Backstreet Child (42 page)

‘They’re just good friends,’ Carrie cut in, eyeing her daughter and smiling at her.

‘That’s as it should be,’ Nellie went on. ‘I can’t see the sense in gettin’ too serious wiv a young man, especially when ’e’s in the army. ’E could be sent overseas at any time, an’ where are yer then?’

‘On yer own, I should fink,’ Carrie said jovially.

Nellie went back to her sewing. Joe came down with the tea and the guns opened up once more. They could hear the drone of planes overhead as a new wave began their bombing runs, then the house shook violently. Nellie cowered in her chair and Joe instinctively went to Carrie.

‘That was a close one,’ Rachel gasped.

Another loud explosion shook the house, and another in quick succession. Nellie was rocking to and fro in her terror and Carrie went to her, her arms encircling her, while Joe put his arm round Rachel’s shoulders and let her nestle her head against his chest. The light faltered and then went out, leaving the family in complete darkness. Joe took out a box of matches from his pocket and struck one, searching for the oil lamp he had brought into the cellar for just such an emergency. A loud explosion rocked the house once more.

‘It’s the wharves,’ Joe said as he lit another match and kindled the oil lamp. Dust filled the air and a strong smell of burning drifted through the cellar. ‘I’ve gotta go an’ see. It might be the lorries,’ he exclaimed, hurrying up the stairs.

‘Be careful, Joe, fer Gawd’s sake,’ Carrie called out after him.

As he stepped out into the open, Joe saw the flames rising high into the night sky from a burning wharf behind the yard. He shuddered as he watched, the flames becoming a huge shower of sparks as the wharf caved in. He could hear the sound of fire bells and running feet outside the yard.

‘Wilson Street’s copped it,’ someone called out to a colleague.

‘So’s Abbey Street,’ another shouted back.

Joe turned back into the cellar, knowing there was nothing he could do, other than comfort and try to protect the women. All around him flames were shooting skywards, and then another, louder roar of aircraft filled his ears.

Josiah Dawson knew that at times such as these people were looking to him, as street warden, for comfort and security. He had a position to uphold and he was a proud man, if somewhat headstrong. Tonight he had not spared himself. After making sure that Dolly and the children and Wallace were safely installed in the shelter, he did his rounds. The blackout regulations were being observed to his satisfaction and he had reported in to the ARP post in Jamaica Road. So far so good, Josiah thought to himself as he stood in the doorway of the corner shop to light a cigarette, his steel helmet down over his forehead to shield the light of the match. Explosions shattered windows and rattled doors as guns roared and shrapnel fell around him. Josiah gritted his teeth and hunched his shoulders as he hurried back along the turning, staying close to the houses for protection against the flying metal. Suddenly, in the eerie light reflected down the little turning from the burning wharves, he saw Maurice Salter pedalling his bicycle towards him and holding onto what looked like a torso on a pole.

Maurice pulled up outside his house and dropped his bundle onto the pavement while he removed his cycle clips, seemingly unconcerned at the din around him.

‘Get yerself inside!’ Josiah shouted at him. ‘There’s shrapnel comin’ down.’

Maurice looked surprised at seeing the warden and he gave him a lopsided grin. ‘I found it in the Ole Kent Road as I come past,’ he said as he put his key into the lock. ‘C’mon in fer a few minutes, I’ll make us a cuppa.’

Josiah tucked the padded torso under his arm and followed Maurice into the scullery. ‘What the bloody ’ell d’yer want this for?’ he asked.

‘Well, as a matter o’ fact I thought it might come in ’andy fer Brenda,’ he replied grinning. ‘She’s doin’ dressmakin’. It’s a tailor’s dummy.’

‘I can see that,’ Josiah said. ‘Anyway, what yer doin’ ’ome at this time? I thought yer was on the night shift.’

Maurice had leaned his bicycle against the scullery door and was searching his pocket for matches. ‘They caught the gasometer so we ’ad ter shut the furnaces down,’ he replied. ‘We’re back in the mornin’, please Gawd.’

Josiah winced as a nearby explosion rocked the house but his host did not seem in any way perturbed. ‘I’ll make us a nice cuppa,’ he grinned, putting the match over the gas ring. ‘Sod it, I fergot the gas was cut orf,’ he said, shaking his finger as he dropped the burnt-down match.

Josiah made to leave but Maurice suddenly caught his arm. ‘ ’Ere, I know. There’s a drop o’ brandy in the cupboard,’ he said lightly. ‘Let’s ’ave a snort.’

Two hours later the street warden left the Salter house feeling very unsteady on his feet. It was the first time he had let a drop of alcohol pass his lips since being released from prison and he felt ashamed of himself. That was a slip, but it won’t happen again, he promised himself as he staggered towards the shelter.

The raiders had left, and in the early morning air Josiah could smell the sweet aroma of cordite, brick dust, and the acrid smell of smouldering timbers. Thankfully the street had survived, although all around there had been heavy damage. Fires raged at the wharves and warehouses and he could see the glow in the sky from a large fire, probably the gasworks, he concluded.

Back at the shelter Josiah tried to pull himself together. Dolly would be very upset if she thought that he had gone back on the drink, and being in a state of intoxication would certainly lose him much of his respectability among the street folk.

‘You all right?’ Tom Casey called out to him as he made his way rather unsteadily down the slope to the shelter entrance.

‘Yeah, I fink so,’ Josiah answered. ‘I got caught in a blast. It’s knocked me bandy.’

Willing hands helped the warden onto a bench and men gathered round him, eager to know the extent of the damage caused by the air raid.

‘I ’eard Abbey Street copped it.’

‘Is Bacon Buildin’s all right?’

‘Wilson Street’s bin wiped out, by all accounts.’

Josiah put his hands up for silence. ‘I ain’t bin far from the turnin’ but there’s no gas on. The gasworks copped it, that much I do know,’ he said, holding his head in his hands.

Just then the all-clear siren sounded, and as folk emerged shaken and white-faced from the shelter, someone called out to Dolly, ‘Yer better get yer man ’ome, gel. ’E’s bin blasted.’

‘Yeah, get ’im ’ome, luv. That man’s done us proud,’ someone else piped in.

Dolly took Josiah’s arm, their daughter holding on to her coat and the boys holding hands, the three youngsters yawning and pale-faced as they trooped home together in the early dawn light.

Chapter Twenty-Six

On Sunday morning the knife grinder pushed his contraption into Page Street and stood waiting for his customers to bring out their knives and choppers. He looked apprehensive, as though intruding upon the privacy of the little turning, but Sadie walked up to him with her carving knife and gave him a big smile.

‘The bloody fing won’t cut frew butter,’ she told him. ‘Put a good edge on it, I’ve got a joint fer dinner.’

Maisie took her blunt axe to him for regrinding and as she stood waiting alongside Sadie for the man to finish the job she shook her head sadly.

‘Last night was a nightmare. I could ’ave kissed ’im when I saw ’im pushin’ that fing inter the street,’ she remarked.

Sadie gave her old friend a warm smile. ‘Yer know, Mais, I was jus’ finkin’ the same fing,’ she replied. ‘It was like bein’ reassured seein’ ’im come round this mornin’.’

‘I wonder if the ice-cream man’ll come round?’ Maisie said, slipping her hands inside her apron.

‘Gawd knows,’ Sadie replied. ‘Anyway, the gas is back. At least we’ll be able ter cook our dinners.’

Children stayed close to their front doors on that Sunday morning and the church bells were silent. Bells rang on the fire engines as they travelled to replace the tenders that had been at the fires through the night and ambulances sounded their bells as they rushed along neighbouring roads. Although many people were still unaccounted for and many others were known to be buried under tons of rubble, the news broadcaster gave out estimated figures of deaths and injuries. East End and south-east London hospitals had been damaged but nurses and doctors worked tirelessly to accommodate the constant flow of casualties. Tired, weary wardens and rescue workers took the opportunity to get some sleep, and women cooked their dinners on a low gas flame.

Brenda Massey took delivery of a tailor’s dummy, and to keep herself calm she started work on a dress she had cut out from material Maurice had given her. Bert Jolly went for his Sunday papers and moaned about the shortage of tobacco, although Albert Lockwood the proprietor of the corner shop had saved him a half-ounce packet of Nosegay. Maurice Salter caught up on his sleep, while his three daughters cleaned the house and prepared the dinner, and a few houses away Josiah slept off the effects of the drinking binge he had had with Maurice. In the Dawsons’ back yard Wallace sat looking through one of his brother’s picture books, not really able to understand just what had happened to change everything. That morning he had been bullied into not going down to the riverside; he felt nervous and his eyes kept glancing up to the smoke-laden sky.

Frank Galloway called along Wilson Street to make sure the business premises were still intact, and then after looking at the row of houses opposite which had received a direct hit, he went along to see his father. A rather strained next-door neighbour greeted him and told him that the old man had insisted on staying in his own house all through the raid and had only just left, presumably for church. Frank smiled as he walked out of Tyburn Square. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times his father had gone to church and he made his way to the Saracen’s Head.

In another local public house, the subdued customers drank their beer and related their own stories of the Saturday night of terror. Terry and his wife Patricia looked tired as they served pints of frothing ale and made small talk, and when Billy walked into the public bar with Danny, the landlord made his way over to serve them.

‘We spent the night in the cellar,’ he said stifling a yawn. ‘Pat slept fairly well but I didn’t get a wink.’

Billy leaned wearily on the counter. ‘I was out most o’ the night. We ’ad a bad ’un down at the tanneries,’ he replied.

Danny, too, was feeling the effects of his labours on the river the previous afternoon and he sipped his pint quietly, listening to the conversation between Billy and Terry.

‘Any strange faces bin in ’ere lately?’ Billy asked.

Terry shook his head. ‘There were quite a few o’ Dougal’s cronies at the trial but apart from a few dark looks they never made any threats,’ he replied. ‘Mind you, five years wasn’t a bad result, considerin’ the man’s previous form.’

‘Are yer still plannin’ on gettin’ out?’ Billy asked in a low voice.

Terry looked sideways before replying. ‘We’re still sortin’ fings out but it’ll take a few weeks yet,’ he said. ‘It can’t come quick enough fer me. It’s gettin’ a bit dangerous livin’ in Bermon’sey, an’ I don’t only mean the air raids. I want a fresh start, some place where me an’ Pat ain’t known. Anyway, we’ll’ave a drink tergevver before we do go.’

Danny cast his eyes around the bar. The piano was not being played today and there were a few regular faces missing.

The domino team were sitting together drinking quietly, and when a bleary-eyed Maurice Salter made his appearance, they started a game. The usual shouts and arguments broke out at the table, and then a few minutes later old Mrs Watson fainted. They carried her out and sat her in a chair while she recovered, Bert Jolly supervising and insisting that she was suffering from high blood pressure.

‘’Ere, let me get at ’er,’ he said, blowing a cloud of pipe smoke in her bright red face. ‘That’s the way ter bring ’em round.’

Mrs Watson coughed violently, and an argument started between the little pensioner and another elderly man.

‘That stuff’ll kill ’er,’ the old man growled.

‘Yer can’t get a better bit o’ baccy,’ Bert said indignantly.

‘She wants fresh air, not that bloody stuff down ’er insides,’ the old man shouted.

Patricia separated the antagonists and administered a glass of water to the unfortunate Mrs Watson and she sat up straight, her eyes popping.

‘There you are,’ the old man said triumphantly to Bert Jolly.

‘That’s bound ter revive ’er,’ Bert said dismissively. ‘The silly ole mare’s not used to it.’

Billy and Danny took their leave near closing time and walked along the quiet Jamaica Road towards Salmon Lane. Glass littered the pavement and they saw men boarding up shopfronts and other workmen sweeping the road and tramlines. Smoke still hung in the summer sky, and the birds in the tall plane trees did not seem to be singing like they usually did.

‘Carrie said the food’s gonna be on the table at ’alf two, so we’d better get a move on,’ Danny said.

They quickened their pace a little, feeling hungry after the beer. When they reached the yard and stepped through the wicket gate, their mouths fell open in surprise. Carrie had set up a long trestle table in the shade just outside the front door and covered it with a spotlessly white bedsheet. The table was set with the best china and Carrie had placed a vase of flowers in the centre. Danny’s children rushed to meet him and Carrie gave Billy a fond hug. ‘C’mon, yer just in time,’ she said with a smile.