He Called Me Son (The Blountmere Street Series Book 1) (2 page)

‘If you won’t open your stupid mouth, I’ll make you.’
 
Angela lunged across the table at me, grabbing the front of my shirt.
 
‘I’ll get you, you lazy little rat.
 
I’m older than you, and I’ll get you.’

‘Be quiet, the pair of you and eat your tea.’
 
Mum rested her elbows on the table and held her head like she had a headache.
 
She hadn’t touched her dinner and I wondered if she’d let me eat it.
 
She was always going on about not wasting food.

‘It’s not fair.
 
He doesn’t do anything.
 
Tell him it’s his turn to do the washing up.’

‘It’s not.
 
I’m going into Lori’s to listen to
Dick Barton
.
 
She said I could.’
 

‘For once, you’ll have to stay home, won’t you?’
 
Angela struck her fork on the table.
 
It made a tear in the newspaper.

‘Now don’t start getting upset again.
 
We can wash up.
 
It won’t take us long.’
 

The way Mum was talking to Angela, she might as well have been toadying to the Old Man when he came back boozed.
 
I hated it.
 
It was fear rolled up in smarmy words.

She pushed her plate with the untouched food towards me, limped outside to the scullery and filled the kettle.
 
A rush of water juddered through the pipes.
 
She brought three enamel mugs into the kitchen, and spooned condensed milk into them, putting a soothing spoonful into her own mouth.

‘But it’s not fair.’

‘
But it’s not fair
,’ I mimicked.

‘Will you two stop.’
 
Mum raised her voice, which was unusual for her.
 
‘It’s almost a quarter to seven, Tony.
 
You’d better finish eating quickly and be getting next door.’

‘You always take his side.
 
You never let me away with the things he does.’

Mum didn’t answer.
 
She hated quarrels.
 
I wouldn’t mind betting she’d already taken off to the secret place in her head that was quiet and peaceful: somewhere our Old Man never existed, and where she didn’t have to struggle to buy a tin of Spam.

When I got to her flat next door, Lori was already warming her wireless set.
 
Like our kitchen, hers smelt of paraffin, but apart from two rickety chairs, the table and a sideboard propped up with books, our kitchen was bare.
 
In Lori’s, there were photographs everywhere.
 
They hung in rows on her walls, and covered the top of her sideboard; even round the skirting boards.
 
And anywhere there was the smallest space she had tucked a cup, a bowl or some ornament.
 
The thing that frightened me, though, was an alabaster dog that kept watch over the fireplace with its mouth wide open displaying jagged teeth.
 
Its eyes were yellow and I didn’t like to turn my back on it for fear it would forget where it belonged and attack me.

‘Sit down, Tony, the programme’s about to begin.’
 
Lori indicated a bulging armchair and handed me a plate with two chocolate biscuits on it.
 
I stuffed the biscuits whole into my mouth, in case that dog got hold of them.
 

‘Dick Barton, Special Agent.’
 
Da de da, da de, da
.
 
As soon as I heard the announcement and the opening music, I fidgeted to the edge of the chair, and for the next quarter of an hour
Dick Barton
made me forget about nicking a few fags and a couple of comics.

When the programme finished, Lori turned off the crackling wireless set.
 
‘I’ll make us a quick cup of tea, shall I?’

Lori was a funny old biddy (that’s what Herbie called old women: biddies), with grey-blonde frizzled hair, and scarves she wore winter and summer trailing to the ground.
 
But she was all right, really.
 
If it hadn’t been for Lori, we might have starved.
 
She probably gave Mum the Spam we had for tea.

‘Tea’s a funny thing.
 
We see it as the solution to all our problems.’
 
Lori turned on the tap and filled the kettle, calling over the sound of moaning pipes. ‘I know people say it was those Americans and of course, dear Mister Churchill who got us through the War.
 
I believe it was the good old British cuppa that kept our spirits up and gave the nation the willpower to keep going.’

I got up, moved from my place in front of the wireless to the sideboard, and began picking up photographs: sepia ones of stern looking men and women, and solemn boys in sailor suits posing next to girls in long dresses with starched pinafores.
 
Men with watches draped across their waistcoats stood to attention beside women in huge hats decorated with feathers. Why was it women in old photos always sat, while men stood?
 
Perhaps it was supposed to show that men were stronger, although some of the women looked as if they could have gone a few rounds in a boxing ring and come out winning; they were a bit like Angela.

I peered at a photo of a scrawny man standing beside an enormous woman.
  
Then I moved from the sideboard to look at the photographs on the wall.
 
Although I had been in and out of Lori’s flat since I was a baby, I liked to look at these photos every time I came.
 
We didn’t have any photos in our flat, and I pretended Lori’s family was mine, too.

‘How’s your mum, tonight?’
 
Lori asked.
 
‘Being on her feet all day in that shop, especially with those legs of hers, is too much for her.
 
I hope you and your sister appreciate what she’s doing.’

In the few days since she’d started work, Mum had begun bandaging her legs.
 
All that stuff wrapped around them reminded me of the Egyptian mummies I learnt about at school.

I moved around the room touching things.
 
Next to Lori’s well-used Bible was her India box.
 
It was my favourite thing in the room.
 
A great-aunt had given it to her.
 
This aunt had been married to a Colonel or some high up bloke in the British Army, and she had lived in India.
 
I didn’t know where India was, and Lori had showed it to me on a map.
 
She said that India was hot and the box was made of sandalwood, which I thought must be a lot different from the tree at the top of Blountmere Street.
 
When you opened the box it smelt like the spice on top of penny buns.

‘If you ever want a gadget, I’m the one to ask,’ Lori often said.
 
‘I’ve got everything in my India box.
 
I could live on a desert island and not want for anything, if I had it with me.’

When we were little, Lori had let Angela and me play with some of the things inside it - a spinning top and a doll in a bit of material called a sari.
 
Once Angela stuffed the doll down her knickers and took it home, but Mum found it and gave it back to Lori.
 
Angela cried all night.

On top of the India box was Lori’s handbag: the old grey one she always carried.
 
Sometimes, she even tucked it under her arm when she was hanging out her washing. The straps had worn out hundreds of
 
years ago, and she often said she must get a new bag, but she never did.
 
Inside it, I could see a whole lot of rubbishy stuff like Lori’s powder puff she patted her nose with when she got flummoxed and one or two sweet papers.
 
In the middle of it all, I saw her old green purse and it was bulging, really bulging.
 
There was probably more money in it than Angela and I would see in ten years.
 
Enough for a half crown not to be noticed.
 
Then I could pay Old Boy Barker outright for the fags and comics.
 
It was the answer to my problem.
 
Lori had so much she wouldn’t miss it, and I wouldn’t risk Old Boy Barker catching me nicking.
 
I fumbled for the purse, undid the clasp, grabbed a half crown, and stuffed it into my pocket.
 

Lori came into the kitchen with two cups of tea and told me to sit down, but I couldn’t keep still.
 
A fiery feeling burnt my throat.
 
‘I think I’d better pop back to Mum,’ I said, getting up and leaving the tea untasted.
 

‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Tony,’ Lori called after me as I tore out her front door and down her path on my way back to our flat.

‘Give my love to your Mum,’ I heard as I opened our door, but I didn’t answer.
 
I had to get away.
 
I didn’t want to think about what I’d done.

The next day on the way to school, I told the Gang I had left my exercise book at home and I would catch them up.
 
When I could see them well down the road, I put on a confident smile and skipped into Old Boy Barker’s.
 
I chose the comics and took them to the counter.
 
Old Boy Barker stared at me, his red bladder of a nose practically throbbing when I asked for twenty Players.

‘And you say these cigarettes are for your Gran?’

‘My Gran smokes like … um …
hell
.’
 
I choked over the word.
 
‘My Gran smokes a lot.’

‘What about the comics?’

‘They’re a special treat.’

‘I didn’t know you had a Gran.’

I thought quickly.
 
‘Dad’s mum.
 
Step mum.
 
She lives in ... India, but she’s on holiday at the moment.
 
She’s got a box full of knick-knacks and that.’

I passed the half crown over the counter and Old Boy Barker gave me the Players.
 
Then he rolled The Dandy and The Beano and put a rubber band around them, before handing them to me.
 
He still looked suspicious and I made my smile bigger.
 
It was a pity I wouldn’t be able to have the penny drink of Tizer I had been looking forward to, but although I tried, I couldn’t control the trembling in my belly or keep the fire from my throat.

Smoking!
 
All that sucking and blowing.
  
It was a waste of money.

Except for Herbie, we all threw up, lumpy sick, bright with carrots from our school dinner.

Afterwards, I made straight for our flat.
 
Along the Dibbles’ side of the front path, red flowers smothered their rose bushes, and their doorstep left ours looking grey.
 
Their front door was half open.
 
In the brightness of their hall, I could see Paula Dibble’s two-wheeler propped against a wall.
 
I kicked one of the rose bushes and it shed red petals on the path, like drops of blood. There was no way I would ever get a bike.
 
Even when I got my hands on a measly half crown, I sicked it up.

As I turned my key, Lori opened her front door.
 
Her scarf trailed the path as she bent to put an empty milk bottle on her step.
 
She straightened, and looked directly at me. ‘You look a little peaky,’ she said.
 
‘Cigarettes don’t do much good to a nine year old stomach.’
 

Chapter Two

Most summer Saturday afternoons, I sat on the back doorstep with Paula Dibble from the flat downstairs reading comics.
 
I was glad her old man’s bushes hid us.
 
If the Gang or Angela found out, they would call me a sissy.
 
Angela said Paula was the stuck-up daughter of a stuck-up mother, paraded around in fancy outfits.

‘She’s a jellyfish, a spoilt, prissy jellyfish who’s got everything but a backbone,’
 
Angela said whenever Paula’s name was so much as mentioned.
 
‘What if she’s always had every single thing she’s wanted.
 
Who cares?
 
And Lily
Dribble
can carry on all she likes about
her wonderful Les
; he’s still a bully.’

When we told each other secrets, Paula called it confiding.
 
I liked confiding to Paula.
 
I didn’t throw stones at her like the Gang did, or chant, “
Dribble, dribble, all she does is dribble
.”
  
But I wouldn’t be caught walking to school with her.
 
There was nothing wrong with her.
 
It wasn’t as if she was dirty.
 
She smelt of soap, nice and flowery, not like that horrible coal tar stuff Mum bought when she had the money.
 
Inside, I felt guilty as if a thousand worms squirmed.
 

‘I had a nightmare last night,’ I told Paula one thundery Saturday afternoon when the sky was so low it almost touched us.
 
‘It’s the same every time, about a giant stomping along Blountmere Street looking for me.
 
He swooped on both our flats.
 
He shook them and roared my name.
 
I hid under the table, but he found me and squeezed me tighter and tighter, until I couldn’t breathe.’
 
I put my fingers over my eyes to get rid of the picture.
 
‘Did you hear me scream?’

‘Not really.
 
Anyway, I expect you hear Dad shouting.
 
He does sometimes - you know - shout.
 
He doesn’t mean to …
 
He … It can be a bit frightening.
 
In between, well, mainly he doesn’t talk to Mum and me.’

‘I never hear a dickey bird.’
 
I lied.
 
‘Sometimes me and Ang used to hide under the bed after our Old Man had a skinful in case he bashed us.
 
A lot of the time he did, see … and Mum.
 
He cut her eye once.
 
She had to wear a patch over it.’
 
I cast a half glance at Paula.
 
‘He used to bring these fancy women home and force Mum to feed them.
 
One of them came into our room once.
 
She gave me a bob.’

With the lengthening days, the Gang spent even longer at our camp.
 
We even went back there after we had all listened to
Dick Barton
.
 
We each squatted on our own stone and talked, starting with
Dick
and his latest adventure, then on to all sorts of other things, while the shadows made the ruins look as if they had stripes painted on them.

‘Any of you joinin’ the Cubs up the Wesleyan Church, then?’
 
Dobsie asked, poking a finger through a hole in the pullover he was always boasting his Gran had knitted him.
 
I reckoned she had bad eyesight because you could see where she’d dropped some of the stitches.
 
Both Dobsie’s socks were pulled right up, without even a crinkle.
 
Dobsie was fussy like that, but when he stretched his legs in front of him I could see he had a hole in the sole of his shoe.

‘Kenny Withard said the Cubs have a camp at the seaside every year at Bognor?
 
And it don’t cost?’

‘Bognor!
 
And it don’t cost?’

‘Not a penny.
 
Kenny says you have to be there a while before they take you.
 
They have a Christmas party with presents as well.
 
And you have adventures and get badges for having them.
 
You wear a uniform and everyfink.’

‘You thinkin’ of going?’
 
Herbie asked.

‘I’ll see,’ Dobsie replied, as secretive as he always was.

‘What about you, Tony?’

‘I might.’ A chance of going to the seaside without paying.
 
You bet I’d be joining.
 
I’d never been to the seaside.
 
I wasn’t sure about the uniform, though.
 
Mum wouldn’t be able to pay for that.
 
With her having to take a week off work because of her legs, at the rate things were going I’d be back on the
Poor List
before you could say
Bognor
.
 

Two weeks later, Mum lost her job.
 

‘The company were very good to me,’ Mum told Lori when she popped in with some tea and sugar that she said she’d come across at the back of her cupboard.
 
‘But I couldn’t stand all day.
 
Finally they asked me to leave.’
 
Mum leant back in her chair, and even from my usual place in the corner, crouched next to the side board, I could see her face was that yellowish colour again.

Lori fiddled with the strap on her handbag.
 
‘I know you don’t want to hear this, Dolly, but you can’t sit there pretending things will be all right.
 
Unless you do something, we both know they won’t.’
 

Mum’s eyes were closed.
 
I was pretty sure she’d mind-travelled to her secret place.

‘How do you propose looking after yourself and the children without a job?’
 
Lori bent closer to Mum, and lowered her voice.
  
I suppose she thought I wouldn’t be able to hear her.
 
‘Why don’t you let me make some enquiries to see if we can find Ted’s whereabouts?
 
The least he should be doing is making regular payments towards bringing up the children.’

That got Mum’s attention, catapulting her from her land of make-believe.
 
‘I don’t want his help, and I won’t have his name mentioned here.’

‘If that’s how you want it, Dolly.’

Mum stretched her legs in front of her, the bandages around them thicker than ever.
 
She looked as if the last thing she wanted was to be dragged back into our kitchen from wherever she was trying to escape.
 

‘You can sew, can’t you?
 
Why not take in sewing?
 
And before you say you don’t have a sewing machine, you can borrow mine.’

‘Do you think I’m good enough?
 
People can be very fussy.’
 
Mum said, although her voice had perked up.
 

I held my breath, willing her to say yes.
  
Mum had to take in sewing.
 
She just had to, or I’d have to go back on the
Poor List
.

‘Of course you’re good enough.
 
You made a couple of dresses for Olive Kingsley, didn’t you, and they turned out all right.’
 
Lori wound and rewound her handbag strap.
 
 
‘The way I see it, sewing’s the answer.
 
Between times you’d be able to put your legs up.’
 
She sent a quick glance in my direction.
 
‘Tony and Angela could ask to put advertisements for your sewing services in the High Street shops.
 
And, of course, they could ask Mr Barker to put one in his window.’

I shuddered.
 
The last thing I wanted to do was to toady to grumpy shopkeepers.
 
It was begging.
 
As for asking Old Boy Barker to put an advertisement in
his
window, I’d been avoiding him since I’d bought the fags and comics.
 
When the Gang popped into his shop for a bit of liquorice or a penny drink, I made an excuse to stay outside.
 
I’d make Angela ask all the shopkeepers.
 
She’d be better at it than me.
      

‘That’s settled.’
 
Lori stopped fiddling with her bag strap, and the way she smiled lit up her face.
 
‘Now you need something to bring in a little extra until the orders start coming.’

Mum sighed and closed her eyes again.

‘A lodger!
 
That’s it, a lodger.’

‘We don’t have room,’ Mum said, coming back fast.

‘Of course you do.’
 
Lori was as unstoppable as the rag and bone man’s horse, when it got loose and galloped down Blountmere Street.
 
‘You’ve got your front room.
 
Needs must, Dolly.
 
Needs must.’

‘I really don’t ...’

‘But, of course.
 
I should have thought of it before!
 
I have a good friend, a retired naval officer who’s looking for digs in this area.
 
I’ll get in touch with him straight away.’
 

For a moment I thought Lori was going to dance a jig.

‘But …’

Lori was already galloping through the door like that horse again, complimenting Mum on “a jolly good suggestion”.

‘There are times when Miss Lorimore gets carried away,’ Mum sighed after Lori had gone.

When it came to taking in a lodger, Mum was right.
 
The last thing we needed was some old geezer staggering round the place and bashing us up.

I could tell Fred Stannard had been in the Navy.
 
Perhaps it was the way he held his shoulders and looked directly at me, but I somehow knew he had been one of our boys who had fought Jerry, and won The War.
 
We watched films at Saturday Picture Club about it.
 
I especially liked the ones about destroyers and mine sweepers.
 
Those sailors were so brave.
 
I always felt proud of them.
 
Our Old Man had wheedled his way out of fighting.
 
According to him there was something wrong with his feet.

‘This will do me extremely well, Mrs Addington.’
 
Fred Stannard was wearing a blue shirt.
 
His skin was brownish and his hair a sandy colour.
 
He looked around the room, and I felt ashamed we couldn’t have given a brave sailor like Mr Stannard something better than old furniture Lori didn’t want.

‘Five shillings and sixpence seems a fair rent,’ he said.

Mum smiled, though I could tell she was still uneasy about taking in a lodger.
   

‘My friend Miss Lorimore tells me it will suit if I move in tomorrow.’
 
Appearing not to notice Angela and me peeping round the door, Fred Stannard continued.
 
‘Miss Lorimore also tells me you have two delightful children, whom I should very much like to meet.’

Mum gave us one of her looks and pushed us into the room.
 
‘This is Angela.’

‘How do you do, Angela?
 
It’s a pleasure to meet you.’
 
Fred Stannard shook Angela’s hand.
 

She scowled and wiped her hand on her skirt.

‘And Tony.’

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tony.’
 
Mr Stannard pumped my hand until it tingled.

‘Trust Lori to have a stuck-up friend like him.’ Angela sneered as soon as we got out of the room.
 
‘All la de da and posh.
 
It’s going to be horrible having him living with us.’

After Fred had settled in, he often invited me to play a game of
Spin The Globe,
where he spun his globe and I pointed to a place on it.
 
If he’d sailed there, he told me about it and some of his other voyages, as well.

Fancy having sailed round the world not once, but dozens of times.

I began making excuses to the Gang about having to help Mum, but I couldn’t get to Fred quick enough.
 
He had put model ships in the alcoves either side of the fireplace, and
 
there was a half-finished model on the table by the window.
 
I liked the gluey smell.