Women on the Home Front (102 page)

Chris nodded, his expression making words unnecessary. He helped himself to a piece of sponge oozing butter cream.

‘ 'Course Jimmy was young when I met him. You could tell just from looking at him that he was a rogue alright: all swagger and brash as they come. He'd flirt with any woman who was walking past him. I remember his fancy piece … Nellie was her name … giving him such a look for trying to chat up the barmaid right in front of her eyes.' Nan Jackson stretched out a withered hand and pushed the plate of cakes towards Chris. ‘Now come on, take another one, I've not baked this lot to see them go to waste. Eat up, both of you.'

‘Mum thinks the Wilds are a rough lot, but I reckon you needed to be to survive in a place like The Bunk.' Grace gave Chris a smile. She was pleased he didn't seem embarrassed at all by this conversation about his evil grandfather, and that he and her nan had seemed to take to one another straight away.

‘Good and bad in all families,' Nan Jackson said succinctly. ‘And I speak as I find. I can tell from meeting you, Christopher, that you're a good 'un.' She gave her granddaughter a wink and poured herself a fresh cup of tea.

‘Well, on a lighter note we're after some chairs to borrow for the Coronation Day party we're having in The Bunk.' Grace chose a cake and put it on her plate. ‘Chris's dad is opening a caff so we'll be able to borrow some from him because, of course, he'll be shutting up shop on the big day. But we still don't reckon we'll have enough, do we?' She glanced at Chris for a nod of agreement. ‘Do you know if your community centre up the road might have some going spare in June next year?'

‘I could ask the committee, if you like,' Nan Jackson said. ‘You don't want to take 'em just yet, do you?'

‘Oh no, nowhere to store them, but we're trying to get everything organised so it all goes off with a bang.' She turned to Chris. ‘We want it to be a great do, don't we. Matilda has already got a few cases of drink stashed away in her room, and a whole list of people she wants to track down and invite.'

‘Surprised she ain't drunk the Irish whiskey,' Chris chipped in drolly. ‘I've heard a few tales about her 'n' all and how she liked a tipple or two in her time.'

‘Living in The Bunk, I reckon she probably needed it,' Nan Jackson said, rolling her eyes.

‘I've seen you before. You were here a while ago, weren't you?'

‘Yeah … is Mrs Riley about, d'you know? I've come to do her job.'

Chris already knew she wasn't: for a week he'd secretly investigated his mother's routine to find out if there were days and times when she was regularly away from home. To do so he'd had to take time off work, and he knew his three workmates were getting narked that he kept disappearing. But he didn't care. He wasn't even bothered that they'd fallen behind schedule again in Whadcoat Street, and he had nobody to blame for it but himself. He'd had set in his mind for a long time what he wanted to do, and today he was fired up to go ahead and do it.

Every time he'd passed his mother's house, on a recce, he'd been relieved to see the gate was still missing. He knew any direct offer of help from him would be rejected. Just a glimpse of him might again make her frightened and unwell, and he couldn't bear the thought of that, so he'd made sure to keep out of sight.

Earlier that morning, he'd seen Pamela walking towards the bus stop on the corner of her road. He'd known she'd be away from home for some hours, working as a waitress, because he'd previously checked where she went when she set off in the mornings. On one occasion he'd followed the bus and had noticed her go inside a place called the Greengage Café. A short while later he'd spied her, dressed in white pinafore and cap, serving behind the counter. It had looked the sort of cheap and cheerful place that he and the lads might use during their dinner break to stodge up on pie 'n' mash before going back to work. He knew too that Pamela didn't leave work till after three in the afternoon, and that she seemed to live alone. He'd kept an eye out for her husband, or any other family members who might be living at the address. He'd even knocked once, after she'd set off for work, just in case somebody might be in there. He'd thought it best to find out rather than be spotted hanging about. But there had been no response, and no neighbours had appeared to give him the third degree.

Today he hadn't been so lucky.

After Pamela had got on the bus that morning to go to work he'd pulled off from where he'd parked out of sight, behind a larger vehicle, to halt outside her house.

Unfortunately, just as he'd got out of his van, the neighbour who'd threatened him with the police on the day he'd come to introduce himself to his mother had been on her way out, swinging a shopping bag.

Chris cursed his bad luck but managed a vague smile in response to the woman's barked greeting.

‘So you're here to do the gate, are you?' Mrs Rathbone plonked her hands on her hips and cocked her head, eyeing him suspiciously.

Chris nodded and looked busy, shuffling paperwork on his bonnet.

‘You must have given her a better price than the other fellow. Disgrace, he was! He wanted a fortune for a little job like that! Mrs Riley only wanted the gate put back to stop the litter blowing up the path. She told me she wasn't going to bother having it done after all … she must've changed her mind.'

‘I charge reasonable rates,' Chris muttered, and turned his back on her hoping she'd quickly get going.

‘She's not in, anyhow, because she works Tuesdays in a caff and won't be back till this afternoon.'

‘Yeah, well, don't matter. Can do the job if she's in or out.' Chris strode to the back of his vehicle and started rummaging in it for tools, wishing she'd just piss off so he could get started.

‘Shame they never kept the gate that was on there,' Gladys Rathbone remarked, following him to peer inquisitively into the van. ‘Nothing wrong with it, but they got rid of it, you see. You could just have fixed that back on for her, and she'd have saved herself a tidy amount.'

‘Yeah? What happened to it, then?' Chris slanted a glance at her.

‘Gave it to the scrap man after it got taken off because of the wheelchair. Even then it was still a scrape for him getting through the opening.' She nodded at the privet hedge. ‘So she had to cut that back quite a bit with the shears, but it's grown over nicely now.'

Chris straightened, turned slightly towards her, frowning enquiringly, but wary of seeming to be prying.

‘Mrs Riley's husband lost a leg in the war. He was in a wheelchair from about …' she looked heavenwards, calculating the years. ‘Say … 1942 it must've been when he got invalided home. Died two years later, poor soul … infection. Only got married, the two of them, shortly before he joined up, so she ended up his nurse more than his wife … no children …' Drawing herself to attention, the woman shot him a look, realising she'd spoken very much out of turn. Briskly she buttoned her coat. ‘Well, I've got to be off.' She checked inside her shopping bag before marching off up the street.

As soon as she'd gone Chris measured the opening, praying that it would be the right size, or near enough, so he could plane the gate to suit. He'd chosen it with care, driving the merchants mad by making them bring out practically every timber variety they had stocked in the warehouse till he saw one that seemed right. But, as he strode to and fro on the pavement, he was glad to see his one matched well with those hanging on the gateposts of the neighbouring houses.

He quickly went to the back of the van and lifted out the gate then a moment later returned for his tools.

‘Bleedin' hell, decided to turn up, have you?' Vic's expression was as sour as his speech. ‘I've been coverin' fer you, y'know. We was goin' like the clappers till you started doin' a disappearing act fer days on end. So don't blame us now we're behind again. Where've you been slopin' off to this past week?'

‘Mind yer own business, and stop nagging,' Chris replied mildly. ‘I'm here now, ain't I?'

Vic went off muttering beneath his breath.

‘Where's he been hiding this time?' Billy mouthed, jerking his head Chris's way.

‘Gawd knows …' Vic grunted and, raising his hammer, brought it down with a crash on a doorframe.

‘Bird trouble, bet yer life,' Billy said with a cautious peer towards the door to make sure Chris was out of earshot. ‘He ain't been the same since he started seeing Grace Coleman. Don't go out nowhere, 'less it's with her.' He pressed down a thumb onto his open palm. ‘That's where she's got him …
right
under …'

‘She is a good-looking sort. I know I would …' Ted made a lewd gesture with his fist.

‘I don't reckon even he's managed to get a leg over with that one … she's a right tight knickers, if you ask me,' Billy replied with a smirk. ‘Anyhow, saw Sharon Webb down Tottenham Royal on Saturday and she was asking after Chris.'

The mention of Sharon brought his mates' eyes swivelling his way. She'd always been a favourite with the boys since she had a voluptuous look of Diana Dors about her.

‘Chris could be in there again like a shot if he wanted. Dunno whether to tell him about Sharon asking after 'im being as him and Grace seem to be back on …'

‘He was always a lucky bleeder like that; surprised he puts up with being henpecked.' Vic started stamping his boot against the frame until it splintered and came out in a cloud of dust.

His remark had given Billy and Ted an opportunity to exchange a gleeful look. ‘Yeah …' cos you make sure you let Deirdre know who wears the trousers in your house, don't yer, Vic?' Billy mocked.

‘Yeah … and you'll be laughing on the other side of your face once you 'n' Bet get married, mate. Ain't all it's cracked up to be, having a missus 'n' kids.'

‘Deirdre ain't dropped her nipper yet, what you moanin' about?'

‘Me brother's got two under five and I've seen what goes on, don't worry about that,' Vic returned dolefully.

‘When's it due?'

‘Five months to go …'

‘Five months?
Got ages then to learn how to change dirty nappies.' Ted started chuckling.

‘You lot are worse'n a bunch of old women, y'know that.' Chris had come in and dumped down a ten-pound hammer. ‘Get that wall down, Ted, and the rest of you …'

‘Whoa … whoa … hang on …' Billy made a meal of finding his watch up his sleeve then stared at it. ‘It's just a couple of minutes to dinnertime. We've been here since quarter to eight, and I'm bleedin' starving, so I'm off to the caff.'

‘I'll come 'n' all. Deirdre ain't done me no sandwiches today.'

‘That's a result then, Vic,' Ted said drolly and downed tools. He turned to Chris. ‘Here … some old tramp's been kipping upstairs again.'

Chris glanced around as he picked up the ten-pound hammer, propped against the wall. ‘How d'you know that?'

‘Couple of old blankets and a few empty bottles are up there. Must be bleedin' desperate to use this place to doss in.'

As Vic started shrugging into his jacket he muttered, ‘No harm in it, surely, if someone is making use of some o' the houses.'

‘Just half an hour …' Chris yelled after them as they all trooped out.

But he was smiling as he took a swing at the wall. He hoped his mum was pleased with her new gate, but if she wasn't, and had it taken off so she could burn it because it came from him, he knew he'd still be glad he'd done it. He doubted she'd contact him, either to thank him, or to have a go about him trespassing and interfering. But he'd thought of a way to do her a favour, and perhaps let her know, despite everything that had gone on between her and his dad, he was his own person, and he only wished her well.

From what her neighbour had said about her losing her husband, it seemed she'd had an unhappy, unlucky life. Chris felt annoyed with his father for having called her names when he knew nothing about her now. Stevie didn't appreciate how fortunate he was. He had Pearl, and a brother who was supporting him in opening up a new business, and a son who took him down the Arsenal and cared about him – even when he was acting like a silly old sod. What did his mother have? A job in a greasy-spoon caff, and an empty house to go home to.

Whatever Pamela Plummer might have done in the past, Chris doubted it had been so bad that she'd deserved to suffer so much since. If his father discovered how it'd turned out for her, he'd probably mutter about what goes round comes round, and think she'd got her just desserts.

Chris knew he wasn't yet completely content; he'd found out that his mother was alive, and he knew he'd like very much to see her again. Perhaps, through her, he'd find out a bit about his Plummer grandparents. If they were dead too, she might have no family at all … except him. Next time he went that way, and he knew he would, if the gate was still standing, it'd be a good sign, and he'd take a chance and knock on her door …

Chris heard his stomach grumble and realised he was hungry. He strolled out to the van and rummaged for the big pack of sandwiches and the flask of tea his dad had done him that morning. He went back inside, sat down with his back to what was left of the wall, and started eating. It was a moment before he sensed he wasn't alone. He turned his head to see little Kathleen Murphy staring at him … or rather at his cheese and pickle sandwich.

Chris smiled at her, thinking she was a sweet little thing, but wondering what on earth she was doing here. She was shoeless and coatless on a late November day and he realised she was lucky not to have hurt herself climbing over the rubble in the hallway. He pushed himself upright.

‘Hello … where's your mum?'