Backstreet Child (49 page)

As dawn light filtered down over a battered London, still the smoke from the fires drifted up into the angry sky. Everywhere people were emerging from their shelters and places of safety to stand mesmerised by the carnage wrought. In Tyburn Square rescue teams stood by while firemen battled to put out the fire which had destroyed two adjoining houses. Opposite, a small group of shocked onlookers waited and wondered.

‘I didn’t know the old boy very well, but I know he had a business of sorts,’ one remarked.

‘He was a nice old chap,’ Cyril Botley said, his arm round his distraught wife Beryl.

‘Yes, he was a very nice old man,’ Beryl said, her voice breaking.

Throughout the morning a rescue team worked at the ruined houses, and at midday they recovered the charred body of George Galloway.

Across London, in a quiet suburb, Gloria Simpson was making breakfast. She answered the knock on the door and then hurried upstairs to rouse Frank Galloway. ‘There’s a policeman at the door,’ she said falteringly. ‘’E’s askin’ fer you.’

An hour later Frank was on his way to the makeshift mortuary at a school behind the Jamaica Road. When he arrived he was met by a very weary-looking policeman whose uniform was caked in dust.

‘Yer better prepare yerself,’ he said. ‘There was a fire.’

Frank followed the officer into the school buildings. Bodies shrouded in white sheets filled the hall, and when the officer stopped at the end of a row, Frank was already feeling ill. A mortuary attendant gently lifted the sheet and Frank retched. The burnt face was unrecognisable.

The policeman laid a hand on Frank’s shoulder. ‘Come out in the air,’ he said kindly.

Frank followed him out into the school playground and leaned against the wall as he tried to recover his composure.

‘It’s never a pretty sight,’ the policeman said.

‘I can’t tell if it’s him,’ Frank gasped hoarsely.

‘This might ’elp the identification,’ the officer said, opening his fist. ‘It was found clenched in the ’and o’ the body. A Mr an’ Mrs Botley who lived next door ter yer farvver said he went back inter the ’ouse fer ’is watch an’ chain jus’ as the bomb dropped.’

Frank looked down and saw the gold medallion resting on the policeman’s open palm. ‘Yes, that was my father’s,’ he said in a flat voice.

‘You’ll be able ter claim it after the formal identification,’ the officer told him.

‘The times I willed him to get rid of it,’ Frank muttered.

‘I don’t understand, sir.’

‘I don’t expect you to.’

‘You won’t be wantin’ it then?’

‘As far as I’m concerned, that medallion belongs at the bottom of the river,’ Frank said as he turned on his heel and walked away.

Chapter Thirty

On the second day of January 1941, the local papers printed the news of George Galloway’s death. Mention was made of the fire bomb on Tyburn Square which claimed the life of the well-known and respected businessman. By that time nearly everyone in the dockland community had heard of his demise. The information was carried back from the market by Mrs Watson and passed via Mrs Haggerty to the rest of Page Street. When Maisie Dougall heard the news, she made a special trip to Salmon Lane to tell Nellie Tanner.

Later that day Carrie got back from a meeting with the leather firm feeling happy. She had negotiated a new contract which would run until the summer with an option to agree a more permanent arrangement. It was the most she could have hoped for and it meant that there was now regular work for at least one of her lorries.

Joe met her as she came into the yard with a serious look on his face. ‘Yer better go up ter yer mum, luv, she’s bin actin’ a bit strange,’ he told her.

Carrie threw her coat over the back of a chair and hurried up to the back bedroom. Nellie was sitting by the window looking out at the ruins of the pickle factory, her chin resting on her hand, and she ignored her daughter’s greeting. Carrie went to her and as she knelt down beside her, she could see that she had been crying.

‘What is it, Mum? Are yer feelin’ ill?’ she asked gently.

Nellie continued to stare out of the window. ‘George Galloway’s dead,’ she said simply.

‘Dead?’ Carrie repeated.

‘’E was killed in that big air raid last Sunday night,’ Nellie said in a low voice. ‘Maisie came round ter tell me.’

Carrie sat back on her haunches and stared at her mother’s pale face, feeling suddenly drained. She could feel no emotion, nothing inside. All her life, from when she was just a young child, she had felt contempt for the man. His treatment of her father and indeed the whole family had made her bitter and vengeful, and she had vowed to get back at him somehow. Her love for Joe had been her saving grace. He had been, and still was, a restraining influence on her, but deep down nothing had changed. Her hatred for the Galloways had still been smouldering inside her, and now that George Galloway was dead, there was no elation, no satisfaction, only an emptiness.

She laid her hand on her mother’s arm.

‘I’ve got no reason ter feel sad about the man’s passin’,’ Nellie said in a voice that sounded weary. ‘ ’E did me wrong, did us all wrong, but I can’t feel glad that ’e’s dead.’

Carrie nodded slowly. ‘I never wished ’im dead, Mum,’ she replied. ‘My aim was ter ruin ’im in business, jus’ like ’e nearly ruined our family. God ferbid, I never wished ’im dead.’

Nellie turned to face her daughter. ‘I know, dear,’ she said softly. ‘Us Tanners don’t ’ave that blackness in our souls. I remember well the day George Galloway came into our ’ouse next ter the stable. Yer farvver was laid up wiv busted ribs an’ Galloway told ’im ’e was sacked. I could ’ave done murder then, but yer farvver just took it calmly. There was never any blackness in my Will’s soul, Carrie.’

‘I know that, Mum,’ she replied.

Nellie turned back towards the window. ‘They say the Lord moves in mysterious ways,’ she said, her voice faltering. ‘If I wished the man dead, I could be bringin’ the wrath down on my Charlie’s ’ead. Gawd, I miss that boy. I jus’ pray ter the Lord ter let me see ’im jus’ once before I die.’

Carrie’s arm went round her mother’s shoulders as Nellie bowed her head and sobbed.

During the early days of January, raids on London became more sporadic. There were quiet nights, when the Luftwaffe were concentrating their efforts on other major cities. Many Bermondsey folk forsook the shelter for their beds, but they were often rudely awoken by the dreaded wail of the siren, and they would hurry from their warm beds through the icy streets and sit huddled together until the all-clear sounded. Others continued to go to the shelter every night and they managed to get some sleep, however fitful, now that bunks had at last been installed.

Throughout the early days and nights of January, Rachel spent long, tiring hours in the plotting room at West Marden. Every raider crossing the south coast was marked and observed on the huge map at the operations centre, and whenever a large enemy formation was picked up on the radar, Rachel was filled with fear and concern for her loved ones back in London. But there was no time to dwell on things. Important information flowed to and fro and had to be processed, and it was only during the brief respites that she was able to think about her family, and the young man she had given her heart to, Tony O’Reilly.

On one such evening Rachel lay on top of her bed in the quiet dormitory, her hands clasped behind her head as she stared up at the high rafters. She had received another letter from him that very morning and delicious thoughts of love filled her mind. Tony had shocked her by what he had told her that evening at the Plover Inn. He had wanted to set the record straight, fearing that it might alter her feelings towards him but convinced that she had to know the truth. He need not have worried, she reflected. Love for him burned brightly inside her and it mattered for nothing that the man she was sleeping with had been sired by a Galloway. The long-standing feud between her mother and the Galloways was not of her making, or Tony’s. He would be going off to fight very soon and her only concern was that he survive and return safely to her.

Rachel turned onto her side and took out Tony’s letter from her breast pocket. Her face felt hot as she reread his words of love and his memories of that wonderful night of passion. She ached for him and needed him and she sighed deeply. There was so little time for them to be together, to share their thoughts, and their love.

Rachel put the letter back in her tunic pocket and turned onto her back once more. She would have to tell her mother the truth about Tony, she knew. What would her reaction be? Would she forbid her to see him ever again? Thoughts and fears crowded her mind and Rachel closed her eyes. She saw the angry face of her mother standing before her. Tony was waving to her as he went away, and when she tried to reach him her legs felt as though they were set in concrete and she cried out in her anguish. Arms were pulling her back and she struggled.

‘C’mon, Bradley, pull yourself together. There’s a flap on!’

Rachel woke up with a start to see the florid face of the duty sergeant standing over her and she quickly sat up and slipped her legs over the edge of the bed.

‘You’ve got five minutes to wake yourself up, then it’s the ops room, all right?’

Rachel nodded dumbly at the sergeant and buttoned up her collar. A few minutes later she took her place at the plotting table.

‘Glad you could make it, Bradley ,’ the controller said sarcastically. ‘It looks like another big ’un.’

The new year was only days old when Gloria Simpson made the journey across London cursing Bella Galloway as she sat on the rattling, swaying Tube train. The dark swelling beneath her right eye showed up vividly against her pale skin and there was blood on her lower lip. Why did the woman have to get in touch with Frank at this particular time? she fumed. For months now her lover had had no word from her, then out of the blue he had got a letter saying she wanted to meet him in Norwich. Why didn’t she have the decency to come back to London instead of expecting him to travel up to Norwich? He had been a changed man when he returned and the argument that followed showed him up for what he really was.

The train pulled into Charing Cross Station and a group of servicemen came into the carriage. Gloria gave them little more than a passing glance. Normally she would have used her guile to attract their attention, for she was used to picking up trade wherever she could, but today she had no desire to show her face to them, and besides she was preoccupied with other problems. Was that bitch Bella after working her way back into the fold, or was she merely seeking something from Frank? Of course she might have heard of his father’s death and wanted to learn something to her advantage. He would be a fool to give her anything, Gloria thought, after what he had said about her and that little brat Caroline.

Gloria felt the swelling inside her lip with the tip of her tongue and winced at the recollection. She had been furious when Frank told her that Bella was coming back to the Ilford house to live, after all he had said to the contrary. He had used the back of his hand on her when she questioned his manhood and had thrown her bodily from the house. Perhaps she should be grateful to Bella for exposing the true Frank Galloway, she thought bitterly.

The train sped under the river to Waterloo. When it pulled into the Elephant and Castle, Gloria stepped out of the carriage and walked along the platform with her hips swaying, to the amusement of the soldiers. Once out in the cold morning air, she hurried along the New Kent Road and turned into the backstreets. It was nearing noon and she had promised to meet Lola at the Bunch of Grapes, a little pub which her friend often used.

Lola was sitting alone and she stood up as she spotted her friend walk into the bar.

‘You’re lookin’ a bit the worse fer wear, Gloria,’ she said, wincing. ‘Who done that ter yer?’

Gloria gave her friend a hard look. ‘Yer don’t look all that good yerself,’ she growled.

Lola forced a smile. Gloria never changed, she thought. Her tongue was as sharp as ever. ‘I was surprised to ’ear from yer so soon. Is everyfing all right?’ she asked.

Gloria nodded to the bored-looking barman. ‘We’ll ’ave two o’ what she’s drinkin’,’ she told him, turning to Lola with a smile. ‘Yeah, everyfing’s fine. I’ve bin beatin’ meself up fer kicks.’

Lola looked a little chastened as she followed Gloria to the table. ‘Was it Frank?’ she asked with concern.