Backstreet Child (56 page)

‘What the bloody ’ell’s goin’ on?’ Maurice shouted aloud as he saw the chunk of chimney lying on the pillow beside him. He turned onto his back and blinked a few times at the large hole in the ceiling, then scrambled frantically out of bed.

Ten minutes later he was sitting downstairs in the parlour watching the kettle begin to steam on the low fire. There was nothing he could do until the raid was over, he told himself. Then he would have to report the damage and get the workmen to put a piece of tarpaulin over the hole in the roof for the time being. Trouble was it might rain in the meantime, and then what? The bedclothes would be soaked, the ceiling plaster would fall in and the whole house would become damp and musty. Perhaps it would be better if he did the repair himself. There was an old tarpaulin sheet rolled up on the lavatory roof out in the back yard, and he could borrow a ladder easily enough.

He sat sipping his tea. The air seemed to have died down, and the gunfire had abated too. It was still only three in the morning and he knew from experience that the second wave of bombers would not be very long in coming. Better to get that tarpaulin sorted out now, he thought, putting his cup down. He put his overcoat on over his nightshirt and went out into the back yard.

‘Oh my good Gawd!’ he cried aloud as he stood looking at the dark object which had half buried itself in the yard. ‘It’s an unexploded bomb!’

The tarpaulin was forgotten as he gingerly took off his overcoat and crept up the stairs, frightened of making any noise. That thing might go off at any second, he thought. I’ll have to report it to the police, and the street will have to be cleared.

Maurice threw the piece of chimneypot in the corner, wincing as he remembered to be quiet, and then sat down on the edge of his bed, trying to stay calm. If he was careful not to do anything silly, he would be all right, he told himself. First things first. Where’s my trousers? he thought, looking round the bedroom. Then he remembered that he had undressed downstairs, being alone in the house. Carefully he got up and looked briefly over his shoulder at the window, as though expecting the bomb down below to explode at any second. Suddenly he heard a creak on the stairs and a gentle tap on his bedroom door.

‘Are you awake, luv?’

‘Oh my Gawd! It’s Brenda!’ he said aloud.

Brenda Massey pushed open the door and Maurice saw that she was wearing an overcoat over her long nightdress.

‘Brenda,’ he began hesitantly, wondering how he was going to explain about the unexploded bomb without putting her into a panic.

‘Maurice, darlin’. I couldn’t bear bein’ alone ternight,’ she said. ‘Mum’s gone ter stay wiv Rose an’ I was sittin’ in the shelter finkin’ o’ you. I ’ad ter come.’

‘But, Brenda. It’s a bit awkward ternight,’ he said falteringly.

‘Awkward nuffink,’ she replied in a husky voice. ‘Yer never let anyfing come between us an’ our lovin’. I want yer, Maurice.’

Maurice winced as she sat down heavily on the bed beside him and started stroking his thigh. ‘But it’s dangerous up ’ere,’ he told her in a weak voice.

‘There’s danger all around us, but we are two people in love. Nuffink else matters in the ’ole world,’ Brenda went on, using the words from a film she had seen only a couple of days ago.

Maurice slipped his arm round her shoulders. ‘Listen, luv,’ he began. ‘I love yer, an’ you love me, right?’

Brenda fluttered her eyelashes and smiled sweetly at him.

‘Well, yer must trust me. I wouldn’t let anyfink ’appen ter yer,’ he went on.

‘’Course yer wouldn’t, darlin’,’ she sighed, rubbing his other leg.

‘Well then, let’s go downstairs an’ I’ll get dressed, then I’ll take yer ter the shelter.’

Brenda turned towards him and wrapped her arms round him, pushing him back onto the bed. ‘Darlin’, I can’t live wivout yer,’ she breathed huskily. ‘I need yer, need yer passionately. Tell me yer need me too.’

Maurice gulped as he fought to get out from under her. ‘Yer don’t understand,’ he gasped. ‘Your life, everybody’s life depends on me. I must get dressed.’

Brenda was pleased with his performance so far, he was so straight-faced, but she had no intention of waiting all night for him to ravish her. In the film the hero succumbed very quickly, and if Maurice had seen it he would have known. ‘Darlin’. Love me. Love me now,’ she pleaded.

‘I can’t,’ he gasped, squeezing from beneath her.

Brenda finally lost her patience. ‘What’s the matter wiv yer?’ she said in a loud voice. ‘’Ave yer gone impotent or somefink?’

Maurice pointed to the ceiling as Brenda rolled over onto her back. ‘Look at that,’ he said.

‘Never mind that. We can see the stars as we make love,’ she drooled.

‘I can’t,’ Maurice groaned.

‘But why?’

‘’Cos there’s a bloody great unexploded bomb in the back yard, that’s why,’ he shouted.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Tony O’Reilly stepped from the number 63 bus and hoisted his rifle over his shoulder as he set off through the backstreets to his house in Ferris Street. He was wearing a full pack and the thick canvas straps felt uncomfortable as he walked along, his studded boots sounding loudly on the pavement. A few people were standing around at their front doors and they gave him little more than a passing glance. The sight of a soldier in full service pack was quite usual now and only a few small children showed any interest.

Tony finally reached his corner house and knocked on the front door. His heart missed a beat when the door opened and he saw Lola standing there, a serious look on her flushed face.

‘I’m glad yer ’ere, Tony. It’s yer mum. She’s took a turn fer the worse this mornin’,’ she said gravely.

He stood his rifle against the wall in the passageway and struggled quickly out of his packs.

‘She’s bin askin’ for yer,’ Lola told him, following on as he hurried into the back bedroom.

The room was stuffy and there was a strong smell of disinfectant.

‘’Ello, Ma. ’Ow yer feelin’?’ Tony asked in a soft voice as he bent over the bed.

Mary’s eyes opened briefly and a ghost of a smile touched her white lips. ‘I bin waitin’ for yer, boy,’ she uttered in little more than a dry whisper.

Tony glanced up anxiously at Lola who was standing by the door. She nodded her head slowly. ‘Stay there wiv yer mum, Tony, I’ll make yer a nice cuppa,’ she said kindly.

Mary’s eyes flickered as she lifted a bony hand up off the covers and her lips moved. Tony bent over her, his ear to her mouth.

‘Are yer all right, boy?’ she whispered.

Tony stroked her cold hand. ‘I’m fine, Ma,’ he answered.

Mary held on to his hand. ‘I’ve bin worryin’ about yer,’ she said, her eyes struggling to focus on him. ‘Yer’ll be goin’ orf ter fight soon an’ I want yer ter know I’ve said a prayer fer yer.’

The young soldier’s eyes filled with tears as he bent over his dying mother. ‘I’m gonna be all right, Ma,’ he said. ‘You’ll still be ’ere when I get back.’

Mary forced a smile. ‘I’ve seen me time out, Tony,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve come ter terms wiv it. I jus’ want yer ter know I ’ad ter do what I did fer your sake. I wanted ter see yer on yer feet before I went.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Jus’ be careful wiv the money, son,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t ferget yer own. Jus’ remember that money can bring yer ’appiness or misery. It’s up ter you.’

Tony held his mother’s hand in his. ‘There’s no need fer yer ter worry yerself, Ma,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘I’ll never ferget me own, or where I come from.’

Mary smiled and then her face became rigid as her eyes closed. Tony gently placed her hand back on top of the covers and leaned back in his chair. He could see clearly that she was fading away, and when Lola came back into the bedroom carrying a cup of tea, he glanced up anxiously at her.

Lola put the cup down on the chair beside the bed and bent over Mary. ‘She’s asleep, luv,’ she whispered. ‘Ole Dr Kelly’s bin round an’ ’e said ter send fer ’im if we need to. Anyway, I’ll leave yer alone fer a while. I’ll come back later.’

Tony sat looking down at the ashen face of his dying mother. He could see the weak pulse beating in her neck and the occasional slight movement of her lips, as though she was trying to form words. She had told him before about her fears over his inheriting the Galloway money, and now in her last few hours she was talking about it again. Rachel had told him in her last letter of her own mother’s concern, and he rested his chin on his hand as he stared down at the sleeping figure of his mother. He had vowed that he would not let the money change him in any way, if he could possibly help it. But would it change him in Rachel’s eyes? he wondered. What was it that old Nora Flynne had said when he spoke to her after the reading of the will? That he should go and see her if he was troubled by the money. Why was she so adamant about it? What was it that made everyone so concerned?

Tony sipped his tea slowly and watched his ailing mother as she slept. It had been very hard for her over the years, he realised. From the very beginning she had vowed to stay independent of any help from the Galloway family, and it must have been difficult for her to make the initial approach to the old man. Knowing that her health was failing, she would have felt driven to provide for his future, but he knew that she must have agonised over whether it was the right thing to do, judging by her warnings to him about the way he handled his inheritance.

His mother seemed to be sleeping peacefully and Tony took the opportunity to go to the scullery and boil the kettle. He washed and shaved, and then changed into his civilian clothes, putting on a clean shirt and grey trousers which he found in his wardrobe. All of his clothes had been washed and ironed and he knew that it was something his mother had not been well enough to do. The whole house looked clean and tidy and Tony realised that it must have been Lola who had made it so. He must thank her for her help, and for the way she always seemed to be there when his mother was poorly.

The evening felt chilly and he lit the fire, banking it up with a large piece of coal. He had just boiled the kettle again and was making tea when Lola returned. She laid a paper parcel down on the table and unwrapped it.

‘I just bin up ter Kellerman’s. They stay open late on Saturdays,’ she told him. ‘I got some brawn. Yer mum said yer like brawn.’

Tony smiled at her and nodded. ‘I ’adn’t thought about eatin’,’ he replied. ‘That looks good.’

Lola took a loaf of bread from the cupboard and proceeded to cut thick slices, coating them liberally with margarine. She spread the thin slivers of brawn between the bread and handed Tony his sandwich on a plate. ‘I’ve not ’ad a chance to eat meself,’ she said, taking a bite from hers.

Tony poured the tea and handed Lola a cup. ‘I’m sorry but I should ’ave fanked yer fer takin’ care o’ me mum,’ he said, ‘an’ fer doin’ all me washin’ an’ ironin’.’

Lola waved his thanks away. ‘It’s no trouble,’ she replied. ‘She insisted on payin’ me but I wouldn’t let ’er give me too much. I’ve got quite fond o’ yer mum. She was good ter me when I needed ’elp.’

Tony’s raised eyebrows prompted her to go on. ‘Yer know what I do fer a livin’,’ she reminded him. ‘About a month ago I got a wrong ’un. D’yer know what I mean by a wrong ’un?’

Tony nodded. ‘I fink so.’

‘No, yer don’t,’ Lola replied smiling at him. ‘One night I took a client back ’ome an’ ’e turned nasty. ’E wanted more than I was prepared to give. Anyway, I tried ter get rid of ’im an’ ’e beat me up. I couldn’t work fer a week an’ I was feelin’ very sorry fer meself. It was yer mum who come ter me aid. She paid me rent an’ ’elped me out wiv food. I couldn’t ’ave managed wivout ’er ’elp. Not once ’as she criticised me or tried ter preach ter me. I appreciated that. Anyway, I managed ter pay the money back I borrered from ’er, an’ I might tell yer I ’ad a terrible job makin’ ’er take it, so now I’m repayin’ a bit of ’er kindness, though like I say, she insists on payin’ me fer the washin’ an’ ironin’.’

‘Don’t yer ’ave somebody ter watch out fer yer when yer workin’?’ Tony asked her.

Lola smiled. ‘A ponce, yer mean?’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I would ’ave thought it was necessary to ’ave somebody watchin’ out fer yer,’ he said.

The street woman snorted dismissively. ‘I did ’ave somebody lookin’ out fer me at one time,’ she replied. ‘It was my ole man.’E was as useless as they come, an’ as thick as two short planks.’E used ter wait on my earnin’s ter go out an’ get pissed, an’ then’e’d be wantin’ to ’ave ’is way wiv me when ’e got ’ome. I stood it fer as long as I could an’ then I chucked ’im out. It was the best day’s work I ever did. I can look after meself.’

Tony ate his sandwiches without saying anything, and when Lola lapsed into silence he studied her face as she stared down at the glowing coals. He felt compassion for the warm-hearted prostitute and after a few minutes he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hand round the back of his neck.

‘When the war’s over I’ll be goin’ inter business I expect,’ he announced suddenly. ‘Maybe I could give yer a job.’

‘Workin’ fer you?’ Lola said, her eyes sparkling. ‘An’ what would I do, look after yer clients’ needs?’

Tony grinned. ‘I s’pose yer could make me tea an’ keep me place clean, or yer could do me books,’ he added quickly, noting the look in her eye.