A Cuckoo in Candle Lane
Michael Maynard
who died in 1998 aged twenty-seven,
and who is now ‘
Over the Rainbow
’.
Candle Lane
ContentsWith thanks to my family, friends and literary agent for their invaluable help, patience and support. Special thanks to Jean Vivian – she knows why.
Many places and street names mentioned in the book are real. However, others and some of the topography, along with all the characters, are just figments of my imagination.
The room was in darkness when she awoke, slowly becoming aware of a presence. A familiar glow started to form and she relaxed – suddenly remembering that she didn’t have to push the entity away now. It was as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders and she felt a wonderful sense of freedom. A glorious feeling of exhilaration filled her as she realised that once again she could stretch her wings and fly. Smiling, she reached out her arms to the golden shimmering light.
S
ally Marchant ran headlong down the street, arms and legs pumping like pistons and socks bagging around her ankles. Just before the corner she risked a quick glance over her shoulder, then scuttled round onto the main road where she leaned thankfully against the pawnbroker’s window, skinny chest heaving as she dragged freezing air into her lungs. Why do they always pick on me? she thought, her eyes staring blankly across the busy main road, to where huge ugly factories flanked the dirty River Thames.
She set off again, walking rapidly and hoping she had lost her tormentors in the warren of streets and alleyways. It was just before she reached her own turn-off that they jumped out in front of her from the shelter of a shop doorway, and her stomach lurched as she braced herself for the confrontation.
The two girls straddled the pavement, hands on hips and arms akimbo to bar her way.
‘Well, well, what ’ave we here? It’s the ginger nut,’ one of them jeered.
‘My hair ain’t ginger.’
‘Yes it is, you daft cow.’
‘It ain’t ginger … it’s auburn.’
‘Don’t kid yourself,’ she sniggered, her eyes travelling pointedly down to Sally’s feet. ‘New shoes?’
‘Yeah, but what’s it got to do with you?’
The girl’s pugnacious face glinted in triumph. ‘You’re a liar,’ she shouted. ‘We saw you on Saturday in Rosie’s secondhand shop, and them shoes look like the ones yer mum fished out of a box of rummage.’
‘Ugh!’ The other girl’s long thin face stretched into a grimace of distaste. ‘I bet all yer clothes are secondhand –
and
full of fleas.’ She scratched herself vigorously, turning to her friend. ‘Are you itchy too?’
‘Yeah, I am, now you come to mention it,’ she replied, raking her nails through her hair. Then, grinning maliciously at Sally, she added, ‘By the way, Spooky, ’ave you seen any ghosts lately?’
Sally clenched her hands into fists, nails digging painfully into her palms in an effort to hide her humiliation. I won’t let them see me cry, she thought, I won’t. Lowering her head she dodged into the road to pass them, running off with the sound of their laughter ringing in her ears.
A few minutes later she turned into Long Street, halting momentarily to catch her breath. Then, after a final quick check behind her, she darted left into Candle Lane where three doors down at number five she lifted the letterbox to grope for the key that dangled on a piece of string. Carefully pulling it through she opened the door and stepped into the narrow hall, eyes clouding when she saw her dad’s coat hanging on the rack. Sick with disappointment she crept upstairs to her room, clambered into bed, and curled into a tight ball under the thin blankets.
Her feelings of isolation increased at the sound of children playing in the street below her window. Boys playing football or marbles, girls with skipping ropes, their voices high as they jumped in time to a chant …
PK penny a packet
,First you chew it, then you crack it
,Then you stick it on your jacket
,PK penny a packet
.
She longed to join in their games, to play outside as they did, but her dad would never allow it. After school she was forced to remain in her room, out of his way, and only allowed downstairs for dinner. When he went to the pub she could stay in the kitchen until bedtime and, picturing the lovely fire burning in the hearth, she prayed he would be going out tonight.
The noise in the street gradually became distant as she allowed her mind to drift, trying to escape the cold and loneliness by retreating to the elusive and beautiful place she saw only in her dreams.
At last Sally felt safe and warm, in an altered state, floating above the bed and gazing down at her own body wrapped in a cocoon of untidy blankets. She wasn’t afraid; she felt light and free, happy to let this moment go on for ever.
The bedroom door was thrust open, her peace shattered as she was propelled violently back into her body, the sudden jolt leaving her feeling disorientated and blinking rapidly at the speed of the transition.
‘Come on, Sally, yer dinner’s ready. Didn’t you hear me calling?’ her mum asked, peering round the door.
‘Oh, sorry … I must ’ave fallen asleep,’ she stammered.
‘Well, get a move on. You know yer dad don’t like waiting for his grub,’ Ruth Marchant urged as she scurried away.
Reluctantly Sally crawled out of bed and padded downstairs, shivering in her thin clothes as she entered the kitchen. Careful not to make any noise she pulled out a chair, whilst glancing surreptitiously at her dad sitting at the end of the table. He was reading a newspaper, his dark greasy hair flopping onto his forehead.
Taking a deep breath and holding it, she sat down, relieved when he didn’t look up. Please, she thought, as she turned to see her mum carrying two steaming plates across the room, please let him be in a good mood.
‘Here you are, Ken,’ her mum said quietly.
‘About bloody time too,’ he snapped. ‘In future, see that me dinner’s ready when I come home.’
‘Yeah, all right love, it won’t happen again,’ she said meekly, placing their plates on the table.
Sally could sense the tension in the room and her stomach churned with nerves. His anger hung in the air … palpable … waiting to explode.
Lowering her eyes she looked at the grey mutton stew, thick with pearl barley, and felt a wave of nausea. Beads of perspiration broke out on her forehead. ‘Mum,’ she gasped. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t eat it. I feel sick.’
A chair was shoved back, screeching across the lino and she jerked with fear, eyes widening as her dad leaped to his feet, the chair crashing onto the floor behind him.
‘What’s this?’ he ground out, leaning menacingly over the table. ‘Feels sick, does she? Like mother, like daughter, is it?’
Ruth crouched low in her chair, cowering away from him. ‘No, don’t be daft, Ken, she’s only ten.’
‘What! Don’t you dare call me daft, you bloody bitch,’ he yelled, suddenly lunging forward to grab a handful of her jumper, the material straining as he yanked her roughly towards him. Drawing back his other hand he slapped her violently across the mouth, the force of the blow splitting her bottom lip. ‘Now get that brat out of my sight, or else!’ he screamed.
‘Quick, go to your room, Sal,’ Ruth sobbed, struggling to pull herself away from his grip, blood trickling onto her chin.
Sally hesitated, her body rigid with fear, but was suddenly galvanised into action when he turned, giving her a vicious sneer.
‘Do you want me to give yer mother another slap?’ he spat, raising his hand in a threatening gesture.
Heart pounding Sally ran from the kitchen, jumped the stairs two at a time and burst into her room, throwing herself across the bed. It’s my fault, she thought, clutching her hands over her ears in an effort to drown out the sound of her dad’s voice screaming obscenities. Mum’s gonna get it now, and it’s all because of me. ‘Please God,’ she whispered. ‘Please, don’t let him hurt her any more.’
After a few minutes a strange calmness began to penetrate her turbulent thoughts; she felt the lightest of breaths on her cheek, like an angel’s kiss. Gentle hands caressed her hair and she opened tear-filled eyes to see the room glowing in a golden shimmering light. She smiled; it would be all right now. Her friend was here.
Ruth was peering in the mirror, gingerly dabbing at the blood on her lip, when the door burst open.
‘Mum, are you all right?’ Sally gasped, her face creased with anxiety. ‘I heard me dad go out. Did he hit you again?’
Seeing the fear in her daughter’s eyes Ruth tried to smile reassuringly, but ended up wincing as the cut reopened. ‘I’m fine, sweetheart. Come over here and sit by the fire. Do you still feel sick?’
‘No, I’m all right now. My friend came and made me better.’