A Time of Peace (4 page)

Standish House Children's Home in Wandsworth made Rose furious every time she stepped through the door. She'd just come from another row with the council, and still nothing had been done. For months now she'd been trying to improve the conditions for these kids. The children ranged in age from newborns to five-year-olds. It was clean enough and the staff did their best, but they just couldn't cope with the huge number of toddlers and babies. The answer would be to move the toddlers to new smaller units, a solution that was deemed too expensive.

Rose sighed in exasperation. Things hadn't changed much; that was the same argument she'd battled with when she'd been a councillor in Bermondsey. How could you relate the welfare of these poor little things to numbers in a ledger?

She swept one three-year-old off his feet and away from a small girl he was tormenting. ‘Stop that or I'll put you in a cage!'

‘No, you won't,' the boy chortled, not at all upset by the threat.

A young girl called Hetty came and took the child from her. ‘You can't frighten him, Mrs Freeman, he knows you're too kind.'

‘I am?' Rose said in disbelief. ‘How did I ever give him that impression?'

The boy giggled again as Rose walked away, declaring that something had gone seriously wrong with her image.

A deep masculine laugh caught her attention. Sitting on the floor was a man she'd never seen before, nursing a baby on his lap and trying to play snakes and ladders with a four-year-old girl. He had fair hair and vivid green eyes – good-looking in a rugged way.

Miss Palmer, the woman in charge of the home, came to greet her. ‘I've just heard that they won't be sending us any more babies for a while, as we're overcrowded already.'

‘That's a start, I suppose.' Rose glanced at the man again.

‘That's Jon,' Miss Palmer explained. ‘He started life here and comes to play with the children when he can. Jon, this is Mrs Freeman. She's just been banging a few heads together, trying to improve our overcrowding problem.'

He clambered to his feet, holding the baby in the crook of his arm, and smiled at her. ‘I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs Freeman. Someone needs to do that.'

She shook hands with him and then pointed to the child on the floor. ‘The little girl has just sneaked your counter down a snake, I think.'

‘She does like to win.' He grinned, sat down again and carried on playing.

The next morning Jon walked the short distance from his Wandsworth flat to another children's home, Wilkins House. Smaller than Standish House, it took boys from the ages of five to ten, and it was the one he devoted most of his time to. These boys were old enough to know
that they didn't have any family and, in his experience, they were the most vulnerable.

Jon strode along, enjoying being home again after another stint abroad. He loved London – it had a special atmosphere all its own. He'd travelled widely but never found anywhere he liked as much. He took a deep breath: it even had a unique smell. Not that everyone liked it, but he thought it was wonderful. Some of the places he'd found himself in were disgusting. And with that thought, the memories of his early life came flooding back. He had been only a few days old when he'd been dumped on the orphanage doorstep. The overriding impression he had of that time was one of loneliness, but it wasn't until he went to the infants' school that he realized how different his life was from that of the other children. The mothers used to wait at the gates, smiling, when they saw their children, but he was ushered on to an old bus with the name
STANDISH HOUSE
on the side in big black letters. He'd begun to ask questions then, becoming angry and rebellious, resulting in the loss of many a meal in punishment.

But there was worse to come. At six, he had been transferred to Wilkins House and found himself in the care of a brutal man. That made him even more difficult to handle, and for years he fought everyone in sight. The anger was still there when he remembered the thrashings and the long dark hours shut in the cupboard under the stairs. Oh, that man really knew how to punish small boys! Some of the other poor little devils hadn't coped as well as he had, and he could remember sitting outside that cupboard talking to the terrified child inside to stop him feeling so alone. Jon clenched his hands, wanting to
hit that brute, even after all these years. He had got out as soon as he'd been old enough and had been working ever since. Ten years ago he'd got the job as war correspondent because he had a fluency with words and didn't care where he went. And he was damned good at his job.

He was still fighting, really, and didn't dare let himself become too fond of anyone – except when he thought he would marry Jane and have a family of his own. He gave a snort of disbelief. What a crazy idea that had been, but he honestly had tried to get back in time for the wedding. Still, he had been on his own all his life and that's how he would remain. It was for the best. He was not good husband material.

As soon as he walked in the front door of Wilkins House, he noticed the neglect. He wiped a finger over a small table and left a mark in the dust. Knowing the children would be having their lessons, he charged up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and inspected each bedroom. The sheets didn't look as if they'd been changed for weeks, and the whole place was filthy. What the hell had happened here?

He thundered back downstairs and into the housekeeper's room. There was a scruffy man sitting with his feet on a table and smoking a cigarette. Jon waved his hand to clear the air. ‘Where's Mrs Green?'

The man looked up. ‘Been sacked, mate.'

‘What for?' he demanded.

‘Don't ask me. Happened before I came.' One fag was stubbed out and another one lit.

‘And what's your job here?' He was having the utmost difficulty holding his temper in check.

‘I'm Gus, the odd-job man.'

‘Well, from what I've seen of this place there's plenty to keep you busy, so why don't you get off your bloody backside and do some work!'

That certainly got a reaction. Gus stumbled to his feet. ‘Who do you think you are, coming in here and giving me orders?'

Jon stepped up to the belligerent man, his temper at breaking point, and at six foot two he towered over the disgusting odd-job man. He'd struggled for years to see these poor kids had a better life than he'd had, and as soon as his back was turned, this happened! ‘It's my bloody money keeping this place going. Now who's in charge?'

Gus moved back when faced with Jon's fury. ‘New bloke's been brought in. He's in the office at the end of the hall.'

He strode up to the door and threw it open, then stopped in disbelief when he saw who was there. ‘What the hell are you doing here?'

The elderly man frowned at him, and then gave a harsh laugh. ‘Well, well, Devlin.'

‘I asked what you're doing here?' he repeated.

‘I'm running the place again, and you can leave or I'll have you thrown out. You always were a nasty kid, and I don't expect you've changed much.'

A feeling of icy calm swept through Jon, the way it always did when he was faced with a dangerous situation. His mind cleared, and he knew he had to get this man out of here. ‘You're a bit old to be taking on this job again, aren't you?'

‘I'm quite capable of handling twelve brats.'

‘Not for much longer,' he told him in a quiet voice,
keeping his fury under control by a thread. This was the very man he'd just been thinking about. ‘And you won't be getting any more money from me, Dawson.'

‘Yes, I will,' he sneered. ‘This is the only pathetic family you've got, and you won't desert them.'

‘You're right about that, but I'll help the boys by having you chucked out of here.' He turned and strode out of the room, through the corridor and out of the building, his long legs taking him with great speed towards the bus stop. Within half an hour he was banging on a door in Primrose Street, Stepney. This was where the housekeeper's sister lived, and he was banking on Mrs Green being there.

‘Oh, Mr Devlin,' she cried when she saw him, ‘I'm so relieved to see you. Have you been to the home?'

‘Yes, I have, Mrs Green.'

‘Please come in.' She showed him into a comfortable front room and settled her ample body in an armchair.

He sat opposite her. ‘Tell me what happened.'

‘Mr Jenks took ill and left about two weeks after you'd gone away. The council gave the job to Mr Dawson because they couldn't find anyone else at short notice. As soon as he arrived, he sacked all the staff.' Mrs Green dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, then screwed it into a tight ball. ‘We was just starting to make a nice home for the boys with your help, Mr Devlin.'

It tore at Jon's heart to see this kindly woman so upset. She was a widow in her forties and childless. She'd taken the boys to her heart, and in the two years she'd been in the job conditions had improved a great deal. Now all that hard work had been swept aside.

She began to cry. ‘Those poor little mites, they don't
understand why this has happened. They're so miserable.'

‘What happened to the money I gave you before I left for the Congo?'

‘I put it in the cash box as usual and that horrible man took it. I told him it was your gift and it was to buy the children extra food and fruit. He laughed, put it in his pocket and told me I wasn't needed any more.' She looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. ‘We can't leave the boys at the mercy of that terrible man. What can we do?'

‘I don't know yet.' He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to think. Could he get Dawson for stealing? No, that idea was instantly dismissed. The man would say he'd used the money for the boys, and no one could prove otherwise.

‘I've tried complaining to the council, but they won't listen to me.' Mrs Green mopped up her tears.

‘I'll see what I can do.' He stood up. ‘Are you all right for money, Mrs Green?'

She nodded. ‘My sister says I can stay here as long as I like, and I've got a bit put by.'

He left and walked along the street, deep in thought. He'd visit the Wandsworth Borough council offices first.

After two days of complaining and arguing, Jon was in despair. No one would listen to him. They thought he was trying to get revenge on the man he'd had trouble with in his youth. The two solicitors he'd consulted hadn't held out any hope of success, and quite honestly he didn't know what else to do. He found a seat by the Thames and stared at the water, willing his mind to stop racing; water always had a soothing effect on him. There
had to be a solution to the problem. Dawson was unfit to be in charge of children: he was brutal, unfeeling and much too handy with a strap. He could almost feel the force of it across his backside as he remembered.

He must have drifted off to sleep, because it was an hour later when he opened his eyes to find his mind had suddenly cleared and he knew what he must do. He'd have to try to find the woman he'd met at Standish House, Mrs Freeman. She obviously cared for the children and might be able to help.

Jon stood in front of a lovely house in Roehampton and hesitated. What right did he have to bring his troubles to the woman he'd met briefly three days ago? He nearly turned away, but, if he did, where else could he go? Concern for the boys drove him up to the front door. He knocked and waited, listening to footsteps coming towards him.

When the door swung open, Jon found himself looking into dark eyes alive with intelligence. The breath caught in his throat as he gazed at her. The impact of her presence was even stronger at the second meeting. She was wearing a plain navy and white frock and had aged with grace.

She didn't say anything, but he knew he was under intense scrutiny.

‘Mrs Freeman, my name's Jon Devlin. We met at Standish House a couple of days ago. I need your help,' he said. ‘I'm sorry to bother you, but I have a problem and don't know what else to do.'

After a brief hesitation, she stepped aside. ‘You'd better come in.'

She led him into a large kitchen. ‘Sit down, young man. We'll have a cup of tea while you talk.'

And for the next hour that's what he did, pouring out details of his appalling childhood in a large orphanage and then in Wilkins House, and his worry for the young boys now there. He was staggered at how easy it was to tell her things he'd never mentioned to anyone else: the beatings, dirt, hunger and humiliation. Dawson had a large repertoire of ways to subdue children. Not him, though. It had made him grow up stubborn and determined, but that kind of treatment could damage a sensitive boy for life. As he talked, he knew, without a shadow, of a doubt, that she understood his worry about the boys he considered as family.

‘Can you get some photographs of the place?' she asked, when he finally ground to a halt.