Now the War Is Over (2 page)

Melly had pushed the wheelchair before, short distances. It was hard, but she was determined. Getting it out over the step was the first problem. As she struggled to shove it over the door frame
and into the yard, Ethel Jackman, the bad-tempered woman from number two next door, saw her.

‘What d’yer think you’re doing?’ she said, crossing the yard, shoulders draped in washing. Ethel was in her fifties and had lost her only son in the war so they made
allowances, even though she’d been almost as crabby before.

‘What’s it look like she’m doing?’ Irene Sutton from number four came breezing over. ‘Want a hand with that, bab?’ Peroxide blonde, heavyset, aggressive,
Irene was never usually this helpful but she was more than happy to oblige if it annoyed Ethel Jackman. Melly shrank from her. Irene’s youngest daughter, poor little Evie, was the same age as
Tommy. Everyone in the yard looked out for Evie because Irene had taken against her at birth. What with this and Irene’s loud, Black Country ways – ‘that yowm-yowm’ they
called her because of her accent – her drunken husband and squalid pit of a house, she filled Melly with dread. Mom said Irene was like a big child herself. But Melly did need help and it was
clearly not coming from Ethel Jackman. She nodded.

‘There yer go –’ Irene tensed her brawny arms and hauled the chair out for her.

‘Ta,’ Melly whispered.

‘Mind how yer go . . .’ Irene said, unctuously amiable.

Melly pushed Tommy across the yard’s uneven blue bricks and along the entry to the street. Her muscles were already beginning to tremble with the effort of balancing the chair, which she
could hardly see past, and keeping it moving forwards. She managed to turn out on to Alma Street.

Many of the houses along the busy road were small business premises. They were a mixture of metal bashers – drop forgers, metal stampers and piercers, motor-spring makers, wire makers
– and other little businesses. There were shops selling furniture, coffee shops, the pawnbrokers, grocers, painters and confectioners and little hucksters’ shops which sold almost
everything. The place was full of sounds: metallic hammering and bashing from behind the walls of the various works, vehicles coming and going, bicycles whisking along, shouts and conversations, a
dog barking somewhere. The gritty air was full of smells of glue and metal mingled with the whiff of freshly baked bread and beer as they passed one of several pubs along the street.

At this moment Melly could smell more than she could see. She kept her head down, pushing Tommy, only her own feet in her scuffed brown T-bar shoes visible to her on the mucky blue brick
pavement. It was hard work keeping it in a straight line and her arms ached. She only just steered the chair round a heap of galvanized buckets, narrowly missing them. Every few yards she had to
stop for a rest. But Mom would be so pleased – she’d taken Tommy out!

The grocer’s where Mom usually did her shopping seemed much further away than usual, but at last she stopped outside it and weighed up what to do. It dawned on her then that Mom only took
Tommy to the shops if she or Dad were there. Now she could see why her mother didn’t go alone. It looked impossible to get Tommy’s chair in through the door and even if she did, it
would take up most of the space inside. But she was reluctant just to leave him outside on his own.

‘I’m gonna have to put you here while I go in,’ she said to Tommy. ‘You stop here – all right?’

Tommy nodded silently. She could not tell what he was thinking.

Just as she was moving the chair sideways, to rest against the grimy bricks of the front, she heard a woman say:

‘Oh, dear – look at that. Fancy bringing that thing out for everyone to see. Shouldn’t be allowed.’

She didn’t trouble herself to keep her voice down. Melly could see she was talking about Tommy.

‘Ugh,’ her friend said. ‘Cripples make me feel bad. Come on, Josie – let’s get past. I don’t like to see it.’

Melly hung her head until the women had passed, her cheeks raging hot. She was trembling with embarrassment and hurt, hearing their cruel words. Once they had passed she looked up to see the
backs of two middle-aged women belted into neat little macs, with shopping bags over their arms, talking with their heads close together. She felt like running after them, shouting at them . . .
She was already close to tears. She shouldn’t have brought Tommy out! She knew people could be unkind but now she was here with him on her own it felt as if it was all her fault.

‘Just going to get a few things,’ she said brightly to Tommy. He must have heard the women. There was nothing wrong with his hearing even if nasty people like that behaved as if he
was deaf. But Tommy showed no sign of being upset. She patted his leg. ‘Won’t be a tick.’

Melly fidgeted in the gossiping queue inside the little shop, everyone holding their ration books, grumbling about the way there were more queues and less food now than during the war. The tiny
shop was crammed with things and smelt of fire-lighters and salty bacon and cheese. It seemed to take forever for the other women to finish their bits of shopping. She kept glancing out of the
window at Tommy. She could see the side of his head, the dark curve of hair over his ear as he sat waiting.

Mrs Bracken who ran the shop looked a little startled to see Melly on her own.

‘Not with your mother today then?’ she asked. She was a widow, thin but cheerful and kindly. Lowering her voice, she said, ‘Has she had it yet?’

‘No, not yet,’ Melly said. ‘But she’s a bit poorly.’ She pulled the ration books out of her pocket and asked for their groceries – a loaf, some lard, bacon,
tea and cheese. The lady was cutting cheese in her deliberate way when a commotion began outside.

‘Oh, Lord love us, what’s that?’ Mrs Bracken said, looking up, the cheese wire poised in her hand.

Melly could see the boys outside and she rushed to the door. After those horrible ladies her senses were alert for trouble. The group of lads had gathered right up close to the shop now and they
were all round Tommy, jeering and elbowing each other.

Melly froze on the shop step. There were three boys, but to her they felt like a huge crowd. They were bigger than her, older, twelve or thirteen, and she did not recognize them – one
ginger, two mouse-haired – nothing special about them. They were egging each other on, shouting and braying. Two of them had hold of the chair.

‘Look at this cripple carriage! It’s a go-kart! Come on, let’s see how fast it goes!’

‘Want a ride, do yer?’ the third shouted right in Tommy’s face. They grabbed the arms of the chair and jostled it away from the wall. Melly saw Tommy’s face. His pale,
usually sweet features were frozen in helpless terror.

‘Race yer. Look at ’im – ’e can’t even talk!’

Melly felt as if she was going to explode. There was no time to think, she just started shouting. ‘Stop it!
Stop it
– that’s my brother. Gerroff him –
you’re hurting him!’

They were shaking the chair, rocking it from side to side. Tommy was spluttering, trying to say something and struggling in the chair. She could see he was terrified that they were going to
charge down the street with it and tip him out. His eyes were dark and enormous. She ran round the boys, shouting and trying to get hold of the chair. One of them elbowed her viciously. Winded, a
sharp pain in her chest, she reeled away, her rubber shoes slipping on the cobbles so that she almost fell.

‘Help!’ she shouted, crying now. ‘They’re hurting my brother!’

People began to take in what was happening: the boys’ jeering, their nasty expressions, the way they had pulled the chair away from the wall, fighting between each other to have control
over it. Melly saw a man set out across the street towards them, an arm raised.

But before he could get there, another figure hurled itself into the fray, someone who appeared to Melly like a rushing whirlwind of salvation. A blonde-haired lad, bigger than any of the three
bullies, flung himself at them.

‘Get off of ’im!’ he bawled. He hauled them back from Tommy’s chair, giving one of them such a shove that he landed on his backside in the gutter, face gurning with pain.
‘You get off – leave ’im alone! What’s ’e ever done to you, yer cowing little buggers?’

This avenging lightning streak, Melly now saw to her amazement, was Dolly’s third son Reggie Morrison. Reggie was nearly seven years older than her and she remembered him playing with her
when they were much smaller, pushing her about in a little cart when she could barely walk, and playing marbles. But Reggie was so grown up now at the grand age of sixteen that he had nothing to do
with her these days.

The third boy attempted to fight back, but Reggie seized him by the shoulders and shoved him up against the wall.

‘Wanna fight me, do yer?’ he demanded, pushing his face close up to him. The boy shook his head. The second lad, having been pushed away, hovered about, looking as if he was
considering running away.

‘Hey – lads, lads!’ The man from across the road had now reached them, still holding his arm up as if directing the traffic.

Reggie stood, hands on hips, panting. He was usually the quietest of the Morrison boys, the one you didn’t notice. But he seemed taller now, wirily strong, his blue eyes fierce, eyebrows
pulled into the frown of a man who meant serious business.

‘Calm down,’ the older bloke said, putting a hand on Reggie’s shoulder. But Reggie shook him off as if to say, look, it’s me that’s done the
work
around
here. He wiped his arm across his forehead and glanced at his right hand which he seemed to have grazed.

‘You lot,’ the man shouted at the already fleeing group of boys. ‘You just clear off!’

Melly, still trembling with the shock of it all, went to Tommy, who had started to let out big gulping sobs. Tommy didn’t cry often. When he did he found it hard to breathe.

‘Tommy?’ She put a hand on his shoulder, close to tears herself. She wanted to thank Reggie Morrison but she couldn’t seem to bring out a word.

Reggie was still standing in front of Tommy, elbows jutting out, hands on his waist.

‘You’re all right, mate,’ he told him. ‘They’ve gone now. They won’t be coming back.’

Tommy looked at him, his little face straining and wet with tears, in too much of a state to say anything back.

‘You’re all right, Tommy – no need to blart,’ Reggie said again, sounding like a man. Turning, he adjusted his shoulders and took off up the road.

Melly watched him in wonder: the strong set of him, his straight back, the wide shoulders and confident stride. She saw Reggie as if for the first time; saw what
a man
meant. Something
soft and yearning budded inside her. Reggie. She tried the name in her head. Reggie Morrison.

Melly was crying so much herself by the time she got the chair back into the yard that she hardly had the strength to push it inside the house. Tommy was still bawling and the
commotion brought their mother groggily downstairs. She stood clutching the ends of her cardigan round her.

‘What the hell’s the matter with the pair of you?’

It was a while before Melly could get the words out. It was her fault. All of it. She spilled out the story.

‘I wanted to help,’ she wept. ‘I went to get the bread and rations and . . .’ A terrible thought struck her. She’d forgotten the shopping! What if someone else had
taken it – there was hardly any food to be had, Mom was always saying so! Panic rattled around in her head.

‘Well, where is it?’ Rachel asked.

‘I never . . . I mean, there were these boys and they were going for Tommy – trying to turn his chair over and I ran out and . . . and then Reggie . . .’

Rachel drew a chair from the table to sit down, her face hardening with fury. ‘Who – who were they?

‘I d-don’t know. They weren’t from up this end. . . Reggie came and stopped them but I never went back to get the things from Mrs Bra – acken.’ The last word was
interrupted by a hiccough.

‘Never mind Mrs Bracken – she’ll keep it for us. But those lads – the rotten little sods – if I ever get hold of them . . . C’m’ere, Tommy. It’s
all right, babby. No one’s going to hurt you.’

Melly watched as her mother leaned in and unstrapped Tommy. Even though he was seven now, she pulled him on to her lap, cuddling her distraught little boy. Melly wished Mom would cuddle her as
well.

‘I never meant—’ she said.

‘I know you never
meant
,’ Rachel said harshly. She sounded so furious and unforgiving that Melly shrank inside. It was as if she had committed a crime. ‘But you should
never’ve taken him. Oh, God . . .’ Rachel was speaking as if to herself, her face raised towards the cracked ceiling. ‘What’re we going to do?’ After a moment she
turned to Melly.

‘Well, go on.’ There was no softness in her voice. ‘You’ll have to go back and get the bits from Mrs Bracken, won’t you?’

Melly slunk out into the yard, pulling her sleeves across her eyes. She didn’t feel like crying now. Leaving Mom cuddling Tommy she went along the entry, frozen with misery. Reggie had
saved them! Mom didn’t seem interested in that. But she couldn’t stop thinking about Reggie and those blazing blue eyes of his. She thought Reggie was amazing.

After that, Tommy refused to be taken out anywhere. He was content to go into the yard where everyone knew him. But if Rachel said she was going to take him out, his little body would start to
sway this way and that like a sapling in the wind and he’d get all worked up.

‘No!’ he would mouth, getting more and more panic-stricken. ‘Not going – no – stay here!’

Melly could not rid herself of a heavy feeling of wrongdoing. It was all her fault – she had taken Tommy out and this had happened. She had been trying to do something good and it had all
gone wrong. She took it completely to heart. As Tommy’s big sister, she had always been the one to teach him and to look after him, ever since he was tiny. Mom relied on her – she
always had. Looking after Tommy, she had come to believe, was what she was
for.

‘I saw this little lad with his arse hanging out of his trousers,’ Rachel would relate, a mischievous but fond twinkle in her eye. ‘You could hear him right
across the market, yelling his flaming head off, selling his comics. Some of them were so old they almost fell to bits in your hand! That was your dad – always up to something. I fell in love
with him there and then.’