Tanner Trilogy 03 - Backstreet Child

by Harry Bowling

  Their lips met in a soft, then hard, smouldering kiss. Rachel stood on tiptoe, her arm about his neck. He held her in a tight embrace, his lips moving from her mouth to her neck, brushing her throat. She sighed deeply, her breath beginning to come faster as he caressed her. She could feel his hands stroking her back, down and round to the top of her thigh. Rachel let her body arch backwards, feeling his full length pressing against her. She could feel the urgency of him and he groaned as she stroked him. With a quick movement he picked her up bodily and moved over the bed. Slowly he lowered her down, his breath coming hot against her soft flushed cheek. He was above her now, feeling the roundness of her small firm breasts. He started to undo the buttons of her uniform jacket and suddenly she stopped him. ‘Wait, Tony. I need ter freshen up,’ she whispered.

  He watched her walk out to the adjoining bathroom and then got up from the bed, hot and ready with the promise and excitement. He turned off the lamp before opening the curtains. In the far distance he could see searchlights probing the night sky and knew that London was preparing for another night of bombing. For a while he stared out over the dark hills and then he heard the bathroom door creak open. He drew the curtains shut and turned round. Rachel stood naked before him, her slim body silhouetted against the light behind her. Tony gasped at her beauty. Her legs were long and slender and her waist was narrow above her wide round hips. He gazed at her breasts standing out firmly and glimpsed her small pink nipples in the darkness. Rachel had loosened her hair and it hung down round her shoulders and over one side of her forehead.

  ‘Yer look stunnin’,’ he gasped.

  Very slowly she moved to him, her body seeming to glide across the floor. She put her arms round his neck and her lips parted slightly for his kiss. Tony was suddenly aware of his rough battledress against her bare skin and his kiss was soft and gentle, almost apologetic.

  ‘I gotta undress,’ he said in a whisper.

  She smiled at him as he moved away. ‘Don’t be long, lover. I need yer badly.’

  Tony came out from the bathroom, turning the light off behind him, and in the blackness he found her aching body. She could feel him trembling as he moved against her on the bed, his lips touching her mouth, her neck, and then her stiffening nipples, licking them with his tongue, softly and slowly, tracing the shape of the tiny mounds. She sighed and wrapped her long slender legs round his thighs, guiding him, urging him into her as he moved up to kiss her open mouth. In that ecstatic moment they became one, as he thrust deep into her, filling her with a delicious sensation she wished would last for ever. He groaned as he pressed faster and deeper and then with a deep sigh and shudder he was spent, his love exploding out of him in waves of quick hot pleasure. He sank down sweating on top of her and they rolled sideways, still locked together in a lingering desire. For a few moments they lay there silently, listening to each other’s quick heartbeats and quiet breathlessness. The feelings of frantic excitement were slowly dissolving into gentle sensations of warm satisfaction, and Rachel sighed. ‘God, I’m tingling all over,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘I do love yer, Tony.’

  He kissed her lips softly and held her to him, wanting this moment to become etched in his mind for ever. ‘I love you too, Rachel,’ he said quietly.

  Far in the distance the light from raging fires grew wider and higher in the clear night sky. The flash of high explosives made the glow pulsate, a living nightmare that lasted through the long night, searing the saddened eyes of the two young lovers as they sat huddled together in blankets at the small bedroom window.

  ‘’Ow much more can they take, Tony?’ she said, brushing a tear from her eye.

  He shook his head. ‘They’ll take it as long as it goes on, darlin’,’ he whispered. ‘The women’ll be standin’ in the queues termorrer an’ the men’ll go ter work. The kids’ll be out playin’ in the ruins an’ collectin’ shrapnel.’

  Rachel turned her back to the window and went over to the bed. ‘Close the curtains, darlin’, and hold me. Hold me tight. I’m so frightened.’

  ‘Of that?’ he said, nodding toward the distant glow.

  ‘No, fer us. I can see no future fer us while that goes on,’ she replied.

  Tony went to her, enveloping her in his strong arms. ‘We’ll survive, Rachel,’ he said softly. ‘You an’ I both.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Throughout the bitterly cold December, the air-raid sirens sounded nightly and the blitz continued unabated. Wharves burned, warehouses crumbled in ruins, and tramlines in Jamaica Road were torn out and twisted into knots by the ferocity of one high explosive that landed in the middle of the thoroughfare. Albert Lockwood had the front of his shop blown out, and another bomb landed on the desolation that had once been Bacon Buildings. The little houses in Page Street were still intact, however, apart from missing windowpanes and roof slates. The shelter remained unscathed and folk felt comparatively safe as they sat along its arched length on uncomfortable benches. The promised bunks had still not arrived and Josiah Dawson felt the brunt of the locals’ anger.

  ‘’Ow much longer do they reckon we can sit ’ere?’ Sadie grumbled.

  ‘I’ll die if I ’ave ter spend anuvver night sittin’ up,’ Maudie groaned.

  ‘They don’t care,’ Maisie growled. ‘I bet the council people sleep in bunks. They don’t ’ave ter sit up every night.’

  ‘We ought ter write ter the papers,’ Bert Jolly remarked.

  Granny Massey sat silent while the anger boiled around her. She felt that her neighbours were plotting against her and she did not intend to be duped into anything. Her daughter Brenda would not believe her when she said that there should have been a party that night in the shelter and the only reason it did not take place was because she decided to turn up.

  ‘They’ve all got it in fer me,’ she moaned to her long-suffering daughters.

  Rose ignored the outburst but Brenda worried, and when she asked her mother where she heard about the intended shelter party, the old lady pointed the finger at Maurice.

  ‘Do me a favour,’ Maurice growled. ‘Now would I lead the old lady up the garden path like that? She most probably dreamed it.’

  Brenda agreed with him. After all, her mother had taken to having arguments with the tailor’s dummy recently, and she was getting more and more difficult to manage. She was making it impossible for her and Maurice to have any fun whatsoever.

  Early each morning after the raiders had left, Brenda was in the habit of slipping from the shelter to make a jug of tea. Sometimes, when Maurice was not on night shift, she would meet him for a few precious minutes of lovemaking in her quiet house. It was all too brief for Brenda and Maurice’s liking, but they were grateful for the chance to be alone together. Granny Massey enjoyed her early-morning cup of tea, however, and was impatient for it to arrive. One morning when all was quiet the old lady decided to leave the shelter on the proffered arm of Maudie, who was leaving unusually early. The sound of bed springs being pounded overhead did not go down very well with Granny Massey, and when Maurice came down the stairs red-faced a few minutes later the old lady became angry. ‘I could be dyin’ wiv thirst fer all you two care,’ she moaned. ‘Is that all yer fink of?’

  Maurice made a discreet exit while Brenda made the tea, suffering her ageing mother’s tirade. ‘’E’s no good fer yer,’ she went on. ‘Too bloody sure of ’imself if yer ask me.’

  Brenda did not feel like asking her mother anything just then, and she endured in silence.

  ‘Maurice Salter’s gonna make me the laughin’ stock o’ the street,’ Granny continued. ‘Those daughters of ’is are all no-good little cows. The blokes they bring ’ome. ’E’ll make you as bad, mark my words.’

  Brenda had heard enough. ‘Shut up, Muvver, fer Gawd’s sake,’ she said sharply.

  ‘That’s right, shut me up. Don’t let me get a word in edge-ways,’ Granny raved, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘Yer’ll be sorry when I’ve gorn.’

  The
old lady finally calmed down, but after that day it was very rare for Brenda to get the chance of an early-morning romp with Maurice, except for the few times she managed to creep out from the shelter while Granny was snoring.

  During the week before Christmas, Josiah Dawson, acting in his official capacity as street and shelter warden, and without any prompting from Maurice Salter, decided to organise a Christmas Eve party for his charges. Dolly hugged him and told him how proud she was of him for being so concerned for everybody, and immediately took over arranging things. A meeting was called in her parlour and endless tea was served.

  ‘We could all do a bit o’ bakin’,’ Maisie suggested. ‘I’ll do rock cakes.’

  ‘I’ll make jellies,’ Maudie offered.

  ‘I’ll do chocolate sweets out o’ cocoa an’ marzipan,’ Sadie said.

  ‘My relation works at the custard powder factory, she’ll be able ter get us a large tin o’ custard powder fer next ter nuffink,’ Dolly piped in.

  Nellie Tanner got to hear of the planned party, and although she did not use the shelter herself, she wanted to help her old friends. ‘I’ll do the lemonade,’ she volunteered. ‘I’ve got time on me ’ands.’

  Nellie carried the news of the party to her daughter, and Carrie felt that it would be a good idea to go along and see Corned-beef Sam at the cafe in Cotton Lane. Sam was an old friend and Carrie had been meaning to call in on him for some time. She hoped that he would be able to bake her a batch of fancy cakes and mince pies if she approached him nicely. He had bought his business from her and her first husband Fred some years previously and had quickly established himself as a firm favourite among the working population of Bermondsey. Carmen and dockworkers packed into his establishment and he had become something of an institution.

  ‘ ’Ello, luv,’ he beamed when he saw Carrie. ‘ ’Ow the bleedin’ ’ell are yer? I thought yer’d fergot yer ole pal.’

  Carrie laughed and planted a kiss on his cheek. ‘I know it’s bin some time, Sam, but I’ve bin so busy,’ she told him.

  He waved his hand at her. ‘Don’t I know it,’ he replied in his camp voice. ‘I bin so busy meself these past few weeks I don’t know whether I’m punched or bored. I got me winders blown out last week. Mind you, I was miles away at the time. I got a friend down at Bromley. I stay wiv ’im most nights. I couldn’t stay round ’ere, luv, it’s much too dangerous fer me. I like the quiet life.’

  Carrie sat chatting with him for some time in his back kitchen and when she finally told him about the proposed shelter party for her old Page Street neighbours, Sam was supportive. ‘I’ve got a large tin o’ corned beef they could ’ave, but don’t ask me where I got it from, luv, ’cos if I tell yer, a certain docker’s gonna scratch me eyes out,’ he joked.

  Carrie touched his arm in a fond gesture. ‘What we need is some mince pies and fancy cakes. Of course I’ll pay yer what yer want.’

  ‘Leave it ter me, sweetness,’ he replied, giving her a large wink. ‘I’ll ’ave ’em all ready for yer on Tuesday night. Tell yer what, I’ll bring ’em round the yard on me way ter the station. It’ll be early, mind. I couldn’t stand bein’ caught out in a raid. I’d die, really I would.’

  Carrie laughed aloud at his comical expression as she got up to leave. ‘I’ll be waitin’, Sam,’ she told him.

  Sam waved her goodbye from the front of his shop and as she walked away along Cotton Lane, she heard him call out, ‘If yer can’t be good, be careful, an’ if yer can’t be careful, remember the date.’

  It always felt strange when she went back to the cafe, Carrie thought. The early days had been spent behind that counter, serving the carmen and dockers, joking with the men. Fred would be working hard in the little back kitchen, wary of her chatting with the customers. Fred was gone now, and she had moved on and made a success of her transport business. How the time had passed. It had been hard work but they were happy years for most of the time, she recalled. Now the country was at war and the surroundings she had grown up in were slowly being pounded into dust by the heavy nightly bombing. It would never be the same, she realised. One day the little streets would be no more. The little homes would go. What buildings would come to replace them then? she wondered. Would the wharves and docks rise again from the ashes? What sort of people would come to live by the river? Carrie sighed deeply, feeling suddenly depressed as she walked back to the transport yard in Salmon Lane through the gathering gloom.

  The Christmas Eve festivities started early in the shelter. Food was laid out on kitchen tables, trestle tables, planks of wood and along the benches. Children wore paper hats and ate their fill from a fare of mince pies, fancy cakes, custards and jellies, as well as chocolate sweets. There was lemonade in abundance, and ginger beer which Sam had supplied, along with his cakes and pies, and would take no money for. The kind and generous cafe owner’s standing rose even higher on that wartime Christmas Eve.

  Most people had expected a respite from the nightly bombing over Christmas, and they were right. The night of the 24th remained quiet, and when the children settled down, beer was passed round. Laughter and the sound of carols carried out on the cold night air, and during the excitement one lone figure decided to seize the opportunity and slipped away into the darkness, making his way down to the river.

  On 29 December, the blitz resumed with a vengeance. The City of London was fire-bombed and the flames roared skyward, fanned by a strong wind and made even more dangerous by the unusually low tide. Fire crews struggled to pump water from the river, and reserve fire engines from neighbouring counties were rushed to the metropolis. All through the night the fires raged and rescue squads were kept working until they were totally exhausted.

  Billy Sullivan had spent Christmas with his family in Gloucester, and now as he held on grimly while his lorry rushed through the glass-strewn streets, he fingered the little medallion he wore round his neck. It was a gift from Annie; she had had it blessed by the priest.

  ‘Take it, darling, and wear it always,’ she told him. ‘It comes with our love, mine and the children’s.’

  It had been an idyllic two days, and over all too soon. There was no time to remember it now, though. People were lying trapped beneath a block of buildings which had taken a direct hit and before the dust had settled Billy and his team were already hard at work.

  In Tyburn Square, the Botleys were worried as they sat together in their reinforced cellar. ‘I’m sure that young Mr Galloway thinks it’s our fault his father doesn’t use our shelter,’ Beryl remarked, touching the side of her head with her fingertips.

  ‘Well, we can only suggest to him that he comes here, dear,’ Cyril replied. ‘We can’t force the man.’

  ‘Oh, dear, it’s such a worry,’ Beryl went on. ‘Maybe you should go and talk to him, make him see sense.’

  ‘Look, dearest, we’ve tried more than once,’ her husband reminded her. ‘There’s no use you worrying too much, you know how it brings on those migraines.’

  Beryl sighed. It was not so long ago that she had forbidden her husband to have the old man in the house, but things had changed. The bombing had become heavy, and she felt guilty for her unfeeling attitude towards him, even though the old man acted like a pig. If anything happened to him, she would blame herself. Maybe she should go and remonstrate with him. She might be able to make him see sense.

  ‘Everything all right, dear?’ Cyril enquired as he poured himself a stiff drink.

  Beryl nodded. How things change, she thought. At one time Cyril’s drinking habits would have irked her and she would have nagged him mercilessly. Now it didn’t matter any more. Only survival mattered, survival and caring for one’s fellow creature.

  Some time later Beryl felt positively at ease with herself as she climbed the stairs from the cellar and took her coat down from the hall stand. She heard her husband call out to her not to be long and to be careful, but Beryl was on a mission of mercy. She would encourage the old man down into the safety of the cellar e
ven if it was the last thing she ever did.

  George Galloway heard the knock on his front door and stirred in his chair. The second, louder knock made him sit up straight and he brushed a gnarled hand over his forehead. ‘Who the bloody ’ell can that be?’ he said aloud as he struggled to his feet, taking up his walking cane and hobbling out into the hall.

  ‘Are you there?’ a voice called out to him.

  ‘Yes, woman, I’m bloody well ’ere,’ he growled as he reached for the front-door catch.

  Beryl smiled sweetly at him as he stared moodily at her. ‘We’re expecting an air raid tonight, Mr Galloway,’ she began.

  ‘Who told yer?’ George asked sarcastically.

  Normally Beryl would have taken umbrage and scurried back into her house but tonight she was feeling very forthright. ‘Now listen, Mr Galloway. Cyril and I promised your son faithfully that we would make sure you were safe,’ she said firmly. ‘If the air raid starts, you won’t be very safe sitting in this house of yours. Cyril and I insist that you join us in our cellar. We have a drink or two for you. I assure you you’ll be quite comfortable.’