Tanner Trilogy 03 - Backstreet Child

by Harry Bowling

  Mary clasped the piece of paper even more tightly, and then the orderly officer hurried into the dugout. ‘Get her to the sick bay,’ he ordered.

  Rachel reached down to take her arm but the officer pulled her back. ‘Not you, Bradley,’ he said. Other willing hands guided Mary from the dugout and then the officer turned to Rachel. ‘You’re her best friend, I’m told,’ he said.

  Rachel nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Hannen got a telegram this morning. It seems her young man was killed yesterday,’ the officer said quietly.

  ‘Oh my Gawd!’ Rachel uttered, sitting down heavily on the bench.

  ‘Hannen’s going to need you now,’ the officer told her.

  ‘’Ow did it ’appen, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘It was some experimental work that went tragically wrong. That’s all we know, all we’re allowed to know,’ he said.

  The Battle of Britain was at its height over southern England when Bert Jolly walked along Page Street with the evening paper under his arm.

  ‘They’ve shot down ’undreds,’ he told Sadie.

  ‘I know,’ she replied. ‘I jus’ bin listenin’ ter the wireless.’

  Maisie came hurrying along the turning. ‘’Ere, Sadie, there’s’undred an’ forty-four bin shot down, accordin’ ter the wireless,’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘Ours or theirs?’ Sadie asked.

  ‘The Jerries, o’ course,’ Bert chimed in.

  ‘I ain’t talkin’ ter you,’ Sadie replied abruptly, giving him a sharp look.

  Bert decided to leave them to it while Maisie leaned against Sadie’s doorpost, glad of an excuse to leave the ironing.

  ‘That silly ole sod is always pokin’ ’is nose in where it’s not wanted,’ Sadie moaned.

  Maisie nodded. ‘’Ere, Maurice Salter’s back wiv that Massey woman,’ she said, slipping her arms through the front of her apron. ‘I saw ’em the ovver night. Bold as brass they was. She was all over ’im as they walked down the turnin’.’

  ‘Don’t it make yer sick,’ Sadie remarked. ‘That affair’s bin on an’ orf like a cock sparrer on a crust o’ bread.’

  ‘’E’s ’eadin’ for a fall, if yer ask me,’ Maisie replied. ‘She’s got a right name round ’ere.’

  Dolly was busy in her front room and through the window she espied the two women deep in conversation. Being naturally inquisitive, she decided to take the women a new titbit to chew over. She slipped off her apron and put on the shabby coat she wore to go shopping before darting across to them.

  ‘I’m just orf ter the corner shop fer Josiah’s fags,’ she lied. ‘Did yer ’ear about ole Mrs Wishart in Bacon Buildin’s?’

  The two shook their heads.

  ‘She got bound over ter keep the peace,’ Dolly informed them.

  ‘What was that for then?’ Maisie asked.

  ‘It was over whose turn it was ter do the stairs,’ Dolly went on. ‘Apparently ole Mrs Dalton ain’t bin doin’ ’em ’cos of ’er back an’ when Mrs Wishart was scrubbin’ ’em, Muvver Dalton trod dog shit all over the clean stairs. There was a bit of a bull an’ cow by all accounts, an’ then Mrs Wishart chucked the bucket o’ water all over ’er. The police got called an’ they nicked poor ole Mrs Wishart fer usin’ bad language. Mind you, she can let it rip sometimes.’

  ‘Well, I’d ’ave chucked more than the water over ’er if she’d’ave trod shit all over my scrubbin’,’ Sadie said quickly. ‘I’d ’ave crowned ’er wiv the bucket.’

  ‘No, that’s what Mrs Wishart done. She let go o’ the bucket. That’s why they called the police,’ Dolly told them.

  The three stood chatting for some time and when they saw Maudie approaching, Sadie sighed. ‘ ’Ere she comes, gloom an’ doom.’

  Maudie was looking very worried. ‘There’s bin bombs dropped in Croydon,’ she said fearfully. ‘I just ’eard it on the wireless.’

  ‘It was on this mornin’s news,’ Sadie said offhandedly.

  ‘I didn’t listen ter the news this mornin’,’ Maudie said, holding her back. ‘I ’ad a lay-in. Me back was killin’ me.’

  ‘It’s those ’ard seats at the muvvers’ meetin’s what’s doin’ it, if yer ask me,’ Maisie said, smiling at Sadie.

  ‘I’ve stopped goin’,’ Maudie announced.

  ‘Oh, an’ why’s that?’ the women chorused.

  ‘It’s the new vicar,’ Maudie explained. ‘’E’s all fire an’ brimstone. Scares the life out o’ me, ’e does.’

  ‘I like a bit o’ fire an’ brimstone,’ Sadie said. ‘Farvver Murphy was like that. ’E used ter rant an’ rave at Sunday Mass.’E’s bin sorely missed around ’ere.’

  Maudie decided that her back was not up to it and she took her leave. The three women continued their chat for a few more minutes then Dolly decided to get back home before Josiah came in from work.

  ‘I feel sorry fer Dolly,’ Maisie remarked as she watched her walking back to her house. ‘’Er Wallace ’as bin in trouble again.’

  ‘What’s ’e bin up to this time?’ Sadie asked.

  ‘They caught ’im pissin’ on Mrs Brody’s front doorstep an’’er ole man give ’im a clip roun’ the ear,’ Maisie said. ‘Dolly’s ole man went roun’ ter see the Brodys an’ it nearly come ter blows, by all accounts. Then last week Wallace nicked the pram ole Mrs Webster uses ter collect the bagwash when she left it outside ’er front door, an’ she ’ad ter go round an’ see Dolly. They found it in Wilson Street the next day. All the wheels were missin’.’

  ‘’E’ll get put away if ’e keeps that up,’ Sadie told her. ‘They can take ’em away if they’re out o’ control.’

  ‘That’s what Dolly’s worried about,’ Maisie said.

  ‘She’s got somefing else ter worry about too,’ Sadie remarked.

  ‘Oh, an’ why’s that?’ Maisie asked her.

  ‘She come out ter get ’er ole man’s fags an’ she’s gone straight back indoors,’ Sadie replied grinning.

  ‘I tell yer, Danny, this ’eavy rescue squad they’re formin’ is a very good idea,’ Billy Sullivan was saying over his usual weekend drink with Danny at the Kings Arms. ‘What they’re askin’ for is buildin’ workers an’ carpenters an’ all sorts o’ construction workers ter volunteer. The likes of us know quite a bit about ’ow the places are made, an’ should there be a bomb drop on a row of ’ouses, Gawd ferbid, we’d ’ave a bit more chance o’ savin’ lives when we’re workin’ in the ruins, proppin’ up timbers an’ such.’

  ‘So yer goin’ inter the ’eavy rescue then,’ Danny said. ‘Well, good luck ter yer, Billy, but I ’ope ter Gawd yer never ’ave ter put the idea inter practice.’

  ‘I’ll drink ter that,’ Billy said with a serious face.

  The pub was filling up as the two continued their chat, Billy talking about his coming visit to Annie and the children, and Danny telling him about his strange next-door neighbours the Dawsons. The piano was playing and a few of the regulars were singing. The balmy night and the sky full of stars formed a peaceful setting, far removed from war and the death and destruction soon to rain down on the little dockland community.

  ‘I ain’t seen ’im in ’ere before,’ Billy said suddenly to his friend.

  Danny glanced in the direction Billy nodded and shook his head. ‘Nor ’ave I.’

  Billy’s face became serious as he studied the stranger. ‘’E seems ter be takin’ a great interest in what’s goin’ on,’ he remarked.

  Danny regarded him cautiously. ‘ ’E could be lookin’ fer somebody,’ he replied, remembering what Billy had told him about the possible danger to both Terry and his wife Patricia. ‘Anyway, it’s none of our business.’

  Billy continued to watch the stranger closely, noting how he constantly cast his eye around at the other customers from his table in the corner, and when he went to the counter to get his round he approached Terry. ‘D’yer know ’im?’ he asked.

  Terry took a furtive glance in the stranger’s direction and shook his head. ‘
Never seen ’im before,’ he replied.

  The evening wore on and half an hour before closing time, Maurice Salter walked in, nodding agreeably to one or two of his acquaintances. The stranger immediately got up from his seat and approached him. The two became engrossed in conversation and then the stranger hurried from the pub, and Maurice took his drink and sat down at the table next to where Billy and Danny were sitting. After a friendly nod to the pair he took out a notebook and scribbled into it for a few seconds.

  ‘By the way, what size shoes do yer wives take?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Sixes, I fink,’ Danny replied. ‘Why d’yer ask?’

  ‘I jus’ done a deal,’ Maurice said grinning cheerfully. ‘I’m gettin’ some small sizes. I’ll let yer know when they arrive.’

  Carrie had heard the news of the raids on southern airfields and she waited with bated breath until the phone rang early that same evening. Tears of relief welled up in her eyes as she heard Rachel’s cheerful voice at the other end of the line. Joe sat down in the armchair and gave a huge sigh of relief. The war was moving closer, he realised. Soon the bombing of London would begin, and images of a terrible destruction, vivid in detail, plagued his sharp mind. He shuddered, feeling the need for just one drink to calm his grating nerves. He gripped his hands together tightly and stared down at them, fighting to ward off the dangerous desire that had suddenly assailed him.

  Carrie looked at him, seeing the tension in him and willing him to be strong. No words were needed as their eyes met. She came to him, massaging his neck with her hands, her thumbs kneading the strong muscles on his wide shoulders. ‘Is it bad?’ she whispered.

  Joe nodded, his eyes closed, his head held forward as the tension lessened. ‘It’s the first time fer ages,’ he said presently.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Carrie said softly, her hands and thumbs moving up his neck.

  Joe let his body grow limp, his shoulders sagging and his head resting very low beneath Carrie’s pressing fingers. ‘It’s passin’,’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘I’m glad,’ Carrie said, slowly going round to face him, her hands resting on his shoulders.

  He reached out and took her to him, pressing his head into her round belly. She moved her fingers through his hair, urging him on with her desire. His hands slipped from her hips, down the length of her shapely thighs. He could feel her warmth, her reaction as she moved against him. He caressed her upwards now, inside her skirt this time, riding it up as his hands moved to the inside of her thighs. He remembered the earlier times, when they were new lovers, Carrie a young vibrant woman embarking on a new romance, and he felt the same hot desire for her.

  Suddenly Carrie stepped back, her body just out of reach of his searching fingers, tempting him to come to her with a ghost of a smile touching her flushed face. Joe rose from his chair and clasped her, his arms encircling her, his body pressed against hers. His lips found her delicious neck and throat, her ears, her eyes. She sighed deeply, knowing that tonight was going to be special. ‘Take me ter bed, Joe,’ she groaned.

  He swept her up in his strong arms, kicking the parlour door back as he carried her out through the darkened passageway and into the small bedroom.

  ‘I want ter ferget everyfing ternight, Joe,’ she whispered. ‘Make me ferget.’

  Very gently he put her down on the cool bedcovers, and in the darkness she moved against him as together they undressed each other, Joe kissing her bared breasts and stiffening nipples, his lips travelling down her body, brushing her heaving belly. He could feel her trembling and hear her panting breaths, coming faster now, as the tide of love flowed over her aching body. She arched herself and then like an explosion of passion she knew a new, wonderful love, and sank back, still trembling as he relaxed against her, his passion spent in the fulfilment of her desire.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  On the first Saturday in September 1940 the sun shone down from a clear blue sky. Children were out early playing in the backstreets and women hurried back and forth from the market with laden shopping bags. The knife grinder pushed his contraption into Page Street early that morning and set it down on the bend of the road by the shelter gates, so that it was in view from both ends of the turning. A few curious children stood watching as the old man worked the treadle which set the stone revolving and sparks flying as he sharpened carving knives, blunt chisels, firewood axes and other implements that were brought out to him. Soon the children got bored and moved away, keeping their eyes open for the appearance of the ice-cream man, or the toffee-apple seller who always pedalled his bike into the turning with a loud cry that set the youngsters running. It began as a normal summer Saturday.

  Billy Sullivan finished work at twelve noon and he met Danny at the Kings Arms for a lunchtime drink. Maisie finished her first round of shopping and made a cup of tea for herself and Sadie, the two sitting with their feet up in Maisie’s parlour. Maudie sat in her parlour reading the Daily Mirror and worrying over the latest war news, while Dolly hustled the kids out of the back yard so that she could scrub it clean with the yard broom. Bert cornered a much mellowed Josiah and complained about kids clambering over the shelter roof and digging up the earth spread over the concrete, which in his estimation weakened the shelter, while Maurice Salter turned over in bed, trying to get a few hours’ sleep after his night duty at the gasworks. His three pretty daughters painted their toenails and put their hair in rollers, wishing to make themselves attractive to the lucky men in their lives.

  Round the corner in Bacon Street the old tenement block looked as grotty as ever, with the sun shining on the decaying brickwork, the rotting window frames and the leaning chimney stacks. The heat of the sun ripened the communal rubbish tip at the rear of Bacon Buildings and the stench began to drift out into the street. Children raced up and down the creaking wooden stairs and were told off by irate denizens who threatened them with unspeakable consequences. Elderly tenants of the eyesore tenement puffed up and down the stairs with shopping baskets, and opposite along the row of two-up, two-down houses, people stood chatting at their front doors, glancing up occasionally at the dirty windows and rotting sashes of their neighbours’ flats. The rag-and-bone man came into Bacon Street and called out without much response, while children from the tenement block and the houses opposite sat together in the gutter, whipped coloured tops along the street or played marbles.

  Not many streets away in the transport yard in Wilson Street, Frank Galloway sat with his foreman organising the Monday worksheets, and outside the yard man hosed down the cobbled yard. Lorries were returning and being parked for the weekend, the drivers arranging a drink together before going off home. At the end of the turning, children sat on the river wall watching the activity along the quays, the cranes swinging and the dockers shifting the cargoes, working in gangs and cursing the clumsy crane driver or the dithering carman. Tugs tooted and lightermen hauled on hawsers with scarred hands and leaned their body weight against the mooring poles.

  In Salmon Lane the yard gates were secured open for the returning lorries and Carrie was busy in the office. Outside, Joe was tidying a pile of worn-out tyres, ready for the totter’s call. Across the yard in the family house, Nellie sat at her bedroom window idly watching the men unloading a lorry in the yard of the pickle factory, while in the front bedroom Rachel was lying on her stomach on the bed, trying to apply herself to the difficult task of writing a letter to Mary Hannen. It was hard to convey in words just how sorry she felt for the unfortunate young woman, and she put down the pen and rested her head on the cool pillow. Mary was in a military hospital in Kent, recovering from a nervous breakdown following the tragic news she had received about her fiancé, Timothy. Rachel realised it was very unlikely that Mary would return to West Marden and she knew that she would miss her terribly.

  Wallace had tired of playing with his brothers and sister, and as he sat hunched on the kerbside he watched the women hurrying back and forth with their shopping and felt it was time he
took a walk to the market. There were usually apples lying under the stalls and he might be able to find a few to bring home. If he got some of those big apples that tasted nasty, he could smash them into pieces and take them to the river later to feed the swans that floated by when it was quiet. His attention was drawn to some children playing marbles in the gutter and one of the little coloured balls bounced over the cobbles and landed at his feet. Wallace picked it up and felt its smooth surface, watched by the children who were too frightened to ask for it back. He grinned lopsidedly and threw the marble across the cobbles, hoping they would ask him to play. The children hurried away and Wallace tried to remember what it was he had intended to do.

  It was a normal summer Saturday.

  At twenty minutes to five that evening Josiah Dawson was dozing in the parlour when he was rudely woken by a civil defence messenger who had pedalled furiously into Page Street.