Backstreet Child (55 page)

He remembered hearing that falling in the Thames was very dangerous and the currents would surely carry a person away. That man was going to be drowned, Wallace thought. What could he do to stop it happening?

There was nothing he could do. He peered over the wall, wide-eyed with fear and dread for the man clinging to the plank. He watched helplessly as it swirled, and then he saw it move towards the mud a little way downstream. The man was going to be all right, he thought, he was pulling himself out of the water. Wallace became agitated as the man stumbled and fell. He was not moving now, and above him the flaming wharf was shedding burning debris. It was falling near him and still the man did not move.

Wallace slumped down on the wet cobblestones, his back pressed against the wall. He bit on his fingertips in his anxiety, hardly able to think. Suddenly he jumped up, wincing at the noise of the guns. Maybe he could go down the steps and pull the man away from the burning wharf. He hurried along, bent double, terrified by the gunfire. He reached the slippery steps and gingerly made his way down to the bottom. The tide was going out fast and as he put his foot onto the slimy mud it sank up to his knee. Wallace cried out in fear as he struggled back onto the steps. It was no use. He could never reach the man this way. What could he do? He must get help. His father would know what to do.

Josiah was standing in the shelter entrance talking to a group of men when he saw Wallace hurrying down the slope towards him. He could see the wet mud on the lad’s trousers and with an angry roar he reached out for him, cuffing him round the head. Wallace put up his hands to protect himself and Tom Casey stepped up to the street warden.

‘Leave ’im alone, mate, fer Gawd’s sake,’ he shouted.

‘I’ll murder the little git if ’e slopes orf again,’ Josiah growled, pushing his son towards the shelter door.

Wallace stood where he was, his eyes filled with angry tears. ‘Man’s in the river,’ he gulped, pointing away up the slope.

‘Get in that shelter,’ Josiah snarled at him.

Still Wallace stood his ground, his eyes wide in agitation. ‘Man in the river. Burnin’ all round ’im,’ he cried out.

‘What’s ’e on about?’ Tom Casey asked.

Suddenly Wallace ducked under his father’s arm and rushed up the slope towards the street, stopping to wave the men after him.

Josiah glanced quickly at Tom, and without a word between them they hurried after him, belatedly recognising the lad’s urgent plea for help.

Through the backstreets they hurried, following Wallace and urging him on every time he turned to see if they were still with him. At the Cherry Garden steps, he stopped and pointed. ‘Man down there,’ he cried.

Tom was first down the slippery steps, closely followed by Josiah. Tom pointed to the right where the still figure was lying face down on the length of timber, surrounded by burning chunks of wood from the blazing wharf.

‘We’ll need some planks,’ Josiah shouted as he ran back up the steps.

Wallace pulled on his father’s arm and Josiah allowed himself to be led along the lane. Wallace pointed excitedly to the timber lying scattered across the ruins of a warehouse and soon the three were back at the steps, each carrying a plank. Twice they made the journey before they were able to reach the unconscious lighterman. More burning debris fell around them as they gingerly eased Danny back, dragging him by his shoulders till they reached the safety of the steps.

‘Mind ’ow yer carry ’im, Tom, ’e’s got a broken arm by the looks of it,’ Josiah told him.

At the top of the steps they laid Danny on his back with Josiah’s coat under his head. Josiah bent over him and tapped his face gently. Suddenly Danny groaned and opened his eyes.

‘Yer all right, mate, fanks ter me boy. ’E spotted yer an’ ’e come fer us,’ Josiah said proudly, looking up quickly at Wallace.

Tom went off to find a stretcher-bearer, and when the car finally arrived, Danny was strapped into the stretcher and placed on the roof. As the car drove out of the riverside lane, Josiah turned to Wallace and threw his arms round him. ‘I’m sorry, son. I didn’t know what yer were tryin’ ter tell me,’ he said gently. ‘I’ll never lay a finger on yer ever again, Gawd strike me dead if I do.’

Tom swallowed hard as he walked away along the cobbled lane. At the end of the road he turned to see Josiah setting off, his arm round Wallace’s shoulders. The night smelt of cordite and burning wood, and the reek of danger was thick in the air. Tom hurried on, wanting to get back to what safety there was at the shelter, and his family.

Billy Sullivan had just reached the rescue squad’s depot in Abbey Street when the first request came in by phone. A factory in Long Lane had been hit and there was a nightwatchman buried under the rubble. Billy gritted his teeth as the vehicle drove quickly but carefully over the debris-filled street and as it squealed to a halt he was running with the rest of the crew. Time was paramount if the man was to have any chance of survival. The local policeman showed them the watchman’s likely whereabouts, and Jim Davis organised his men to begin digging.

For a time they worked without speaking, deafened by the din of war raging overhead. When they had made enough progress, Billy squeezed himself into the makeshift tunnel, dragging a heavy steel prop behind him. Other men removed timbers and manhandled huge chunks of masonry to lengthen the tunnel into the heart of the ruined factory.

Jim Davis was working at the head of the tunnel along with another of his squad when they heard a faint whimpering.

‘Listen, Jim, it’s comin’ from below us,’ the rescuer said, spitting out a mouthful of brick dust.

‘It sounds like a dog,’ Jim replied, reaching his hand down into a narrow gap in the rubble. ‘I can’t feel anyfing. We must be over the roof o’ the offices.’

The two dug downwards, followed by Billy who passed the pieces of timber and brick back to the team man behind him. Suddenly Jim Davis disappeared through the hole and the men heard him cursing.

‘You all right, Jim?’ Billy shouted.

‘Yeah, just about. I landed on the bloody table, head first,’ he growled.

‘What’s the score?’ the other rescuer called down into the hole.

‘No sign o’ the watchman. There’s a mutt ’ere though,’ he called out. ‘Poor little fing’s terrified, but it looks all right.’

The trembling mongrel was passed up to Billy who cuddled it to him as he eased himself backwards out of the hole. In the cool night air, with the noise all around, the dog started whining and Billy patted its head reassuringly. ‘Where’s yer owner, little fella?’ he said quietly. ‘Is ’e down there somewhere?’

The mongrel started to struggle and Billy gripped him tighter. ‘It’s all right, yer safe,’ he said.

An old man scrambled over the rubble of the factory towards Billy. ‘Gawd bless yer, son,’ he cried, holding out his hands to the dog.

The mongrel whimpered as it scrabbled into the old man’s arms and Billy’s blackened face broke into a wide grin.

‘I see ’e’s yours,’ he said. ‘Are you the nightwatchman?’

The old man nodded. ‘I went out ter the pub fer an Arrowroot biscuit an’ a bottle o’ beer an’ I saw the ’ole place fall in,’ he puffed. ‘It was terrifyin’. I never thought I’d see Mitzi again, not alive anyway.’

Billy patted the dog’s head. ‘Well, yer can enjoy yer beer now,’ he said, still grinning.

‘This ain’t mine,’ the old man said indignantly. ‘I never touch the stuff. It’s fer Mitzi. She likes ’er Arrowroot an’ a bottle o’ stout, don’t yer, gel?’

Billy heard Jim’s voice coming from underground and he became serious. ‘If I were you I’d make meself scarce. Our guv’nor’s bin searchin’ the ruins fer yer,’ he said quickly.

The old man slapped Billy on the back and hurried away, just as Jim reappeared, cursing loudly. ‘No nightwatchman there,’ he said. ‘Prob’ly pissed orf down the pub, wiv a bit o’ luck. I’ll ’ave ter get cleaned up now. I’m covered in bloody dog shit.’

The driver came hurrying over. ‘We got anuvver one an’ it’s bad!’ he shouted above the gunfire. ‘Block o’ flats in Garner Place. A direct ’it an’ there’s shelter in the basement!’

Jim called his men together. ‘C’mon, let’s go,’ he shouted. ‘Who wants ter sit next ter me?’

As the blitz raged, Carrie sat with Joe and Nellie in the cellar of their house.

‘This sounds like the worst one yet,’ Nellie remarked, constantly wincing as loud explosions shook the house. ‘Gawd’elp us all. ’Ow much more ’ave we gotta take?’

Carrie patted her mother’s arm reassuringly. ‘We’ll be all right, Mum,’ she said quietly.

Joe got up and stretched. ‘I fink I’ll go up an’ make a pot o’ tea,’ he said, ‘That’s if the gas is still on.’

‘You stay where you are,’ Carried ordered him. ‘Wait till it quietens down a bit.’

‘Carrie’s right,’ Nellie said. ‘We got enough problems, wivout worryin’ about you gettin’ yer ’ead blown orf.’

Joe smiled as he eased himself back down into the chair. ‘I bet Rachel’s worried,’ he remarked. ‘She was prob’ly on duty ternight.’

Carrie nodded without replying. She had been thinking about Rachel at that moment, and about the conversation they had had when she was last at home. The news about Tony O’Reilly being Galloway’s grandson had shaken her. The Jamie Robins affair had steeled her to go on fighting the Galloways, and now that George Galloway was dead there was only one man left to deal with. Frank Galloway would pay for what he did to Jamie, she had sworn. Now, out of the blue, she was suddenly faced with the prospect of her only child being married to a Galloway. From what Rachel had told her Tony seemed a nice lad, and it was obvious that her daughter was madly in love with him, but he was still a Galloway. He had their blood. Had he inherited the ruthless streak which made them so hard and insensitive, made them use people and destroy their lives? she wondered. True, Geoffrey Galloway had not been as hard as his father and brother, but it was all the same blood.

Carrie sighed and looked over at her mother who was trying to get on with a piece of needlework. She looked at Joe and realised that he had been staring at her.

‘Rachel?’ he asked.

Carrie nodded with a brief smile. Joe had become very perceptive lately. He seemed to have acquired the knack of reading her mind.

‘I was jus’ finkin’ about ’er an’ Tony,’ she replied. ‘I wanted ter scream an’ shout at ’er when she told me about ’im. I couldn’t though. I wanted ter warn ’er too, but I couldn’t even do that. It took me by surprise.’

Nellie looked up from her sewing. ‘Yer did right, Carrie,’ she said quietly. ‘Yer couldn’t say anyfing ter drive a wedge between yer, an’ it would ’ave done, mark my words. That gel finks the world of ’im. She would’ve bin torn between the boy an’ ’er family. All yer ’ave ter remember is what ’appened ter young Josephine. If George Galloway ’ad’ve bin open wiv the gel right from the start, ’e might ’ave prevented ’er doin’ what she did. By the time ’e did tell ’er the trufe, it was too late.’

Carrie nodded. ‘That’s exactly why I couldn’t say what I was feelin’, Mum,’ she replied. ‘I’m worried, though.’

Joe leaned back in his chair and brushed a hand over his head. ‘It’s early days yet,’ he said. ‘Rachel an’ the lad are gonna be tergevver fer a few days an’ then ’e’s goin’ off ter the front. Anyfink could ’appen. God ferbid, the lad might never come back. Yer must allow ’em a bit of ’appiness while they’ve got the chance.’

Carrie sighed. ‘Rachel’s a sensible gel, an’ the lad too. It’s just the thought of ’im bein’ a Galloway. I’ve just got this terrible feelin’ that nuffin’ good’ll come of it.’

Nellie looked up again, briefly sucking her pricked thumb. ‘I always felt that the Galloway family was ill fated,’ she said. ‘Their money never brought ’em much ’appiness over the years. But we all get older, an’ when we do, we come ter see fings in a different light. This might be what’s needed ter break the chain. Yer gotta give ’em the chance. Besides, it’s right what Joe said jus’ now. Anyfing could ’appen. Just give ’em yer blessin’, Carrie. Give’em the start they need. The Lord Almighty’ll do the rest.’

Maurice Salter had decided that come hell or high water he would spend the night in his own bed. He had done his share of double shifts recently and he was feeling exhausted. When the siren screamed out and his daughters tried to rouse him from the armchair, he had waved them away impatiently. He was enjoying his nap, and after a bit of supper he was looking forward to his comfortable bed. Now, as the house rocked and shook, he was snoring loudly. He did not hear the sudden swishing noise or the bang that followed it, but he woke up when a large piece of chimneypot dropped through the ceiling onto his bed, missing him by inches.