by Martina Cole
Sarah lay back against the pillows, her face drenched with sweat. Her lips were cracked and dry. Turning awkwardly towards the bedside table, she picked up a glass of water and sipped the warm liquid gratefully. A little later Matilda brought up a bucket of steaming water. The doctor set about sterilising his things, including a large pair of scissors.
By nine in the evening Sarah was in great distress, as was the child within her. Twice the doctor had tried to push his arm inside her to turn the child and each time he had failed. He wiped his hands on a towel he had brought with him.
This child had to be born, and soon, or he would lose the pair of them. Blast Benjamin Ryan! It was always the same. He gave her a child every year, but was never there when it came into the world.
The little boys kept their vigil on the stairs. All were tired and hungry. Michael, waiting at the top, was silently cursing his father as he looked at his younger brothers’ little faces. Benny was sucking the arm of his jumper.
Suddenly there was a loud banging on the front door. Six-year-old Garry answered it, only to be knocked flying as two policemen came crashing in. Michael took one look at them and, swearing under his breath, ran into his mother’s bedroom. Cries could be heard from the stairs as the policemen tried to make their way up to the landing, the remaining boys making it as difficult as possible for them in the hope that their brother would get away.
Michael had opened the bedroom window and was half in and half out as the policemen burst into the room.
Then the lights went out.
‘Who turned off the lights, you little bastards?’
‘No one turned off the bleeding lights. The electric’s gone.’ Sarah’s voice was faint. The policemen turned on their torches.
‘Bring those over here. This woman is in danger of her life.’ The urgency in the doctor’s voice brought both men to the bed. The boy was long gone, they both knew that. Sarah was writhing in agony, tears on her cheeks.
‘You lot want slaughtering. My boy ain’t done nothing.’
Matilda Jenkins broke in, ‘Look, has anyone got a shilling for the meter?’
‘I have.’ The smaller of the two policemen fished some change out of his pocket. Leaving his colleague to help the doctor, he walked from the room and carefully made his way down the stairs. Stepping through the children as gently as he could, he went to the cupboard under the stairs and, locating the meter, put a shilling in. He put in another, and turned off his torch as he stepped out of the cupboard. Seven pairs of eyes were looking at him with open hostility, even the youngest’s who was not yet four. The man looked at the boys as if seeing them for the first time. At the heads close-cropped to combat the lice and the holey jumpers with elbows poking through. He stood for a while staring at them. He felt for the first time in his life what it must be like to be one of them and was overwhelmed with a feeling of sadness and futility. Taking out his wallet, he pulled out a ten-shilling note and offered it to Geoffrey, the second eldest.
‘Get yourself over the Messer’s and get some fish and chips.’
‘We don’t want old Bill’s money!’
‘Hark at the hard man! Well, clever clogs, your little brothers are starving, so go and do what I tell you.’
He pushed the money into Geoffrey’s hands. All the boy’s instincts told him to throw the money back at the policeman, their natural enemy, but his little brothers’ faces changed his mind. They had not eaten for nearly two days. Sullenly, he pushed past the man, who held on to his arm.
‘Tell that brother of yours that we’ll catch him in the end so he might as well give himself up.’
Geoffrey pulled his arm roughly away. Then, looking at the man as if he was so much dirt, he let himself out of the front door. The constable walked back up the stairs, shaking his head.
In the bedroom, Sarah was fighting to get the child born. The other policeman was holding her down, while the doctor was cutting her down below. As he cut she gave an almighty push and ripped open to her behind. The child slipped into the world, still in its birth sac. The doctor punched this open and looked at the little blue face inside. He cleaned its nose and gently blew into its mouth while he pressed tenderly on its tiny ribcage. The baby coughed and gave a little cry. Then, taking a deep breath, began to bawl its head off. Quick as a flash the doctor had cut the cord, passed the child to Matilda Jenkins, and was stitching away at Sarah as if his own life depended on it.
She lay against the pillows, her whole body numb. She swore to herself that this was going to be the last child.
‘Your first girl, Sarah.’ Matilda’s voice was kind.
She sat up in the bed, dumbstruck, her face aglow as if lit from the inside. She grinned, showing all her large yellowing teeth.
‘You’re joking! I thought it was another boy! A girl! It is really a girl?’
Even the policemen smiled at her. She was genuinely amazed.
‘Oh, let me have her. Let me hold her! A daughter at last, thank Gawd!’
Matilda placed the child in her arms. The baby was now cleaned up and Sarah looked down into the bluest eyes she had ever seen.
‘She’s a beauty, Sarah.’
She stared down at her daughter in wonderment. This was her thirteenth child, but her first girl. All tiredness was forgotten as she gazed at her daughter. Then she looked around her at the other smiling faces, and remembered why the policemen were there. The elder of the two had been coming to the house for nigh on fifteen years. Ben had even been at it all through the war.
‘What’s my Mickey supposed to have done now?’ Her voice was flat.
‘He’s been running for a bookie again, Sarah. I’ve warned him twice now. This time I’m going to nick him. So you tell him to come and see me.’
She looked back at her daughter. The doctor had finished, and, after removing the old newspapers from under Sarah, covered her up. She looked back at the policeman.
‘I’ll tell him, Frank, but he’s like the old man. He goes his own way.’ Her voice was low.
Matilda Jenkins opened the bedroom door and called the rest of the boys in. They all trooped in, eating their fish and chips, and clustered around the bed. Benny could not see anything so pulled on the doctor’s coat.
‘What do you want, child?’
Benny looked up with his little monkey face. His mouth was full of food.
‘Is it Hovis, then?’
‘Hovis? The doctor’s voice was puzzled. ‘What are you on about, boy?’
‘Hovis . . . you know, brown bread. Well, is it?’
The doctor looked around him for enlightenment.
‘Brown bread? Are you delirious, child?’
‘He means is it dead? Brown bread . . . dead. Get it?’
This was spoken by Anthony, and his tone indicated that if anyone was stupid it was not his little brother.
‘Brown bread, bejasus! No, it’s not. It’s very much alive. Now eat your chips, you little heathen. Brown bread indeed!’
The policemen laughed.
‘How long you been in London, Doc?’ the elder asked. ‘Twenty years? And you still don’t know the lingo.’ They thought this highly amusing. ‘We’d better be off, Sar. Don’t forget to tell Michael when he gets in.’
‘I won’t forget, Frank. I’ll tell him, but he won’t come. You know that.’
‘Well, try and persuade him. Good luck with the new arrival. See you all.’ The two men left.
Sarah looked at her sons’ faces and smiled.
‘It’s a girl!’
All the boys grinned at her.
‘A daughter for me old age.’ She hugged the child to her. ‘I’m going to call her Maura. Maura Ryan. I like that.’
‘Shall I go and get Mickey, Mum? I saved him some chips.’
‘Yeah, Geoff. Tell him the coast is clear.’
The doctor stopped packing away his instruments and looked at Sarah sternly.
‘You knew where he was all along?’
She grinned at him.
‘Course I did. He’s in the Anderson shelter at number 119. He always hides there.’
Seeking the funny side of what Sarah said, Martin O’Reilly threw back his head and laughed out loud. Seven mouths stopped chewing as the boys stared at him.
‘What a night! Your little girl certainly picked her time to arrive. She saved young Michael’s bacon tonight, that’s a fact.’
Sarah chuckled with him. ‘She did that all right!’
Pat Johnstone, Sarah’s best friend and next-door neighbour, came into the bedroom with a tray of tea. She ushered all the boys out and poured Sarah a strong cup.
‘Here you are, girl. Get your laughing gear around that. What about you, Doc? Fancy a cuppa?’
‘That would be grand. I’m parched.’
Pat poured the doctor out a cup of tea and placed it on the bedside table. Then she sat on the bed next to Sarah. She looked at the baby and gasped with surprise.
‘Oh, my Gawd! She’s a cracker, ain’t she?’ Her naturally loud voice seemed to bounce off the walls. ‘Gis’ a little hold, Sar.’
Sarah passed the child to her and took a deep drink of her tea. ‘This is just what I needed, Pat.’
‘Is that right the filth came in looking for your Mickey and the electric went? I nearly wet meself laughing when Mrs Jenkins told me, I thought it was so funny.’
Sarah rolled her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Oh, please, Pat. Don’t remind me!’
The doctor finished putting his things away and drank his tea. ‘That was lovely. It just hit the right spot. Now I’ll be off, Sarah. Don’t get out of bed until I tell you that it’s safe. I’ve had to put in a lot of stitches. If you start to bleed, send one of the lads around for me, OK?’
‘I will, Martin. And thanks for everything.’
‘That’s all right. I’ll see you in the morning. ’Bye now.’
He went out of the bedroom and down the stairs to the hallway where Matilda Jenkins was waiting for him with her hand out. He slipped a ten-shilling note into her palm.
‘Thanks, Matilda, ’Bye.’
‘’Bye, Doctor O’Reilly.’
She closed the front door behind him. He walked down the flight of stairs that led to the road and looked at his car, a Rover 90. It was his pride and joy. There was not a windscreen wiper to be seen. He should have known this would happen in Lancaster Road.
‘Little buggers!’
He got into his car and drove off. On 2 May 1950 he had brought Maura Ryan into the world.
Chapter Two
1953
Sarah Ryan glanced around her kitchen. A feeling of satisfaction swept over her. It looked beautiful. Taking a deep breath she sighed with contentment. She had not felt this happy for years. The table was laden with food. Turkey, ham, a large joint of beef, all carefully prepared and waiting to go into the oven. The kitchen was filled with the aroma of mince pies and sausage rolls cooking to a golden crispness in the oven.
She was startled out of her reverie by a loud crash from above. Her mouth set in a grim line, she went to the kitchen door. Opening it wide, she shouted as loud as she could: ‘I’m warning you lot, one more noise and I’ll come up there and scalp the arses off yer!’
She stood listening for a few minutes, trying not to smile. Then, assured that the children were all in their beds, she went back to her preparations, humming a little tune. Her last task was to lay thick strips of bacon across the turkey. Finally she stepped back from the table to admire her handiwork. Then, picking up the poker from the hearth, she banged it three times against the back of the fireplace. A few seconds later the banging was answered by two sharp thuds. Going to the sink she filled the kettle with water and placed it on the gas. As the kettle came to the boil she heard the back door open and popped her head into the scullery to see her friend Pat Johnstone kicking snow off her shoes.
‘Get yourself in, Pat, I’ve got the kettle on.’
‘Oh, Sar, it’s brass monkey weather out there tonight!’
Coming into the kitchen, Pat dropped into an easy chair by the fire. She looked around the kitchen, impressed.
‘By Christ, you’re well set up this year.’
Her voice held a hint of jealousy. Sarah poured the steaming water into the tea pot and smiled at her friend.
‘Michael brought the lot in this morning. I couldn’t believe it meself when I saw it! There’s sweets and biscuits as well as nuts and fruit. He’s a good boy.’
Pat nodded her head, reckoning up the cost of everything in her mind. She realised that what was being said about Michael must be true. You couldn’t buy all this working at Lyons bakery or the Black Cat factory. Crime certainly did pay by the looks of it.
‘And there’s presents for all the kids,’ Sarah chatted on happily, unaware of the animosity she was creating. Pouring the tea into two thick white mugs, she gave one to her friend. With a tea cloth around her hand she opened up the oven and took out the mince pies and sausage rolls, placing them on the top of the stove to cool as she put the turkey in to cook. Her movements were quick and confident. She straightened up, wiping her forehead with the bottom of her apron, and then went to the dresser to open the drawer. Taking out a package, she passed it to Pat.
‘I nearly forgot! Happy Christmas.’
Pat Johnstone took the package and placed it on her lap. She looked at Sarah’s face with troubled eyes.
‘I didn’t get you nothing, Sar . . . I ain’t got the money.’
Sarah dismissed this. ‘Oh, shut your face and open it.’
Slowly Pat tore the brown paper apart. Then her hand went to her mouth. Her voice shook as she tried to speak.
‘Oh Sar! Oh, it’s lovely . . .’
Sarah patted her friend’s shoulder gently.
‘I knew you’d like it!’
Pat pulled the white blouse out of the wrapper and held it to her cheek, rubbing the soft material against her skin.
‘It feels like silk!’
‘It is silk. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was for you.’
All the terrible things she had thought earlier rose up in Pat’s mind. Jealousy of her friend had been steadily mounting in the last few months. It had started the day three months previously when Michael paid to have the house stoved. Sulphur candles had been burning for days, leaving the house free of vermin, then the whole place had been painted from top to bottom. Like most of the women in the street, Pat Johnstone had been angered by it all. By Lancaster Road standards, the Ryans had gone too far up in the world, making them aliens. If it wasn’t for the fact that Michael Ryan was now a force to be reckoned with, the other families would have tried to force them out.
All this flickered through her mind in a split second and she felt ashamed. She had gone to school with Sarah, and they had helped one another over the years. Now Sarah was remembering her friend and Pat felt she didn’t deserve it.
‘It’s absolutely gorgeous, Sar.’
Satisfied that her friend was happy, Sarah sat opposite her and took a quarter bottle of Black and White whisky from the mantelpiece. She poured two generous measures into their cups of tea.
‘This’ll keep the cold out, Pat. God himself knows we need it in this weather.’
Picking up her mug, Pat toasted her friend. ‘Merry Christmas to you, Sarah . . . and many more.’
Settling themselves into their chairs, warmed by the whisky, the two women began the serious business of the day: gossiping.
Michael Ryan walked down the Bayswater Road. He walked, as always, as if he owned it - head held high, even in the driving snow. At eighteen, Michael was magnificent. Over six foot two, he was built like an athlete, his dark brown overcoat emphasising the spread of his shoulders. He still had thick black unruly hair, which he now wore cut in a DA. His eyes, deep-set and a striking blue, seemed to drink in everything around him. The only softness about his rugged face was in his lips. They were full and sensuous like a woman’s, though at times they gave him a hint of cruelty. Women and men were drawn to Mich
ael Ryan, and he knew it. He used it to his advantage as he used everything.
Now he watched the women lounging against the railings of Hyde Park. Even in the snow on Christmas Eve the streetwalkers were out.
A few of the younger girls, new to their beat, looked at him with interest. One opened her coat to reveal a scantily clad body. Michael looked her up and down, his lips curling with contempt. He wouldn’t touch a tom with a barge pole. An older woman, seeing the exchange, laughed out loud.
‘Cover yourself up, girl. Before you get frostbite of the fanny!’
The other women laughed, glad of some light relief. Michael carried on walking. He didn’t really mind the prostitutes. In fact, he admired them. To his mind theirs was a business, like any other. Supply and demand. What he didn’t like was the way some of them looked at him as a potential John. He liked to think that people put him above that kind of thing. He crossed the road, dodging the traffic skilfully. The snow was easing up and last-minute shoppers were everywhere. The Portobello Road had been packed.
He walked into the warmth of the Bramley Arms. Pushing his way among the men he went to the bar, nodding a greeting here and there. Over the last year he had worked hard to create an image for himself and it was paying off. People were deferential towards him. He snapped his fingers at the barmaid and ordered a brandy. He didn’t particularly like brandy, but it was part of his image. It set him above other people. The men at the bar moved to give him room.
He sipped his drink. Ranging around the crowded bar, his eyes settled on a group by the window. He picked up his drink and made his way over to them. One of the men glanced at him, giving a double take as he realised who it was.
Tommy Blue felt a knot of fear somewhere in his bowels. The four other men at the table with him sensed his panic and stopped talking to look at the newcomer. Seeing Michael Ryan smiling at them, they seemed to crowd together, hunching in their seats. Enjoying the terror he was creating, Michael drank his brandy in one gulp. Then, wiping his hand across his mouth, he placed his glass gently on the table.
