Cockney Orphan Read online

  When they were seated at the big drawleaf table, the laughter and chatter was in full swing, despite the brief moment of tension in the kitchen. If Gran had any reservations about Connie – and a baby – being suitable for her grandson, then she had kept them to herself.

  Vic met Connie’s eyes across the table and she blushed. Pat grinned, her dark eyes twinkling as she offered second helpings. There was very little left when the meal was over, and there were satisfied sighs all round. The afternoon ended with a game of snap, with Doris the clear winner. When it was time to go, Connie presented her gifts. A bar of Nestlé chocolate for Doris, a jar of Chivers strawberry jam for Pat, a tin of Three Nuns tobacco for Laurie and a quarter-pound of tea for Gran. She had swapped all these at work for a bottle of Evening In Paris.

  ‘Come again soon,’ Pat said when it was time to leave. Laurie gave her a hug and Gran kissed her goodbye.

  There were no lights to be seen on their journey home. They were silent while Vic negotiated the dark roads, and Kettle Street was deserted as Connie got out of the car.

  Vic bent to kiss Lucky’s cheek. Then gently he covered her mouth with his lips. ‘Take care of yourself, sweetheart,’ he whispered.

  ‘You too.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave you.’

  She didn’t want him to go either. It had been a wonderful day. She watched him walk back to the car. Then when she could no longer see the moving shape, she went indoors, reliving the wonderful time she had spent with his family.

  It was a misty morning in November and Gran was queuing outside the butcher’s on East Ferry Road, wondering if, after buying the piece of mutton she’d saved her coupons for, she’d have enough energy left to cross the road to the chemist’s and haggle for a bottle of Sloan’s Liniment. There would no doubt be an array of coughs and sneezes to avoid in that particular shop, so perhaps she shouldn’t trouble and take an aspirin instead to cure the rheumatics. Her mind was debating this problem as the queue moved forward with excruciating slowness. She knew most of the faces and had already indulged in small talk, but the wait seemed endless this morning.

  ‘I reckon Winnie’s got himself elected in the nick of time,’ Albert Cross threw over his shoulder. ‘We need a strong leader. Paper says them U-boats are being made by the dozens, like toys, to set loose on us. Our neighbour’s lad was lost in the Atlantic last month. We were too slow on the uptake to spot Jerry’s merchant ships were men-of-war. Hoodwinked they was, the paper said, and there’s rumours going round that Jerry’s got new battleships, small but lethal like, could sink half our fleet without drawing breath. It’s not Britannia that’s ruling the waves no more, if you ask me.’

  ‘Chamberlain let us down bad,’ said Eve Beale next to him, shaking her head slowly. ‘Winnie’s got a mouth on him but he’s still wet behind the ears.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ another voice chimed up. ‘Churchill knows what he’s doing. Battle of Britain proved it.’

  ‘Our airforce was what beat ’em, not Whitehall,’ Albert Cross disagreed angrily.

  Gran’s attention returned to the present as the usual arguments broke out, and she felt the stir of unease inside her. Eighteen was young indeed. But then she knew of boys as young as fifteen running away from home to join up. It was all excitement and thrills to them, so many unemployed and without an aim in life. The war had made heroes of some and victims of others. She didn’t want Vic to be either one of those, though she knew as certainly as the nose on her face, his time was due. She had seen it and now there was no turning back.

  Gran felt her purse drop from her hands. She gave a little cry. How careless she was getting. Her mind was not what it used to be. She wasn’t concentrating. Her mind was always three steps ahead. With an effort she reached down to the pavement where her purse had landed. Thankfully, still buttoned tightly. Her hand was just a few inches away when she was beaten to it.

  Long, smooth fingers closed over it. ‘You don’t want to lose this now, do you?’

  She recoiled slightly at the voice, but caught herself from showing it as she straightened her back. The face was shadowed by the brim of a trilby hat.

  Gran felt another deep wave of anxiety. Her purse was her most valued possession. The idea that she had lost her grip and dropped it was sin enough. But worse was the fact that she did not feel inclined to retrieve it.

  ‘What you waiting for, gel?’ Albert Cross laughed. ‘He ain’t gonna fill it for you, is he?’

  Eve Beale nudged her arm. ‘You feeling all right, Gran?’

  The purse remained in the outstretched hand. She looked into the man’s eyes. Not a colour exactly, not brown or blue or even grey, but nearer to murky.

  ‘It ain’t gonna bite you,’ Eve chuckled.

  Gran took her purse and the man smiled. ‘My pleasure,’ he said and strode unhurriedly away.

  Eve nudged her again. ‘That’s not like you, Gran, chucking your money away.’

  Gran gulped a breath and nodded. ‘Just a bit short of puff that’s all.’

  ‘You’re nearly there now!’

  But Gran’s thoughts were elsewhere.

  There was always one rotten apple in the barrel and she had met him today.

  Vic made his way home from the warden’s post in the early morning light. He walked slowly, inhaling the smoke from his cigarette. The raiders had flown, back to Germany and safety. Would the families of these pilots be waiting anxiously, wondering as he was, what mankind would bring upon itself next? Berlin, Hamburg and Munich had been hammered relentlessly by our bombers. How many innocent people had died in the process? London, Birmingham, Coventry, Southampton, Sheffield, Glasgow, Manchester had been targeted in return. The fires were still burning over English and German cities alike. And now with the Battle of the Atlantic there were countless losses at sea.

  Vic looked up at the dawning sky. He watched the twinkle of the last stars. The same stars would be shining over all the countries of the world. Three weeks to the day to Christmas. Peace on earth and goodwill to all men. Hah! The poor souls he’d pulled out of that basement a few hours ago wouldn’t be celebrating. No pints in the pub on Christmas Eve or a knees-up round the joanna. Yesterday they had been going about their business, wondering where the next penny was coming from for presents, saying sod it, who cares, we’re alive aren’t we? Then, today, those worries were immaterial. Men and women lived by the hour now.

  He walked on, more briskly now, turning up the collar of his coat. He passed the remains of the burning buildings and memories tormented him. He needed a couple of hours solid kip to shake off this mood.

  But sleep wouldn’t come. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He could still hear the wounded, still feel the desperate grip of fingers on his arm. The blood that covered him from the ruptured artery and a look of surprise at the end – that look in a man’s eye – knowing it was the end – there was no tomorrow.

  At seven, he rose and washed, rubbing away at his skin as if the memories were ingrained there. What was wrong with him? He’d held it together so far. Why this, now? He stretched out his bare arms. His hands were shaking. There was a feeling in the pit of his stomach, driving upwards like a cannon ball under his breastbone. He was sweating, his whole body shaking now.

  Fear! It gripped his throat, tightening the knots in his shoulders, scything through his stomach muscles. He shook his head, his wet hair flinging out the beads of moisture.

  ‘Boy?’

  He swung round. ‘Gran!’

  She moved towards him, a small figure in black.

  ‘What are you doing back?’ he said, embarrassed at the tremor in his voice. Then his blood ran cold. ‘It . . . it’s not our Pat, is it?’

  She shook her head slowly. ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘I left their place early. Got a breath of fresh air on me way home. Pat’s not working today so she don’t need me for the littl’un. Anyway, wanted to see you before you left. Don’t like you going off on an empty stomach.’

  He relaxed
a little, wiping the sweat from his brow. The last few weeks Gran had been looking after Doris whilst Pat went to work at the shoe shop. In her absence he’d sworn he ate a regular breakfast. But most mornings he couldn’t face it now.

  ‘I’ll put on the stove.’

  He sat down at the table, pulling his hands over his eyes. ‘Not this morning, Gran.’

  ‘Ain’t you well?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he assured her. ‘Just a cuppa will do this morning. I ate with the blokes earlier. Spoiled my appetite.’

  ‘You make a rotten liar, boy.’

  He sighed. ‘I can’t get away with nothin’, can I?’

  She smiled, an expression on her face that reminded him of when he’d been up to mischief as a kid, covering his misdeeds with a lot of baloney. He only had to meet her eyes and she’d see right through him, quirking up an eyebrow that made him shut his gob as swift as he’d opened it.

  He heard the kettle go on, but not the frying pan and he was mildly surprised that he wasn’t about to be force fed. He listened to all the familiar sounds that he had listened to all his life, knowing move for move what she was doing: the splutter of gas, the catch of a match, the water boiling and the comfort of familiar human breath. Somehow all this helped his anxiety and slowly the sweat dried on his skin.

  She brought him a mug and placed the big brown teapot on the table and pulled the cozy over it.

  ‘Drink your tea, son.’

  Vic nodded, content to be in his oasis of calm and familiarity before he left for work. He was going to call for Connie and drive her to Dalton’s, so making him even later to the PLA offices. But he didn’t care this morning. He couldn’t wait to see her.

  Chapter Eight

  The group of ragged young carollers were huddled by the barrow, stealing warmth from the glowing brazier. Good King Wenceslas had been done to death, but no one cared. The East End was making the most of a few hours of aerial silence before another night’s bombardment. Connie touched Ada’s arm. ‘Those poor kids must be frozen.’

  Ada grinned. ‘Not too frozen to risk nicking a couple of chestnuts while the bloke is serving.’

  Connie turned a blind eye to the little boy, who was wafer thin and didn’t have a coat, just a big, holed jumper, his knees under his short trousers bright red with the cold. He stuffed the hot chestnuts in his pockets with alarming speed. She threw a sixpence and some coppers into the hat on the ground. ‘Merry Christmas,’ she called as Ada reluctantly dug in her purse for a contribution.

  It was the week before Christmas and no one knew if they’d eat their Christmas dinner hot or cold or even if they’d eat one at all this year. But Connie was determined to enjoy her afternoon with her friend, their one and only shopping trip for presents. The Food Minister had announced extra rations for the nation and the market was still the best place to look for bargains.

  ‘Just like old times.’ Connie smiled as they walked arm in arm.

  ‘Like when we was kids,’ Ada agreed, a wistful note in her voice, ‘without a care in the world, only where the next sweet was coming from.’ She sighed contentedly. ‘It was nice of your mum to have Lucky today and give us an hour by ourselves. What’s Vic up to this afternoon?’

  ‘He’s driving Gran to Poplar for her Christmas shopping. What about Wally?’

  ‘Oh, he’s not doing much, just mending a puncture on his bike.’ Ada frowned. ‘Do you want a surprise?’

  Connie stopped dead. ‘What?’

  ‘Wally’s sister has offered to share her room with me.’

  ‘Oh, Ada, I’m so glad.’

  ‘I hope we’ll get on. Jean’s all right, but she’s only just left school.’

  Connie giggled. ‘You’re only nineteen yourself.’

  ‘Yes, but you know what we were like at fifteen, real nosy little cows. I don’t want her following me and Wally round everywhere spying on us.’

  ‘You’ll have to watch out when you’re canoodling, then.’

  Ada rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll just have to behave meself.’

  Connie laughed again. ‘You must be in love!’

  ‘Yeah, either that or crackers.’

  ‘You do love Wally don’t you?’ Connie asked as they came to stand by a stall decorated with holly.

  ‘Mmm,’ Ada replied hesitantly. She looked very pretty, Connie thought, in her best green coat with a little fur-trimmed collar that complemented her auburn hair. But there was something in her expression that made Connie wonder.

  ‘You don’t sound all that certain.’ Connie knew Ada was a fun-loving girl and she’d had lots of boyfriends before Wally. ‘Are you sure about settling down?’

  ‘Course I am,’ Ada retorted sharply. ‘But what I want is to live with Wally in our own place and all that.’

  ‘I’m sure living with the Wipples will only last a short while,’ Connie replied diplomatically, though by the look on Ada’s face she thought there was more to the matter than Ada was letting on. ‘When is your mum leaving?’

  Ada looked upset. ‘After Christmas.’

  ‘What will happen to your house?’

  ‘Dunno. I expect the landlord will rent it out again.’

  Connie squeezed her friend’s arm. ‘Well at least you’ll be with your Wally.’

  Ada didn’t reply. Instead she pointed to a notice on a veg stall announcing Oranges from Musso’s Lake. Everyone knew that this meant fruit that had been smuggled across the Mediterranean under Mussolini’s nose. ‘I’ll buy some of those for Mrs Wipple.’

  Connie nodded and moved on to the next stall. She was left with a feeling that Ada was unhappy, which was not surprising in the circumstances. As she examined some of the bottling jars, which would make a suitable gift for her mother, Connie wondered what she would do in Ada’s position. She hoped she would never have to make such a choice.

  ‘I bought apples instead,’ Ada told her a few minutes later as she came to stand beside Connie. ‘I wanted to get bananas too as no more are going to be imported, but they’d go black before Christmas.’

  ‘There’s some chocolate over there.’ Connie nodded across the road. ‘I spotted some Kit Kats and some of that lovely Barker and Dobson fruit and nut. But the stallholder had it hidden, so it’s probably a bit iffy.’

  ‘Just up my street. See you in a minute.’

  Connie went back to searching for her own gifts. She bought the set of pickling jars for her mum and four packets of Senior Service, one each for Kevin, Billy, her dad and Lofty. For Nan she bought a book on knitting patterns and a lace hanky for Sylvie with the letter S embroidered in the corner. She still had to buy Ada’s present and something appropriate for Len. She always gave him socks, but this year she would be lucky to find an inexpensive pair unless they were secondhand.

  She was about to pick up a copy of Illustrated when someone else beat her to it. The photo-filled magazine was just what Ada was interested in and older copies in good condition were scarce. Connie’s eyes lifted to the person who now held it.

  The man gazed back at her. Connie froze. This time he wasn’t dressed in a raincoat, but a light-coloured suit. He smiled, but it was a cold, unnerving smile, hardening his thin features.

  ‘Watch where yer stepping, gel! You’ve trod on me toe,’ a woman complained behind her.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry!’ Connie moved quickly sideways. When she looked back at the stall he was gone. She was certain it was the same person who had stood on the corner of Kettle Street and outside Dalton’s.

  A hand landed on her arm and she jumped. ‘Blimey, your nerves are in a bad state,’ Ada giggled.

  Connie gulped. ‘Oh, it’s you, Ada.’

  ‘Who did you think it was?’

  ‘I was thinking what to buy.’ She didn’t know whether to tell Ada or not.

  ‘Put your things in my basket if you like,’ Ada suggested before Connie could speak. ‘There’s plenty of room on top of the chocolate. You were right, it was knocked off.’

  Connie tipped her
shopping into the big straw bag and they moved across the crowded street. Her eyes swept left and right, searching for the unmistakable figure.

  ‘Tea’s on me,’ Ada said as she pulled Connie towards the tea stall. ‘You’re quiet.’

  ‘Am I?’ Connie hesitated as Ada passed her a mug of tea. ‘Actually, I thought I saw that man again.’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘The one I told you about at Dalton’s. He was looking at the magazines.’

  ‘Are you sure it was him?’

  ‘Positive. He had a suit on this time but it was definitely him.’

  Ada fluttered her long black lashes. ‘You’ve got an admirer by the sound of it.’ She went on to tell her about one of the married girls at work rumoured to have taken a lover after her husband had been called up. Connie tried to pay attention but all the time she felt as though eyes were watching her – and waiting.

  It was Christmas Eve and the country was holding its breath. Would the Luftwaffe make a Christmas visit or abstain? Connie and Ada were sitting on their stools in the new office, looking out of the window at the unusually quiet waterway. If Connie moved close to the glass she could see the silhouettes of the cranes and derricks dotting the waterline, towering over the barges below, berthed along the wharves for the Christmas break. The light and shadow was constantly changing. Sometimes a blazing sunset glowed off the water. Sometimes, as now, a silver-grey mist shifted slyly with the ebb of the tide.

  The river Thames, the gateway to the world! And it had all passed in front of her eyes, thousands of tons of cargo constantly on the move. She had seen the small ships and the big ones, the ants amongst the giants, the busy, stinking coal and timber barges, the slow-moving ferries and brave little tugs, the watermen’s rowboats and the limping casualties of a long, weather-beaten journey. As a child she had even witnessed the last of the clippers and three- and four-masted schooners that had sailed from China to London with tea and silk and spices in their holds. She had been fascinated by the billowy canvas, the complicated rigging and the ominous fore-deck gun ports. She had listened to the stories of the men that had manned those vessels. Tough seafarers, ready to fight their passage and defend their cargo against pirates. But in those days their weapons had been cutlass, pistol and cannon. What would they think of a modern day aircraft, or the sound of ack-ack?