Lost & Found
Authors: Kitty Neale
KITTY NEALE
Lost & Found
This one is for you, Abbie; my beautiful great-granddaughter who I feel could be destined for the stage. You are already a star that brightens our life and may all your dreams come true.
PART ONE
Battersea, South London, February 1954
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘School.’
‘Not today you ain’t,’ Lily Jackson told her daughter. ‘Take the pram out and go over to Chelsea again. I need some decent stuff for a change and the pickings are richer there.’
‘But I had two days off last week, and Dad said…’
‘Sod what your dad said. He hardly stumped up a penny on Friday. If we want to eat, finding me some decent stuff to flog is more important than flaming school. Anyway, as you leave in just over a month, you might as well get used to doing a bit of graft for a change.’
Mavis felt the injustice of her mother’s words.
For as long as she could remember, after school and every weekend, her task had been to take the pram out, begging for cast-offs. She hated it, almost as much as she hated her name. It had been her great grandmother’s, but even that was better than her nickname. She knew her ears stuck out, that she wasn’t clever, and every time the locals called her Dumbo, Mavis burned with shame. Oh, she’d be glad to leave school, dreamed of getting a job, of earning her own money. ‘I…I won’t mind going out to work.’
‘Huh! Nobody in their right mind would employ a useless lump like you.’
‘But…but…’
‘But nothing. Now don’t just stand there. Get a move on.’
‘Can…can I take some grub with me?’
‘Yeah, I suppose so, but there’s only bread and dripping.’
Mavis hurried to cut two thick chunks of bread, spread them with dripping and, after filling an old lemonade bottle with water from the tap, she opened the back door to put them into the large Silver Cross pram. It was a cold, damp, February morning with a chill wind that penetrated her scant clothes. She hurried inside again to throw on her coat before wrapping a long, hand-knitted woollen scarf around her neck. ‘I’m off, Mum.’
‘It’s about time too. Be careful with any glass or china, and don’t show your face again until that pram’s full.’
With a small nod, Mavis walked outside to the yard again and, gripping the pram handle, she wheeled it out into the back alley. It was a long walk to Chelsea, but Mavis kept her head down as she hurried along to Battersea Church Road. She was fearful of bumping into anyone she knew, especially Tommy Wilson and Larry Barnet, two boys of her own age who lived at the opposite end of the street. Tears stung her eyes. If her mother had suggested taking tomorrow off it wouldn’t have been so bad, but now she’d miss one of the only lessons she looked forward to. Her art teacher, Miss Harwood, praised her work, saying she had talent and encouraged her to think seriously about going on to art college when she left school. Of course, it was a silly dream, Mavis knew that. Her mother would have her doing something to earn money and would never allow it. To her, art was a waste of time and she’d never shown interest in any work that Mavis had taken home.
Until now, Mavis thought, shivering with anticipation. The end-of-term painting was nearly complete and when her mother saw it, instead of shame, Mavis hoped she would at last see pride on her face. It was good—in fact, according to
Miss Harwood, very good—and Mavis couldn’t wait for her mother to see it.
Lily was glad to see the back of her daughter. Mavis had been a lovely baby and a pretty toddler, with dark curly hair and big blue eyes like her father. Her only flaw had been her large ears, but another one emerged soon after she started school. When other kids began to learn how to read and write, Mavis was left behind, and her clumsiness became more apparent. Simple things like catching a ball were beyond her and the only thing she was good at was drawing. What good was that when it came to earning a living?
Lily had long since accepted the truth. Her daughter might be pretty, but she was a bit simple, daft; almost as bad as her father. Ron had been an orphan, a Barnardo boy, but at least he could read. At that thought Lily scowled. Yes, Ron could read the racing form and write out a betting slip. Over the years they’d had row after row about his gambling, but nothing stopped him. In fact, it just got worse, until almost every week his wage packet ended up down the greyhound track. When he wasn’t at the dogs, Ron was in the pub, blowing the last of his wages.
Lily shook her head in disgust. As always, the burden of looking after Mavis fell to her. She had to feed their daughter, clothe her, and as Ron was
hardly in he took little interest in Mavis. When he had rolled home on Friday night, she had waited until he was asleep to search his pockets, hoping against hope that he hadn’t blown the lot. All she’d found was a crumpled ten-bob note along with a few coppers and, knowing her stock was low, she’d felt like braining him. She was sick of flogging other people’s junk to make a few bob, the old clothes being the worst. She had to wash and iron the stuff, tarting it up as best she could to sell down at the local market. Most weeks it made her enough to scrape by, but when it didn’t, Lily thanked her lucky stars for her old mum. It wasn’t right that she had to go to her for the occasional hand-out, but with Ron losing more than he ever won, sometimes she had no choice.
Lily took a last gulp of tea then stoically rose to her feet. What was the matter with her? She didn’t have time to sit here. She had the last pile of junk to sort out, though it wasn’t up to much and hardly worth the bother. She just hoped that Mavis could cadge some decent stuff this time—and that she didn’t break it before fetching it home.
Ron stared at the foreman, his fists clenched in anger.
‘Did you hear what I said, Jackson?’
‘Yeah, I heard you.’
‘Right then. Get a move on.’
‘It ain’t my job to dig out footings. I’m a hod carrier, not a labourer,’ Ron snapped.
‘Your brickie hasn’t turned up, and I’m not having you standing around doing nothing. Now do as I say and get to work.’
Ron hated the way the foreman threw his weight around and he’d had enough. His voice a snarl he said, ‘Fuck off!’
‘You’re finished, Jackson. I want you off the site. Now!’
Ron raised his fist, ready to smash it into the foreman’s face, but then felt a staying hand on his arm. Pete Culling had turned up, the almost bald bricklayer urging, ‘Leave it, Ron. He ain’t worth it. Come on, let’s go.’
His head snapped around. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘I’ll tell you later. Now, are you coming?’
‘Not until I’ve flattened this little weasel,’ Ron spat, but found as he turned his attention to the foreman that the man had already moved several feet away.
Pete laughed, flashing his perfectly white teeth, but even these didn’t save his acne-scarred face. He looked like a boxer, one whose nose had been flattened from too many punches as he said, ‘Look at him. He’s shit scared and ready to do a runner. Don’t waste your energy, mate, and anyway, sod this job. I’ve got something better lined up: a nice little earner.’
Ron felt his anger draining away, but scowled at the foreman, unwilling to leave without a parting shot. ‘I ain’t finished with you yet, so watch your back. As for this job, you can stick it where the sun don’t shine.’
The two men walked off the site, laughing, until Ron said to Pete, ‘So, what’s this nice little earner?’
‘I heard about a bloke looking for teams and willing to pay top money. I went to meet up with him before I came on site this morning. He wants us now so we’ll be stepping straight into another job.’
‘So that’s why you were late.’
‘Yeah, but I didn’t expect to hear you getting your marching orders when I showed up.’
‘You didn’t have to leave. It was me who got the sack, not you,’ Ron protested.
‘Leave it out, mate—we’re a team. Anyway, with the money we’ll be earning, I was going to tell him to stick the job anyway. Let’s go to the café and I’ll fill you in. Not only that, I’m starving and could do with a decent breakfast.’
‘All right, but no breakfast for me. Mind you, I won’t say no to a cup of char.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re skint again.’
‘Of course I ain’t,’ Ron lied, ‘it’s just that Lily made me a few sarnies for lunch and I ate them while waiting for you to turn up.’
‘Don’t give me that. I wasn’t that late.’
Ron knew he hadn’t fooled Pete. They knew each other too well and had worked together since getting demobbed. It hadn’t been easy at first, coming back from the war to find half of London flattened and jobs scarce. Things had gradually improved and when at last rebuilding got underway there was a demand for bricklaying teams. Nowadays they were never out of work and it looked like Pete had come up trumps again. He grinned ruefully, ‘All right, I’m skint.’
‘What was it? The dogs again?’
‘Yeah, but I was doing all right. I picked a couple of winners, and then got the whisper of a sure thing. I stuck the lot on Ascot Boy and he was leading the pack, but then swung wide, fell, and took another couple of dogs with him. Paul’s Fun got through the gap to win by three-quarters of a length.’
‘So you blew your wages again?’
‘I had a few bob left, but after drowning me sorrows in the Queen’s Head, I reckon Lily must have cleaned out me pockets when I rolled home.’
‘Serves you right, Ron. I’ve said it before, gambling’s a mug’s game. I don’t know what’s the matter with you. You’re good looking with a gorgeous wife and kid, yet despite Lily’s threats to leave you you’d rather spend your time down the dogs or in the pub.’
‘Look, I’ve had nothing but ear bashings from
Lily all weekend and don’t need another one from you. I know I’ve got to knock the gambling on the head, and I will.’
‘If you really mean it this time, I’ve got the answer,’ Pete said as they walked into the café and up to the counter.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Watcha, Alfie. Two cups of tea please, followed by an egg and sausage with fried bread. Twice please,’ Pete said, leaving Ron’s question unanswered.
‘Just a tea for me.’
‘Ignore him, Alfie,’ Pete said, and then, taking the mugs of tea, he walked over to a vacant table.
‘What did you do that for? I told you I didn’t want anything to eat,’ Ron said as he sat down opposite.
‘It’s my treat, and, anyway, after hearing what I’ve got to say you’ll need a full stomach when you tell Lily.’
‘Tell her what?’
Pete took a gulp of tea, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and then said, ‘The new job’s out of London.’
‘Oh, yeah. How far?’
‘About thirty miles.’
‘What! Leave it out, Pete. That’s too far to travel.’
‘Before you start doing your nut, hear me out. You’ve heard of these new town developments?
Well, Bracknell in Berkshire is one of them. They’re building houses for thousands of people, but they’ve got a shortage of tradesmen and it’s behind schedule. That’s where we come in. The bloke I met is looking for crews, and the money is top whack. If we put the hours in, it works out at almost twice what we’ve been earning.’
Ron pursed his lips. ‘It sounds good, but there’s still the problem of getting there. We’d have to be up at the crack of dawn and Gawd knows what time we’d get home.’
‘There’s accommodation on offer. It’s only basic, but to earn that sort of money I’m willing to rough it.’
‘I dunno, mate,’ Ron said doubtfully.
‘It’s the chance we’ve been waiting for. We’ve always talked about starting up our own firm and if you’re willing to give up gambling, we could pool our money, save enough to start up.’
‘You’d take that risk on me?’
‘We’re mates, and, after what you did for me, I’d be willing to take the risk.’
Ron’s head went down. During a beach landing in France he’d seen Pete pinned down by gunfire, too frightened to move. He’d run back, grabbed Pete, hauled him forward, but had taken a bullet in his leg. It had only been a skimmer, a bit of a flesh wound and, anyway, it was no more than Pete would have done for him.
Now his mate was willing to risk a partnership—but could he do it? Ron agonised. Could he give up gambling? ‘I dunno, Pete. What if I let you down?’
‘You won’t. There isn’t a dog track in Bracknell, and I reckon we’ll be away long enough to get gambling out of your system. It’s time to take stock, Ron. If you don’t pull your socks up you’ll end up with nothing. Think about the future. We ain’t getting any younger, and if we don’t do this now, we never will.’
Two plates were put in front of them, and Ron’s mouth salivated as the smell of sausages and egg wafted up. Meat was still rationed, with only 4oz of bacon allowed a week, but there was more food available now. It was nice to have a real egg instead of that powdered muck they’d been forced to eat during the war, but as Ron picked up his knife and fork to cut into the sausage, he felt a surge of shame. Rationing or not, with most of his money going down the dogs, there wasn’t much food on offer at home. He should be providing for his wife and child, but the pull of the race track always won; the thrill of watching the dogs, of picking a big winner. Some weeks he won a few bob, but then like an idiot he’d put it on another dog, only to lose it again. Pete was right. Lily was right. It was a mug’s game, and he knew it.
Pete spoke and Ron was broken out of his reveries. ‘Well, Ron, what do you think?’
Determined to make changes, Ron said, ‘All right, let’s give it a go. But Gawd knows what Lily’s going to say.’