by Carol Rivers
‘My husband was in France,’ Rose replied. ‘He had a rotten time too. But I always knew he’d come home.’
Again, they stood in silence, but this time no words were needed to convey the emotions that these memories evoked.
‘He was a lucky bloke,’ Bobby Morton said at last, looking deep into her eyes. ‘Lucky to have the girl of his dreams waiting for him. Perhaps that was the reason he did make it home safely, eh?’
Rose could hear the sounds that made up her life; a horse and cart somewhere, children yelling, a boat’s hooter, a distant wireless set. But as she stared into the young man’s gaze, her ears were suddenly full of her own heart’s heavy and excited beat.
‘Well, I’d best be on my way.’ He paused a few seconds longer, then turned.
Rose couldn’t stop herself. ‘Wait! Wait a minute, er . . . Bobby!’
He swivelled round and stood uncertainly on the pavement.
‘Give me one of those things. I’ll read it if I can find the time.’ She held out her hand. ‘But taking it doesn’t mean to say I’m interested in buying anything.’
He walked towards her and handed her a leaflet. Rose grasped it almost afraid to look into his face as she took it. But she did and her tummy flipped all over again.
Bobby Morton said nothing, just smiled and it was Rose who ended the moment, hurrying indoors to close the door without looking back.
Placing the leaflet on the coat-stand, she waited, holding her hands over her burning cheeks. The temptation was irresistible. She hurried into the front room and looked out of the window. A tall, fair-haired, broad-shouldered figure was standing outside the Parkers’. Would Olga answer the door? He waited, but after no reply, swivelled slowly on his heel.
Rose dodged back behind the curtain as he glanced across the road. Her heart was thumping heavily and she swallowed. A few minutes later she dared to peep again. The street, as far as she could see, was empty. Bobby Morton had gone, but Rose was still, as her mum would have remarked, ‘all of a fluster’.
Chapter Eight
It was Saturday evening and Rose was in the backyard, sweeping the cracked paving stones. The girls sometimes played hopscotch on them and the chalk marks were still visible from their last game. The worn brown grass in between sprouted dandelions and thistle and a few brave daisies had unwisely reared their pretty heads.
The soft and balmy air made her think of her own childhood evenings spent playing with Em in this yard, just as Donnie and Marlene did. Only then her father had planted dahlias and snapdragons mixed with wallflowers that seemed to grow without any trouble at all under his supervision. Unlike her own children who had carte blanche when it came to the yard, Rose recalled with a smile her father’s strict orders as to where they could play and where they could not.
On Sunday mornings she and Em would walk to Granny’s house at Blackwall. Her grandfather smoked a clay pipe which had seemed to be an extension of his moustache and long grey beard. The living quarters of their elderly relatives had consisted of the ground floor of a small terraced house. It was here her mother had been born as the eldest of seven children though only three had survived. Here the family had lived until her mother left home to marry her father who worked in the offices of the Port of London Authority.
The memory of their visits was still clear in her mind. She could taste, even now, the distinctive carraway-seed cake that was baked especially for their visits. The ritual was always the same: elevenses taken in the kitchen, a big room dominated by a huge black cooking range. The table spread filled most of the room, its wooden top scrubbed daily with Sunlight soap by Gran dressed in her long black skirt and white pinafore. On top of the table stood the cake and best china cups and Gran would pour rich dark tea from a heavy brown teapot that seemed to contain far in excess of their needs.
Granddad would sit puffing away, his sombre gaze never leaving their faces as they ate the wedges of cake that Gran served up. Granddad rarely spoke, just puffed and watched. It had been Gran who had asked after her mother and tried to extract what little information she could obtain from her two awe-struck grandchildren.
Rose smiled to herself as she set aside the broom and leaned against the fence, once more recalling the yard in her father’s time. It would have been unheard of then to threaten the safety of the flowers with any larking about. She and Em had always played, as Marlene and Donnie were doing now, in the street. Those were the carefree days of the mid-1930s when the islanders were still oblivious of the horror of war to come.
Rose wondered if her dad and mum were watching now from some silver-lined cloud and feeling proud of their two granddaughters, even if they had wrecked the yard he had tried so hard to cultivate. Her parents had never seen her children, never held their newborn bodies in their loving arms. They would have made the perfect grandparents, but it was not meant to be. Even so, Rose had a faith that went beyond everyday life and felt certain they were there, guarding and guiding her girls.
Just then a loud curse came from behind her and Rose turned to see Anita pushing her bike through the kitchen door and into the garden.
‘Hello, love. I’m getting too old for this lark,’ Anita muttered as she leaned her bicycle against the fence, tugging her overalls from the saddlebag and wiping her damp forehead with the back of her wrist.
‘At least the rain kept off,’ Rose commented looking up at the overcast sky. It had grown humid and still. ‘You should catch a bus to work and give yourself a break.’
‘Saving up, ain’t I?’ Anita bent down and squeezed the front tyre. ‘Sod it, I’ve got a slow puncture.’ She gave the wheel a token kick, then grinned at Rose. ‘Did you get to market today?’
‘No. Thought I’d give it a miss and do some housework.’
‘When’s dinner, Mum?’ Alan called from the back door.
Anita glowered at her son. ‘I was hoping you had it there on the table awaiting me arrival,’ she yelled, hands on hips.
‘I gotta go out soon,’ Alan yelled back, inured to his mother’s wit.
‘Where?’
‘Just out.’
‘You’re going nowhere till your father comes in.’
‘Aw, but it’s Saturday night!’
‘I don’t care if it’s Christmas,’ Anita bellowed back. ‘You’ll see him first.’
‘Can we make ourselves a sandwich, then?’ David hovered on the doorstep, scowling under his mop of black hair.
‘No.You’ll spoil your appetites. Stick the kettle on and make your mother a cup of tea. And if you’re looking for something to do you can peel the spuds on the draining board.’ She turned back to Rose, arching her brows. ‘Boys, who’d have ’em?’
Rose smiled. ‘Where’s Benny today?’
‘On a long haul. He left Thursday night with a lorry full of tyres to be delivered to Bristol. Then he had to load another lot and go up north.’
‘Does he sleep in his lorry?’
‘Yeah, he kips wherever he can, at the side of the road or in a lay-by. They ain’t choice jobs. A lot of lorry drivers avoid the heavy, backbreaking stuff as now there’s all these mechanical lifters. But Benny always says as long as the goods aren’t nailed to the ground, he’ll lift ’em, whatever it takes.’
‘Can’t one of the boys help?’
Anita snorted. ‘They can hardly lift themselves out of bed in the mornings to eat their breakfast let alone lift a lorry-load of tyres.’
Rose admired Benny for the hard work he put in with his lorry. He worked from dawn till dusk, sometimes seven days a week, to justify a windfall his mother’s uncle had left him two years ago. He’d taken a risk and bought a lorry determined to use his initiative to improve his family’s standard of living. Of paramount importance to the Mendozas was their overdue holiday. They’d never had a proper holiday before, only stayed in Wales with relatives. Butlin’s Holiday Camp was their dream and Rose knew every penny was saved up for it. ‘You look a bit peaky, girl.’ Anita frowned at Rose’s pale face
.
Rose laughed softly. ‘I had a funny five minutes in Joan’s yesterday. I think it was listening to Cissy and Fanny in front of me.’
Anita nodded vigorously. ‘Anyone would feel lousy listening to them.’
Rose felt a little flush creep over her cheeks as she thought about what she might say next. ‘I took it out later on someone who was calling door to door,’ she said hesitantly glancing sideways at her friend. ‘He said he’d just opened a shop up the Parade.’
‘What’s he selling?’
‘Televisions.’
‘Televisions!’ Anita’s face was incredulous.
‘Televisions and washing machines, that sort of thing. I gave him short shrift but then before I could close the door he was down on his knees polishing me step and telling me the hanky he was using would come up good as new in one of his washing machines.’
Anita’s jaw fell. ‘You didn’t say you’d buy one?’
‘’Course not.’
‘They try anything to get you on hire purchase.’
Rose shrugged. ‘He didn’t mention that.’
‘I didn’t get a leaflet through my door.’
‘You were all out, I expect.’
Anita smirked. ‘You was watching then?’
‘Well, I did see him go over to Olga’s. But she didn’t answer.’
‘She’d probably have clocked him one if he mentioned a telly,’ Anita spluttered. ‘It’s a wonder you didn’t an’ all.’
‘I felt, well, a bit sorry for him,’ Rose replied cautiously, aware that her friend was studying her intently. ‘He fought in North Africa and the thought of opening a shop when he came home was all that kept him going. I relented a little after he told me that.’
‘Like a lot of them poor buggers, just trying to make a living,’ Anita agreed, then quirked an eyebrow. ‘What’s he look like?’
Rose shrugged indifferently. ‘I don’t really remember.’
‘You’re blushing!’ Anita gasped. ‘I bet he chatted you up!’
Rose went scarlet and Anita threw back her head and laughed. ‘Well, good luck to you, girl. No harm in a bit of attention from the opposite sex.’
‘It wasn’t nothing, Neet. He was just a really nice bloke.’ Rose giggled. ‘And yes, to answer your question truthfully, he wasn’t a bad looker.’
Anita hooted. ‘Well next time he calls just make sure you send him round to me.’
‘Oh, he won’t be calling again, I’m sure,’ Rose said a little worriedly. ‘I don’t think Eddie would like that.’
‘Talking of lover boy, you’ve heard nothing from him, I suppose?’
‘No, nothing.’ Rose had forgotten her troubles for a little while then as she thought of Eddie in prison her heart sank again.
‘Well, I’m off to cook dinner for those lazy sods.’
‘Yeah, and I’d better finish the yard.’
A few minutes later, Rose had returned to her sweeping and was thinking about the laugh she’d had with her friend. Suddenly the girls came running from the house. ‘Can we sweep too?’ they shrieked.
Rose handed them the broom. ‘Well now, what a good idea!’
For a while they had some fun in the evening sunshine chasing around with the broom and making a din. Rose tried to ignore the unpleasant sensation in her stomach that kept returning every now and then and catching her short. She made a note to buy a bottle of Milk of Magnesia to stop the unsettled feeling, probably a result of all the upset.
That night as she lay in bed she thought of her visit to Eddie. She had been shocked at the cramped and dismal conditions of the prison. She wanted to put her arms around him, to hold the man she loved and to hear him tell her everything would be all right. She snuggled down on her pillow and fell asleep wondering if Eddie was thinking of her. She had only flirted a little with Bobby Morton, but even so, she felt a bit guilty!
Two days later, Rose turned on the wireless to hear that John Christie was standing trial at the Old Bailey. A moment later there was a bang at the front door and she went to open it. Alan Mendoza was standing there.
‘Mum said to listen to the radio,’ he told her breathlessly. ‘It’s about that bloke who murdered all them women.’
‘Yes, I heard,’ Rose nodded. ‘Tell Mum I’ll be in soon.’
When she got back the announcer was ending with the news that John Christie was pleading insanity, a major development in his trial. A few minutes later Rose hurried round to the Mendozas’.
‘What do you think of that?’ Anita shouted from the kitchen. ‘Poor bloody Eddie, in with a loony.’
Rose found Anita and her son bent over the radio, which was sitting on the plastic-covered kitchen table. Unlike Rose’s heavy old valve cabinet, Anita’s radio was a small brown Bakelite model with a brass knob to tune the programmes. The kitchen was minus its usual fog since Anita’s resolution to stop smoking was still taking effect. The bad news for Benny was that she had forbidden him to smoke in the house too.
Anita turned down the volume. ‘Blimey, they think he gassed his victims and stashed the bodies in cupboards and under floors, anywhere in fact, there was space.’
Rose shuddered. ‘How gruesome.’
‘Once he was a special copper too,’ Alan said straddling a chair and enjoying the macabre story. ‘Must have been right off his trolley even then.’
‘He knew what he was doing all right,’ Anita pronounced darkly. ‘He was clever enough to fool the police.’
‘What do you think, Auntie Rose?’
‘He still hasn’t been convicted,’ Rose answered thoughtfully, wondering if people had already judged Eddie as guilty. ‘And if he did perpetrate such terrible crimes he can’t be sane, can he?’
‘So you don’t reckon he should be hanged?’ Alan asked aggressively.
‘I don’t think two wrongs make a right, Alan.’
Alan looked sceptical. ‘Not even when he’s murdered so many women!’
‘Here, you clown,’ his mother interrupted, wagging a finger in his face, ‘stop pestering the girl.’
‘I reckon he deserves all he gets,’ her son stated fiercely.
‘And I’m wondering why you’re at home skiving when you should be at school.’
‘You know why,’ her son retorted. ‘I’ve left.’
‘Not in my book, you haven’t,’ Anita rounded, pink spots appearing on her cheeks. ‘Not till you find yerself a job.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m looking, aren’t I?’
Anita lifted her hands in exasperation. ‘Then why ain’t you out there, elbowing the competition out the way?’
‘All right, Muvver. I’m going, I’m going.’ Alan stood up, his broad shoulders sagging as he pushed his big hands in his pockets. ‘What about bus fare?’
Anita’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. ‘What about it?’
‘I’ll need some if I go up West.’
‘I go up every bloody day on me bike, don’t I? And I’m geriatric compared with you,’ his mother said scornfully as her son slouched out of the room. She turned to Rose with a deep sigh. ‘Talk about spoon fed.’
‘He’s only young, Neet. Have you forgotten what it was like to be fifteen?’
‘You’re a soft touch you are,’ Anita murmured, nodding to the chair. ‘Sit down and take the weight off your feet.’
Rose did so, eager to discuss her new idea. ‘Coming up the market on Saturday? I’ve got something special in mind.’
Anita rolled her eyes. ‘What?’
‘I’m going to try to find this Syd.’
Anita looked startled. ‘The bloke who sold Eddie the telly?’
‘Eddie said he was wearing a hat and one of them long camel overcoats. He also had knuckle-duster rings and a big watch on his wrist. And there was the van of course. A Humber or a Morris, dark in colour.’
Anita shrugged. ‘Well, who knows? We might be lucky.’
Rose nodded thoughtfully. At least she would feel she was doing something towards helpi
ng her husband.
On Thursday, after school, Rose was met by two long faces.
‘What’s wrong with you two?’ Had there been things said again? Rose wondered anxiously.
‘Dinner was disgusting.’ Donnie turned up her nose. ‘It was all sloppy.’
Rose was relieved the trouble wasn’t about Eddie. ‘Sloppy food won’t hurt for one day.’
Marlene dragged her heels. ‘I didn’t eat mine.’
‘Well, you should have. You know I don’t approve of waste, not when there are so many people in the world who are starving.’ Rose knew full well though, that any food set in front of her daughter, even the worst of school dinners, would not be ignored.
‘I think they put glue in it,’ Donnie grinned mischievously at her mother. ‘To keep us quiet in lessons.’
Rose raised her eyebrows. ‘I bet you aren’t quiet, though.’
‘My mouth ain’t got any glue in,’ Marlene shouted and ran off. ‘I can talk as loud as I like.’
‘We don’t need any proof of that,’ Rose chuckled, knowing her daughter well.
‘Can we buy some sweets?’ Donnie asked as they drew close to home. ‘I’ve got two lemonade bottles and I’ll get thruppence back on each of them. Marlene and me can share it between us.’
Rose nodded. ‘I don’t see why not.’ Then she realized what she’d said. The newsagent’s was next to Bobby Morton’s shop. Did she have the nerve to look in and say hello?
For once it was a lovely summer’s evening and an eggshell sky stretched high above the island like a ceiling of soft blue silk. They collected the bottles from home and walked up to the Parade which comprised a post office, grocer’s and newsagent’s. And now, Rose thought ruefully, an electrical shop.
The girls made a beeline for their sweets. In February, the government had ended sweet rationing and although sugar itself wasn’t to be de-rationed until September, the children now had their choice of a wide variety of confectionery. For over twelve years favourites such as toffee apples, nougat, liquorice, boiled sweets and chocolates had been available only on coupons. But for the last five months the newsagent at the Parade had extended his shelves of rare delights for his young patrons’ benefit.
