The Little Runaways

by Cathy Sharp

  Copyright

  Harper

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  The News Building

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by Harper 2016

  Copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

  Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

  Cover photographs © Henry Steadman (children); Mary Evans Picture Library (East End background)

  Cathy Sharp asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008118471

  Ebook Edition © March 2016 ISBN: 9780008118488

  Version: 2016-01-13

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Extract from The Christmas Orphans

  About the Author

  Also by Cathy Sharp

  About the Publisher

  ONE

  Nancy stared out of the kitchen window at the piles of rubble across the street, where six houses had once stood. The space was due to be developed soon, and weeds grew between the cracks in the concrete, giving it a desolate air that echoed the feeling in her young heart. Every one of those terraced houses had been bombed during the terrible Blitz that had decimated the area round her home. Poplar and Bethnal Green had caught it as much as anywhere, because of their close proximity to the Docks. Other people said it was a miracle that the houses this side of the street had escaped the bombs, but Nancy wished that hers had been demolished that same night. Perhaps then she wouldn’t be here, living in fear and misery, waiting for Pa to return from his job in the machinery works down by the Docks.

  It was the 23rd of December 1947. Soon it would be the special, holy day that families looked forward to spending together – not that it would make any difference in this house. Nancy knew she would receive no presents from her parents and the only small gift her brother had was the colouring book and crayons she’d bought with what she’d taken from the housekeeping pot. Nancy felt no guilt for spending the few pennies on a gift and some sweets. If she hadn’t walked all over the market to save money buying their Christmas dinner of scrag end of lamb, which she’d make into a tasty casserole with carrots, onions and potatoes, there would have been nothing left – and if she hadn’t spent it on Terry, her mother would have taken it for drink.

  Tears stung her eyes but she rubbed them away with the backs of her hands, which were red and stung from the soda she’d put in the water to soak Terry’s sheets. He’d wet the bed again and if Pa came home and smelled stale urine he’d belt Terry, Ma and her – no, he’d reserve a different kind of punishment for her; one that turned her stomach sour and made her burn with resentment. What Pa did to her wasn’t right, for all he claimed it was his due for feeding and housing them all.

  ‘Any other man would put that useless slut out on the street and her brats with her. Think yourself lucky that I let you stay, and that idiot brother of yours,’ Pa had sneered when Nancy protested at his behaviour the previous night.

  ‘Terry isn’t an idiot.’ Nancy defended her brother fiercely. ‘He might be a bit odd sometimes, but he can’t help that …’

  Pa leaned in close so that she caught the stink of beer on his breath. ‘You listen to me, and listen good, girl. Breathe a word of what goes on to anyone outside this house and I’ll have him put away somewhere he’ll never see the light of day again.’

  His threats terrified Nancy, because she knew he didn’t care for any of them, not even his wife. She glanced across the kitchen to where her mother sat nursing a bottle of beer, clutching it to her as if it was her very existence, her lifeless hair hanging about her face in greasy strands and her eyes dead as they stared into nothingness. She’d been like this since the night of that terrible raid when the Blitz was at its height during December 1940 – the night they’d lost all their family and friends.

  Nancy shivered as she recalled how they’d hurried through the dark streets, the sound of the sirens already loud, fleeing for the shelter. The drone of the planes heading up the river was terrifyingly near. Ma was carrying Terry, who was not yet four, and Nancy was running to keep up with her, Bear clutched to her chest and a bag with a flask and sandwiches over her shoulder.

  ‘Hurry up, Nance. If they start droppin’ them bloody bombs we’ll be caught like rats in a trap.’

  Nancy had run and run until her chest hurt, hurtling into the shelter after all the other frightened people, and almost tumbling down the last of the steep stone steps. She and Ma had huddled together as the raid went on for what seemed like hours, Terry whimpering and grizzling, even though she’d remembered to bring Bear, the much-loved teddy that had once been hers. She’d given him a drop of sweet tea in his bottle and he’d quietened, holding his chubby arms out to her.

  ‘Nance cuddle,’ he’d said, and she’d taken him in her arms, crooning a nursery rhyme softly ag
ainst his ear as she waited for the all clear.

  It had been morning before they were finally allowed to go home … and when they did everything had changed. The sound of fire engines and ambulances screaming through the streets assaulted their ears, and the sky was red, flames still shooting skyward. When they approached their home, where two rows of terraced houses had stood facing each other across a narrow lane, only one row still remained intact. All the others had been damaged in some way or other, and the three opposite that had housed Gran and Grandda, Auntie Freda and Uncle Jim and their two young sons, and Auntie Molly were gone, nothing left but a pile of rubble. Smoke was still drifting from the blackened heap into the sky, though the firemen had put out the flames.

  Ma had run at one of the men pulling at bits of wood and bricks in a fruitless attempt to discover anyone under the rubble, hitting at him in her terror, her eyes wild with fear and grief.

  ‘Where are they? Where did they take them? I begged them to come to the shelter but they wouldn’t listen …’

  He shook his head sadly. ‘If they were in the house when the bomb dropped they’ve had it, love. No one could survive under this lot. They took a couple of direct hits – the bloody Boche bastards! Why can’t they drop ’em on the Docks or the factories and leave the poor bloody people alone for a while?’

  Ma had staggered away, her face ashen. She stood staring at the piles of rubble that had housed her parents, her sister’s family and her best friend, Molly, as if she couldn’t take it in. Feeling cold and wanting her breakfast, Nancy pulled at her mother’s arm.

  ‘Come away in, Ma. If they find them they will tell us …’

  ‘Get in yourself and look after your brother …’ Ma said furiously. ‘Leave me be, can’t you?’

  Nancy had never known her mother like this before. She’d always been cheerful, out in the street as soon as her chores were done, chatting to her friends with her hair in wire curlers and a headscarf. Now she looked like a wild creature, blonde hair flying in the breeze, her children forgotten as she mourned all those she’d lost. It was to be the first of many changes.

  ‘Ma, hadn’t you better get the tea on?’ Nancy said now, trying to rouse her mother from her brown study. It didn’t do to dwell on the past, even though she missed her gran and her aunts, particularly Aunt Molly, who hadn’t truly been an aunt. If Molly Briggs had been alive Nancy could have talked to her about what was happening. She would have given Ma a good shake and told her to pull herself together.

  ‘You’ve still got your children and a home, Sheila Johnson, so think yerself lucky!’ Nancy could hear Molly’s voice challenging her mother but it was only in her head, because Molly had died in the rubble of her home.

  Ma was still sitting there, just nursing what was probably an empty beer bottle. Nancy took the wet sheets out to the yard at the back and threw them over the line. She just hoped her father wouldn’t notice when he came back for his tea.

  When Nancy got back to the kitchen she discovered that Terry was home from school, or wherever he’d been – more likely down the Docks, helping out with casual jobs. He’d cut a doorstep of bread himself and was getting dripping all over his chin and down his jacket, which was second-hand off the market but the best Nancy could get for the money her mother gave her from her meagre housekeeping.

  ‘Ma!’ Nancy shook her shoulder. ‘You need to get Pa’s supper on or he’ll be angry when he gets back. I’ve got all this ironing to do and the bedrooms need a turn-out.’

  Ma lifted hopeless eyes to hers. ‘You can do the bedrooms tomorrow, Nance. Get your pa’s tea like a good girl. The chops are in the pantry and there’s some cabbage and cold taties you can fry together. I don’t feel well … I think I’ll go up and lie down.’

  ‘I’ve got lots to do tomorrow,’ Nancy said as her mother left the room but Ma didn’t answer.

  What about me? Nancy wanted to shout and scream after her. Every day she had to look after her brother, get the shopping, go to school and clean the house and her mother did nothing but sit around all day in a daze. Pa would be furious if the house looked dirty or if his tea wasn’t to his liking, and the thought of her father in a temper made Nancy shake with fear. Terry would get a thrashing, and Ma would get a black eye … and she would be made to suffer his hateful touch again and again. Even the thought of it made her want to vomit.

  It had started when Pa came back from the war with a wound to his leg that left him with a limp and in a permanent state of anger. Before that he’d been a bit rough sometimes, but he had never hit any of them that Nancy could recall. When he returned and found the way Ma had changed he started to lose his temper with her and then with Terry. He’d not taken much notice of Nancy at first, but then, when she was nearly eleven, just a couple of days before her birthday, he’d entered her bedroom and found her standing there with nothing on in front of the mirror.

  Nancy had wanted to see if she had breasts yet. Her friend Janice was only three months older and she’d started to have breasts, but Nancy could see only a slight rounding and she was staring at herself in disappointment when Pa walked in.

  ‘What are you doing, girl?’

  ‘I was just going to have a wash.’ Nancy grabbed a towel and covered herself, not liking the way Pa was staring at her. ‘Go away and let me get dressed, Pa.’

  ‘No need for silliness, girlie,’ he said, a little smile curving his mouth. ‘I hadn’t realised what a big girl you’re getting … almost a little lady, aren’t you?’ He’d moved closer to her, reaching out to pat her bottom as she scampered to the bed to grab her underclothes and pull them on. ‘You don’t have to be shy with me, Nance. I’m your father. It’s all right for me to look at you like this … and to touch you, see. It wouldn’t be right for you to let a stranger see you naked, but I’m your dear old pa and you know I wouldn’t hurt you … not you …’

  ‘Go away, Pa!’

  ‘All right, I’ll go, but I shall come back soon. You’re nearly old enough to know what it’s all about. I’ll teach you things, sweet, secret things – and if you’re good I’ll buy you something nice. What would you like? Sweets or some ribbons for your hair?’

  ‘I don’t want anything.’

  Nancy had known instinctively that it wasn’t right for Pa to look at her when she had no clothes on, and she didn’t like what he was saying or that funny way his mouth went loose and wet. It made her shudder inside. She’d been innocent then; she hadn’t realised what a beast he really was.

  At first Pa had pleaded with her to let him touch her in places that made her recoil in horror, but when she was resolute in refusing he began to threaten, first Ma and then Terry. It didn’t take him long to realise that Terry was her weak spot. When he’d started to hit Terry for no reason she’d known she had to let Pa touch her, even though she hated it – but it hadn’t stopped at touching …

  Nancy felt the acrid taste of vomit in her throat as she remembered what he’d done to her the previous night. She’d screamed and cried out, begging him to stop because he was hurting her, but he’d just gone on and on until she couldn’t fight any more. It was the first time he’d done that, but she knew it wouldn’t be the last and she wanted to run away and crawl into a big hole.

  Why hadn’t Ma interfered ever? She must have known what was going on. Pa hadn’t bothered to hide it from her. He often touched Nancy’s bottom or slid a hand over her breast when Ma was in the kitchen; Nancy had small breasts now that she was nearly fourteen. How could Ma just sit there and let him do these things to her own daughter? How could he do them?

  ‘Nance …’ Terry came to her, his bread and dripping finished, the only evidence the grease on his chin. ‘What was Pa doin’ to you last night? I heard you call out and I wanted to come and stop him, but your door was locked.’

  ‘Nothing, Terry, love. You mustn’t come even if I scream out, all right? If you interfere Pa will thrash you – and I don’t want you to be hurt. Please promise me you won’t do anything s
illy.’

  Terry looked at her strangely, and for a moment his eyes seemed to glaze over. He put out his hand to touch hers.

  ‘I hate Pa,’ he said. ‘He hurts Ma and me – but if he’s doin’ bad things to you I’ll hurt him. I won’t let him make you cry any more, Nance. You’re the only person in the world I love – except Ma, but she don’t know I’m here much.’

  ‘Ma doesn’t know anything much,’ Nancy said, and bent down to hug him, inhaling the boyish scent of him, soap from where she’d washed him that morning, and his own special scent; a clean decent smell, not like Pa’s … not like that salty sweet stench that she could always smell after he’d been doing things to her.

  She wished she could take Terry and run away, somewhere they would be safe and Pa would never find them – but how would they live? She hated her father, wished that he would have an accident at work and never come home. Why hadn’t he been killed in the war like so many soldiers? Why did he have to come home and make all their lives a misery? It would have been better if one of the V2 bombs had fallen on the house and killed them all than to live this way.

  If there was only some way she could make them all safe …

  ‘I’m not goin’ to let him hurt you no more,’ Terry said, and Nancy smiled. He was a good boy and she loved him. He’d never wet the bed until Pa started knocking him around. If it was just her and Terry she could be happy for the rest of their lives.

  A cold shiver started at her nape as outside the kitchen door she heard the sound of brutish laughter and coarse voices, and she knew that Pa had started his celebrations early. By the sound of it he was drunk already.

  TWO

  Angela yawned, coming slowly awake to a feeling of luxury and excitement. She stretched in the comfort of the soft bed and then realised that she was home in her own room. It was Christmas and Mark Adderbury was coming to spend the day with them. A smile touched her lips, because she was aware of a sense of peace. Christmas Eve at St Saviour’s had been so lovely, with the staff and children singing carols and Mark playing Father Christmas to the excited orphans of Halfpenny Street. It had been a very special time at the children’s home in London’s East End and Angela felt warmed because she knew that much of that happiness had been brought about by her efforts as the Administrator – and Mark’s too, of course. In fact all the staff had played their parts in giving the children something they would always remember with pleasure, but for Angela it had been uplifting. She really believed that she had begun to come out of that dark place to which she’d been driven by the death of her beloved husband, John Morton.