Cockney Orphan (35 page)

‘Ada, I believe Gran was trying to say that Vic is somewhere in this world, not in the next. She “looked”, she said. And she looked because she must have realized what was
happening to her after she read that telegram and took ill.’

Ada wrinkled her nose. ‘To be honest, Con, I can’t stretch me imagination that far.’

‘Nor could I, once. But Gran taught me that there’s more to life than what you can see.’

‘Hadn’t we better go and see how Pat is?’

Connie looked at her friend. ‘Yes, course.’

Together they bent over the cot to take one last look at Lawrence. His breath was even and he was snorting softly as he sucked his lips just like Lucky used to do. Connie’s heart squeezed
and a moment of yearning filled her. Then, quite suddenly, she thought she saw something move. A shadow in the corner, a breath of air through the window lifting the curtains, a light that spilled
in from the moon as the sky darkened. But it happened so fast that when she looked again it was gone.

‘What’s the matter?’ Ada asked nervously.

‘Nothing.’

‘You’ve put the wind up me tonight.’ Ada grabbed her hand and pulled her to the door. As Connie was closing it, she thought she glimpsed the shadow again, close by the cot. She
whispered under her breath, ‘Goodnight, Gran.’

Billy closed the front door quietly. Standing outside the house he took one last look at the old homestead. He glanced up at number thirty-three, the battered red front door
that needed a good paint, the blacked-out top window behind which Mum and Dad were still fast asleep and the smaller window, where Kev was in bed, snoring his head off. Well, for a start, he
wouldn’t miss that racket, would he? Not that he’d been at home much in his efforts to dodge Mum. She’d had fifty fits when he told her he was joining up. The sooner he was on the
road the better.

An October chill freshened his skin. He liked the British weather and wasn’t averse to the damp or the cold, or even the pea soupers. He would miss the early morning mists that rolled off
the river, disbursing the scents he associated with childhood. The sweet and preserves factories were his favourite and their pungent ripeness could be smelled miles downstream. Not so much lately,
of course, when the war had turned the factories into armament belchers.

The war – what would it be like? Blokes of sixteen and seventeen were lining up to fight the enemy when he’d been busy using his fists against his own countrymen. It was bloody
ridiculous really.

Billy pulled back his shoulders and turned up the collar of his jacket. Sliding on his cap, he gave the old house a wink.

‘Be seeing you, gel.’

As Billy made his way to Poplar, he wondered if he’d ever see the island again – if he’d ever see his family again! And Ada . . . now, there was a girl for you. The honest
truth was he was sweet on her. Not that she’d look at him twice. All right, so they’d kissed that night in the front room, the way he’d never kissed a girl before in his life. And
if he hadn’t had it on his mind that the whole bloody house might come down and catch them at it, who knows what might have happened next? But he also knew that women like Ada needed a lot of
upkeep, a big pot of honey to dip in and out of. Oh yes, Ada liked the good life. And what could he offer? Sod all, really.

Billy smiled regretfully at the memory of her lips and the soft curves of her body, the way just the smell of her made him get all hot and bothered. She only had to brush his arm or look at him
with those big eyes and he was all port and brandy.

‘How you doin’ there, Billy?’ Ted Jackson jumped off his bike as Billy strode on to Westferry Road.

‘All right, Ted.’

‘You’re up early. What’s the occasion, then? Someone’s birthday?’

‘No, I’m off to join up.’

Ted lowered his sack to the ground. ‘You’re too young, lad.’

‘They’re taking toddlers and pensioners these days,’ Billy joked. ‘Ain’t you heard, we’re liberating the Frenchies next.’

‘Don’t joke about France, boy,’ Ted warned soberly. ‘The invasion’s on the cards. You don’t want to be amongst that lot. Take a tip from me and string it out
at home for as long as you can.’

‘Not on your Nelly.’ Billy puffed out his chest. ‘I wanna do my bit.’

Ted shook his head mournfully. ‘What does yer mother say to all this?’

‘She ain’t struck on the idea,’ Billy admitted.

‘I’ll bet she’s not.’ Unexpectedly, Ted stepped forward. He clenched Billy’s arm, then the other one. He only came up to Billy’s shoulders and it felt a bit
awkward, but then Billy returned the pressure gratefully. They stood this way for a few seconds until Ted coughed, picked up his postbag and reclaimed his bike. ‘Good luck, son,’ he
said in a deep voice as he twirled the pedal with his foot and jumped on, raising his cap in salute. Billy watched him cycle down the road.

The importance of what he was doing suddenly registered. He was actually leaving home today and offering his life to his country. It wasn’t a lark or a dare, or a way to make money or
claim success. There was nothing in it for him, other than the possibility of extinction. Course, he might be a hero and win a medal!

At this thought Billy chuckled aloud and dug his hands deep into his pockets. He was going to say goodbye to Taffy first and make a long overdue apology. Taffy was a good sort and if he’d
stuck with him he would have done all right. He might be fighting even now in the back of the Rose and Crown – and winning. Still, water under the bridge, as they say. Before he signed on the
dotted line for king and country, he wanted to put his affairs in order.

Billy grinned. Hark at him! He had no intention of meeting his maker just yet. He was off to win a war, not lose it!

Peggy Burton gestured to the young man to enter the big, airy church hall. He was dressed as they all were, in Salvation Army handouts: overcoats that were too big or small,
boots like boats, and scarves and socks knitted, unpicked for the next wearer and knitted yet again. His dusty brown hair was short, with threepenny-sized patches carved all over his skull. His
features were blunting and his hands had a tremor; she recognized the shell shock even from where she stood. But it was the eyes that saddened her the most. Glazed, without any expression. She
thought of David, her late son, and thanked God that he, at least, had not survived the trenches to become one of the walking dead.

‘Have you eaten today?’ she asked him gently as she led him to one of the benches.

He shook his head, wiping a thread of saliva from his unshaven chin.

‘The soup’s on. It’s early yet, but I’ll find you some.’ She pressed him down on the bench, served him a generous helping of hot soup and a thick wedge of
unbuttered bread. Then, together with her friend Eileen Williams, she continued in the arranging of the trestle tables and benches. In half an hour another fifty homeless would arrive, possibly
more. On Sundays, a good day for striking the nation’s conscience, they materialized from the woodwork. She hoped all the Sunday worshippers had heavy purses and retained a healthy portion
for those outside the church doors as well as inside.

Two young women and their toddlers entered the dilapidated old building, now affectionately known as ‘Peggy’s’. Ginny Monk with her little girl, Kitty, and Fay Martin and her
son, Joseph, were dedicated volunteers and Peggy welcomed them warmly. She led the children to the room beside the kitchen whilst their mothers found their aprons. For a few minutes Peggy sat and
played, beating an old pot with a wooden spoon and throwing a ball to knock down some pegs. Very soon, a young girl joined her. Her long brown plaits fell either side of her head. She had a sweet
face, but a pensive and worried frown stretched across her forehead.

Peggy held out her arms to the small boy at her side. ‘Come here and give me a hug, dear.’

The tiny lad ran into her arms. She kissed him exuberantly on both cheeks as she had done the other children and then watched them settle down to play.

‘Now, Grace, can I leave you to take care of these babies?’

The young girl smiled happily. ‘Yes, Mrs Burton.’

‘How is Mother today?’

The smile faded from Grace’s lips. ‘Poorly again.’

Peggy hesitated. ‘Is she resting?’

Grace nodded, gazing down at her hands, anxiously rubbing the knuckle of her thumb.

Peggy sighed inwardly. From what she had discovered Grace had a heavy load to bear at only fourteen: the care of her small brother and a mentally distressed parent. Over the past month, ever
since Grace and the boy had wandered into the kitchen that Sunday morning, it was clear their home life was blighted by their mother’s ill health. Peggy had enquired after the father, but
Grace was evasive. The girl was certainly not undernourished and money did not seem to be an issue. She was articulate and polite and their clothes were clean. She had found Grace sitting at one of
the tables one Sunday morning, the little boy nestled beside her. Peggy had fed them, though it was apparent neither was hungry. They had returned the following day and the next five days on the
trot. When it became clear it was not the soup they had come for, but company, Peggy had taken decisive action.

‘Have you any more brothers or sisters at home?’ she’d asked Grace.

‘I had a brother, but he died.’

‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’ she’d persisted.

‘I left,’ Grace replied simply, ‘to help Mum.’

‘I see.’

‘But she needs to rest now.’

‘Is that why you’re here?’

A nod for reply.

Peggy had decided that if the mother had any objections about her daughter helping in the kitchen, no doubt she would hear soon enough.

Now, as she watched Grace and her small charges, Peggy said a little prayer of thanks. The Almighty had sent someone along to help who needed help themselves. Not in the way Peggy helped the
poor, unkempt and ragged people of the street, but in another way, one which, she was certain, would become apparent in the fullness of the Lord’s own time.

Meanwhile, Peggy turned her attention to her duties and headed for the kitchen and the two bursting sacks of potatoes that needed peeling for today’s creatively cooked broth.

Connie was up early on Monday. Her internal alarm clock hadn’t readjusted from her routine with Lucky. At five thirty each morning she was awake, her ears alert for his
movements. Her heart always sank when she remembered he wasn’t there. It was comforting to see Ada’s curled form in his bed.

It was November and pitch black. She tiptoed downstairs and made herself a cup of tea in the kitchen. She always imagined what it would feel like to receive a letter from Vic. Or from the
Admiralty saying he’d been found alive and well. Each week she wrote to him, using the same service address as she had always done. None so far had been returned.

Taking her tea into the front room she took her pad and pencil from the dresser. She had told him all about Lucky and poured out her heart over the past weeks. One very long letter had been
entirely about Gran. She had broken the news as gently as she could. She told him that Gran’s last words to her had given her hope.

When she had finished writing, she always held the letter in her hands and willed it to reach him wherever he was. By this time the light was breaking under the blackout and she was ready for
work. On the way to Dalton’s she posted her letter and had already begun to think about what she would say in the next one.

‘You coming to the party on Saturday?’ Len asked later that day as they sat in the canteen.

‘You’ve got Jenny to keep you company.’

‘I want you as well.’

Connie laughed. ‘I’ll bet Jenny doesn’t.’

‘Safety in numbers, Con.’ He gave her a little grin. ‘Honest, though, it won’t seem the same without you.’

‘Course it will.’

‘What about Clint?’ Len asked lightly.

‘What about him?’

‘You enjoyed yourself last year, dancing the night away.’

Connie shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t leave Ada, anyway. She’s going on Sunday.’

‘Why don’t you bring her too?’

‘Even Ada wouldn’t have the courage to face all of Dalton’s.’

‘But I’d like to see her before she goes.’

Connie lifted her eyes. ‘Come round to our house on Friday then.’

Len sat back in his chair, a look of resignation on his face. They drank their tea and Jenny joined them, bringing with her a large bowl of something gooey which she shyly shared with Len.

At half past five, Connie put on her raincoat and drew Billy’s scarf, which still smelled of Ada, over her head. She doubted it was raining, as November had been quite dry, but the mist
from the river had a habit of crawling off the wharf and chasing everyone home. Sometimes she joined a few of the girls who were going her way. But if she worked later, it was a case of finding her
own way. With the dark nights and the blackout still well in force, the island seemed to be cocooned in its own little world.

Tonight she was one of the last out from the offices. She had just entered the yard when she saw two figures standing outside the gates. Clint was unmistakable: tall and well built in his heavy
army coat. The other, almost half his size, was Ada. They both turned to look at her as she approached.

‘What are you two doing here?’

Ada was wearing a beige coat with a big collar that she had bought from Cox Street market. ‘Waiting for you, that’s what.’

Clint held his cap in his hand. His blond crew cut was shining even in the darkness. ‘Hey there, Connie.’

She smiled. ‘Hey there, yourself.’

He glanced at Ada. ‘I found this young lady hiding outside the gates.’

Ada giggled. ‘I was under your mum’s feet so I came to meet you. Clint gave me the fright of my life when he tooted the horn.’

‘Why were you hiding?’

‘I’d be dead embarrassed, wouldn’t I, if I saw Mr Burns or Len?’ she admitted, peering over Connie’s shoulder.

‘Len was asking after you today. I told him to come round the house on Friday.’

Ada nodded eagerly. ‘Oh, Con, that’d be nice.’

Connie looked at Clint. ‘Are you going home for Christmas?’