Backstreet Child (46 page)

Maisie got up from her knees with a deep sigh. ‘I don’t know why I bovver wiv this step,’ she moaned. ‘Look at that rubbish layin’ in the gutter. I mean, yer try ter keep up appearances an’ there’s bloody glass an’ stones everywhere. Wouldn’t yer fink they’d clean it up a bit more often?’

Sadie grunted. ‘That street-sweeper of ours is a bleedin’ piss artist. ’E spends all ’is time chattin’. One time they’d send the foreman round ter check the sweepin’. They don’t seem ter bovver now.’

‘We’re gettin’ bunks,’ Maudie told her.

‘Bugs?’

‘Bunks,’ Maudie repeated. ‘In the shelter.’

‘Well, it’s about time,’ Sadie declared. ‘Anyfing’s better than those benches.’

‘D’yer fink they’ll be over ternight?’ Maisie asked.

‘It’s a stone certainty, unless the fog comes back,’ Sadie replied.

Bert Jolly was making his way towards the women. ‘They’re puttin’ bunks in the shelter,’ he said as he came up. ‘Yer’ll ’ave ter be careful, they ’arbour lice.’

‘What yer talkin’ about?’ Sadie growled at him.

‘Lice, that’s what I’m talkin’ about,’ Bert replied. ‘They’ve got ’em in that shelter in Weston Street. I know somebody who goes there. The bunks are made o’ sackin’ an’ it’s the worst fing fer lice. Lice breed in sackin’.’

Maudie put her hand up to her mouth and Maisie gave the dapper pensioner a hard look.

Sadie picked up her shopping bag and glared at him. ‘You’re a proper Jonah’s comforter, you are,’ she said sharply. ‘Ain’t yer got anyfing cheerful ter tell us?’

Bert gave her a crooked smile. ‘The fog’s comin’ back ternight,’ he said. ‘Still, it don’t mean ter say we’ll get anuvver peaceful night. I was readin’ in the paper that the Jerries ’ave got a secret weapon on their planes that sees frew fog. They can prob’ly bomb us any night they want.’

The women watched him walk away and then Sadie turned to a worried-looking Maudie. ‘Take no notice o’ that ole goat. ’E only does it ter scare us. I’ve a good mind ter put the fear up’im,’ she growled.

‘’Ow would yer do that?’ Maisie asked her.

‘I’ll fink o’ somefink.’

Throughout the blitz, Carrie found herself hard put to keep up with the work that suddenly came her way. The leather firm she had contracted to was badly damaged and all the salvaged stock had to be transferred to another warehouse in Walworth. Carrie sent two of her drivers, Tom Armfield and Tubby Walsh, to the factory and kept Paddy Byrne and Ben Davidson back for the daily deliveries. The phone rang constantly and her drivers found themselves with more jobs than they could handle. They all worked overtime and tiredness and fatigue took their toll. Paddy Byrne drove his lorry with a badly sliced thumb bound up in a bandage, and then Tubby Walsh was taken to hospital with a crushed toe, which meant Carrie was down to three operational lorries until she could find a replacement for Tubby. Just when she had given up hope of getting another driver, Frank Dolan walked into the yard.

‘I see yer sign fer a driver, lady,’ he said cheerily. ‘I’ve got twenty years be’ind me an’ I can ’andle anyfink yer chuck at me. Fodens, Leylands, Bedfords, they’re all the same ter me.’

Carried showed him into the office and motioned him into a chair. ‘Where was yer last job?’ she asked.

‘Wilson’s,’ he replied. ‘They got bombed out. Lost all their lorries in the fire.’

Carrie peered at his driving licence and handed it back with a smile. ‘This job’s only fer a few weeks. We’ve got a driver off sick,’ she told him. ‘There might be a permanent job though, if I can get anuvver lorry.’

‘Suits me, lady,’ Frank replied. ‘I got six kids ter fink about.’

‘We ’andle all sorts o’ goods,’ Carrie went on.

‘I’ve done it all,’ Frank informed her. ‘Barrels, machinery, grain, dock work. You name it, I’ve done it.’

Carrie breathed a sigh of relief at her good fortune. The driver seemed very confident and eager to start work. ‘All right, be ’ere at eight sharp termorrer an’ we’ll sort the lorry out,’ she told him.

As soon as he had left she picked up the phone book and found Wilson’s number. Her call was answered by a gruff-sounding voice.

‘Yes, that’s right. Frank Dolan worked for us for over fifteen years. Can’t fault him. Good work record and a very good driver. We’re sorry to see him go but we had no option. Our fleet’s been destroyed. We’re trying to get replacement lorries, but the way things are with the war, it’ll be some time. That’s all right. Glad to be of assistance.’

Carrie put the phone down and sighed happily. She was back to full strength, for the time being, and she crossed her fingers.

Maurice Salter knocked on Brenda’s front door early on Friday evening, quickly adjusting his tie and brushing his hand down the front of his blue serge suit as he waited for her to answer. Things had improved between them lately, and even the old lady seemed less hostile towards him, he thought. It would be nice to take Brenda for a drink before she and her sister Rose packed their mother off to the shelter.

The door opened and Maurice’s shoulders sagged when he saw the look on Brenda’s face. ‘ ’Ello, Maurice, I s’pose yer better come in,’ she said flatly.

‘Well, don’t ’urt yerself,’ he mumbled as he followed her into the parlour.

Brenda nodded towards the old lady who sat huddled in a chair beside the fire. ‘She told me an’ Rose she’s not budgin’ from the fire ternight,’ she said. ‘You talk to ’er, Maurice.’

‘Look, lovey, yer can’t stay ’ere ternight,’ Maurice said kindly as he knelt down in front of the old woman. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

‘Don’t you “lovey” me,’ Granny growled. ‘I’ll please meself what I do. I can’t sit on those bleedin’ benches any more, not wiv my back.’

‘They’re gonna put bunks in there soon,’ Maurice told her. ‘You’ll be able ter stretch out an’ get a good sleep.’

‘’Ow am I gonna get up on bunks?’ Granny asked, glaring at him.

‘Yer can ’ave the bottom one,’ Maurice said, smiling benignly.

‘Well, I don’t care if it’s top or bottom, I ain’t movin’ an’ that’s final,’ she growled.

Brenda put her hands on her hips and stood over her recalcitrant mother. ‘If you won’t move, me an’ Rose’ll ’ave ter stay wiv yer, an’ if we all get killed it’ll be your fault,’ she said sharply.

Maurice got up from his haunches sighing. ‘C’mon, luv , let’s go round the Crown fer a drink,’ he said to Brenda. ‘She’ll be all right till we get back. P’raps she’ll change ’er mind by then.’

‘I can’t leave ’er like that,’ Brenda replied. ‘Rose ’as ’ad ter go ’ome to ’er place ter tidy up. She won’t be back yet awhile.’

‘Go on, piss orf up the pub,’ Granny moaned. ‘I’ll be all right. If I fell in the fire, I wouldn’t be a burden ter yer any more, would I?’

Maurice gave the old lady a blinding look, quickly smiling at her as she glanced up at him. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘why don’t yer put yer ’ead back an’ ’ave a nice sleep. We’ll bring yer a nice carton o’ jellied eels back wiv us. Yer like jellied eels.’

‘I’ve gorn orf ’em,’ Granny said irritably. ‘The last lot turned me stomach.’

Maurice looked at Brenda and shrugged his shoulders. ‘What we gonna do, luv?’ he sighed.

‘Go on, piss orf out, the pair o’ yer. I don’t want yer makin’ a noise roun’ me while I’m trying’ ter sleep.’

Brenda glanced from her mother to Maurice. ‘All right, I’ll slip upstairs an’ do me face,’ she said. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

Maurice sat down in the chair facing Granny Massey and for a few moments the two stared at each other, then Maurice leaned back and crossed his legs. ‘Yer know somefing, luv, I reckon yer very brave wantin’ ter stop in the ’ouse wiv all that bombin’ goin’ on around yer,’ he said with a sly smile. ‘Specially after what ’appened to ole Mrs Morgan who lived in Bacon Buildin’s.’

Granny lifted her head. ‘What ’appened to ’er then?’ she asked.

‘It doesn’t matter, really,’ Maurice replied. ‘It’s not a very nice fing ter talk about, not that it’d frighten the likes o’ you.’

‘What ’appened to ’er?’ Granny urged him.

‘Well, Mrs Morgan wouldn’t go ter the shelter. She ’ad trouble wiv ’er legs, yer see,’ he began. ‘Anyway, the night they bombed the buildin’s, ole Mrs Morgan was takin’ a bath in ’er tin tub. When they got to ’er the poor ole gel was stone dead, still sittin’ up in ’er bath wivout a stitch on. In fact she was still’oldin’ on ter the scrubbin’ brush. The terrible fing was rigor mortis ’ad set in. She was like a block o’ stone. They couldn’t get ’er out the tub an’ they couldn’t fit ’er in the ambulance. She went ter the mortuary on the back of a rescue lorry, bathtub an’ all.’

‘Fer everybody ter see?’ Granny cut in.

‘No, they covered ’er over wiv a tarpaulin sheet, but the wind blew it off before they could get where they was goin’. Poor old Mrs Morgan. Everybody saw ’er sittin’ bolt upright in that tub. She would ’ave died o’ shame if she’d known what was goin’ to’appen to ’er.’

‘Well, I wasn’t plannin’ ter take a bath, that’s fer sure,’ Granny told him.

Maurice uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in the chair. ‘Yer sure yer don’t want us ter bring yer back any jellied eels, luv?’ he asked smiling. ‘’Cos if yer do, I need ter get ’em early. There’ll be a run on ’em ternight, ’specially wiv the ding-dong at the shelter.’

‘Ding-dong? What ding-dong?’ the old lady asked.

‘They’re gonna ’ave a bit of a party fer the pensioners. I don’t s’pose it’ll amount ter much. A few crates o’ Guinness an’ jellied eels, pie an’ mash an’ faggots, an’ pease-pudden an’ saveloys. Charlie Alcroft’s bringin’ ’is accordion an’ Tom Casey’s playin’ the bones. I don’t fink it’ll amount ter much, though. Between me an’ you, luv, yer better orf bein’ in yer own ’ome sittin’ roun’ the fire. All that singin’ an’ dancin’ ain’t very good for yer, not after all that nosh they’re takin’ down there.’

Granny looked very thoughtful as Brenda left for the pub holding on to Maurice’s arm. Later she eased herself out of her chair and went to the cupboard under the stairs. For a while she rummaged through it and then she straightened up with a sigh of satisfaction. ‘These black shoes’ll do nicely wiv me new bonnet,’ she told herself.

Tony O’Reilly leaned up against the bar and sipped his pint of bitter. The country pub had a low ceiling, and brass and pewter pots hung from the huge black beams. The landlord was a thin man with a walrus moustache and gold-rimmed glasses which he wore halfway down his large nose. At the far end of the carpeted bar two RAF officers talked quietly together and one old man sat resting his gnarled hands on a knobbly walking stick, his eyes never seeming to blink and his glass of beer remaining half full. The only other customers in the bar were two young people who stood very close to each other, the man listening intently for most of the time and the girl occasionally breaking off from her chatter to smile at him in a shy fashion. Tony wondered whether they were lovers and he eyed them slyly, noting the change in the girl’s attitude as their conversation went on. Suddenly she turned on her heel and stormed out of the pub, closely followed by the young man, who looked agitated.

Tony glanced up at the ancient clock on the wall behind the counter and studied his drink. It was beginning to feel like a long day. The journey down from London had been slowed by damage to the railway track and he had spent the seemingly endless journey standing in the corridor. Only two trains passed through West Marden that day and he had decided to take the later one, the twelve fifteen to Hastings. He had strolled through the little village in the early afternoon and visited a tea room, where he had sat for some time reading the
Evening News
, drinking cups of tea and chatting to the proprietor, a large, rosy-faced woman who went on endlessly about the war. Later he had strolled through the quiet lanes and gone into the tiny church to look around and rest awhile. It was nearing six thirty when he caught the bus to Claydon. Rachel’s letter had explained that the bus stopped at the Plover, a small pub four miles out of the village. She had said that she hoped to get to the pub at seven, but it was now twenty minutes to eight and she had still not arrived.

He finished his pint and ordered another. While the landlord was filling his glass, Tony looked round at the two RAF officers. One was badly scarred about the face and the other looked as though he was bursting out of his uniform. His ginger hair sprouted from each side of his cap and he tended to throw his head back when he laughed. Both officers wore medal ribbons over their breast pockets and seemed to know the landlord quite well.