Backstreet Child (48 page)

The old lady finally calmed down, but after that day it was very rare for Brenda to get the chance of an early-morning romp with Maurice, except for the few times she managed to creep out from the shelter while Granny was snoring.

During the week before Christmas, Josiah Dawson, acting in his official capacity as street and shelter warden, and without any prompting from Maurice Salter, decided to organise a Christmas Eve party for his charges. Dolly hugged him and told him how proud she was of him for being so concerned for everybody, and immediately took over arranging things. A meeting was called in her parlour and endless tea was served.

‘We could all do a bit o’ bakin’,’ Maisie suggested. ‘I’ll do rock cakes.’

‘I’ll make jellies,’ Maudie offered.

‘I’ll do chocolate sweets out o’ cocoa an’ marzipan,’ Sadie said.

‘My relation works at the custard powder factory, she’ll be able ter get us a large tin o’ custard powder fer next ter nuffink,’ Dolly piped in.

Nellie Tanner got to hear of the planned party, and although she did not use the shelter herself, she wanted to help her old friends. ‘I’ll do the lemonade,’ she volunteered. ‘I’ve got time on me ’ands.’

Nellie carried the news of the party to her daughter, and Carrie felt that it would be a good idea to go along and see Corned-beef Sam at the cafe in Cotton Lane. Sam was an old friend and Carrie had been meaning to call in on him for some time. She hoped that he would be able to bake her a batch of fancy cakes and mince pies if she approached him nicely. He had bought his business from her and her first husband Fred some years previously and had quickly established himself as a firm favourite among the working population of Bermondsey. Carmen and dockworkers packed into his establishment and he had become something of an institution.

‘ ’Ello, luv,’ he beamed when he saw Carrie. ‘ ’Ow the bleedin’ ’ell are yer? I thought yer’d fergot yer ole pal.’

Carrie laughed and planted a kiss on his cheek. ‘I know it’s bin some time, Sam, but I’ve bin so busy,’ she told him.

He waved his hand at her. ‘Don’t I know it,’ he replied in his camp voice. ‘I bin so busy meself these past few weeks I don’t know whether I’m punched or bored. I got me winders blown out last week. Mind you, I was miles away at the time. I got a friend down at Bromley. I stay wiv ’im most nights. I couldn’t stay round ’ere, luv, it’s much too dangerous fer me. I like the quiet life.’

Carrie sat chatting with him for some time in his back kitchen and when she finally told him about the proposed shelter party for her old Page Street neighbours, Sam was supportive. ‘I’ve got a large tin o’ corned beef they could ’ave, but don’t ask me where I got it from, luv, ’cos if I tell yer, a certain docker’s gonna scratch me eyes out,’ he joked.

Carrie touched his arm in a fond gesture. ‘What we need is some mince pies and fancy cakes. Of course I’ll pay yer what yer want.’

‘Leave it ter me, sweetness,’ he replied, giving her a large wink. ‘I’ll ’ave ’em all ready for yer on Tuesday night. Tell yer what, I’ll bring ’em round the yard on me way ter the station. It’ll be early, mind. I couldn’t stand bein’ caught out in a raid. I’d die, really I would.’

Carrie laughed aloud at his comical expression as she got up to leave. ‘I’ll be waitin’, Sam,’ she told him.

Sam waved her goodbye from the front of his shop and as she walked away along Cotton Lane, she heard him call out, ‘If yer can’t be good, be careful, an’ if yer can’t be careful, remember the date.’

It always felt strange when she went back to the cafe, Carrie thought. The early days had been spent behind that counter, serving the carmen and dockers, joking with the men. Fred would be working hard in the little back kitchen, wary of her chatting with the customers. Fred was gone now, and she had moved on and made a success of her transport business. How the time had passed. It had been hard work but they were happy years for most of the time, she recalled. Now the country was at war and the surroundings she had grown up in were slowly being pounded into dust by the heavy nightly bombing. It would never be the same, she realised. One day the little streets would be no more. The little homes would go. What buildings would come to replace them then? she wondered. Would the wharves and docks rise again from the ashes? What sort of people would come to live by the river? Carrie sighed deeply, feeling suddenly depressed as she walked back to the transport yard in Salmon Lane through the gathering gloom.

The Christmas Eve festivities started early in the shelter. Food was laid out on kitchen tables, trestle tables, planks of wood and along the benches. Children wore paper hats and ate their fill from a fare of mince pies, fancy cakes, custards and jellies, as well as chocolate sweets. There was lemonade in abundance, and ginger beer which Sam had supplied, along with his cakes and pies, and would take no money for. The kind and generous cafe owner’s standing rose even higher on that wartime Christmas Eve.

Most people had expected a respite from the nightly bombing over Christmas, and they were right. The night of the 24th remained quiet, and when the children settled down, beer was passed round. Laughter and the sound of carols carried out on the cold night air, and during the excitement one lone figure decided to seize the opportunity and slipped away into the darkness, making his way down to the river.

On 29 December, the blitz resumed with a vengeance. The City of London was fire-bombed and the flames roared skyward, fanned by a strong wind and made even more dangerous by the unusually low tide. Fire crews struggled to pump water from the river, and reserve fire engines from neighbouring counties were rushed to the metropolis. All through the night the fires raged and rescue squads were kept working until they were totally exhausted.

Billy Sullivan had spent Christmas with his family in Gloucester, and now as he held on grimly while his lorry rushed through the glass-strewn streets, he fingered the little medallion he wore round his neck. It was a gift from Annie; she had had it blessed by the priest.

‘Take it, darling, and wear it always,’ she told him. ‘It comes with our love, mine and the children’s.’

It had been an idyllic two days, and over all too soon. There was no time to remember it now, though. People were lying trapped beneath a block of buildings which had taken a direct hit and before the dust had settled Billy and his team were already hard at work.

In Tyburn Square, the Botleys were worried as they sat together in their reinforced cellar. ‘I’m sure that young Mr Galloway thinks it’s our fault his father doesn’t use our shelter,’ Beryl remarked, touching the side of her head with her fingertips.

‘Well, we can only suggest to him that he comes here, dear,’ Cyril replied. ‘We can’t force the man.’

‘Oh, dear, it’s such a worry,’ Beryl went on. ‘Maybe you should go and talk to him, make him see sense.’

‘Look, dearest, we’ve tried more than once,’ her husband reminded her. ‘There’s no use you worrying too much, you know how it brings on those migraines.’

Beryl sighed. It was not so long ago that she had forbidden her husband to have the old man in the house, but things had changed. The bombing had become heavy, and she felt guilty for her unfeeling attitude towards him, even though the old man acted like a pig. If anything happened to him, she would blame herself. Maybe she should go and remonstrate with him. She might be able to make him see sense.

‘Everything all right, dear?’ Cyril enquired as he poured himself a stiff drink.

Beryl nodded. How things change, she thought. At one time Cyril’s drinking habits would have irked her and she would have nagged him mercilessly. Now it didn’t matter any more. Only survival mattered, survival and caring for one’s fellow creature.

Some time later Beryl felt positively at ease with herself as she climbed the stairs from the cellar and took her coat down from the hall stand. She heard her husband call out to her not to be long and to be careful, but Beryl was on a mission of mercy. She would encourage the old man down into the safety of the cellar even if it was the last thing she ever did.

George Galloway heard the knock on his front door and stirred in his chair. The second, louder knock made him sit up straight and he brushed a gnarled hand over his forehead. ‘Who the bloody ’ell can that be?’ he said aloud as he struggled to his feet, taking up his walking cane and hobbling out into the hall.

‘Are you there?’ a voice called out to him.

‘Yes, woman, I’m bloody well ’ere,’ he growled as he reached for the front-door catch.

Beryl smiled sweetly at him as he stared moodily at her. ‘We’re expecting an air raid tonight, Mr Galloway,’ she began.

‘Who told yer?’ George asked sarcastically.

Normally Beryl would have taken umbrage and scurried back into her house but tonight she was feeling very forthright. ‘Now listen, Mr Galloway. Cyril and I promised your son faithfully that we would make sure you were safe,’ she said firmly. ‘If the air raid starts, you won’t be very safe sitting in this house of yours. Cyril and I insist that you join us in our cellar. We have a drink or two for you. I assure you you’ll be quite comfortable.’

George nodded. ‘Look, I’m just goin’ ter smarten meself up a bit. I’ll give yer a knock if the siren goes orf,’ he said grudgingly.

‘Well, see you do,’ Beryl told him, amazed at her newfound courage.

George went back into his front room and slumped down in his leatherbound chair. ‘The woman’s a bloody nuisance, they both are,’ he said aloud to himself. ‘Why can’t the pair of ’em leave me alone?’ Still, maybe he’d better make use of their cellar, he thought. He didn’t like to admit it, but the nightly bombing was beginning to unnerve him.

Two large Scotches later the air-raid siren wailed out and George eased himself out of the chair. He was still wearing his grubby shirt and creased trousers and his thinning white hair was in disarray, though he had splashed cold water on his face in a half-hearted attempt to freshen up. He made for the door and slipped on his suit coat, going back to drain the contents of his glass before leaving the house.

Cyril answered his knock. ‘Well done, Mr Galloway,’ he said smiling. ‘It’s better being here with us than sitting alone in that house of yours. Do come in.’

George made to cross the threshold when he suddenly stopped. ‘Sod it, I’ve left me watch an’ chain back there,’ he said irritably.

‘Never mind that, come in quick,’ Cyril urged him.

‘I can’t leave me watch an’ chain be’ind,’ George told him. ‘I’ve ’ad that piece fer donkey’s years. It goes everywhere wiv me.’

Cyril sighed in resignation as he watched the old man go back up the steps. ‘Don’t be long,’ he called out. ‘I can hear the planes coming.’

George made his way back into the house and stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Now where did I put that watch an’ chain?’ he said aloud.

A search of the front room failed to find it, and the old man slumped down in the chair. Suddenly he slapped his thigh. He got up and climbed the flight of stairs to the first-floor bathroom. A loud explosion startled him and he swore under his breath. Another, louder crash rocked the room and George staggered against the bathroom door. He could see the watch and chain hanging from the open door of the wall cabinet where he had placed it while he washed. He picked it up and let his fingers move gently over the small gold medallion which hung from the chain. Just then there was a loud clattering. George was startled as he gripped the medallion tightly in his fist, and at that moment the whole house collapsed around him. He felt himself falling, seemingly for ages, and then a searing pain tore through both his legs.

It was hard to breathe in the rising heat and he cried out in agony. Slowly he moved his hands up to his chest and realised that he was pinned down by a heavy object. He could not feel his legs now, only the tightness across his chest and the heat on his face. Overhead he could see the night sky, and just like when he was a young waif, sleeping out rough on the streets with William Tanner, there were stars twinkling in the darkness.

The explosion had knocked the Botleys off their feet and Cyril groaned as he rolled onto his side in the sudden blackness. ‘Are you all right, dear?’ he called out anxiously.

Beryl spat out a mouthful of dust. ‘Yes, I’m all right,’ she answered.

As soon as he got his wife to her feet, Cyril felt his way to the cupboard and took out a kerosene lamp. Once he had managed to light it, he held it up and looked around. The ceiling had held, although most of the plaster had fallen down, exposing the wooden laths. Beryl looked badly shaken and he could see that she was trembling violently. ‘There, there, it’s all right,’ he said encouragingly. ‘You’ll soon be all right.’

Beryl grabbed his arm suddenly. ‘Mr Galloway!’

‘I’ll go and see if he’s all right,’ Cyril told her.

‘Don’t leave me alone!’ Beryl cried out.

The Botleys climbed the stairs to the ground floor and immediately felt the heat. Smoke was starting to pour along the passage, and then there was a loud crash that sent the two of them sprawling. Cyril regained his feet and led his terrified wife to the front door. The blast had jammed it tight and try as he might he could not move it. Smoke was filling the passageway and there were flames licking at the door. ‘Quick! The back way out!’ he shouted.

The two of them hurried to the back of the house and Cyril slid the bolt. The door creaked open and as they stepped out into the brightly lit yard, the house began to fall behind them.