The Poppy Factory (26 page)

They are supposed to give evidence today – and surely the police can’t protect them every moment of their lives. What if the heavies carry out their threat? The two of them would be no match in a fist fight; Alfie certainly wouldn’t be able to run away and Mr B neither, cos he’s a heavy smoker and always out of breath. I’m sitting here with visions of the two of them in hospital with broken faces or even – the thought makes me shiver – more serious injuries.

Johnnie seems to sense my anxiety and he’s refusing to settle even though Freda and I walked out to the park with both babies. They looked so pretty, top to tail in the pram. It’s still bitter cold so even though they were well wrapped up we couldn’t stay out long, so we came home and made more tea and have been trying to keep ourselves busy. Right now we’re drinking our third cup of tea by the fire, Freda’s knitting and I’m writing this, ears pinned for Alfie’s footstep on the path.

It’s gone five. Surely they should be home by now?

LATER

It’s after midnight and I am exhausted, but so wound up that I cannot sleep. Perhaps writing it down will help.

Eventually Freda and I gave up sitting by the fire and took the babies in the pram to The Nelson where, sure enough, Mr B and Alfie were ‘soothing their nerves’ with a pint or two. When Mr B told us what happened, I could scarcely believe my ears.

Apparently they waited for ages and then, finally, Mr B was called into the courtroom. He gave his evidence, as he had so carefully rehearsed with the lawyers, and felt he was doing fine until the ‘counsel for the defence’ started (he bandied these titles around but we could only guess at what they meant).

Anyway, this man began to dig up all kinds of unpleasant things about Mr B’s business, about how he never makes any returns to the tax man, and how he was completely unable to show what money was coming in and going out and suggesting that, because of this, Mr B wasn’t exactly the best judge of another man’s character, and nor could he prove one way or another that Claude had actually stolen anything. Poor old Mick, he admitted that at this point he ‘fell apart’ and couldn’t find the words to defend himself, so he started swearing at the lawyer and got told by the judge to hold his tongue or he would be arrested for ‘contempt of court’.

Then it was Alfie’s turn in the witness box. He wasn’t allowed to talk to Mr B beforehand as they were kept apart in separate rooms, so had no idea what had gone on in the courtroom and was completely unprepared for when the defence man started his tricks. Claude must have told them about Alfie’s breakdown and apparently he homed in on this. Poor Alfie – he didn’t stand a chance.

Mr B imitated the man’s voice, full of marbles, as he spoke to the judge and jury at the end: ‘Your Honour, none of us can appreciate the horrors endured in the trenches by our brave soldiers. We owe them an enormous debt. But for some unfortunate individuals those horrors have not only damaged bodies and limbs, they have damaged minds too – and Mr Barker Junior is one of these, as shown by the medical records of his recent nervous breakdown.’ He went on to say that the court should not find Claude – ‘an upstanding businessman of impeccable character’ is what he called him – guilty on the basis of evidence of a father and son, both of whom were what he called ‘unreliable witnesses’.

But what about the people Claude ripped off, I wanted to know? The people whose furniture he stole? Why weren’t
they
there giving evidence against him?

Apparently there
were
supposed to be three other witnesses – one an old boy who had suffered a heart attack just a few days ago and was not well enough to attend, and a couple who’d had several valuable paintings stolen simply did not turn up. When Mr B asked the police where they were, he was told they had decided to ‘withdraw their evidence’.

He said he expected they got nobbled too and were too frightened to go ahead. And all the time there was that b***** sitting in the dock with a smug grin on his face, watching the trial collapse, just as he planned. Freda asked why they didn’t warn the police, surely they should have been on alert? But he said that of course they’d warned them, and the police actually brought them home in a car, just in case. He thought perhaps the others were just too scared to tell them.

It seems that what happens next is the judge’s summing up and then the jury adjourns to decide whether Claude is guilty. Mr B said he thought it would probably all be over by tomorrow afternoon.

Throughout this whole conversation – an hour at least, Alfie sat slumped in the corner seat, his eyes down, not saying a word. When Johnnie started crying I said that the little lad wanted his tea and we should go home and have a bite to eat together. But he refused to budge or even meet my eyes.

Mr B said it had been a lot to take in and they both needed time to mull it over and Alfie muttered that he’d be home in a couple of hours. He finally rolled in at half past eleven, aided by Bert and another regular – apparently he’d refused to come back with his father and went on drinking, eventually falling asleep in his corner. We put him to bed and now he’s snoring.

I am terrified about what the strain of this trial is doing to Alfie, with the story of his breakdown talked about in public like that, and maybe even reported in the newspapers. His confidence is already at a low ebb, with no work and his savings dwindling fast, as far as I can tell.

What if Claude is found innocent, and allowed to go free? What would he do next? Would he come smarming back to Freda, or try to wheedle his way back into our family again? Alfie is so angry about the whole affair, I could not vouch for what he might do should Claude come within a mile of our neighbourhood again.

Friday 20th January

It’s the most dreadful thing – I can barely bring myself to write it down.

The jury found Claude ‘not guilty’ and he was allowed to leave the court a free man. The police were furious, but it’s the decision of the twelve ‘good men and true’ in the Jury, and there’s absolutely nothing anyone can do about it.

It seems so awfully unfair, after all the terrible things he has put our families through: the ignominy for Mr B and Alfie having to go to court and admit all kinds of minor wrongdoings (the tax etc) when Claude, the thief, gets away with blue murder. The Barkers are almost bankrupt, owing money left right and centre, and in danger of losing their home. I don’t suppose Pa will get back the fifty pounds he lent them any time soon. And poor Freda is still suffering the shame of being an unmarried mother. When we are out with the babies in the pram together I can’t help noticing the neighbours casting snide glances and muttering behind their hands, but she holds her head up high and claims she doesn’t care – says she’s just happy to have her beautiful baby Annie, who is a delight (much easier than Johnnie, who’s been a little terror of late).

Alfie is beside himself with fury and refuses to talk about it. He muttered something about wanting to ‘tear the b******’s ****’s off’ if he’s ever seen in the neighbourhood again. My guess is that Claude will make himself scarce, if he knows what’s good for him. I wish he would just go back to France and stay out of our lives forever.

Thursday 2nd February

It was Alfie’s birthday today. I was determined to celebrate it properly – we deserve a bit of fun after all the horrible things that have happened lately.

So I made a special game pie with all the trimmings and, for afters, a Victoria sponge birthday cake with butter icing, and invited the whole family around for tea: Ma and Pa, Mr and Mrs B and Freda. We managed to get the babies to sleep early so that we could enjoy ourselves properly. Of course we only have four chairs so Alfie, Freda and me sat on boxes and we all managed to squeeze around our kitchen table. Pa brought a couple of jugs of beer from the pub and after a few glasses everyone seemed to be having a good time.

When we’d finished the pie I brought out the cake, with twenty-four special small candles on it that I’d found in a fancy shop along the Old Kent Road a few weeks ago. It was a silly little luxury given how short we are at the moment, but I wanted to make it special for Alfie and they looked so jolly, flickering their light all over the room as we called for him to make a wish.

He played along all right, blew them out with a single puff, and cut the cake with his eyes shut. When everyone had gone I asked him what he’d wished, and his reply made my heart weep. What he said was: ‘I wished that just for one day I could be a whole man again.’ Most of the time he manages so well that sometimes it is almost possible to forget that he has only one leg. But of course I know that every day is a struggle, that walking any distance is uncomfortable at best but sometimes excruciating, and that the ‘phantom pains’ sometimes arrive out of nowhere and shoot through his stump like burning needles. Nothing seems to work – not even a double dose of aspirin touches the pain.

When I replied that I loved him just as much as I ever had, even with the one leg, he muttered that he couldn’t understand why: he wasn’t much of a man, a cripple without a proper job and no prospects. Well, that’s for me to decide, isn’t it? I replied. You’re just having a run of bad luck at the moment but things will get better soon, you’ll see.

He looked so downhearted that I wanted to rock him in my arms to soothe the misery, like I can with the baby. He said everything felt so hopeless at the moment, even though he knew there were millions in the same boat.

I have to admit that there wasn’t much I could offer to reassure him on that one. Heaven knows what will happen and where we will end up living, unless one of us can get a job before too long.

Saturday 4th March

Oh Freda, what have you gone and done?

We were woken at seven o’clock this morning by a great commotion: someone banging on our front door and another voice shouting at the window. Alfie had a skin full last night so he was dead to the world, and I’d been up with Johnnie in the small hours, so it took a few minutes to drag myself out of bed and get to the door.

It was Mr and Mrs B, both of them pale-faced and anxious, standing in the rain and getting drenched but apparently not even noticing. Mick asked if Freda and Annie were with us and I shook my head. I hadn’t seen her since yesterday.

At this point, Alfie appeared in the doorway in his pyjamas and on his crutches, struggling to hold Johnnie who was bawling his head off with a sopping wet nappy falling down his legs. Mrs B wailed that Freda had gone, taken her clothes and everything and Mr B waved a piece of paper saying she’s gone with that b******* Claude.

I couldn’t believe it! After all he did to her. Alfie leaned on the doorjamb, whacking a crutch against the wall with each word. ‘The stupid, stupid, stupid girl. By god, if I ever lay my hands on that man …’

Mrs B looked like she might collapse so I found her a chair, took Johnnie from Alfie’s arms and told him to put the kettle on. By the time I’d got the baby changed and made him a bottle, they were sitting around the table reading the note that Freda had left on the Barkers’ mantelpiece, in a hurried scrawl on the back of an old laundry slip.

Dearest Ma and Pa,

Please do not be angry with me. I know what you think of Claude, but he is the father of my baby and I still love him. He is deeply sorry that our family got caught up in problems the police caused by jumping to conclusions about his business affairs, and hopes that you will find it in your hearts to forgive him one day.

He wants us to get married and go to France for a new life, and it seems the right thing to do. Annie will grow up with her father, and you will be relieved of the shame I have brought on our family, as well as the financial burden of two extra mouths to feed.

Please do not try to stop me – I have been thinking carefully about it for a couple of weeks and I know it is the right thing to do. Tell Alfie and Rose that I will miss them loads and loads and will write as soon as we are settled.

Your ever-loving daughter and granddaughter,

Freda and Annie.

I said we had to stop her. Had they been to the police? But Mr B said there was nothing they could do because she’s an adult now and it wasn’t illegal to go off with her so-called fiancé. Freda is deluding herself. What possibility of happiness can she expect from a man who is so unreliable, selfish, immoral and without a speck of common decency? The gall of the man to suggest it was all about the police ‘jumping to conclusions’! How could she be so naïve as to believe him?

Alfie suggested they could go to Dover, to catch them before they get on the ferry, but his pa said that by the time they caught the train down there, they’d be long gone. I was so proud of him, he just said that it was worth a try and if they set out now they stood a chance. I blurted out something about the cost of the fares and immediately regretted it – what’s money when you’re faced with the loss of a daughter? And Alfie said they could worry about that later, so while he went to get dressed, his ma and me made a couple of sandwiches for them to take on the train, and then waved the two of them off into the pouring rain.

Now, I am sitting by the fire with Mrs B and I have tried my best to persuade her that it is not her fault Freda has chosen to run off with that slimy creep, and nothing she has said or done, or not said or done, could have prevented it. But it is a mother’s lot to feel guilty and there’s little more I can say. All we can do now is pray that Alfie and his pa get there in time to stop her, and make her see sense before she disappears into France.

Sunday 5th March

Alfie and his pa returned early this morning looking thoroughly dejected.

At Dover they discovered that they had missed the departure of the last ferry but by then they’d also missed the last train back to London, so had to spend a freezing night sleeping on the station without any bedding or even a spare ha’penny for a cup of tea. Poor boy, he looked chilled to the bone, so I sent him straight to bed.