charlie’s got a little kerosene stove I can borrow,” Olive said. “He won’t need it. Booze is all he’ll be worrying about. I bet he’s got a pile stashed away for emergencies.”

“Probably has. Everything else seems in short supply,” Amy mused. “No reason to think beer would be any different. What are you going to do about the Dawsons?”

“I can’t let them down here.” Tremors shook Olive’s large frame. “They’re filthy and full of lice. I have to think of my lodgers and the customers.”

“Of course. I’d like to be able to bath those poor little mites,” Amy said, “and put some decent clothes on them.”

“I would too, but look what happened to those outfits you made out of that old blanket. Those kids only wore them for a couple of days before they were filthy.”

“I know, but at least they were warmer than their other threadbare rags.” If only she had some spare money, she could do a lot more for them.

****

On such a bitterly cold day, the sleeting rain added to the damp despair of the slum dwellers. They hadn’t been able to visit the Dawsons since last week because of the terrible weather. With very few leftovers, Olive and Amy boiled all the vegetable peelings, bones, and scraps of meat they could find and made it into a thin stew. To give the gruel a bit of flavor, they spiced it up with a few herbs.

“It’s the best I can do. We’ll give them these flour sacks, too, to help the poor buggers keep a bit warmer.”

In the smelly squalor of their derelict room, the Dawsons huddled together for warmth. All the children had hacking coughs, while Molly’s eyes were blackened and swollen half closed. She sported a nasty gash on her cheek and a thick lip.

“What the hell happened to you?” Olive asked.

“Joe belted me up. I went down to the pub to get some money. We ain’t eaten for two days.”

Amy watched with a feeling of revulsion as the children fell on the pot, scooping the stew out with their fingers and wolfing it down like little wild animals.

“For God’s sake, haven’t you got a plate?”

“I sold everything. You haven’t been near us for days,” Molly accused, also scooping up the food.

“We couldn’t get out because of the bad weather,” Amy apologized. “Where’s the baby?”

“Dead.”

Amy gasped in shock. The poor little mite. “I’m so sorry.”

“Plenty more where she came from,” Molly complained bitterly. “That’s the trouble, ain’t it?”

“I’m afraid so,” Amy agreed. If only these women could somehow stop having so many babies, they would not be in such dire straits.

“Keep away from men,” Olive said tartly.

“When Joe comes, there ain’t no stopping him. He just takes what he wants.”

“Yeah, but what about the other men?” Olive accused.

“We have to eat,” Molly snapped.

“For the few bloody pennies you get, you’d be better off without them.”

The hacking coughs, the runny noses, and matter-filled eyes of the children always broke Amy’s heart, but today she felt nausea rise up in her throat.

“I don’t feel well.” She dashed into an adjoining and even more derelict room.

Amongst the bricks and other rubble, with rain pouring through the gaping hole in the ceiling, she vomited her heart out.

“You all right?” Olive called out.

“Yes, I don’t know what came over me. Don’t come in here. You’ll break your neck.”

One of the children followed her. Essie, a skinny little girl who could not be more than eight or nine, tugged at her skirt.

“Are you sick? Are you going to die like Baby did?”

“No, darling, I’m not going to die.”

The child gazed at her with sad, world-weary eyes, and Amy felt an overwhelming desire to hug this pathetic little thing but, remembering Olive’s warning, restrained herself.

“I’m starting work tomorrow,” Essie announced. “Ma got me a job at O’Toole’s laundry.”

“You’re too young. The work will be too heavy for you.”

“I’m getting five shillings a week.”

They were back in the front room now, where the fire was lit, thanks to the bucket of coal they had brought over with them.

“Essie says she’s got a job,” Amy said.

“Where?” Olive spat at Molly. “Doing bloody what?”

“Molly got her a job at O’Toole’s laundry.”

“You bitch,” Olive verbally attacked the other woman.

“Olive, please,” Amy protested. “She is rather young, but…”

“O’Toole’s laundry is a front for a brothel.”

Amy’s blood ran cold and her stomach churned over with revulsion.

“How the hell could you do such a thing? What kind of mother are you?” Olive raged at Molly.

“We need the money. About time she earned her keep. I did it at her age.”

“There must be something else. Please, you can’t let her do it,” Amy pleaded. “Get her a job in a factory. Anything but that.”

“She has to start. I got some wages in advance for food. O’Toole will kill all of us if she don’t turn up.”

“Tell him you’ll go to the police and have him arrested for child prostitution. It’s a disgrace. In fact, I’ll go myself and see him,” Amy promised recklessly.

“O’Toole’s an animal. He’d carve you up quick as look at you. Carries a twelve-inch blade with him all the time,” Olive warned. “The people working for him are just as bad. Dregs of the East End, they are.”

“You would be better off in the workhouse. Wouldn’t they, Olive?”

“I ain’t going there.”

“You’d rather sell your daughter to be violated by some brute?” She could not believe a mother, no matter how desperate, could do such a wicked thing.

“It’s all right for you, Miss Hoity-Toity, but I got all these brats to feed.”

“I’d sell myself before I sold my children.”