Tanner Trilogy 03 - Backstreet Child

by Harry Bowling

  Josiah winced as a nearby explosion rocked the house but his host did not seem in any way perturbed. ‘I’ll make us a nice cuppa,’ he grinned, putting the match over the gas ring. ‘Sod it, I fergot the gas was cut orf,’ he said, shaking his finger as he dropped the burnt-down match.

  Josiah made to leave but Maurice suddenly caught his arm. ‘ ’Ere, I know. There’s a drop o’ brandy in the cupboard,’ he said lightly. ‘Let’s ’ave a snort.’

  Two hours later the street warden left the Salter house feeling very unsteady on his feet. It was the first time he had let a drop of alcohol pass his lips since being released from prison and he felt ashamed of himself. That was a slip, but it won’t happen again, he promised himself as he staggered towards the shelter.

  The raiders had left, and in the early morning air Josiah could smell the sweet aroma of cordite, brick dust, and the acrid smell of smouldering timbers. Thankfully the street had survived, although all around there had been heavy damage. Fires raged at the wharves and warehouses and he could see the glow in the sky from a large fire, probably the gasworks, he concluded.

  Back at the shelter Josiah tried to pull himself together. Dolly would be very upset if she thought that he had gone back on the drink, and being in a state of intoxication would certainly lose him much of his respectability among the street folk.

  ‘You all right?’ Tom Casey called out to him as he made his way rather unsteadily down the slope to the shelter entrance.

  ‘Yeah, I fink so,’ Josiah answered. ‘I got caught in a blast. It’s knocked me bandy.’

  Willing hands helped the warden onto a bench and men gathered round him, eager to know the extent of the damage caused by the air raid.

  ‘I ’eard Abbey Street copped it.’

  ‘Is Bacon Buildin’s all right?’

  ‘Wilson Street’s bin wiped out, by all accounts.’

  Josiah put his hands up for silence. ‘I ain’t bin far from the turnin’ but there’s no gas on. The gasworks copped it, that much I do know,’ he said, holding his head in his hands.

  Just then the all-clear siren sounded, and as folk emerged shaken and white-faced from the shelter, someone called out to Dolly, ‘Yer better get yer man ’ome, gel. ’E’s bin blasted.’

  ‘Yeah, get ’im ’ome, luv. That man’s done us proud,’ someone else piped in.

  Dolly took Josiah’s arm, their daughter holding on to her coat and the boys holding hands, the three youngsters yawning and pale-faced as they trooped home together in the early dawn light.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  On Sunday morning the knife grinder pushed his contraption into Page Street and stood waiting for his customers to bring out their knives and choppers. He looked apprehensive, as though intruding upon the privacy of the little turning, but Sadie walked up to him with her carving knife and gave him a big smile.

  ‘The bloody fing won’t cut frew butter,’ she told him. ‘Put a good edge on it, I’ve got a joint fer dinner.’

  Maisie took her blunt axe to him for regrinding and as she stood waiting alongside Sadie for the man to finish the job she shook her head sadly.

  ‘Last night was a nightmare. I could ’ave kissed ’im when I saw ’im pushin’ that fing inter the street,’ she remarked.

  Sadie gave her old friend a warm smile. ‘Yer know, Mais, I was jus’ finkin’ the same fing,’ she replied. ‘It was like bein’ reassured seein’ ’im come round this mornin’.’

  ‘I wonder if the ice-cream man’ll come round?’ Maisie said, slipping her hands inside her apron.

  ‘Gawd knows,’ Sadie replied. ‘Anyway, the gas is back. At least we’ll be able ter cook our dinners.’

  Children stayed close to their front doors on that Sunday morning and the church bells were silent. Bells rang on the fire engines as they travelled to replace the tenders that had been at the fires through the night and ambulances sounded their bells as they rushed along neighbouring roads. Although many people were still unaccounted for and many others were known to be buried under tons of rubble, the news broadcaster gave out estimated figures of deaths and injuries. East End and south-east London hospitals had been damaged but nurses and doctors worked tirelessly to accommodate the constant flow of casualties. Tired, weary wardens and rescue workers took the opportunity to get some sleep, and women cooked their dinners on a low gas flame.

  Brenda Massey took delivery of a tailor’s dummy, and to keep herself calm she started work on a dress she had cut out from material Maurice had given her. Bert Jolly went for his Sunday papers and moaned about the shortage of tobacco, although Albert Lockwood the proprietor of the corner shop had saved him a half-ounce packet of Nosegay. Maurice Salter caught up on his sleep, while his three daughters cleaned the house and prepared the dinner, and a few houses away Josiah slept off the effects of the drinking binge he had had with Maurice. In the Dawsons’ back yard Wallace sat looking through one of his brother’s picture books, not really able to understand just what had happened to change everything. That morning he had been bullied into not going down to the riverside; he felt nervous and his eyes kept glancing up to the smoke-laden sky.

  Frank Galloway called along Wilson Street to make sure the business premises were still intact, and then after looking at the row of houses opposite which had received a direct hit, he went along to see his father. A rather strained next-door neighbour greeted him and told him that the old man had insisted on staying in his own house all through the raid and had only just left, presumably for church. Frank smiled as he walked out of Tyburn Square. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times his father had gone to church and he made his way to the Saracen’s Head.

  In another local public house, the subdued customers drank their beer and related their own stories of the Saturday night of terror. Terry and his wife Patricia looked tired as they served pints of frothing ale and made small talk, and when Billy walked into the public bar with Danny, the landlord made his way over to serve them.

  ‘We spent the night in the cellar,’ he said stifling a yawn. ‘Pat slept fairly well but I didn’t get a wink.’

  Billy leaned wearily on the counter. ‘I was out most o’ the night. We ’ad a bad ’un down at the tanneries,’ he replied.

  Danny, too, was feeling the effects of his labours on the river the previous afternoon and he sipped his pint quietly, listening to the conversation between Billy and Terry.

  ‘Any strange faces bin in ’ere lately?’ Billy asked.

  Terry shook his head. ‘There were quite a few o’ Dougal’s cronies at the trial but apart from a few dark looks they never made any threats,’ he replied. ‘Mind you, five years wasn’t a bad result, considerin’ the man’s previous form.’

  ‘Are yer still plannin’ on gettin’ out?’ Billy asked in a low voice.

  Terry looked sideways before replying. ‘We’re still sortin’ fings out but it’ll take a few weeks yet,’ he said. ‘It can’t come quick enough fer me. It’s gettin’ a bit dangerous livin’ in Bermon’sey, an’ I don’t only mean the air raids. I want a fresh start, some place where me an’ Pat ain’t known. Anyway, we’ll’ave a drink tergevver before we do go.’

  Danny cast his eyes around the bar. The piano was not being played today and there were a few regular faces missing.

  The domino team were sitting together drinking quietly, and when a bleary-eyed Maurice Salter made his appearance, they started a game. The usual shouts and arguments broke out at the table, and then a few minutes later old Mrs Watson fainted. They carried her out and sat her in a chair while she recovered, Bert Jolly supervising and insisting that she was suffering from high blood pressure.

  ‘’Ere, let me get at ’er,’ he said, blowing a cloud of pipe smoke in her bright red face. ‘That’s the way ter bring ’em round.’

  Mrs Watson coughed violently, and an argument started between the little pensioner and another elderly man.

  ‘That stuff’ll kill ’er,’ the old man growled.
r />   ‘Yer can’t get a better bit o’ baccy,’ Bert said indignantly.

  ‘She wants fresh air, not that bloody stuff down ’er insides,’ the old man shouted.

  Patricia separated the antagonists and administered a glass of water to the unfortunate Mrs Watson and she sat up straight, her eyes popping.

  ‘There you are,’ the old man said triumphantly to Bert Jolly.

  ‘That’s bound ter revive ’er,’ Bert said dismissively. ‘The silly ole mare’s not used to it.’

  Billy and Danny took their leave near closing time and walked along the quiet Jamaica Road towards Salmon Lane. Glass littered the pavement and they saw men boarding up shopfronts and other workmen sweeping the road and tramlines. Smoke still hung in the summer sky, and the birds in the tall plane trees did not seem to be singing like they usually did.

  ‘Carrie said the food’s gonna be on the table at ’alf two, so we’d better get a move on,’ Danny said.

  They quickened their pace a little, feeling hungry after the beer. When they reached the yard and stepped through the wicket gate, their mouths fell open in surprise. Carrie had set up a long trestle table in the shade just outside the front door and covered it with a spotlessly white bedsheet. The table was set with the best china and Carrie had placed a vase of flowers in the centre. Danny’s children rushed to meet him and Carrie gave Billy a fond hug. ‘C’mon, yer just in time,’ she said with a smile.

  Nellie sat at the head of the table with Joe facing her at the other end; Iris and the children were together on one side, and Rachel, Danny and Billy sat facing them. The meal of roast beef, roast potatoes, minted peas and Yorkshire pudding was consumed with relish and Carrie breathed a sigh of relief. The gas pressure had been low all morning and the Yorkshire pudding had been reluctant to rise.

  They talked about everyday things, and everyone was trying to act as though the air raids had never happened. Billy made them all laugh with his account of the fainting and Bert Jolly’s first aid, while Nellie relived old memories of her time in Page Street, telling the gathering about the time their driver got drunk on a street outing to Epping Forest and she had to drive the horse and cart home. Carrie talked about her childhood trips to the farms to fetch hay with her father and Rachel spoke about some of her more light-hearted experiences on joining up. They were all doing their best to make the meal a happy one, all trying desperately to put to the back of their minds the knowledge that last night’s air raid was only the beginning.

  Billy was missing Annie and the children as keenly as ever, but he was glad that they were at least away from the bombing. Danny worried for Iris and his children’s safety, wondering if they had made the right decision in keeping the family together during these increasingly dangerous times. Carrie worried for Rachel who was leaving early that evening for her camp, and for her mother, who was getting very unsteady on her feet lately and looking very frail. Iris laughed with her children and talked of happier days with Carrie and Nellie, and occasionally she gave Danny a secret look. Joe sat quietly listening, his eyes straying to his beloved Carrie. All were trying to savour the fleeting moment and fix in their minds the happy event, albeit shadowed by the drifting smoke high above them, and the acrid smell of smouldering timbers that was carried into the yard on the light summer breeze.

  In Page Street the gas pressure had caused a problem and many a dinner was spoiled. Granny Massey sat grumpily eyeing Brenda as her daughter pinned pieces of her dress together. ‘I blame that bloke o’ yours fer the gas,’ she growled. ‘What did ’e want ter put the furnace out for?’

  Brenda sighed resignedly. ‘They ’ad to, Mum. The gasometer got bombed. It wasn’t Maurice’s fault the dinner was late.’

  ‘The bloody spuds weren’t browned, an’ as fer the meat, it fair made me jaws ache tryin’ ter chew it. It was tough as ole boots.’

  ‘You should ’ave put yer teeth in, Mum,’ Brenda told her.

  ‘Yer know I can’t wear ’em fer eatin’,’ the old lady replied irritably. ‘They make me gums ’urt.’

  Brenda sighed again and stood up to slip her creation over the padded model in the corner of the parlour. For a while she worked at pinning and adjusting the length of the dress, and Granny nodded off. Brenda left the room to search for some suitable thread which was missing from the needlework basket.

  Granny woke up suddenly when her arm slipped from the side of the chair. The sun had disappeared behind the rooftops and the light in the parlour had grown dim. The old lady grunted as she adjusted her position in the chair and then she saw the figure standing in the corner. ‘I fancy a cuppa,’ she told it.

  When it made no effort to go and get it, Granny became irritable again. ‘Yer never consider my feelin’s,’ she moaned. ‘I don’t ask fer much. I wouldn’t mind if I was always askin’ fer fings. A nice cup o’ tea ain’t too much to ask for, surely ter Gawd.’

  There was no answer and Granny got even more cross. ‘That’s right, jus’ ignore me,’ she went on. ‘I’d be better orf goin’ in the work’ouse. At least they’d give yer a cuppa now an’ then.’

  In the dim light the old lady squinted at the tall figure standing in the corner. It seemed to be mocking her and she took out her handkerchief from the sleeve of her cardigan and dabbed away a tear. ‘Go on, stand there like a dummy,’ she ranted. ‘Yer’ll be sorry when I’ve gorn.’

  Brenda finally found the desired cotton and when she came back into the parlour she saw that her mother was stirring. The old lady was in fact trying to get off to sleep again and she jumped when Brenda touched her arm.

  ‘Would yer like a nice cuppa, Mum?’ she enquired cheerfully.

  ‘Poke yer tea,’ the old lady growled. ‘I ain’t gonna beg fer a cuppa.’

  Brenda sighed in dismay and went into the scullery to put the kettle on, wondering if the air raid had scrambled her mother’s brains.

  Darkness fell and the dreaded air-raid siren sounded. On this occasion folk were ready and the exodus from their homes in Bermondsey’s backstreets took place in an orderly fashion. People carried pillows and blankets, flasks of tea and packets of sandwiches as they hurried out, ready for a long, terrifying night. Children took board games under their arms and babies cried at being woken suddenly as they were grabbed unceremoniously from their cots. Men shepherded their families into the safety of the shelter and stood guard under the concrete canopy, preparing for another dangerous night.

  Soon the roar of planes was drowned by the crash of gunfire, and then the scream and clatter of falling bombs began. Explosions rocked the shelter to its foundations and people prayed to their particular gods for deliverance. All night the bombs fell, and all night folk strived to comfort their loved ones and catch some sleep. The hours of darkness were filled with unremitting terror for the shelterers, and on that night the Luftwaffe achieved what campaigners had failed to do for years. They destroyed Bacon Buildings.

  Fires were started everywhere and an oil bomb landed in Salmon Lane, setting the pickle factory on fire. Down in the cellar of Carrie’s home the sound of the explosion was deafening and when Joe ventured up to ground level, he saw that all the windows in the back of the house had been blown out. Down on the Thames a freighter was burning fiercely, and fire boats lay offshore on the ebbing tide spraying their hoses on the burning wharves. Fire tenders hurried back and forth round craters and debris, and rescue squads battled to save people buried under tons of masonry.

  In Bacon Street the scene was horrendous. People forgot their own safety as they struggled to dig their neighbours out from the downstairs flats where some of them had been taking shelter. Bombs and shrapnel were still falling from the sky, which was as bright as day.

  The raging inferno that was London could be seen for miles, and when Rachel took a well-earned rest from the frantic activity of the plotting room at West Marden, she stood gazing up at the red sky with an aching heart. Fear for her family turned her stomach over and she felt distraught. She knew that more raiders w
ere on their way and tears of frustration filled her eyes. Janie Hall stood beside her, her arm round Rachel’s shoulders. There was nothing she could say, nothing that would help to comfort her friend, and she too felt the tears coming.

  A merciful dawn brought relief for the besieged river folk. There was work to be done, children to care for and meals to be prepared. Many people’s homes had been destroyed and friends and relatives took on the burden of caring for them, but for other homeless it was the rest centre or Salvation Army hostels. Gas and electricity were cut off in many homes and tea was brewed over coal fires. Some folk were wandering the streets in a state of shock, and piercing cries rang out for dead loved ones as they scrabbled through the rubble that once was home, or just stood gazing emptily at the debris.

  On Monday morning people went to work as usual, weary and frightened at the thought of the coming night. At the end of the day a tired work force shook hands with each other and wished their workmates and colleagues God’s blessing.