Backstreet Child (36 page)

‘What ’appened to ’er?’ Tony asked.

‘She got very frail as she got older an’ then she finally went into an institution. Must ’a’ bin about two years ago. There was nuffing else for it. She couldn’t look after ’erself an’ she was nearly eighty years old.’

‘Did yer ever go an’ see ’er, Ma?’ Tony asked her.

‘No, I didn’t, more’s the pity,’ Mary replied. ‘I know I should’ave done.’

Tony stretched. ‘Well, I’d better be gettin’ ready,’ he said. ‘I’m due back before mornin’.’

Mary watched as her son gathered his kit together and she was filled with sadness. She had seen his father go off to war, never to return. Tony had gone off once and been lucky to get back from Dunkirk without a scratch. Would he be so lucky this time?

In the Salter household a conference was taking place. Three pretty young women sat round the parlour table with cups of tea and occasionally they dipped their hands into the biscuit barrel for the rapidly diminishing supply of plain digestives.

‘Well, this time we gotta put our foot down,’ Brenda said.

‘What can we do? After all, ’e ain’t a kid,’ Lily cut in. ‘’E’s old enough ter know better.’

‘It’ll be in all the papers,’ Barbara remarked. ‘I won’t be able to ’old my ’ead up at work.’

‘Sod ’em all,’ Lily said quickly. ‘Yer don’t mean ter sit there an’ tell me that none o’ them at work ’as never done a bit o’ black-market stuff. Look at Lucy What’s-’er-name. The ovver week she come in four days runnin’ wiv salmon sandwiches. Then there was that dirty ole git, Alf Dockett. ’E was braggin’ about bein’ able ter get just about everyfing at ’is corner shop.’

‘Yeah, but that’s different from bein’ brought up in front o’ the magistrate,’ Brenda said. ‘It makes yer feel like yer farvver’s a criminal.’

‘Well, I reckon we ought ter lay the law down,’ Barbara told her two sisters.

‘What we gonna do, send ’im ter bed soon as ’e gets in?’ Lily said sarcastically.

‘No, we’ll tell ’im that if there’s any more duckin’ an’ divin’ on ’is part then we’ll stop our ’ousekeepin’ money. That should make ’im sit up an’ take notice.’

Lily took the last of the digestives and dipped it in her tea. ‘It’s a shame really,’ she sighed. ‘Dad seemed ter change fer the better while ’e was wiv that Brenda Massey. I wonder what went wrong between ’em?’

‘Yeah, I ’ave to admit yer right,’ Brenda said.

‘Next time I see Brenda Massey, I’ll ask ’er,’ Barbara declared.

‘Yer can’t do that,’ Lily said. ‘It’s none of our business.’

‘We could say that Dad’s bin ill an’ not responsible fer ’is actions,’ Brenda suggested.

Lily shook her head. ‘That’s no good until we know why they split up. We might make fings worse.’

The conference was brought to a hasty end when the girls heard the front door. Maurice came into the room looking very worried indeed and slumped down in the chair. ‘Well, we’ll know the result termorrer,’ he said fearfully.

‘Don’t worry, Dad, we’ll club tergevver an’ ’elp yer wiv yer fine,’ Lily said helpfully.

‘Where we gonna get fifty guineas from?’ Brenda asked.

‘If yer do go away, can we come an’ see yer?’ Barbara asked.

‘Don’t be so ’orrible,’ Lily chided her. ‘Yer won’t get sent away, will yer, Dad?’

Maurice shrugged his shoulders. ‘Six months I should fink,’ he groaned.

‘Wiv good be’aviour it’ll only be four months,’ Barbara remarked.

Lily got up to pour her father a cup of tea and when she put it down in front of him, he delved into the biscuit barrel and his face dropped. ‘’Ave all the biscuits gone?’ he asked.

‘It’s them fat pigs,’ Lily said, glaring at her sisters.

‘You took the last one,’ Brenda said loudly.

‘I only ’ad two,’ Lily told her.

Maurice put his hands up for order, knowing that when they started bickering, it went on for hours. ‘Now listen ter me,’ he began. ‘I might go away termorrer. After all, it’s no use finkin’ ovverwise. Now I’m gonna tell yer a few fings an’ I want yer ter listen. First of all, I want no young men in ’ere while I’m away. Next I want yer ter keep the place tidy, an’ no bickerin’ between yerselves. All do yer share an’ fings’ll run along nicely. Last of all, I don’t want any of yer ter come visitin’, understood? Them places are not fer the likes o’ my daughters, even if their ole man’s there. All I can say is, I’m very sorry fer what’s ’appened an’ fer the worry it’s caused yer all, but I’ll try an’ change when I come out. That’s a promise.’

There was total silence for a few seconds while Maurice’s words sank in, then Brenda spoke. ‘We know yer did it fer us, Dad,’ she said kindly. ‘We don’t fink any less o’ yer, do we, girls?’

‘Course not,’ Lily and Barbara said together.

‘Anyway, we’ll just wait till termorrer, an’ if yer get off wiv a fine, we’ll all go up the Kings Arms ter celebrate,’ Lily said.

‘I’ll bake yer a nice seedy cake an’ put a file in it, just in case yer do go down,’ Barbara teased him.

Lily glared at her sister, feeling that Barbara’s sense of humour was getting more and more warped.

‘Right then, I’m orf ter bed,’ Maurice announced, ‘an’ if that bloke Casey comes round wiv them dresses, put ’em under the stairs out the way. We don’t want ’em on show.’

Chapter Twenty-Two

On Saturday evening, Carrie hummed contentedly to herself as she laid the table in the parlour and then stepped back to admire her efforts. She had used her best calico tablecloth and brought out the blue willow-pattern dinner set. The knives and forks were placed neatly beside the china and in the centre of the table was a small vase of asters, arranged delicately in a spreading spray. Beside the dinner plates Carrie had placed the matching teacups and smaller plates, and looking at it all she felt pleased.

It had been a hard week, but now, with Rachel home on weekend leave and her mother perking up after one of her bad turns, Carrie wanted tonight’s meal to be a special one. Joe had slipped out for the evening paper and she could hear her daughter moving around upstairs as she positioned the chairs round the table and went into the scullery to check on the food. The potatoes were browning nicely and the small joint of beef sizzled in the fat as she pulled it from the oven to baste it once more. The Yorkshire pudding was rising and as she stepped back away from the heat Carrie felt satisfied. All that was left to do was to finish off the minted peas and make sure that the carrots and swede were soft enough. So far so good, she thought, turning to see Joe coming along the passage holding the evening paper.

‘ ’Ow long? I’m starvin’,’ he said, slipping his arms round her waist and nuzzling her neck as she lifted the lid of the steaming pot.

Carrie felt the familiar shiver of pleasure as his chin rubbed against the side of her face and she let her head arch back, offering her throat to his lips. He kissed it and then tried to turn her round but she gently protested. ‘Go an’ check the table, Joe, there’s a luv, I’m ready ter serve up.’

Nellie came down the stairs wearing her favourite blue dress with her hair set in tight waves, and when Rachel followed down soon after, Carrie felt a glow of pride flow through her. Her daughter looked beautiful with her flaxen hair set down in deep waves round her ears and shaped across her forehead. Her figure looked especially shapely in her tight-fitting olive-green dress, which was open at the neck and puffed round the shoulders. She was wearing the necklet with a small gold pendant with its tiny sapphire centred inside some intricate etching, the piece her grandmother had given her for her sixteenth birthday, and it pleased Carrie. Nellie would notice it and make a point of reminding everyone that she had worn that same necklet on special occasions when she was a young woman. The family was reunited once more and Carrie savoured the special moment before going out into the scullery to serve up the meal.

The summer evening light filtered through the net curtains and the clock above them on the mantelshelf chimed the hour of seven as Joe leaned back in his chair. Carrie and her mother were discussing the new contract and what it would mean if it proved to be regular, while Rachel was beginning to look slightly concerned as she eyed the clock and then cast her eyes round the table at the dishes. Joe’s face hid a grin as he caught her eye.

‘Leave all the washin’ up ter me, Rachel,’ he said casually. ‘Yer don’t want ter splash that dress.’

Rachel gave him a wide smile of thanks for his understanding. ‘I’m meetin’ Amy at eight,’ she told him. ‘It should be a good dance ternight. There’s a good band an’ it’ll be nice ter meet up wiv everybody again.’

Carrie glanced at her daughter inquisitively. ‘Is there anybody special yer ’opin’ ter see there?’ she asked.

Rachel shrugged her shoulders. ‘Only the usual crowd, Mum,’ she said dismissively, her mind flitting back to the last time she and Amy Brody had gone to the Samson dance hall.

Joe began to gather up the plates and Rachel looked at the clock once more. ‘I’d better be gettin’ ready,’ she said, feeling slightly guilty at leaving the table after the effort her mother had put into the meal. She stood up and went round to plant a kiss on her mother’s head. ‘That was a lovely meal, Mum,’ she whispered. ‘I must get ready now.’

Nellie gave the young woman a sharp look as she went to her with a fond kiss. ‘You be careful, young lady,’ she said.

Rachel smiled as she exchanged looks with her mother and then she hurried up the stairs to her room. What would her grandmother have thought, she wondered, had she known about the recent camp dances and the lonely young servicemen who attended them, away from home and loved ones, many of them inexperienced and seeking to learn about love before going off to fight? What would her grandmother have thought had she known of the carryings-on behind the NAAFI buildings and in the dark places where couples consorted, the men groping and clumsily striving to make love, their partners sometimes fighting desperately to ward off the advances and sometimes only too willing to be taken?

These were desperate times, Rachel thought with a frown. Tomorrows were so full of uncertainties. In the early morning light, young men took off from airfields on patrol and flew out over the narrow strip of water dividing the opposing armies. Ratings sailed off to face the U-boats, and soldiers boarded troopships or waited in camps, not knowing where they might eventually end up or what fate had in store for them. Even at the airfield ground control, there was always the danger of a sudden attack from enemy bombers seeking to destroy the country’s defences.

Rachel sighed deeply as she sat in front of her mirror and studied her face. She was getting too serious, too morbid, she realised. The night was young and there was fun to be had. Let tomorrow come, she decided. Tonight was for living.

As the evening light started to fade, Maurice Salter rolled up his sleeves in the scullery and splashed cold water over his face. He had been given another chance, no two, he corrected himself. There must be no more tempting providence, nor any upsetting of Granny Massey, accident or otherwise. From now on he would be the model father and an impeccable wooer. He had exhausted himself in his efforts to stay away from the expected stone-breaking, and in talking himself back into Brenda Massey’s arms. His good fortune had been aided to a large degree by his three daughters and Maurice knew that he was in their debt, and that they would no doubt remind him of it occasionally, or a little more often.

The court at Tower Bridge had been crowded that Monday morning. There had been two sentencings before he was brought in front of the magistrate, a surly-looking lady in metal-rimmed glasses who he decided was definitely a man-hater. She had corrected the solicitor, criticised a court usher, had words to say about the mumbling in court, and last but not least moaned about the stuffiness of the place. Windows had been opened, the usher and solicitor concerned had apologised and the public were hushed before Maurice took his turn in the dock, shoulders hunched in disgrace.

‘It was an act of charity, really, that led me inter this place, your worship,’ he began. ‘I ’ave three grown-up daughters who are careful to eat the right sort o’ food an’ they decided some time ago that they would not eat any more meat. I’m on shift work an’ I get the shoppin’ before I turn in, yer see.’

‘Turn in?’ the magistrate said shrilly.

‘Go ter bed in the mornin’s,’ Maurice explained.

‘Go on,’ she prompted him.

‘Well, bein’ tired an’ exhausted when I do me shoppin’ I kept fergettin’ that me daughters ’ave gone orf meat an’ I still kept buyin’ me ration o’ corned beef,’ Maurice went on. ‘Anyway, one mornin’ I looked in the cupboard fer some coppers that I keep in a tin there. I wanted it fer the street singer, yer see, an’ I saw all these tins o’ corned beef, yer worship. “Good gracious,” I ses ter meself. “Fancy me bein’ such a dunder’ead. I must stop buyin’ this corned beef.” ’

‘Will you please get on with it, I’ve got other cases to hear,’ the magistrate complained.

‘I’m comin’ ter the point, yer worship,’ Maurice added quickly.

‘Be brief.’

‘Well, wivout no more ado I put the tins in me saddlebag wiv the intention o’ takin’ the food ter the church ter be distributed amongst the poor an’ needy, an’ then if I don’t get a message from me guv’nor ter say that some o’ the men are orf sick and my presence is required there an’ then ter keep the ’ome fires burnin’. I immediately did no more than get on me bike, bein’ a patriotic citizen, an’ pedalled as fast as I could ter work, only ter be stopped by the policeman who saw that I didn’t ’ave no lights on me bike.’