Cockney Orphan (7 page)

Early next morning there was a bang on the door. It took her a few minutes to roll out of the hammock and stand upright.

The door came open with a creak, letting in the smoke and fumes, but Nan’s smile was as cheerful as ever. ‘Tea up, ducks,’ she cried, pushing a tin mug into Connie’s
hands. ‘I’d make one for your brother too, but just look at those two. Fast asleep by the looks of it.’ Billy was curled on the bench, snoring loudly. Lucky lay snoozing in the
cart beside him.

Connie stepped outside. ‘Nan, you’re a lifesaver.’

‘Thought I’d drop by before yer mum and dad arrive home.’

Connie sat down on the sandbags and Nan perched beside her. ‘Well, as you can see, we survived another night,’ Nan said as they gazed up at the house. ‘Did you manage any
kip?’

Connie stretched her stiff body. ‘More than the night before. I tried to take Lucky in the hammock with me when it was really noisy but I had to wake Billy and ask him to hold the hammock.
It swings everywhere. And the milk took ages to warm, by which time Lucky was screaming his head off. When I changed his nappy he did a pee all over the place.’

Nan roared with laughter. ‘That’s men for you. Untidy buggers.’

Connie sipped her tea. ‘I wonder if Mum and Dad and Kev are all right.’

‘Course they are. Now, I’m here to ask you a specific question. What are you going to do with the baby today?’

All night Connie had been wrestling with the problem, which was the true reason for her sleeplessness. But in spite of all her thinking she had come up with only one solution. ‘I’m
not going into work,’ she confided miserably. ‘Mr Burns would have a fit if I asked for time off. I’ll say I was sick. As I can’t expect Mum to look after Lucky in her state
of health, I’ll have to do as everyone says. Take him to the Welfare people.’

Nan made a little snort. ‘Poor little sausage.’

‘I know. But what else can I do?’

‘I could look after him for you.’

Connie looked up in surprise. ‘Would you, Nan?’

‘We got on like a house on fire yesterday, ’scuse the pun. He finished his bottle, didn’t he, and survived?’ She patted Connie’s arm. ‘I won’t see sixty
again, love, but I’m not geriatric. Me and Lofty never had any kids but I’d like to do me bit for the war effort in whatever way I can.’

‘Oh, Nan, what a relief!’

‘You’re partial to this little lad, ain’t you?’

Connie looked at Lucky in his cart and her heart melted. ‘He’s such a good baby.’

‘Yeah, well, life is full of surprises, girl. Now, do you want me to take him on?’

‘Tell you what, I’ll feed and change him, then we’ll stop at your house on the way to work, if that’s all right? About half past seven as I have to be at Dalton’s
for eight.’

Nan stood up. ‘Just walk right in, the door’s open.’

‘Shall I bring the cart?’

‘No, don’t bother, Lofty’ll rig something up.’ She took the mug from Connie and disappeared into the mist.

Connie wanted to jump for joy. She could keep her promise to Lucky’s mother, at least for the time being. Of course, she couldn’t expect this to be a permanent arrangement –
her excitement faded a little at the thought – perhaps the same thing would happen with Nan as had happened with her mother. Nan had never had children. Perhaps she was trying to be kind, but
taking on too much. On the other hand, Nan wasn’t the sort to fade at the first hurdle.

Billy staggered out of the shelter. His jacket and trousers were rumpled and his sleeves halfway up his arms. He yawned noisily.

‘I’ve had good news,’ she told him excitedly. ‘Nan Barnes is going to take care of Lucky.’

Billy stretched his long arms. ‘Well, as it happens I’ve got a bit of good news meself.’ He sat down beside her, rubbing his knuckles in his eyes.

Connie frowned. ‘Like what?’

‘I’ve got a job. A proper one.’

‘But you’re still at school.’

‘I ain’t been for ages.’

‘What!’

‘They think Mum evacuated me. I told my teacher I was going to Wales.’

‘Oh, Billy, you didn’t. What if they check up?’

‘They won’t. Half the schools are closing because there’s no kids left on the island.’ He gave her a nudge. ‘Come on, give us a smile.’

‘You worry me.’

‘What’s to worry about? I’ll be making a nice few bob with this job. I’ll tell Mum as soon as I get me first pay packet.’

‘What is this job, then?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘Roofing. A bloke I know needs a lad to help him. We’re collecting all the tiles that get blown down and putting them back on other houses. It’s a doddle really, up and down
ladders all day and driving around in Taffy’s lorry.’

‘Taffy who?’

‘Taffy Jones. He’s a cockney Welshman.’

Connie couldn’t help laughing. ‘Oh, Billy, trust you.’

He grinned as he sprang to his feet. ‘Now, I gotta sit on the lav and have a fag before Mum comes back.’

Was roofing a proper job? Connie wondered as the bathroom window shot open and a lot of coughing followed. At least it wasn’t roaming the streets or worse, Connie decided as she lifted
Lucky into her arms.

This was the best part of her day. When he opened his beautiful eyes and looked into hers – and smiled in recognition.

Nan regaled her that evening with all Lucky’s antics, recorded down to the last teaspoon of strained veg. He could suck his toes, almost turn a circle on his tummy. She
and Lofty had bathed him in the tin tub and dried him on the towel in front of the open fire.

Connie’s mouth was watering. Not for food. She wasn’t hungry. But the thought of bathing Lucky’s little pink body, trickling the water over his bald head and dressing him in
some of the fresh clothes that Pat had given her, was a sweet torment. How she longed to care for him herself, she thought, as she sat in one of Nan’s large armchairs set either side of the
blacked-out window.

It was a pleasant room, if cluttered, unlike her own home, not a cushion out of place. Nan and Lofty cared little for the appearance of their nest. The sideboard was overflowing and the old
upright piano was in use as a clothes horse. But the room was easy on the eye and restful, as though the turmoil of the outside world had not yet reached in.

Connie listened to Nan’s hearty laughter and saw the twinkle of a smile that Lucky gave her as he rested in her arms, all clean and scrubbed. Connie ached to take part in all these baby
developments. Work had been miserable! Mr Burns had kept his staff ’s nose to the grindstone all day. Even Len had been out of sorts after a terrible night with his mother, who had refused to
leave her warm bed when the warning went. He had been forced to stay up all night, as the bombs exploded around their ears. Ada had not seen Wally, either, and was pining for her boyfriend. The
atmosphere at work had been sombre now that the raids looked set to continue.

‘Here we go again!’ Nan exclaimed when the siren wailed. ‘Lofty! Where are you? Get this girl and baby home quick!’

Nan handed Lucky over. Connie wrapped him in his shawl, all thumbs as Lofty appeared. They ran together along the street and the sky grew dark against the searchlights.

Her mother and father were just leaving the house. ‘Constance, are you coming with us?’

‘No, I’ll wait for Billy in the Anderson.’

‘I don’t know how you can—’

Ebbie gripped his wife’s arm. ‘Come along, Olive. Connie, take care of yourself, love.’

‘Your dinner’s in the oven,’ Olive cried as Ebbie dragged her on. ‘It’s still warm.’

Connie rushed through to the kitchen. Balancing the baby in one arm, her dinner in the other she rushed out to the Anderson. Having forgotten to bring the milk with her, she laid the baby in the
cart and rushed back in again. A few minutes later, back in the Anderson, she was too scared to move as the bombs began to fall outside. Her dinner went untouched and when Billy arrived she threw
her arms around him.

‘Oh, Billy, thank goodness you turned up.’

‘What’s the matter? Has Hitler landed?’ Billy teased as he secured the iron door and lit the Tilley lamp.

‘I don’t like it here on my own.’

‘You’ve got Baldy.’

At that moment an explosion rocked the Anderson and Lucky began to scream. Connie lifted him from the cart and held him tight. ‘What can I do to comfort him?’ she asked
helplessly.

For once, Billy didn’t come up with an answer. ‘I don’t know about babies,’ he said lamely.

Connie was beginning to think she didn’t either.

Vic Champion inspected his face in the washhouse mirror. He groaned. He’d had practically no sleep in two nights and it showed. His jaw was covered in sharp, dark
bristle, there were bags under his eyes and his thick, dark hair needed a good wash. As did the rest of his body, but with just a pitcher of water available he would have to be careful. He’d
brought two big jugfuls from the standpipe this morning on his way home from night duty. Gran would certainly need one of them for her household chores and he always left her a spare, just in case
the water was off for the day.

It was an irony he looked so rough, he thought as he rubbed his face with the penny-sized fragment of soap that he kept aside for shaving. Saturday had arrived, the day he had been looking
forward to all week. The day he had intended to make a good impression!

Removing his greatcoat, he flipped his braces from his shoulders and unbuttoned his shirt. Pouring the freezing water into the enamel bowl, he bathed himself the best he could, then proceeded to
shave. The cutthroat razor, freshly honed against the pummy stone, sliced off the stubborn beard and at last a smile formed on his face. That was better. He felt human at last.

After throwing the dirty water into the lavatory, he poured the remainder from the jug into the bowl. This time he washed his hair with the same tablet of soap, whistling as he did so. He was
relieved to complete another daunting night standing in as an unofficial ARP warden. The noise of the bombs and the Mudchute ack-ack still resounded in his ears. As did the cries of the unfortunate
victims he had worked to save from their ruined homes. Against his will, pictures flashed up in his mind. The distress, the blood and broken bones and, in some cases, the horror of a lingering
death. He had worked desperately to free one man and his wife in the ruin of their home. She was dead, but the man was still clinging to her hand. The doctor had arrived and had known at once his
lower limbs were crushed for ever. Even before the doctor had begun to amputate, the man was dead.

Vic blinked his eyes at the memory. He was twenty, young and able, but he had seen enough in one week for a lifetime. Did he still feel the way he had on that day in May when Operation Dynamo
had begun? The whole island had turned out to salute the flotillas of small boats as they sailed down the Thames to France. Rescuing the Allied forces stranded at Dunkirk had been no mean feat. His
heart had been heavy with yearning to help as he’d made his way over the bridge and turned left before the donkey field opposite the Seaman’s Mission and the Dock House pub, to stand at
Pier Head. He had been filled with patriotic pride at the awesome sight. Our boys were being slaughtered on the beaches of France and every man who owned a vessel was turning out to help.
He’d felt the same way in July and August when the Spitfires had protected London and the coasts with such tenacity against the Luftwaffe. All he’d wanted to do was to be up there with
them, shooting the enemy down before they could create more carnage. But instead he’d been sitting safely behind an office desk in his reserved occupation at the Port of London Authority.
He’d told his boss he was determined to join up. He was still waiting for his papers, still hoping to prove that he was prepared to fight for king and country.

But after this week, he felt sick to his stomach. So much death and destruction. And he hadn’t even set foot out of England! Did he really have the guts to be a warrior, to look a man in
the eye and shoot him? Did he have the courage to risk his life and, if necessary, sacrifice it?

‘Vic? Breakfast, son.’

Gran’s voice rocketed out of the back door. Vic quickly dried his hair on the ancient towel full of darns. He fingered the wet locks across his scalp and plastered the weight flat with the
palm of his hand. He glanced in the mirror once more and saw someone he at last recognized.

The kitchen was warm, filled with the smell of frying bacon. ‘Blimey, where did you find a porker?’ Vic asked his Gran, who stood at the stove.

‘Less said the better on that score,’ Gran muttered, tapping the side of her nose. Her beady eyes looked up at Vic with mirth. He grinned, stretching his muscular arms above his
head. ‘Never quiz a woman about her coupons, eh?’ he chuckled.

She pushed him out of her way. ‘Now, you might look like Rudolph Valentino standing there half naked, but you can’t sit down undressed to breakfast in this house. Lower the rack and
put on a clean shirt. There’s one ironed already.’

Vic did as he was told. ‘Where would I be without you, Gran?’

‘Oh, don’t give me any of that flannel,’ she cried. ‘Hurry up, your bacon’s getting cold.’

‘It’s not out of the pan yet.’

‘It will be by the time you get your arse on the chair.’

Enjoying the familiar banter, Vic removed the pristine white collarless shirt from the wooden slats and raised the rack to the ceiling again. When he was dressed, he sat down in front of two fat
slices of crispy bacon, one egg and two thick wedges of bread spread with lard. A cup of tea stood beside his plate and a round of toast as back-up.

Gran sat beside him, her small, plump figure lost in the folds of her black garments. He had never known her to wear any other colour. Woollen jumpers, long skirts, headscarves, gloves and
coats, all as black as night.

‘Go on,’ Vic urged, lifting the plate of toast towards her, ‘indulge yourself. Have a slice.’

‘No thanks, cock, I prefer me Bemax. The tin says it’s gas proof!’ Gran chuckled as she tilted her spoon into the chipped china bowl.

‘That stuff ’ll put hairs on your chest, you know,’ Vic teased as he attacked his cooked breakfast.