Women on the Home Front (105 page)

‘Won't be taking no more time off,' Chris replied, giving a bicep-bulging, final twist to the tap, and sending brownish water spurting into the sink. He turned it off and dried his hands on his sleeves.

His father patted his shoulder before leading him away to show him a shiny new refrigerator.

Chris followed him slowly, feeling guilty on two counts. He'd annoyed his uncle by neglecting his duties as foreman of his building firm, and he'd misled his father by allowing him to believe that Grace was the woman who'd kept him away from work on recent occasions.

He thought of his mother, as he'd first seen her, down on her knees, kindly sweeping up somebody else's path. He reflected on what he knew of her disappointing, depressing life, which nevertheless hadn't knocked the stuffing out of her – he had done that when he'd introduced himself.

Chris knew that if he found out she wanted to see him, he'd take time off work and go to Bexleyheath again tomorrow …

‘You've made a prat of me, Chris, and I don't like that.' Rob took a swig from his mug of tea. He hadn't offered one to his nephew this morning when he'd turned up in his office to apologise for letting the schedule slip on the Whadcoat Street job. ‘I asked you if you could cope with this contract without Stevie, and you said you could. Now, if you ain't up to it I'll get someone else in to run the show.'

‘Don't need it … it's all fine now.'

‘Not according to my man up the Council it ain't. That's why you've made a prat of me. I made a lot of noise about the pikeys being on my patch and he cleared 'em off. Now I'm getting sarcastic comments about perhaps he should get 'em back … and deduct it from my money. Weren't just me turned up when you was absent: a council bloke paid a visit too.'

Chris swiped a hand through his hair. ‘Yeah, Dad said. It's all back to normal. I'll work late … get it back on track.'

‘O'Connor'll be laughing his bollocks off, if he finds out it's going sour on us.'

‘I'll work late … starting tonight,' Chris repeated. He hesitated. ‘How about if I let Kieran Murphy have a few days?'

‘Up to you, mate,' Rob answered. ‘But you'll be paying him out of your own wages.'

‘Best be off to work.' Chris looked at his watch, wanting to get away from his irate guvnor as soon as he could.

‘It's not like you, Chris, to be missing shifts,' Rob said. ‘What's the problem?'

As Chris met his uncle's eyes he realised he'd guessed more than his father had about the identity of the woman involved in keeping him from doing his job.

‘Told you to leave things alone, Chris, didn't I?' Rob shook his head. ‘Only one way this is going to end up, you know that, don't you …'

‘I've gotta get going,' Chris said and strode towards the door.

‘Yeah, you do that,' Rob turned his back on his nephew.

‘You didn't tell me that the guvnor had been round checking up on things with the council jobsworth when I wasn't here.'

Vic dropped his newly lit cigarette and stamped on it. Chris had been a bit late turning up, so he'd thought he was having a morning off again, and there'd be plenty of time for a crafty fag before getting started. ‘I
did
tell you I'd been covering for you,' he insisted, narked.

‘Yeah, but not that it were covering for me in a
big
way,' Chris bawled.

‘I told them you'd just gone up the shop.' Vic shrugged. ‘What's wrong with that? They didn't know no different.'

Chris gave him a sour look. ‘The guvnor would never buy that. We're talking about Rob Wild, not Joe Muggins.' He locked the van and strode into the shell of a house they were working on.

‘You in the shit over it?' Vic had followed him. He knew if Chris got the sack he could be in line for the foreman's job.

‘Gonna work late and get things back on track …'

‘When … when you gonna work late?' Vic asked immediately.

‘Why, what's it to you?'

‘Nuthin '… just thought if there's overtime going …'

‘There ain't. I'll bring it back on track on me own.' He gave Vic a mocking glance. ‘But if you fancy turning up 'n' giving a hand out of the goodness of yer heart, Vic …'

‘Sod that fer a game o' soldiers,' Vic muttered and stomped off.

‘Yeah … that's what I thought,' Chris drawled, dropping his tool bag on the floor.

‘Going in, luv?'

Pamela Riley shot a look at the fellow who was holding open the door to the Duke of Edinburgh pub.

‘You going in?' he repeated as she hesitated then took a step away. ‘Who you after?' He'd guessed she'd been looking for somebody inside, and had been peering through the glass panel to see if they were present before entering.

‘Matilda Keiver,' Pamela blurted. ‘I know she used to drink here a lot.'

‘Old Tilly …' The man barked a laugh. ‘Oh, yeah, she's still a regular. Don't come in now as much as she used to, but she can sink a few, considering she's getting on a bit.' He glanced at his watch, nodding to himself. ‘You might be lucky; she could be along for a dinnertime snifter.' He studied Pamela, noting her dull, sensible appearance. She didn't look, or sound, as though she was a friend of Matilda's. She had the air of a middle-aged housewife from a better part of town. He guessed her to be at least twenty years Matilda's junior, but then old Tilly got along with most folk, as long as they hadn't upset her or her family in some way. If they had, she'd be down on them like a ton of bricks.

‘Thanks for letting me know she's still about,' Pamela said, noting the man was still holding the door slightly ajar. ‘I'll just hang on here a bit longer and if she doesn't turn up … I'll be on my way.' She shrugged further into her coat.

He smiled at her, thinking if she made an effort with a bit of make-up, and took that ugly old hat off her hair, she wouldn't be a bad-looking woman for her age. It occurred to him that she might be waiting outside for a friend to get her a drink, because she was on hard times. Matilda was known to be keen to have a drinking pal, and generous in that respect. ‘Come on … I'll buy you one if you're a bit short.' He pushed the door open.

‘No thanks,' Pam returned curtly. ‘If I wanted a drink I'd pay for it myself.'

‘Suit yerself, luv,' the man replied, unperturbed. He started off, then retraced his steps. ‘She don't live that far away, y'know. If you go round Whadcoat Street you'll probably find her in.'

‘Don't know it. All I know is she used to live in Campbell Road.'

‘Yeah, that's it. Campbell Road. Now it's Whadcoat Street.'

Pamela frowned at him. She'd walked along Seven Sisters Road and glanced at the turning into Campbell Road, seeing nothing but squalid houses and a few workmen in the distance doing slum clearance. The Bunk had always been a dump, but she'd assumed now it was uninhabited. It hadn't occurred to her to check the street name, high up on the wall.

‘Whadcoat Street?' she said, in surprise. ‘Why'd they bother changing its name now they're pulling it all down?'

‘Obviously you ain't been back in a while, duck,' the fellow chuckled. ‘Street names got altered right back in the thirties. Gawd knows why; didn't make a blind bit of difference to what went on down there. The Bunk's The Bunk … always will be.' He rubbed his hands together, then puffed into them.

It was an early December day and there was a bitter breeze blowing. Pamela was also feeling chilled and had half-turned away from him to protect her cold cheeks from a buffeting. She hunched up her shoulders to her ears and continued listening to what he'd got to say.

‘Paddington Street's now Biggerstaff Road, see, 'cos that name got changed as well,' the fellow explained. ‘Pen pushers with nothing better to do I suppose … can't leave nuthin' alone.'

‘Matilda still lives down there, even though they're knocking it down?' Pam couldn't disguise her astonishment, or her scepticism.

‘Yeah, and she's not on her own neither. Should've seen the crowd they had down there Bonfire Night.' He shook his head in amusement at the memory. ‘Weren't as lively as it used to be in its heyday, but had a good time. Bit of a tradition, ain't it, Bonfire Night and The Bunk. Went down there meself November 5th. Never miss it.' He sauntered off, whistling. A moment later he was gesticulating at her and pointing across the road.

It took Pam a moment to realise he was letting her know that Matilda was on her way.

Pamela felt her insides knotting in anxiety despite the fact that the person progressing slowly in her direction seemed quite unintimidating. The Matilda of old had always had a bounce in her stride; this woman had a slight limp and was dumpy of figure rather than solidly built. Her hair was no longer a fiery flaxen shade, but colourless. It was plaited, as Pamela remembered it often had been, and coiled in buns pinned on either side of her head. If the fellow hadn't indicated this elderly woman's identity she would never have known her.

But then she didn't expect Matilda to recognise her either.

Last time they'd spoken, Pamela had been an overweight, fresh-faced blonde in her twenties. She had no illusions as to how she looked now, even before a glance sideways at the pub's windows reflected back at her the thin, lined face of a faded woman who looked older than her forty-four years. Her thick fair hair had once been her pride and joy; now she mostly went out wearing a hat to cover the fact her crowning glory was wispy, and a silvery shade of mouse.

‘After you,' Matilda said as she saw a woman hovering in front of her by the pub's door.

‘No … it's alright … I've … I'm just waiting …'

Matilda squinted at the woman getting in her way, thinking something about her seemed familiar, but she was unsure what it was. Then a fragment of memory made her think of a woman with a small dimple in her chin and a high-pitched voice, who'd once been part of the family. She'd been giving Pamela Plummer some thought lately but even so it seemed hard to believe that …

‘You're Matilda Keiver, aren't you,' Pamela blurted out. ‘You won't remember me … it was years and years ago you last spoke to me …'

‘I know you,' Matilda said, cocking her head, her eyes fixing on Pam with fierce directness. ‘Bleedin' hell, you're right … it was a while ago … about twenty-five years if I remember correctly.'

‘Twenty-three, and I haven't come to cause trouble,' Pam immediately burst out. Suddenly the years were peeling away. It seemed only yesterday she'd last had those probing eyes on her. A short while after that, Pam had left the Islington area for good, and hadn't been back since.

‘What have you come for then, Pamela?' Matilda asked evenly. ‘'Cos whatever it is, I think you 'n' me know it
is
gonna cause a ruckus of some sort. But that might not be a bad thing.'

Pamela's thin lips twisted into a smile. Matilda might look past it, but her mind seemed as sharp as it had been when she'd been ducking and diving as one of The Bunk's rent collectors.

Pam had hoped to winkle out of Matilda a few titbits of information about Christopher, so she'd know a little about his life, and could hug it close to her, when she went back to her own existence in Bexleyheath. Instead, she fished in her bag and brought out a five-pound note. Matilda was too cute to give away a thing. Pam knew if she found out anything about her son, it would be because Matilda Keiver wanted her to know it.

‘Would you give this to Christopher, for me?' Pam asked hoarsely. ‘He did a job for me, but went off without getting paid. I don't take charity.'

‘Christopher don't give charity, not if I know him,' Matilda returned flatly. ‘What he might want to give you, as you're his mother, is a bit of his time and a bit of his help.'

The five-pound note, in Pam's outstretched fingers, wavered then got dropped to her side. ‘I want him to have it. He did a good job. But I don't know where he lives to send it.'

‘He lives at home with his dad still.'

‘Well, in that case …'

‘In that case, you'd sooner set off back home with your fiver than come face to face with Stevie.'

‘I'd sooner you take it and give it to him,' Pam said shortly but shoved the banknote in a pocket. ‘I won't be going to Stephen's place. I told you, I haven't come here to cause trouble … especially not for Christopher.'

‘Caused him enough of that when he was little, didn't you, Pam.'

‘Yeah …' Pamela immediately set off. She stopped after a few yards and twisted about to find Matilda watching her, but not maliciously. ‘Is that what you wanted to hear? I admit I did something terrible, but rest assured I've paid for it.'

Matilda took a few steps after her. ‘Usually the way, ain't it, Pam? The lord pays debts without money …'

‘Does Christopher know … has Stephen told him I nearly … hurt him badly?'

Matilda shook her head. ‘Stevie started off telling him you was dead. I let him know I didn't think that was right, and in the end he told Chris the truth. But Stevie's said as little about you as he thought he could get away with.'

Pam grimaced a sour acceptance at hearing that. ‘You don't seem surprised that I've seen Christopher.'

‘I ain't. I knew he'd find you.' Matilda walked back to the pub and pushed the door handle. ‘Come on, inside … you've come all this way from Bexleyheath to give the boy his fiver, least I can do is get you a drink to warm you on yer way home. Bleedin' freezing again today, ain't it.' When Pam hesitated, Matilda added, ‘Lot of water gawn under the bridge, Pam. You needn't think I'm gonna get at you fer what went on.' With a jerk of her head she invited Pam to precede her into the Duke pub.