Cockney Orphan (13 page)

‘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.

T
he 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?

Connie sighed, her chin resting on her hands. So much history! And now there was more in the making. Would Hitler ever set foot on these shores?

‘Mr B. is stringing it out tonight,’ Ada whispered noisily, bringing Connie sharply back to the present.

Connie looked over her shoulder to where Ada was frowning. Mr Burns was assiduously checking the last of the accounts.

‘And we haven’t been busy either,’ Connie agreed.

All the staff of the shipping office were looking forward to being dismissed. As usual on Christmas Eve, they would hurry to the canteen, make merry for an hour, then scramble as the hooter
blasted.

‘Happy Christmas, Ada – Connie! Enjoy your holiday and we’ll see you back safe and sound on Friday,’ said Mr Burns at last, slapping his ledger closed. He walked over to
hand them their Christmas cards.

‘Thank you, Mr Burns,’ the girls chorused.

They opened their envelopes and were shocked to discover that their boss had deviated from tradition. Fat-breasted red robins and seasonal greetings had been exchanged for texts.

‘Little drops of water,’ purred Ada, attempting not to laugh, ‘little grains of sand, lots and lots of buckets standing close at hand. Yards and yards of hosepipe ready in the
hall, that’s the stuff to search for, when the incendiaries fall!’

Connie had to look away as Ada almost choked. ‘Wh . . . what does yours say?’ she spluttered.

‘When lengthy is the butcher’s queue,’ Connie began, aware that Mr Burns, who had returned to his desk, was awaiting their reaction. ‘And joints and sausages
few—’ Connie had to stop as Ada slapped her hand over her mouth. She tried again. ‘We say whilst facing fearful odds, it’s in the lap of all the gods, what we shall have
for Christmas dinner!’

Ada made a choking sound. She buried her red face in her handkerchief. Connie replaced the card in the envelope and smiled at her boss, who was now looking at them expectantly. ‘Thank you,
Mr Burns, lovely cards.’

‘A pleasure, Connie.’

‘Thank you, Mr Burns,’ croaked Ada, about to burst.

‘Well, off you go, girls. And as the cards indicate, keep your wits about you.’

‘We will.’

Connie and Ada fled to the cloakroom. For a good ten minutes they wiped the tears from their eyes. Connie splashed cold water on her face and Ada sat on the lavatory, wiping the trail of black
mascara from her cheeks.

‘Hosepipes!’ Connie gasped, her sides aching.

‘Sausages!’ Ada screamed.

By the time they had composed themselves and arrived at the canteen, Len was waiting for them. ‘Thought you two were never coming!’

‘Did you get a card from Mr Burns?’ they asked at once.

Len grinned as he stood his offering of VP wine on one of the tables. ‘Yes and very appropriate it was too. A lengthy discourse on the merits of first aid in the workplace.’

The girls were in fits of laughter again and by the time some of the other staff came to sit with them, a knees-up had started. The men were singing ‘Pack Up Your Troubles’ and
‘It’s A Long Way to Tipperary’ and the canteen staff, relieved to be released from the hot kitchen, had launched into a repertoire all of their own.

‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ Connie asked Len, who was pouring a second round into their chipped and slightly brown canteen cups.

‘It’s the Lake District this year,’ he replied in a dramatically posh voice. ‘One of them hotels on the edge of the water, a three-course dinner and cocktails afterwards
on the veranda. Or is it before?’

‘You’re joking?’ cried Ada, pink cheeked with a mixture of Whitbread, VP and envy.

‘Course I am,’ Len chuckled. ‘Can you really see Mother sitting in her sparklers and fur, chatting sweetly to a dinner companion? No, I don’t think so. In fact
it’ll be more like spam and mash if I have to cook, because Mother wouldn’t know the difference anyway. She doesn’t even know what day of the week it is.’

‘How is she . . . er . . . healthwise?’ Connie asked tactfully.

‘Dangerous,’ Len growled as he knocked back his drink. ‘She smokes like a trooper and drops her dog ends alight all over the place. The gas was on for ten minutes the other
night before I discovered what the smell was.’