Tanner Trilogy 03 - Backstreet Child

by Harry Bowling

  ‘There’s a red alert!’ he gasped.

  When he had roused himself properly by splashing cold water over his face, Josiah hurried out to Dolly who was putting her washing through the wringer in the tiny back yard. ‘Keep them kids ’andy, luv, there’s a red alert,’ he said as casually as possible.

  He strolled nonchalantly along Page Street, hoping he would not be stopped by any of his neighbours needing to chat. He whistled loudly as he reached the shelter gates, removed the padlock and then swung the gates back, only to be hailed by Bert Jolly.

  ‘What yer openin’ them gates for?’ he asked the street warden.

  ‘I ’ave ter test the ’inges every so often, in case they get rusted,’ Josiah replied, feeling pleased with himself for his quick response.

  ‘They should be kept greased,’ Bert said knowingly.

  Josiah walked off towards the main road without replying, to the annoyance of Bert who had intended to have a chat and find out something.

  The roar of the air-raid siren sent the warden rushing back to his home. People were spilling into the street, startled by the frightening wail. Women came hurrying towards the air-raid shelter, holding on to scared children. Old men, young women, babies in arms, frail grannies and men in shirtsleeves converged on the corner of the turning. Josiah grabbed his daughter while Dolly took the hands of her sons, and together they hurried along with the rest of the community. A policeman stood at the shelter gates, urging everyone to keep calm, and as Dolly hurried down the slope to the shelter entrance, she turned to Josiah with a worried look on her face. ‘ ’Ave yer seen Wallace?’ she asked breathlessly.

  Josiah shook his head and Dolly raised her eyes to the heavens. ‘That lad’ll send me to an early grave,’ she groaned.

  Suddenly Wallace turned the corner and hurried past the Kings Arms, holding a splintered apple box in his arms. He caught sight of the policeman at the shelter gates and bit on his lip in anguish. Today he had found nice red apples, as well as some big sour ones for the swans. He stopped in his tracks, uncertain of just what to do, but a loud shout from one of the street folk jerked him into action. ‘Don’t stand there like a bloody idiot! Get in the shelter quick!’ the voice commanded.

  Wallace hurried on towards the shelter, his face red with exertion and fear of what the policeman was going to say about his apples. He need not have worried, for at that moment a drone filled the air and increased until it was a roar. Up above in the clear blue sky, black objects flew in close formation, breaking away as anti-aircraft guns opened up. Small puffs of white expanded high among the air armada and one plane seemed to blow apart silently.

  The policeman was shouting at Wallace to hurry and the lad broke into a trot, his tongue hanging out of the corner of his mouth. The sound of exploding bombs mixed with the crash of anti-aircraft fire and black smoke climbed into the sky. Flames licked up and then a huge eruption of sparks burst into a wide spray, dropping to earth slowly.

  ‘It’s the Surrey! They’re bombin’ the docks!’ Bert shouted as he hurried past the policeman.

  Inside the shelter, people sat fearfully, listening to the din of battle. Children nestled against their parents, while Maisie and Sadie sat on each side of Maudie who was shaking violently. Dolly cuddled her brood close to her and a few feet away Iris Tanner gathered her children round her, talking in a low voice to reassure them. ‘There, there. Now don’t cry. It’s our guns that’s makin’ the noise,’ she told them.

  Maurice had merely turned over in bed at the sound of the siren and it was his daughters screaming out for him to come down that woke him up properly. Together they had hurried to the shelter as the first bombs fell and Maurice was still cursing loudly at having his sleep interrupted.

  In the adjoining cavern the Bacon Street folk sat together talking in low voices. Mrs Brown and Mrs Jameson were still puffing from their exertions after hurrying down from their top-floor flats. The elderly Mr Cuthbert sat studying the racing page, trying to look at ease but trembling inside. Tom Casey sat with his wife and their brood, making faces to allay the children’s fears.

  Bert had found himself a seat near Sadie and Maisie, who were still trying to comfort Maudie. ‘Fousands o’ tons o’ wood in that Surrey,’ he said with conviction. ‘It’ll burn like billy-o.’

  ‘Shut yer noise, can’t yer?’ Sadie grated. ‘Yer frightenin’ Maudie.’

  Bert gave Sadie a hard look and left his seat to join the rest of the men who were gathered under the concrete canopy at the entrance to the shelter. Heads were peering out at the darkening sky as the huge pall of smoke spewed out and upwards from the doomed timber docks a little way downriver. The sound of fire engines added to the din. A messenger lad came pedalling madly into the turning and handed the policeman a note.

  ‘Yer wanted at the warden’s post soon as the raid’s over,’ the constable informed Josiah.

  Bert nudged Tom Casey, who had come out of the stuffy interior for a breath of air. ‘I feel sorry fer those poor bleeders downtown,’ he said. ‘They’ll be blasted inter kingdom come.’ Tom stared at Bert vacantly as he went on, ‘If them bridges are down they’ll be isolated.’

  Josiah caught the elderly Job’s comforter roughly by the arm. ‘Keep yer voice down, yer’ll frighten the women an’ kids,’ he growled.

  ‘’E’s frightenin’ me,’ Tom said.

  Danny Tanner stood on the deck of the speeding tug along with two other lightermen as the craft made its way to the conflagration that was Surrey Docks. He had seen Iris and the children safely into the shelter before answering the call to try to save as many barges as possible. As he watched the smoke and flames rising high into the red sky, he feared for the future. If this was a sample of what modern warfare was like, then God help us all, he thought.

  The tug neared the flames and the heat was intense. Smoke drifted out into the middle of the river and burning resin from the seasoning timber poured down over the river wall and set the Thames alight.

  ‘Those two!’ the tug skipper shouted. ‘There’s not much time.’

  Hawsers were attached to the barges and slowly they were turned and manoeuvred into midstream. One of the lightermen slipped in his haste and fell onto the edge of the barge rave. His colleague rushed over, barely managing to pull him back from a fiery death in the burning resin below him.

  Danny had secured the other barge and was still standing aft as the tug hauled the brace from danger. Bombs were falling as the aircraft made yet another bombing run and one loud explosion nearer than the rest sent Danny sprawling. He managed to grab a hawser ring as his legs shot over the side of the barge and he held on, gritting his teeth as he slowly pulled himself away from danger. As soon as he recovered enough to sit up, he looked across at the other barge. The two lightermen had disappeared. Danny’s heart sank and he hung his head in grief. He had known Mickey French and Lofty Barnett for a number of years. They were both his age, good, skilful lightermen, and they both had families.

  Smoke was drifting along from the Surrey and it was difficult to see the tug clearly, but Danny knew that the skipper would not have been able to do anything to help his comrades, even if he was aware that the two men had fallen into the burning water. Danny held his head low as the barges were slowly towed away from the thick smoke and flames, occasionally glancing back to what looked like hell itself. The barges were to be moored at Butler’s Wharf, just downriver from Tower Bridge, and as Danny prepared to jump ashore and secure the hawser, his heart leapt. His two colleagues were getting up from their prone positions on the other barge, their faces coal-black from the smoke. He had been unable to see them behind the rim of the hold and he had assumed the worst.

  ‘Danny, yer look like a bloody chimney sweep,’ his friend Mickey called out.

  ‘You could do wiv a bar o’ Lifebuoy yerself,’ Danny shouted back as he hauled on the heavy rope.

  George Galloway left the Saracen’s Head public house and made his way slowly home, leaning heavily on his
walking cane. The day was fine and warm, and George decided he would sit in the nearby St James’s Park for an hour or so. His thoughts were centred on his grandson Tony, and he hoped that the lad would take heed of the advice he had been given. If so, there was a very good chance of the Galloway name being carried on now, the old man told himself. The lad had Galloway blood and would prosper, providing he survived the war. It was a shame about his mother, but it was not his fault she had left it so long to get in touch. In fact the woman should have come to see him when the lad was a baby. He could have been placed in a good school, got an education and the best start in life. George reached the park gates and he walked into the quietness of the trees and lawns. Provided he lived a few more years, and the war permitting, he would at least be able to instil a little bit of business sense into young Tony.

  The early afternoon was warm and George settled himself in a seat beside a flower bed. The Scotch and the walk had made the old man drowsy and soon his head drooped. Suddenly he was woken by the wail of the siren and when he looked at his watch he saw it was five o’clock. He had slept for nearly two hours and his back and legs felt stiff. He got up slowly and hobbled out of the park towards Tyburn Square. The bombing started. George could see black smoke and flames rising into the clear blue sky. Without thinking, he rubbed the gold medallion between his thumb and forefinger, a habit of years whenever he was troubled or deep in thought. He hurried on a little, his walking cane tapping on the pavement, and when he finally reached Tyburn Square the sky was turning purple with the flames and smoke. Cyril Botley was standing at the bottom of the short flight of steps to his front door, gazing skyward.

  ‘You’d better come down to the shelter, Mr Galloway,’ he called out.

  George growled to himself. The man was a bloody nuisance. He had constructed a shelter in his basement with large timbers and girders, equipped it with armchairs and all the comforts he could think of for him and that silly woman of his, and had insisted that George share it with them in time of danger, as he put it. The elder Galloway had no intention of sharing a shelter with anyone, let alone that pair of wet blankets. He had decided that if there should be air raids, he would get drunk as quickly as possible and sleep through them. If the house was hit by a bomb he would know nothing about it anyway, and as far as the noise was concerned, a large quantity of good Scotch whisky would solve that little problem.

  ‘No, it’s all right. I’m goin’ in fer a drink,’ George replied.

  ‘Nonsense, there’s an air raid taking place!’ Cyril said sharply. ‘You’ll be a lot safer down with us. Besides, I promised your son Frank I’d keep an eye on you.’

  George swore under his breath. Frank was going to get a good telling-off for making other people think that he needed to be watched out for, he vowed.

  ‘Come on, Mr Galloway, in you come,’ Cyril insisted, going towards him and taking his arm.

  ‘I need a drink,’ George moaned.

  ‘There’s a drink in the shelter,’ his neighbour told him with a wink.

  Reluctantly George allowed himself to be shepherded into the house, down a flight of stairs to the dimly lit basement and into a low armchair facing Beryl Botley. As his eyes grew accustomed to the light, he saw that his neighbour had been very busy with his shelter. Carpet covered the floor and there was a cabinet in one corner, on which stood a wireless. The walls had been decorated with a flower-patterned wallpaper and the ceiling was freshly whitewashed.

  ‘Mr Galloway needs a drink, dear,’ Cyril said, standing beside the cabinet and waiting for her reaction.

  ‘Very well then, but you’d better be careful, Cyril. You know what the doctor said,’ Beryl reminded him.

  Cyril grinned at George and poured a tiny amount of whisky into two glasses, then handed one to his guest. ‘Here’s to us,’ he said jovially.

  George looked disdainfully at the tiny measure and gulped it down before his host got his glass to his lips. ‘Cheers,’ he said sarcastically.

  ‘Shut that cabinet now, Cyril,’ Beryl ordered, holding her temple as though in pain.

  ‘Headache, Beryl?’ her husband asked.

  ‘I’ve got a touch of migraine,’ she answered.

  ‘Can I get you a cold flannel, dear?’ he asked dutifully.

  ‘What she needs is a stiff drink,’ George growled.

  ‘I can’t stand the stuff,’ Beryl groaned. ‘It makes me ill. Yes, get me a cold flannel.’

  Cyril hurried up the stairs and George stared with open distaste at the thin woman sitting facing him, feeling that he would like to take his stick to her.

  ‘Why don’t yer put yer ’ead between yer legs?’ he suggested with the beginnings of a crooked smile on his whisky-flushed face.

  ‘I’ve a headache, I don’t feel faint,’ she told him sharply.

  ‘Yer don’t look too good,’ George said. ‘In fact yer look as white as that ceilin’.’

  Beryl gave the old man a hard look and averted her eyes quickly, believing that she had made her dislike clear. Cyril was soon back, fussing over her.

  George looked longingly at the drinks cabinet. ‘That whisky was nice,’ he said. ‘I like a good whisky.’

  Cyril was too busy holding the flannel to Beryl’s brow to take much notice, but George was not giving up yet.

  ‘Is that Irish or Scotch?’ he asked nodding to his empty glass.

  Cyril still did not take heed and George struggled up from his uncomfortably low armchair.

  ‘Where are you going, Mr Galloway?’ Cyril asked quickly. ‘The air raid’s still on.’

  ‘I’m goin’ back ter my place an’ I’m gonna get pissed,’ he replied, giving Beryl a blinding look. ‘I’m not gonna get pissed’ere, am I?’

  As soon as he had left, Beryl threw the flannel down on the floor by her feet. ‘I don’t want that horrible man in here again, is that understood?’ she said bitterly.

  ‘But I promised I’d keep an eye out for him,’ Cyril said meekly.

  ‘The devil takes care of his own,’ she replied.

  In the adjoining house George settled down to another Scotch, reminding himself to have a word with Cyril Botley at the first opportunity. The man will have to threaten her with a good hiding or she’ll end up making his life a misery, he thought, bringing his cane down heavily on the seat of the empty chair facing him.

  Carrie and Joe had decided very early on that should there be air raids, they would take refuge in the cellar of the house. It had been reinforced with large timbers and some chairs had been left down there ready. Joe had run an electric cable down for lighting and placed sandbags against the narrow windows set in the base of the house to protect against flying glass. He was satisfied that they would be safe enough, unless the house suffered a direct hit.

  When the bombs started to fall, Joe ushered Carrie and her mother into the cellar down the narrow, creaking stairs. Nellie was white-faced and trembling. Carrie was worried about Rachel, who had gone to see her friend Amy.

  ‘She’ll be all right,’ Joe said to reassure her. ‘There’s a shelter right close to Amy’s.’

  When Joe had settled Carrie and her mother in the cellar, he went up the narrow flight of stairs and out into the yard. High to his right, clouds of black smoke blotted out the strong sun, and he saw sparks and flames above the rooftops of the adjoining houses. The stench of charred wood carried into the yard, and above the firing guns and explosions he could hear the constant clanging of fire bells.

  The raiders at last turned for home, but the all-clear siren did not sound. The roar of anti-aircraft guns ceased and only the faint sound of a fire bell shattered the eerie silence that had settled over the little riverside streets. Carrie and Nellie emerged from the cellar and joined Joe in the yard, staring up at the angry sky.

  A few minutes later Rachel hurried into the yard. ‘It’s all right, Mum. I was in the street shelter with Amy,’ she said quickly, seeing her mother’s concern. ‘It’s terrible. I ’eard the Surrey’s bin destroy
ed and there’s a lot o’ people killed downtown.’

  Nellie put her handkerchief to her mouth. ‘Gawd ’elp us all,’ she said in almost a whisper.

  It had started as a normal summer Saturday and became a day that would never be forgotten by the folk in the riverside backstreets of Bermondsey and Rotherhithe.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  After the bombers had left, the people of Page Street stood on their front doorsteps gazing up at the blood-red sky. Vast fires were still raging out of control at the Surrey Docks and more and more fire tenders were being brought in to fight the conflagration. Now and then someone came into the little turning with more information about the air raid, and the news was quickly passed along from one small group to another.