Blue Moon (23 page)

For a second May looked crestfallen.

‘I know it’s very hard,’ he went on, ‘but you seem like a big, brave girl. Do you think you could wait until next year?’

May nodded sullenly.

‘I have a special badge for brave children,’ he said, handing her a red badge with
Father Christmas at Hubbard’s
on it. He pinned it onto her coat and May smiled. She climbed off his knee and he handed her the present that Ruby had seen the elf take out of the pink box, and then they emerged from the grotto.

They walked home almost in silence. Ruby felt terrible. Father Christmas had handled it well, but the fact remained that May had had yet another disappointment.

‘How was it?’ asked Bea as they walked indoors.

‘Father Christmas said he didn’t have any yellow bicycles,’ May said. She puffed out her chest as her mother took off her coat. ‘He gave me a special badge instead.’

While Bea admired the badge, Ruby made a secret
vow that if her little sister still wanted a yellow bicycle next year, she would get one.

‘What’s that?’ asked Bea, pointing to her present.

‘Father Christmas gave it to me,’ said May. ‘Can I open it now?’

‘Why not,’ said Bea, sitting her at the table.

May tore away the paper to reveal a jigsaw puzzle. It only had twelve pieces, so it was a bit babyish for May, but Ruby was delighted to point out that in the picture of a village post office, the postman had left his red bicycle leaning against the postbox.

‘That’s just like the one I want,’ said May gravely.

Percy packed his case quickly. He had managed to get a ticket for the morning train to London. It would be packed with day-trippers on their way to see the Christmas lights in the capital. Percy could hardly believe that his father was actually dead. He couldn’t grieve for the man, but it altered his life dramatically. When he’d left home he’d been so angry, but now that he’d been apart from them for a while, he’d mellowed. What would his mother and sister do? They couldn’t possibly cope on their own.

He had never liked fishing, but perhaps he could learn to like it, if he was on his own and away from his father’s caustic tongue. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he liked the sound of being a fisherman in his own right. Fishing could bring in good profits. He might buy a better boat and more up-to-date fishing gear. Worthing wasn’t such a bad place to live,
either. He didn’t love it as much as Ruby did, but he had a few good friends and the house would be his, one day. Of course he’d have to look after his mother, but he didn’t mind that at all. She’d made a dreadful mistake in marrying a man like his father, but since he’d been in the BUF, Percy was now a man of the world. His mother, he’d decided, was a good woman. She’d put up with a lot over the years and didn’t deserve the way Nelson had treated her.

Had he known about his father’s death, he wouldn’t have spent the past few weeks up north. When he’d finished his basic training in the Black House, he had been offered the opportunity to help set up an office in York, and he had jumped at the chance. Now that he knew his father was dead, things were different. However, if he was forced to go back home, he could volunteer at one of the BUF offices in Worthing. The place had become a bit of a hub in the organization, and there was no doubt that the movement would go far. He set the alarm for six and climbed into his bed with a contented smile. Tomorrow would be the start of the rest of his life, and things were looking good.

Now known as John Coffey, Isaac had made great strides since becoming the Batemans’ lodger. Using some of the money Ruby had given him for German lessons, he’d been to The Ark, a chaotic repository on the corner of Lyndhurst Road and High Street, and picked up a rusty old shoe-last and a couple of pairs of real leather shoes, which he’d skilfully cut up to use for repairs. Woolworths
furnished him with toecaps, nails, glue and rubber soles, which, although not of the best quality, would keep him going for now. He charged a very small price to his first customers, for two reasons. First, he wanted to become known; and second, the repairs wouldn’t be of his usual high standard until he was able to get some first-class materials. He worked part-time, using his free time from the council’s Parks and Gardens department. It worked well; December and January were going to be lean months, and there was little to do in the greenhouses then. As a result, his hours had been cut anyway.

It had been three weeks since he’d arrived at the Batemans’, penniless and dependent on hand-outs, but already he was getting a reputation and, more importantly, valuable customers. Fortunately all the shoe-repair shops in Worthing were close to the town centre, so John’s enterprise didn’t interfere with anyone else. People in the area soon found their way to his little back-gate shop.

Ruby was a good pupil. He taught her German using colloquial speech, rather than beginning with the rudiments of grammar, but even as she mastered the words, he could tell that she had a natural flair.

‘Can you tell me the way to the pier?’ he asked in German.

‘Go through the alleyway and follow it all the way to the sea,’ she told him confidently.

‘
Sehr gut
,’ he said, clearly impressed. ‘
Wie spät ist es?
’

‘It is 1933,’ she told him in German.

‘No,’ he corrected. ‘I asked for the time.’

‘
Es is zehn nach sechs
– it is ten past six.’

‘Now,’ he said, ‘
erzähle mir von deiner Arbeit im Hotel Warnes
.’

‘I clean the bedrooms,’ she began.

‘German, German,’ he said.

‘
Ich mache die Schlafzimmer sauber
– I make the beds and tidy the bathroom.
Ich mache die Betten und räume die Badezimmer auf
.’

‘
Gut
,’ he smiled.

Ruby grinned. ‘
Ich bin ein sehr gute freche Mädchen
.’

John started laughing. ‘I think you mean
Zimmermädchen
– chambermaid,’ he said.

‘What did I say?’ asked Ruby in English.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said John, ‘but believe me, you are a chambermaid.’

At the end of the week he handed Bea a box of chocolates and his first rent.

‘I shall pay what I owe as soon as I can, dear lady,’ he said, giving her a short bow. ‘I am forever in your debt.’

Bea signed the rent book and handed it back to him. ‘I know you are not a Christian man,’ she said firmly, ‘but we would like you to spend Christmas Day with us. It’s a family time, and we won’t hear of you being on your own.’

‘You are very kind,’ he told her, as his eyes filled with unshed tears.

As far as Ruby and Bea were concerned, they were determined to make Christmas special this year. Ruby
had invited Jim to spend Christmas with them as well. His landlady had informed him that she would only cook his breakfast and then she was off to her sister’s for the day. With no family of his own, Jim faced a lonely day in his room, but Ruby and Bea refused to let him. Christmas was the time for all their dreams to come true.

Of course there were some things they couldn’t have. Bea wished she could send a Christmas card to Rex. May wanted Pa to turn up with that yellow bicycle he’d promised. And Ruby longed for Percy to come back home.

‘Mind the doors. Mind the doors!’ The porter walked up and down the platform, warning people not to stand too close to the edge as the incoming train pulled into the station.

George Gore looked up and down the platform anxiously. He had no idea what his visitor looked like, but he was keen to hear what he had to say. The letter had come as quite a shock. He had thought that, with Nelson Bateman’s passing, the whole damned thing was over and done with. What they had done had haunted him ever since that terrible day in 1915. With Nelson gone, and poor old Linton on his last legs, he had welcomed the idea that he could put the past behind him, once and for all.

It had been 1915, and Whit Monday. Back home in dear old Blighty, people would be going to the carnival; they would endure nothing more taxing than having a go at the coconut shy or riding on the carousel. The
night before it happened, he relived the memory of kissing his best girl by the hoopla stall the year before. One year was all that separated the green grass of Fryer’s Field and the mudbath of shit and blood, where he now waited for the next push. He hadn’t slept for days, and at a quarter to three in the morning Jerry began a ferocious artillery bombardment. If that wasn’t bad enough, while every man scrambled to his post, Victor had been among the first to realize what was coming. A favourable wind had alerted him to the smell, long before the others even had an inkling.

‘My God! Gas,’ he’d cried. ‘Gas attack!’

The lads had been lucky enough to get their respirators on fairly quickly – Linton Carver being one of the last – but the defenders further down the trench weren’t nearly so quick. Large numbers of them had been overcome before they could even get the things out of the boxes. What followed was a terrible day. Despite their heroic efforts, Jerry broke through around Bellewaarde Lake and they had to wait until early evening before the counter-attack could be mounted. Even that was doomed to failure. Fighting in bright moonlight, they suffered heavy losses. It was then that the chain of events that was to ruin all their lives began.

Now he strained to see who was getting off the train. The station was packed with day-trippers on their way to see the Christmas lights in London. They knew that the train from York would already be crowded, so everyone was anxious to get aboard before the station staff turned people away. Despite repeated warnings,
people on the train still opened the doors before it had stopped. Admittedly most passengers only opened it in a small way, but there was always the danger that a door might fly open and hit someone on the platform. It was rush hour and the platform was crowded.

‘Hold a copy of
The Times
in the air as the train comes in,’ the mystery man had written to him. ‘I have something amazing to tell you about the day Victor died.’

The London express thundered into Newark, people surged forward and George lifted his paper. It all happened so quickly. He moved with the crowd, but then felt a hefty push in the small of his back. Someone cried, ‘Look out!’ but it was already too late. George was propelled towards an oncoming open door, which hit him squarely on the side of his head. The person holding the door realized what had happened and let go. The door swung open with full force, pushing George into the side of the train. From there he was poleaxed to the floor.

A woman screamed and people moved back. As the porter came running, someone knelt beside George where he’d fallen. Although he was helpless and had no words, George knew he was dying. The pain was indescribable; his head felt like it was exploding, and he could taste his own blood in his mouth. He was aware that someone was beside him on the platform. His rescuer leaned and whispered in his ear. None of the horrified crowd heard what was said, but George did.

‘That was for Victor, you bastard.’

CHAPTER 18

The train delay was annoying, especially for the day-trippers. Despite their anger, it wasn’t possible to let the London express go until the police had finished their investigations. A doctor had been called and he pronounced the man dead.

‘Yes, I was right behind him,’ said Percy, ‘but I didn’t see what happened. One minute he was there, then he charged forward.’

‘He was pushed, that’s what,’ said a woman in a headscarf.

‘I saw the train door opening,’ said a gruff-looking older man.

‘That’s when I shouted,’ said Percy.

‘You shouted,’ said the inspector, jotting it down in his notebook. ‘And you are?’

‘Percy Bateman,’ he replied.

‘Chestnuts, roasted chestnuts – thruppence a bag!’ As the vendor’s cry echoed around the platform, the tightly packed crowd dispersed and diverted their attention to him.

The stationmaster peered over the heads of the few
people clustered around the inspector. ‘How much longer are you going to be, Squire? Only I gotta get this train moving.’

‘Give me one more minute,’ said the inspector.

To his horror, Percy and the other witnesses were escorted into the station waiting room. A policeman followed them in and stood with his back to the door, effectively barring their exit.

‘How long are you going to keep us here?’ demanded the gruff man. ‘I have a regimental dinner to attend in London.’

‘The inspector wants your names and addresses,’ said the constable. ‘He won’t keep you any longer than necessary.’

Outside on the concourse the rest of the passengers were piling back onto the train.

‘Look here,’ said Percy, moving forward, ‘we’re going to miss the train.’

‘My husband will be waiting for me with the pony and trap,’ said the woman anxiously.

The policeman squared himself up. ‘Sit down, if you please, sir.’

‘But …’ Percy began again.

‘I said, sit down – if you please, sir,’ the policeman repeated emphatically.

‘Can’t
you
take our names and addresses?’ said the woman in the headscarf. ‘I’ll go to my local police station and make a statement. I must get home tonight.’

‘The inspector will be here shortly,’ said their stubborn jailor.

‘Get out of the way, you moron,’ said the army man. He tried to move the constable, but the man stood firm. There was a bit of jostling and some colourful language, but the guard was already waving his green flag and blowing his whistle. The train juddered, and they heard its throaty roar as it headed up steam and began to move away from the platform. The woman burst into tears, and the men rose up as one person and rushed the constable. Just then the door burst open and the inspector came into the room.

‘Right, you lot,’ he shouted. ‘Any more of that and you can all spend a night in the cells.’

They were all angry and frustrated, but what could they do? Clearly the inspector had the upper hand. The train was gone and, if they were to catch the next one, they had no choice but to give their statements. It was going to be a long day.

Jim met Ruby from work, to walk her home. He quite often did so now and it gave them both an opportunity to talk over the events of the day. In the run-up to Christmas there was plenty going on. It was raining, so they huddled together under Jim’s big umbrella.