Backstreet Child (19 page)

In the early hours of 14 October the battleship
Royal Oak
was sunk in Scapa Flow by a German U-boat, with heavy loss of life. At nine o’clock that night the Tanner family gathered round the wireless, anxiously waiting for more news. Rachel’s stomach was knotted with dread as the newscaster read out an Admiralty bulletin. Derek had gone up to Scotland only a few days previously to join a ship, and now as she sat listening, Rachel recalled the old lady on the train. She had looked strangely at Derek when she read his palm. Had she seen something there, some terrible tragedy in the lines of his hand? No, it was stupid even to think of it, she told herself. Derek was going to be all right. He would write to her soon.

Joe got up to make the tea and Carrie wrapped her arms round her very frightened daughter. ‘ ’E’s gonna be all right, you’ll see,’ she said softly.

Rachel could not bring herself even to talk about the train episode, and as much as she tried to dismiss it as nonsense, the old lady’s face kept reappearing in her mind, and it terrified her.

‘I’m scared, Mum,’ she said. ‘S’posin’ it was the ship Derek joined? The news said there was only a few survivors?’

Carried hugged her daughter tightly, finding little to say, no words that would comfort her and take away the fear. In the other fireside chair, Nellie sat quietly sewing, her glasses resting on the end of her nose, and when she looked up, the concern was evident on her face. ‘The good Lord listens ter prayers, Rachel,’ she said. ‘All we can do is pray fer the lad’s safety.’

Chapter Twelve

Billy Sullivan had settled in to his new evening job at the Kings Arms and things had been very quiet. There had been no repercussions from the recent brawl and Terry Gordon was beginning to feel that maybe his long-time enemy had decided to let bygones be bygones. Terry was very happy with his new barman’s progress. He had taken to the job admirably and it was a comforting thought to have a local man behind the counter, one who could handle himself in an emergency.

Terry’s pretty wife Patricia was also pleased to have Billy installed behind the bar. She had been intrigued by the stories that abounded of the handsome man’s exploits over the years and decided she should get to know him a little better. Opportunity seemed to be presenting itself. She would have to be careful though, because Terry was very jealous. On Tuesdays when he took his night off, that would be the time to chat at length to Billy. In the meantime she would play it cool.

During Saturday evening the public bar had been buzzing with the news of the
Royal Oak
’s sinking, and at ten o’clock two strangers walked in. Billy was immediately on his guard and he reached under the counter for the comforting feel of the pickaxe handle he kept concealed there. The two men were heavily built and in their forties, he guessed. They both wore expensive overcoats and silk scarves, and the taller of the two had a trilby hat on. It was unusual for well-dressed strangers to frequent the public bar, Billy thought, unless they were looking for someone in particular, someone they knew would be in that particular bar.

‘Give us two gin an’ tonics,’ the taller man said, glancing around at the customers.

Billy slipped the glasses under the optic, glancing through the opening to the saloon bar as he did so. He could see Terry talking to his wife; he would have to put him on his guard.

‘Is Terry in?’ the tall man asked casually.

Billy knew that the men would not have spotted Terry through the bar from where they were standing and he smiled disarmingly. ‘’E ’ad ter slip out a while ago. I don’t fink ’e’s back jus’ yet, but I’ll find out for yer,’ he replied.

Terry’s face hardened when Billy told him about the two men asking after him. As he followed his barman into the public bar his face brightened. ‘’Ello, boys. Long time no see,’ he grinned, adding to Billy, ‘it’s all right, they’re ole friends.’

Patricia had popped her head round the bar and she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Terry laughing with the two. ‘Fanks, Billy,’ she said, giving him a smile and a quick wink. ‘Yer never know who they’re likely ter be. It’s a relief ter know you’re ’ere.’

Billy smiled back and shrugged his shoulders. ‘You all right in there?’ he asked, nodding towards the saloon bar.

‘I’d feel better wiv you in there wiv me,’ she said with another suggestive wink.

Billy got on with serving and chatting to the customers, and when the two strangers left just before closing time Terry went back into the saloon bar. One or two of the regulars had had too much to drink and were cursing loudly about the war, and one old man had fallen asleep at the corner table. Billy sighed as he began the task of getting the bar cleared. He gently shook the old man’s shoulder to rouse him. ‘C’mon, dad. Time fer beddy byes.’

The old man woke with a start and shook himself. ‘Gawd, I must ’a’ fell orf ter sleep. I was ’avin’ this dream,’ he said pulling a face. ‘I was in this bloody great field an’ it was full o’ taters. There was this farmer an’ ’e was an ugly-lookin’ git. Anyway ’e told me I ’ad ter pick all the spuds before I could leave. I tell yer, Billy, there was fousands o’ these tater plants an’ me back was fair breakin’ after a few minutes. I said ter meself, Jack, I ses, yer never gonna pick all these spuds terday, not wiv yer back bein’ the way it is. Fair cripplin’ me it was. Must ’ave bin the way I was sleepin’.’

Billy chuckled as he helped the old man to his feet. ‘G’night, Jack,’ he said. ‘Mind ’ow yer go in the dark.’

When the last of the customers had left, Billy set about wiping the counter down and emptying the ashtrays. The potman had already cleared the glasses and was bolting up as Billy slipped into the small back room to collect his coat. He could hear raised voices coming from upstairs and then Terry hurried down. His face was set hard and he merely nodded goodnight as Billy took his leave through the side door.

On Sunday morning Nellie went to church. She was going to say a special prayer for Derek and as she walked along the quiet Jamaica Road she thought about her two lost sons. How different the two lads were, she recalled. James had always been the lively one, for ever talking and passing comment on something or the other, while young Charlie sat quietly reading in a corner. James had fallen in the Great War, and she doubted that she would ever see Charlie again now. He was so far away, and with his own family now. His last letter had said that he was retiring from the army, but perhaps he would stay on now that war had broken out. He would be forty-six and too old to fight, but he might stay on to train the young soldiers, she thought.

Nellie took her usual detour through Page Street and noticed how clean and tidy the little turning appeared. The front doorsteps were whitened and lace curtains hung in almost all the windows. There were a few empty houses and Nellie sighed sadly. People had gone, fearing what might happen to the riverside borough. The more hardy folk remained, however, and she saw Maisie standing at her front door chatting to the plump Dolly Dawson. Nearby was Maudie Mycroft, in earnest conversation with Sadie Sullivan, who seemed to have aged quite rapidly. Nellie rubbed her hand along the lapel of her coat as if to reassure herself that she was dressed smartly and held her head high.

‘Mornin’, Sadie, Maud,’ she said as she passed.

‘Orf ter church?’ Sadie asked.

Nellie nodded. ‘Young Rachel’s worried about ’er bloke,’ she told them. ‘ ’E’s in the navy an’ ’e’s up in Scotland. I’m gonna say a prayer fer ’im.’

Sadie smiled. ‘I’ve jus’ got back. Daniel didn’t go this mornin’ though. ’E’s in bed wiv bronchitis.’

‘Sorry to ’ear it, Sadie. I ’ope ’e’s better soon,’ Nellie replied as she carried on.

Sadie watched Nellie walking away for a few moments then she turned to Maudie. ‘She’s beginnin’ ter look ’er age,’ she remarked. ‘The poor cow’s never got over losin’ ’er William.’

Maudie pulled her coat tighter round her lean figure. ‘Oh well, I’d better get goin’,’ she announced. ‘I’m goin’ round wiv the collection plate this mornin’.’

Nellie approached Maisie and Dolly. ‘Mornin’, ladies,’ she said briskly. ‘Can’t stop, I’m orf ter the service.’

Maisie gave her a friendly smile. ‘Dolly was just tellin’ me about ’er Wallace,’ she said. ‘Tell ’er, Doll.’

Nellie was always keen to hear the latest gossip and she decided that maybe she could spare a few minutes after all. ‘What’s ’e done?’ she asked.

Dolly briefed Nellie on the banana episode and told her what happened afterwards. ‘Yer can imagine ’ow I felt,’ she went on. ‘I could ’ave died wiv shame. Anyway, when I got indoors I found the bleeder ’idin’ under the stairs. Shakin’ like a leaf ’e was. Ter be honest, Nell, I was gonna give ’im such a tannin’, old as ’e is, but when ’e ups an’ tells me that ’e stole the bananas ter give ter those Perry children I could ’ave cried. Wallace might be simple-minded but ’e’s so feelin’. I dunno what I’m gonna do wiv ’im.’

Nellie shook her head. ‘It’s a shame, Doll,’ she replied. ‘Pity’e can’t get some sort o’ job ter keep ’im out o’ mischief.’

Dolly sighed. ‘I’ve tried. Before we moved ’ere I got ’im a job at the market. Yer know the sort o’ fing, ’elpin’ the costers an’ runnin’ fer tea an’ suchlike. Well, ’e only lasted a day. One stall’older sent ’im fer the tea an’ ’e was gone over two hours. They found ’im sittin’ in the park feedin’ the birds, wiv the tea beside ’im. Stone cold it was.’

Nellie was aware that she was going to be late for the service and she brushed her hands down her coat once more. ‘’E’ll be all right,’ she said sympathetically. ‘Yer jus’ got ter persevere wiv ’im, that’s all.’

As she walked away Maisie shook her head. ‘She’s beginnin’ ter look ’er age,’ she remarked.

Maurice Salter was a widower, and he had brought up his three daughters and his only son unaided ever since his wife died of peritonitis when she was in her early thirties. Maurice had never remarried and he earned his living as a stoker at the gasworks in Rotherhithe. His daughters had all grown into attractive young women, self-assured and outgoing, which Maurice felt had a lot to do with the relaxed, broadminded way he had brought them up. Brenda, the eldest, was twenty-six, and like her two sisters she was still unmarried. She was dark-haired, brown-eyed and had a bubbling personality. Barbara was twenty-four, with brown hair and a warm smile, and she was inclined to be the quiet one of the family. Lily, the youngest of the girls, was twenty-two, fair like her mother, and the prettiest of the trio. The girls worked together as machinists at the clothes factory near Tower Bridge and were terrible flirts, driving the young men wild with their antics and earning a rather dubious reputation as a result.

Robert Salter was the baby of the family at twenty-one, short and stocky like his father with a mop of dark wavy hair and brown eyes. He had been cosseted and teased mercilessly by his sisters until he began to assert himself and now he was missed terribly by the family, having been called up into the Royal Air Force. He was currently undergoing gunnery training for air crew and had suddenly found himself very popular with the rest of the trainees after he pinned snapshots of his three sisters onto his locker.

Maurice Salter was dark of complexion, short and stocky, with thick, greying hair that tended to curl up under his cap. He had found the upbringing of his four children a tremendous struggle and he had often been required to ‘duck and dive’, as he described it, to provide adequately for them. He had no sense of guilt about his sometimes devious activities. Ducking and diving was a means to an end as far as he was concerned, and the only way he had been able to keep his family together. He was an imaginative man, with an eye for the main chance and never afraid to take a gamble, and nowadays his children were concerned about the sort of things he might get himself involved in. They felt that as they were all working now the days of hardship were over and he should not feel obliged to be for ever on the lookout for a few extra shillings. But old habits died hard, and anyway Maurice enjoyed the excitement of the deal or dodge.

As he busied himself with polishing his shoes in the scullery on that Sunday morning, Maurice was deep in thought. Outside in the yard was a bale of blackout material which he had come by and he was calculating in his head the profit margin if he added the usual three farthings per yard to the agreed price of two shillings and elevenpence per yard. ‘Brenda,’ he called out. ‘What’s seventy-five three farthin’s come to?’

His eldest daughter was sitting in the parlour busy with curling tongs and she sighed with exasperation as she realised the tongs had gone cold. ‘I dunno, ask Barbie,’ she told him.

‘Barb. What’s—’

‘Why don’t yer ask three shillin’s an’ be done wiv it?’ Barbara called from the back bedroom.

Maurice sighed. ‘Material is always sold wiv three farthin’s stuck on the end o’ the price,’ he informed them. ‘I don’t want people ter fink it’s come the ovver way.’

‘They wouldn’t dream of it, Dad, now would they?’ Lily chipped in, checking the heat of the iron by holding it near her cheek.

‘I shouldn’t ’ave asked,’ he said. ‘I get no ’elp from you lot.’

‘What yer mumblin’ about, Dad?’ Barbara called.

‘I was jus’ sayin’ ter meself that I should ’ave took more care wiv yer schoolin’. There’s none o’ yer can add up,’ he shouted.

Later, as Maurice left his house for his Sunday constitutional at the Kings Arms, Lily planted a kiss on his cheek. ‘It’s four an’ eightpence farthin’, Dad,’ she said with a sweet smile.