Christmas is for Children

by Rosie Clarke

  CHRISTMAS IS FOR CHILDREN

  Rosie Clarke

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.ariafiction.com

  About Christmas is for Children

  December 1930. Christmas should be for the children, but with the Depression biting deeper, money and food in short supply and factories, ship yards and businesses closing down, the outlook is pretty bleak. It looks like many East End kids will wake up on Christmas morning to nothing.

  Robbie Graham is out of luck and work. Can he earn enough to put food on his table for his motherless children, Ben and Ruthie? Never mind something for their Christmas stockings?

  Meanwhile single mother and local shop owner, Flo Hawkins cannot bear the thought of some children having nothing for Christmas. Alongside her daughter, Honour, they decide to make their own gifts and the community unites to throw a Christmas party at the Salvation Army for those less fortunate. But will it be Flo who gets the best gift ever?

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About Christmas is for Children

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  About Rosie Clarke

  About the Mulberry Lane Series

  About the Workshop Girls Series

  Also by Rosie Clarke

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  1

  ‘You – get in line!’ the gaffer’s voice was harsh, angry. He shoved the man who had dared to step forward back into the line of thin-faced men with anxious eyes. It was a chilly November morning in 1932 and only one ship was being unloaded on the docks, the majority of the cranes motionless, like black spiders outlined against the grey sky. Dust and debris scurried across the empty crates and abandoned tarpaulins littering the dock, as men stood or lounged, watching the horizon hungrily for any sign of a new cargo ship. Since the stock market crash in America in 1929, trade had slowed, work was scarce and agricultural prices had dropped by sixty per cent: a combination of disasters that had left whole countries reeling and men standing in line for work. ‘When I want volunteers, I’ll ask for them…’

  ‘He’s been standin’ here for three days and you haven’t given him one job,’ Robbie Graham spoke up for the older man, who looked drained and ill, despair weighing him down. ‘What’s Josh done to deserve bein’ ignored?’

  ‘Shut yer gob, Graham, or you’ll find yerself at the end of the line wiv ’im.’

  Robbie glared at the gaffer, his fists balling at his sides. Robbie Graham was a tall, well-built man with dark almost black hair, eyes that were blue rather than grey and a strong jawline. If he chose, he could knock that cocky devil from here to kingdom come and one of these days… But any sign of violence and he would be out for good. It was humiliating being forced to wait all day like this, more often than not nothing would come into the dock, and if it did, the work would go to the gaffer’s favourites. Men like old Josh there would get nothing and Robbie was lucky if he was given the filthy crates and lorries to wash down; unloading and stacking was reserved for the favourites and there was no chance of Robbie being offered his real work of carpentry.

  ‘That’s it, no more work today,’ the gaffer announced after he’d pulled three men from the line. ‘Come back tomorrow early and maybe yer’ll be lucky.’ His grin was evil as he heard the groans, because he knew the power he had over these men. Work was scarce, not only here on the East India Docks, but all over the country. Men had marched to the capital earlier that year demanding bread, but all they got were blows and curses as a peaceful march turned into a riot.

  Robbie turned away with a sinking heart. He had a shilling in his pocket and two motherless kids at school, and his pride had prevented him from signing on to the dole to receive the pittance of perhaps seventeen shillings a week if he was lucky. The national government had reduced the rate because of a crisis with the gold standard and to receive the money, each household had to pass a means test, which was hated by everyone. The dole was only payable for twenty-six weeks in a year and Robbie had believed he could earn more; most weeks he had. However, since his wife had died and the depression had begun to really bite, he’d hardly been able to afford to put food on the table, let alone clothe his children properly. His misfortune had started when he’d had an accidental fall from the roof of a house he’d been helping to build and been flat on his back in bed for weeks on end, and then, just when he thought he was getting back on his feet, the recession had started and he’d been let go from his firm.

  Robbie’s wife, Madge, had fallen ill a few weeks after he’d been sacked. He’d thought it was just a nasty chill, but then it had turned to pneumonia and suddenly she was gone, leaving him with two children under ten years to care for. Robbie’s marriage had not been particularly happy at the end, but he’d grieved for her, remembering the good times when they’d first met when he was on leave from the army. Latterly, her scolding tongue had driven a wedge between them and then it had been too late. She’d wanted to be in Yarmouth near her folks so he’d had her cremated and buried her ashes near her mother; it was all he could do for her and cost every last penny he had.

  Once, they’d been happy, racing across the sands at Yarmouth, he a young solider on leave, and she a carefree girl on a rare holiday from her work as a parlourmaid. Because there was a war raging, they’d married quickly, believing the magic of love would last, but it hadn’t and, standing over her grave, Robbie blamed himself. Madge had known there was someone else – someone he could not forget – and it had soured her.

  With every penny he had gone, he’d joined the men waiting in line on the docks. At first he’d got his fair share of what work was going, but for some weeks now, he’d only been offered what the skilled men didn’t want…

  ‘You shouldn’t ’ave stood up fer me, lad,’ Josh said, catching up with Robbie’s long stride. ‘The gaffer’s got it in fer me and now he’ll take it out on you.’

  ‘It ain’t fair,’ Robbie replied. ‘You deserve a chance same as the rest – but I get the worse jobs and he don’t even give you the job of slopping out the bone lorry.’

  ‘I’m used to it,’ Josh admitted, resigned. ‘I’ll look for work elsewhere tomorrow. What’s the point in standin’ in line, when yer know you ain’t gonna be picked?’

  Robbie shook his head. Times were hard now. In 1931, the government had been forced to devalue the pound and they’d reduced the rate of pay for all government employees, including the postal workers and the servicemen. This had caused protests and strikes and even a small mutiny by the royal navy, but when it left many of the ratings – ordinary sailors with no rank – with no more than twenty-five shillings a week, some protests were to be expected. In the north, shipyards and factories had closed their yards. Because of the massive unemployment now most people no longer bothered to protest; everyone was in the same boat and you took what you could get.

  ‘Suppose not,’ Robbie said. ‘I went down the exchange on Monday, but there was a que
ue as long as two football pitches and someone said they’d got nothing to offer.’

  ‘I’ll do anythin’ – I ain’t proud…’ Josh looked desperate.

  Robbie fingered the shilling in his pocket. ‘I’ll buy yer half a pint, mate,’ he offered as they approached the pub.

  ‘Nah, I can’t buy yer one back. I’m skint…’

  ‘Half a pint ter wish yer luck,’ Robbie insisted.

  He smothered his guilt as he took the protesting Josh into the pub; he was a mate and needed a bit of help. There was some bread for toast and a bit of dripping in the pantry. The kids wouldn’t starve and tomorrow he’d go looking elsewhere for a job. He was a skilled carpenter and he might find some work if he had the courage to look…

  *

  ‘Are yer comin’ down the Rec?’ a lanky boy called to Ben Graham as they left the junior boys’ school that afternoon. Ben was a miniature version of his father, tall for his almost ten years and full of energy. It was a late November evening and the mist was coming down, making it feel cold and damp.

  ‘Nah, I’ve got to fetch me sister,’ Ben replied and watched the boy run off to join a crowd of five others intending to play football on an open piece of ground near the docks. He would have liked to join in their game, but Ruthie would be waiting for him to fetch her. If he wasn’t there on time, she would cry and sniffle all the way home.

  ‘They ain’t worfth the bother them lot…’ another boy sidled up to Ben as he turned towards the girls’ school, which was just around the corner. ‘I’ll walk wiv yer…’

  ‘All right, if yer want,’ Ben agreed. Mick was thinner and shorter than Ben; half-Irish, he sounded more like a Londoner. He and his father had moved here some six months or so earlier and Mick had enrolled at the school, but he’d spent more time away than in class. Mick’s father was Irish and the only time Ben had seen him had been when he fetched Mick back from school once; he’d been drunk, lurching about and swearing. The headmaster had gone after him, but Mick’s father had raised a fist to him and he’d paled and backed away. ‘You ain’t been to school for a while?’

  ‘Nah, me dad was sick and I ’ad ter look after ’im,’ Mick said. ‘I fought he might croak it, but he never. He’s back on the booze again now.’

  ‘My dad likes a drink, but he grins all the time and gets daft if he has one too many – yours swears and gets violent.’

  ‘Dad ain’t bad when he’s got work.’ Mick grimaced ‘He’s a labourer and there ain’t much goin’ fer ’im at the moment. He says the bloody government ought ter make jobs fer men like ’im – roads and stuff – but they ain’t got no sense…’

  Ben frowned, because he could just recall a time when things had been better. His dad had been working full-time on the building sites and his mum had set the table for tea with a spotless cloth and glass jam dishes with a silver spoon, but things were different now.

  ‘We was learnin’ about the recession in class this mornin’ and the teacher says it all started in America…’ Ben looked at the other boy. ‘You should come ter school, Mick. My teacher said us kids need a better education so that we’re not all in the same boat when we get older. He said the workin’ man relies too much on heavy labourin’ and not enough on his brains… He reckons that’s why the Labour party got defeated in the election last year.’

  ‘School is a waste of time,’ Mick replied because Ben was just repeating what his teacher had told him and it went straight over his head. ‘’Sides, they told me I had ter wash and get me clothes washed and all – and there ain’t nowhere to wash ’em where we live.’

  Ben was aware of the ruined tenement buildings not far from the East India Docks, where his friend and his father lived in squalor. They had been merchant seamen’s houses once, but for many years they’d been subdivided into rooms and allowed to fall into disrepair as too many families squeezed into the row of semi-detached houses. Years ago, the authorities had evicted the tenants, condemned the buildings and boarded up the windows and doors. Left to fall to ruin, the tramps and homeless had started to squat there and no one bothered to turn them out.

  They passed a small factory that had finally closed its doors in the summer after trying to limp along on half-time for months. The blackened chimney stack had no smoke issuing from it and posters advertising cinema films were plastered all over the walls and boarded up windows. There was a film showing called Tell England and another with Laurel & Hardy – and at the Odeon up west there was a film on with Norma Shearer starring.

  ‘I ain’t never bin to the flicks,’ Mick said, looking at the posters with a kind of hunger. ‘Have you?’

  ‘Mum took us once to a Charlie Chaplin film for my birthday,’ Ben said. ‘I remember it was funny but it was a long time ago… and I liked the cartoons best…’

  Ben and Mick were approaching Ruthie’s school now. She was only six and Ben was nine, ten next January. She looked to her big brother to look after her, because Dad was hardly ever home until late and Mum was dead… Ben frowned as he saw Ruthie was standing by herself and looking miserable. Her ribbon had come off and her fine fair hair had tangled in the wind, and her blue eyes were drenched with tears. Some of the other girls were pointing at her and laughing.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked when she ran to him in distress.

  ‘Me dress split under the arms again ’cos it’s too small. The teacher said I had ter get it mended or stay home. She caned me ’ands and stood me in the corner and the kids all laughed at me…’

  ‘Bloody teachers; they cane yer fer anythin’. I think they enjoy it,’ Mick growled. ‘You take no notice of ’em, Ruthie. They’re all rotten…’

  ‘I like goin’ ter school. We’re makin’ cards fer our friends in class,’ Ruthie muttered and sniffed. ‘I’m ’ungry…’

  ‘So am I,’ Ben said. Mick nodded his head. They all knew what it was like to have that familiar ache in the pit of their tummy. ‘I’ve got three pennies – we could buy some chips with that and share ’em…’

  ‘I’ve got tuppence,’ Mick offered. ‘They’ll give us some crispies for that and we can put salt and vinegar on ’em…’

  The three of them traipsed into the fish and chip shop on the corner and Ben pushed their five slightly sticky pennies over the counter.

  ‘Can we have chips and some crispies please, Mr Fred?’

  Fred Giles nodded, picked up a sheet of newspaper and scooped two large portions of chips into it, adding a full scoop of bits of batter off the fish. All the kids and some of the adults asked for them, but Fred gave them to the ones he liked most – and Ben cleaned his windows for him every Saturday morning. He did it better than most window cleaners and he was always polite. So Fred sprinkled salt and vinegar over the chips and gave Ben the package, and then he took a buttered roll and popped it on top.

  ‘See you on Saturday mornin’, Ben?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks, Mr Fred…’

  Ruthie and Mick followed Ben out. He broke the roll into three pieces, but Ruthie was only interested in the chips, so he gave Mick two shares of the roll and they all dipped into the chips and crispies. Ben felt sorry for his friend, because he knew there was a warm bed waiting for him at the end of the day and his dad would have food for him when he got home. Ben and Ruthie had a free school dinner, because Mum had applied for it when Dad was sick – but Mick often went without food all day. His father wasn’t registered in London as unemployed so he didn’t qualify; what work he did was cash in his pocket and no one was any the wiser, because he spent his money at the pub as soon as he got it.

  When they reached the end of the road leading up from the docks, Ben saw his father approaching their cottage from the opposite direction. The houses where they lived were once all seamen’s homes, hundreds of years old and most were in bad repair. They could smell the river from the back garden and in the summer, it stank.

  Ben looked at Mick and, knowing he had only the dark and cold waiting, because his dad wouldn’t be there, asked
if he wanted to come in for a while.

  ‘Dad will make a cup of tea,’ he said. ‘He won’t mind if you stop for a warm by the fire, Mick. I ain’t sayin’ there’ll be much ter eat – but you can have a hot drink…’

  ‘Yer dad is all right,’ Mick said and kicked at a stone in the road as he tagged on behind them.

  ‘Ben, Ruthie…’ Ben’s father called to them. ‘Hello, Mick – do yer want a cup of rosy lee?’

  ‘Yes, please, Mr Graham…’ Mick grinned and followed the others inside to the large kitchen.

  It was warm from the range, which was kept going on cheap coke all the time when Ben’s father had money in his pocket. At one end of the room stood a big oak dresser with lots of china, mostly blue and white willow pattern, displayed on it; a pine table was in the middle of the room and a sink with curtains underneath and a wooden drainer to both sides was under the window. The curtains at the window matched the ones under the sink, and the covers on the armchair and the old sofa also matched. Ben’s mother made them before she died. Neither of the boys ever spoke of their mothers, because it hurt.

  ‘It’s just toast and drippin’ this evenin,’ Robbie said as he put the kettle on the range. ‘But you can have cocoa if you’d like rather than tea…’

  They all asked for the cocoa and the chocolatey smell was delicious, as was the taste. Mick and Ben ate a piece of toast and dripping, but Ruthie shook her head and complained it made her feel sick. She found a jar of jam in the cupboard which had just a scraping left of the sweet strawberry conserve and she scooped it out to put on her toast.

  Mick perched on the lumpy old sofa; it was heaven compared to what awaited him at the dark and damp derelict house that should have been pulled down long ago. His bed was a pile of old sacks and he had one blanket he pulled over him at night. He hated living there and didn’t want to go back – and it wasn’t just that his dad might be in a foul temper; there were others using the derelict buildings as somewhere to sleep and he was afraid of one of them in particular.