Wishing and Hoping (20 page)

‘Your eyes are getting worse. The pressure behind them is caused by the diabetes. It's quite common in older people. Unfortunately you are also developing a cataract problem. No matter how hard you stare at me, the situation will not get any better.'

She knew she was staring at him as though she could see through her foggy version and fancied he smiled. She gave the impression of being an indomitable lady who was not easily beaten. And she was not beaten, not entirely. She still had her second sight.

Her gift for seeing the unseen had lain dormant in her youth, a fancy rather than a factual thing. The gift had not manifested itself until she was married with a child.

As a naval reserve, Cyril had been recalled to active service. He had ended up in Malta, the place where they had first met. Having many relatives there, she had gone too, taking Antonio, their son, with her.

‘You are a widow, Mrs Brooks?'

‘Yes. For twenty years.'

She heard the scribbling of pen on paper. The sound of paper being shifted around his desk reminded her of the rustling of paper-thin garments that had once been good cloth, of dry skin that had once been supple.

‘Do you have anyone to look after you?'

‘Garth.'

‘I see.'

She heard the rustle of paper again. His chair rumbled as he wheeled it around to face the fireplace.

‘It's a little cold in here.'

There was a popping sound as the gas fire flared into life.

It did little to brighten the wintry afternoon. Her world was turning dark, though it could never be as dark as the true darkness she'd known during the siege of Malta.

In her sleep she often relived those terror-filled days, especially the one when she had got caught out and had to take cover in the catacombs. The shuddering of a bomb blast had found her even there.
The old tombs had collapsed on top of her. She had been buried beneath a mountain of ancient corpses, their skin and their clothes as crisp as paper, their bones as dry as dust.

The doctor's voice invaded her lapse into memories. ‘We are all getting older.'

‘Yes,' she said, knowing he was being kind and sympathetic to her, a woman nearing the end of her life.

The poor man was totally unaware that he was far more ill than she.

She couldn't see him that clearly; all she could see was a colour mutating around him into peaks and troughs, though sluggishly, as though the power to radiate energy was getting weaker.

Her intention had also been to mention her toe as well as her eyes. Weeks ago she'd dropped a pan on it and cracked a toenail. The resultant wound was not getting any better; in fact it was beginning to smell bad. But the colour around the doctor was not good. She had no wish to add to his woes – woes he didn't yet know he had.

‘You are telling me that new glasses will do nothing for my vision. But that is all right. I can see the things that are most important to me.'

The good doctor, who had served in the Sheerness surgery she attended since she'd first arrived in England in the years between the First and Second
World Wars, shook his head and sighed. She didn't tell him about the light shining around him, a message that his own time on earth was coming to an end.

He cupped her elbow in his hand and escorted her to the door.

‘Keep taking the insulin tablets. At least we can keep the diabetes under some sort of control.'

Garth sprang up from the chair in the waiting room as she came out on the doctor's arm.

‘Have I got to go in and see the doctor as well?' he said anxiously.

Rosa shook her head. ‘No. You are healthy, Garth.'

Outside the surgery, with its flat roof and modern façade of glass-framed teak, Rosa Brooks stopped to take a deep breath. The air was spiced with the saltiness of sea air mixed with the sweeter smells of candyfloss and fish and chips. It was always so when the wind was blowing directly up the beach and into the town. All the smells came with it.

She could also smell people passing by; small children smelled of milk and bubblegum. Some women smelled of cheap perfume and face powder, others smelled of weariness. Old men smelled of damp wool, mothballs and strong tobacco. Some people smelled bad, either because they did not wash too often or because of something else, something evil hanging around them in a slimy green aura.

Funny, thought Rosa, how other senses grow stronger when one sense is fading.

‘Can we get some fish and chips, Auntie Rosa?' Garth asked.

He asked the question with all the gushing enthusiasm of an eight-year-old. Poor Garth. With one hand God had taken and with the other had put something back.

‘Of course we can. Give me your arm and you can guide me there. What do you fancy? Cod or haddock?'

He opted for cod, just as she guessed he would.

The day was unseasonably sunny and a few day trippers were making the most of it. Children were running in and out of the crowds and retired people were sitting in sheltered areas, eating home-made sandwiches whilst staring out at a surprisingly tranquil sea.

Local girls in short skirts, the hems barely reaching halfway down their thighs pushed babies in pushchairs.

Some of the local boys pushed against Garth and laughed when he told them politely not to do that. The boys made faces and blew raspberries.

‘They shouldn't do that, should they, Auntie Rosa?'

‘No,' said Rosa. ‘They should not. It is very rude.'

The fish and chip shop had a drop-down counter
so customers didn't need to go into the shop to choose what they wanted.

Rosa and Garth joined the queue. Rosa rummaged in her tapestry bag with beechwood handles for her purse. Once she'd found it, she struggled to get it open. The clasp was so stiff.

Concentrating on opening her purse, she wasn't immediately aware of the running boys who had been watching her. She wasn't aware at all what they were up to until they barged into her, knocking her backwards.

Her purse fell to the ground, pennies rolling out everywhere.

Rosa fell against Garth.

‘My purse!'

Swooping like a bird of prey, one of the boys snatched her purse from the ground and ran on. The others went too, whooping and hollering with glee.

The woman serving the fish and chips came out from behind the counter and helped pick Rosa up from the ground along with what few coins were left there.

‘Are you all right, love?' she asked earnestly.

With her free hand, Rosa patted the ground, feeling without seeing for her purse.

The more she searched, the more troubled she became.

‘My purse!' she exclaimed. ‘Someone has taken my purse.'

The woman who had come from behind the counter nodded to the owner who was still serving inside the shop.

‘Mr Hancock! We need to get the police. Little tykes,' she muttered, glaring in the direction the boys had run. ‘I'd belt the lot of them if I saw them again.'

THE DEN WAS
made of old sheets of corrugated iron left over from the war. The supporting walls were made of concrete and had once protected gun emplacements. Inside smelled of cats' pee and musty old furniture mainly because the old sofa cushions that provided the seating had once belonged to an old woman who had kept a multitude of moggies.

The boy with the purse, who wore corduroy trousers, the hemline torn and saggy around his knees, took centre stage. The others gathered round.

‘Come on. Let's have a look-see.'

‘What you got in there? What you got in there?'

Grimy fingers that had avoided soap and water all week scrabbled like dirty claws for possession of the brown leather purse.

‘It's mine!'

‘No it ain't! You know the rules. Share and share alike.'

‘I did the thieving.'

‘That ain't got nothing to do with it. And anyway it's up to the General.'

‘Someone talking about me?'

A flash of light came in from outside, by virtue of the tarpaulin, which formed the door, being pulled aside.

The three boys fell away from their squabbling. The lad in the corduroy pants held up the purse so that the gang leader could see what he had.

‘I nobbled an old woman,' he exclaimed. His triumphant grin was wide enough to split his face in half. ‘Share and share alike,' he said. Like the others he was wise enough to know when to fall in with gang rules.

‘Give it here.'

The boy who'd done the thieving didn't argue. The purse was handed over to the boy they called the ‘General'.

The tarpaulin was pulled back again. The three boys nodded at the new arrival.

‘What you got there then Archie?' said Arnold, peering with interest over his brother's shoulder.

‘The spoils of war,' his brother Archie exclaimed. He'd been going to the pictures a lot of late. Most of what he'd seen was war films or crime capers and so he'd picked up some of the lingo. ‘Old Sandy here wasn't going to share it out,' said Archie.

The boy named Sandy winced at the fierceness of Archie's look. Arnold Brooks grinned. His brother Archie certainly knew how to handle the likes of Sandy. He guessed what was coming next.

Archie nodded at the other two boys. ‘Sandy Harris was going to keep this for himself and be a bit of a greedy sod. Now what do we do to greedy sods?'

The two who had been in on the steal immediately began pummelling the unfortunate Sandy. The victimised boy wrapped his arms around his head and bent from the waist in an effort to escape the worst of the blows.

Archie stood with his arms folded – just as he'd once seen Bully Price do in the days when he'd been a schoolboy and Bully, real name Billy, had been calling the shots. Bully had moved on from that. Apparently he was presently doing time in borstal for stealing and selling on car tyres from his employer.

‘That's enough!'

His order resulted in the immediate withdrawal of the pummelling assailants. The boy on the floor began to unravel himself from his protective position.

‘That'll teach you to keep stuff to yourself,' stated Archie, his chin jutting out just like he'd seen the heroes do at the pictures. He nodded at Arnold. ‘One for his cheek.'

Arnold obligingly went over and clipped Sandy around the ear.

‘Ouch!' Sandy's face was red and snot was running down his nose, which he wiped off on the back of his sleeve. ‘I'm sorry,' he said. A red flush spread over his face drowning his ginger freckles.

‘So you should be, buster,' said Arnold in his best James Cagney voice.

Archie, being the gang's leader in fact as well as name, shared out the meagre proceeds from the brown leather purse. Once he'd done that he flung the purse into a corner where it sank behind one of the cushions. He didn't recognise it at all, nor did he notice the gold crucifix that fell out of it. Neither did he see the grainy black and white snapshot in the side pocket of himself and Arnold as babies, their cheery little faces grinning at the camera.

‘Right,' he said rubbing his hands together. ‘Let's go and buy some fags then some fish and chips.'

A big cheer went up.

Arnold wrinkled his nose. ‘I don't like fags very much.'

He winced as Archie fetched him a cuff around the back of his head similar to the one he'd given Sandy.

‘Chicken shit!' exclaimed his brother. ‘I'm not having any brother of mine being chicken-shit scared.'

If there was one thing Archie prided himself on it was being as hard on his brother as he was on the rest of the gang. No favouritism crept into his dealings no matter whether they were related or not. That's what he told them and cuffing Arnold was proof of that. That's why they respected him.

‘Are you having a fag then, Arnold?'

Although there was no doubting his distaste for cigarettes, Arnold agreed to go with them and do as the rest of them did. He'd probably be sick afterwards, but he couldn't lose face. Neither could his brother.

Off they all traipsed, first buying their cod and chips and then eating and smoking in an empty yard behind the sea wall where locals tipped all manner of old rubbish. Rusty buckets and broken car seats were utilised as temporary seating and an upturned bathtub did service as a table.

After finishing his supper, Archie screwed up the newspaper it had been wrapped in, threw it amongst the other rubbish then burped and patted his stomach.

‘Right. I'm off.'

Arnold got up to go with him. Archie pushed him back down again. ‘You stay 'ere. I've got a bit of business to attend to and it's private. Know what I mean?'

He slicked back his hair with a generous helping of saliva. The message was clear; their leader, the ‘General' was going to meet a girl. Girls had only just started becoming interesting. Anyone who made any headway with a girl was viewed with the utmost respect. They were all looking up at him with their mouths open.

‘I said, do you know what I mean?'

The boys looked up at him.

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘OK,' added Arnold.

Archie let the tarpaulin door fall behind him. He'd not only left his gang and his brother in the den, he'd also left some money he'd saved over a period of time. Part of it was for purchasing a pair of jeans. He considered himself too old for short trousers and, although he did have a pair of long trousers, it was a pair of jeans he wanted. A pair of Lee Cooper for preference. Everyone wore Lee Cooper. Nobody who was cool would be seen in anything else.

The money was safe and not necessary for immediate use thanks to Sandy nicking the old woman's purse. Never in a million years would he admit to his gang and his brother what he was up to next. It was too vital. Too secret.

Back he went to the fish and chip shop, then towards home though he knew that wasn't where he would end up. His little sister Annie was sitting on the step outside the pub waiting for their mother. The kid should be in school. Even for a little girl her face was pinched and white; her limbs and body far thinner than they should be.