Backstreet Child (44 page)

Frank stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. Gloria had not been very forthcoming with information on the O’Reilly woman and he could not suffer her company indefinitely. Bella would not be away for ever and he had to play his hand very carefully. If the marriage was going to end, as seemed very likely, then it must be Bella who was seen to be the guilty party, or he would be taken for everything he had left.

Dawn light was creeping into the bedroom when a very tired Frank finally climbed in between the sheets, and he groaned loudly as Gloria roused and turned towards him.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

All through the autumn and into November, the bombing continued relentlessly. Every night the Bermondsey folk made their way to the shelters early, carrying bundles of bedding and some sustenance to see them through until morning. Hollow-eyed, exhausted men sat beneath the scant cover of the shelter canopy and took turns to snatch sleep as they watched over their loved ones. Inside the shelter, women tried to get some rest in primitive conditions, huddled together on wooden benches, their children dozing fitfully at their feet in beds made up on boards or doors salvaged from ruins. The stale air reeked and every night the shelter rocked and shook from the bombs falling on the docks and wharves, the railways and the little homes and old tenement blocks. Hospitals were bombed and churches destroyed. There was no discrimination as the murderous explosives fell from the night skies, and there was little anyone could do, save pray and huddle together for comfort.

Heavy rescue squads battled in hazardous conditions throughout the night to free those trapped beneath the ruins of their homes, and fire tenders struggled to get to the blazes through rubble-strewn streets. Firewatch teams were set up and men raced back and forth to save their burning homes, often helpless as fires raged out of control. The WVS manned mobile canteens, and teenage lads still too young for call-up acted as messengers, pedalling through the bomb-torn streets between street wardens and command posts.

On a Sunday night early in November, a blanket of fog settled over dockland and for the first time since the raids started, many people slept in their own beds. Some, however, still huddled together in the shelter throughout the quiet night, not daring to risk staying at home.

The Dawsons had decided to take a chance that night and the children were packed off to bed early. Josiah was exhausted and he went to bed at nine o’clock, leaving Dolly sitting sewing in her tidy parlour along with Wallace, who had been unusually subdued of late. The young man sat at the table with a pile of the children’s comics, and as he flicked through them quickly, Dolly watched him and worried. Until the blitz started, Wallace had gone about things in his usual way, strolling the streets by day and going down to the river to see the ships coming and going. He would sit on the river wall watching the activity along the quayside and then arrive home in the evening, tired and happy. Sometimes he would slip out late to see the lights upriver and Dolly would go off to bed, lying awake until she heard him return and let himself in with his key, which he kept fastened with a shoelace round his neck. There had been no opportunity for Wallace to go down to the river by night while the raids were on, but tonight he seemed a little restless and she felt that despite the fog he might well venture out.

Dolly finished sewing a button on a pair of Leslie’s trousers and snapped the cotton with her teeth. It was no use trying to warn Wallace not to go down to the river. He had no understanding of the dangers that might arise. For him it was enough that he was not sitting in the shelter with the din of war hurting his ears. There was no danger in the quietness of the night, and he could not be made to see otherwise. Only his father seemed able to make him take notice, and that had come about through fear and pain, fear of the gruff voice and pain from the occasional cuff round the head. Josiah had changed now though, Dolly thought to herself. He was gentle and patient with the lad, but Wallace still remembered.

‘I’ll get yer some cocoa an’ then yer’d better be orf ter bed,’ she told him.

Wallace looked up briefly and then he returned to the comics, his eyes going up towards the ceiling as a distant foghorn sounded on the river. Dolly watched him for a few moments, gazing at the flatness of his wide face, his deep blue eyes and the tuft of mousy hair that was for ever standing up on the crown of his head. What thoughts were going through that lonely mind? she wondered as he sat staring at the coloured drawings. Was he happy or sad? Did he hurt inside? How she ached to ask him the questions and needed him to tell her, only too aware that it was useless to try. He never spoke more than a few simple words at any one time, and then only when he felt the need. He was grinning now at some secret thought, his mouth lopsided, saliva hanging from his bottom lip.

Dolly got up and went out into the scullery to make the cocoa. Maybe it would make him tired and ready for bed, she thought as she struck a match and held it over the gas ring. Maybe she should take the key away from Wallace and bolt up, but what would that achieve? He might attempt to climb out of the window, or he might find some other way to go out and be forced to stay out until morning. Josiah would know what to do, but she did not have the heart to wake him. Her man was exhausted from his warden’s duties and bound to be short-tempered. Better if she did what she had always done and let the lad have his way. He would come to no harm, and return when he was ready.

A train puffed slowly into Euston over makeshift tracks and as it shuddered to a jolting halt at the buffers, servicemen hurried from the compartments, making their way quickly along the sandbagged platform with their passes held at the ready. A pair of military policemen stood at the ticket barriers watching the soldiers as they passed by, alert for the deserter or the unauthorised traveller.

The foggy night felt cold to Tony O’Reilly and he pulled up the collar of his greatcoat and adjusted his smallpack over his shoulder as he showed his pass at the barrier. He was looking forward to seeing Rachel once more, even if it was only for a few hours down at West Marden. She had written to him to say that she could not get any leave at the moment but if he could make his way down to the village while he was on leave she could get a few hours off. A few short hours would be better than nothing, Tony thought as he hurried down the stairs into the dark main road. First, though, was the visit to Guy’s Hospital to see his mother. Her condition had deteriorated and she had been rushed there the previous night in the middle of an air raid.

Tony walked quickly along to King’s Cross Road to the 63 bus stop, recalling the first time he had laid eyes on Rachel. She had boarded the same bus and exchanged a few words with him. It was not so long ago, but how much had happened since. He was in love with her, and hoped she felt as he did. They had spent a short leave together and their kisses were still deliciously vivid in his memory. Time was short now, he knew. Soon his unit would be going overseas, possibly to the Middle East, and he wanted to know in his heart that Rachel would wait for him. She had told him about her first love and its tragic ending, saying that she still needed time to adjust and it was no use them getting serious while the war was on. He had told her he understood her feelings, and they should allow themselves time, but that was before he realised he was hopelessly in love with her. He could not get her out of his thoughts since that brief time together and now his heart beat faster as he looked forward to holding her in his arms once more.

The bus was nearly full. Tony found a seat next to an elderly gent who was nodding off to sleep. Every time the bus changed direction, the man’s head rested against his shoulder and Tony felt embarrassed. He need not have worried, for no one took any notice. The rest of the passengers stared ahead, all seemingly tired out, their eyes heavy-lidded and hollow.

Tony looked out of the window through the protective webbing and in the gloom he could see the bomb damage. Houses and shops lay in ruins and people seemed to be hurrying by more quickly, their heads held low and their eyes fixed down on the pavement in front of them. It was a picture of misery, he thought; anxious people hurrying home past the desolation before the fog closed in completely.

‘They won’t be over ternight, that’s fer sure,’ the conductor told a large woman who sat near the platform.

‘I ’ope yer right,’ the woman replied. ‘I ain’t ’ad me feet up since Gawd knows when.’

‘Well, yer can get ter bed wivout worryin’ ternight,’ the conductor said. ‘This fog’s gettin’ worse. We won’t go all the way ter Peckham. They’ll most likely turn us back at the Bricklayer’s Arms.’

At the Elephant and Castle the man sitting next to Tony suddenly woke up and hurried off the bus. One stop before the Bricklayer’s Arms Tony alighted, walking home through familiar backstreets that looked welcoming even in the swirling fog. When he arrived at his house, he saw a young woman crossing over towards him from the other side of the turning.

‘’Ello there. I’m Lola Fields,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘I’m a friend o’ yer mum’s. You must be Tony.’

He nodded. ‘I’m ’ome fer a few days’ leave. I’m goin’ in ternight ter see ’er.’

‘Well, give ’er my love, an’ I do ’ope she’s feelin’ better,’ Lola replied, giving him a wide smile.

Tony slipped the key into the lock and nodded in acknowledgement as he let himself into the quiet house. The place smelt of dampness and as soon as he took off his overcoat he set about building a fire. He went into the scullery and saw dirty teacups lying in the enamel bowl and a packet of margarine lying opened on the table. Dirty washing stood in a bucket and the curtains looked grubby and long overdue for changing.

He sighed to himself. There was a lot to do before he could go down to Kent to see Rachel. The whole place needed cleaning and he felt at a loss to know where to start. Well, it had better be a cup of tea, he decided, lighting the gas jet and filling the furred-up kettle.

Just then there was a knock at the door and Tony was surprised to see Lola standing on the doorstep.

‘I do ’ope yer don’t fink I’ve got a cheek,’ she said smiling, ‘but I did tell yer mum I’d come in an’ tidy the place up while she was away. I got ter wonderin’ if there was anyfing yer wanted at the corner shop.’

Tony shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m just makin’ a cuppa. Yer welcome ter come in fer one, if yer like,’ he told her.

Lola gave him another wide smile, showing large white teeth. ‘It’s the best offer I’ve ’ad all day,’ she said, looking him up and down cheekily.

Tony led the way into the scullery and took down the teapot from the dresser, spooning tea into it. ‘I’ve not seen yer before.’Ave yer known me mum long?’ he asked.

Lola sat down in a chair and crossed her legs, deliberately giving him a glimpse of her stockinged thigh. ‘We met at the Castle. Yer mum uses the pub, as yer probably know,’ she replied, eyeing him up and down again as she spoke. ‘She’s a nice lady, is yer mum. We got ter be friends pretty quick. She told me all about you. Very proud of yer, she is.’

Tony smiled amicably as he stood near the gas stove. ‘I didn’t know me mum was back drinkin’. She packed it up when ’er illness got worse,’ he told her.

Lola studied her long fingernails for a few moments. ‘She shouldn’t drink wiv ’er complaint, an’ I told ’er so,’ she said after a while, ‘but I s’pose it ’elps ’er in a way. Yer know she’s very ill.’

Tony nodded. ‘I know.’

The kettle started to boil and as he made the tea, Lola watched him closely.

‘Look, why don’t yer pop round the Castle when yer get back from the ’ospital,’ Lola suggested. ‘You are goin’ in ter see yer mum ternight, ain’t yer?’

Tony nodded. ‘I might do that,’ he answered.

‘Let’s ’ave that tea an’ while yer gone, I’ll get stuck inter this mess,’ Lola said breezily.

The ward was lit by dimmed lights and the young nurse looked tired and jaded as she led Tony along to the end bed. ‘I need to check on your mother’s temperature,’ she announced in a flat voice.

Tony looked down on the sleeping figure and his heart sank. His mother seemed to have become even more frail since his last leave. Her face was ashen and her hands little more than skin and bone as they rested over the white sheet.

The nurse touched her shoulder tenderly and Mary O’Reilly opened her eyes. ‘You have a visitor,’ she said softly as she took the thermometer from a glass of water, shook it vigorously and placed it under the sick woman’s tongue.

Mary’s eyes lit up as she looked up at her son and when the nurse had left them she weakly motioned him to sit down. Tony planted a kiss on her forehead and seated herself beside her, his hand going over hers. ‘ ’Ow are yer, Ma?’ he asked quietly.

Mary was seized by a sudden attack of coughing, shaking her whole body. She sighed deeply. ‘I’ve bin a naughty gel, son,’ she said, a ghost of a smile touching her colourless lips. ‘I went back on the bottle.’

Tony shook his head and patted his mother’s hands. ‘Yer know it’s not good fer yer, Ma, in your condition,’ he told her. ‘Yer promised me yer wouldn’t.’

‘I know I did, but what wiv the bombin’ an’ all that, I jus’ went in fer one ter steady me nerves,’ she said, looking at him with sad eyes.

‘Well, they won’t let yer near any booze in ’ere, Ma,’ Tony said grinning. ‘Yer just gotta get well as soon as yer can.’

Mary chuckled and pointed to the space under her locker. ‘They let me ’ave a Guinness every day,’ she answered.