The Runaway Children

by Sandy Taylor

  Me and Olive would take bread and dripping down to Daddy at lunchtime. He’d come to see us, away from the work and the other men. We’d sit next to him on the quayside, our legs dangling over the side, and we’d watch the barges and boats floating by on the black water, wide as a mile and deeper than we could imagine. Daddy would point out the big boats that came down the river from far-away places like Australia and New Zealand, and he’d do his best to bring those places to life for us, even though he had never been there. In my mind, all of them looked like Bermondsey, only with sunshine and kangaroos.

  My brother Tony loved the river and he was often in trouble for skipping school and spending the day there. He’d trawl the mudbanks looking for treasure; pieces of coal and wood, and sometimes he’d find a bone that he’d bring home and give to one of the neighbours’ dogs, or even a coin or two stuck into the thick grey-brown mud. He’d come back with his legs a dusty grey up to the knees where the mud had dried onto his skin, and Mum would send him out to wipe it off in the street because she didn’t want the mud in the flats.

  Mum worried about Tony spending so much time by the river. She knew that sometimes he’d wade into it and drag out larger bits of wood to bring home for the fire. We needed the wood but she was worried about him getting washed off his feet by the wake of a passing boat, or being swept out into the river and drowning. If he was late back, she feared he might have got stuck in the mud or found something valuable and been beaten up and robbed by the professional mudlarks – the adults who made a living from hunting treasure at the side of the river. Sometimes they found bodies: people who’d fallen from boats or jumped off bridges or been murdered. Mum was terrified that Tony might find a body. Tony wasn’t scared, though. He loved the river. He wasn’t afraid of it, no matter how much Mum tried to warn him away from it. The docks were where he wanted to work when he was old enough: he wanted to be like Daddy.

  We were lucky because we had the best daddy in the whole of Bermondsey, in the whole of London even. A big man with bright ginger hair and a thick ginger beard, he had bright blue eyes and a smile that lit up our world. He didn’t get roaring drunk like most of the men in the flats and he never laid a finger on any of us in anger. Mum said she knew a good’n when she’d met him at the local dance and she’d been proved right. As soon as war was declared, he was the first down the town hall to join up.

  I worried about him all the time, but Mum said he would be safe because there weren’t many ginger men in Bermondsey so God needed him here to make up the numbers. I wasn’t sure that I believed her but I clung to the hope that she was right. She didn’t say out loud that she was worried about Daddy in the same way she was always worrying out loud about Tony. This should have been reassuring but I was already old enough to have noticed that Mum talked about stuff that didn’t matter much more than she talked about the things that did. I didn’t know what we would do if anything happened to our daddy. I just couldn’t imagine it and so I tried my best not to think about it.

  The River Thames flowed past the back of the flats and once the war really got going, the docks were being bombed almost every day. The council supplied Rannly Court with Morrison shelters – strong metal cages that could also be used as tables. We put ours in the hallway under the stairwell where the building was strongest and, when the warning alarm came, we’d all squash under it and Mum would sing to us in her beautiful pure voice until the all-clear went. The bombs were scary but the bombsites were the best playgrounds we’d ever had. Every day after school, kids, mostly boys, swarmed over the rubble playing war games and cowboys and Indians. The girls played mums and dads and shops in the ruins of the bombed-out houses. At the end of the day the boys came home with scraped knees and torn trousers, without a care in the world.

  If there was ever any kind of trouble in the Rannly Court flats the men would deal with it. One night Mr Brown, who was always five sheets to the wind, beat his family so badly he almost killed them. No ambulance was called and no one sent for the cops. The women took care of the family and the men took care of Mr Brown – in fact, he was never seen again. Mrs Brown became happy and plump and took up with the milkman, who was missing an earlobe but was kind and took care of Mrs Brown and the kids. That’s the way it was. Bermondsey took care of its own and Mum said that was the way it had always been.

  This was my little corner of the East End and I loved it. At night I lay in bed and listened to the sound of men staggering out of the Spread Eagle and Crown, singing at the tops of their voices, songs like ‘Nellie Dean’ and ‘Roll Out the Barrel’. These were the lullabies of the East End that sent me to sleep.

  Chapter Three

  Most of the kids round here had been evacuated at the start of the war. They had gone in groups, parading through the streets behind their schoolteachers, who held up banners with the name of the school. Not all of us, though. Some of us had stayed behind for whatever reason. And some had gone but then returned, making their way back home, unable to settle in the country. Bermondsey ran through them like the words in a stick of rock and the countryside was alien to them. It wasn’t always the happy place they’d imagined. The evacuation had been organised so quickly and haphazardly that not all the children ended up where they should have done. Their homecoming wasn’t always what they had hoped for either, and sometimes the poor little mites found themselves loaded onto the next available train by less-than-sympathetic parents.

  I know that Mum worried about our safety every day, but while she was pregnant with Freddie, she had needed us nearby. She’d been ill this time, too ill to get out of bed; her ankles had swollen right up and she’d had terrible headaches. Somebody had to look after her, make her cups of tea and do her washing, and with Dad gone that only left me and Tony. Olive wasn’t exactly much help, but she refused to be evacuated on her own. Now, however, with Freddie born and the bombardment of the docks getting worse, Mum desperately wanted us to leave London and go somewhere safer. She said worrying about us kept her awake at night and she couldn’t be doing with missing any more sleep because she was already missing so much with Freddie. It was true that she was tired all the time. Sometimes I’d look at her when she didn’t realise I was looking and I’d see her eyelids closing, coming together. Once I saw her almost fall asleep standing up, stirring a pot on the stove. I hadn’t known, until then, that human beings could fall asleep standing up.

  I loved my mum and it was obvious that she couldn’t go on being this tired and worried. I was old enough to understand that it would be easier for her to cope with the baby and the war and everything else if she knew us three older kids were somewhere safe.

  So we had to go, but I had an idea.

  ‘Why can’t you come with us, Mum?’ I’d asked.

  She’d shaken her head. ‘Not yet – Freddie is too small and I’m…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m just too tired, Nell.’

  She’d looked down at the baby in her arms. Freddie had grown into his face a bit. He didn’t look so much like a grumpy old man now; he was actually quite sweet. He gazed up at Mum all squinty-eyed and moved his lips. She put the tip of her little finger into his mouth. ‘I’ll try to join you later when Freddie’s a bit older.’

  ‘How will you know where to find us?’

  ‘You’ll write to me when you’re settled and then I’ll know where you are.’

  ‘If there’s no room, you can share my bed,’ I’d said.

  ‘Thank you, Nell.’

  ‘Or I’ll go in with Olive.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So you promise you’ll come?’

  ‘I promise.’ She smiled. ‘This won’t be forever, my love.’

  None of us wanted to leave Mum but Tony, especially, was adamant that he wasn’t going anywhere. He considered himself the man of the house while Dad was away and he felt responsible for Mum.

  ‘What if she gets ill again while we’re away?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s got the neighbours
, Tony.’

  ‘That’s not the same! They’re not going to come and stay all night with her, are they?’

  ‘I’m sure they would if it was important.’

  Tony scowled. ‘What’s the point of us going away, anyway? It’s a stupid waste of time. How can anyone be sure that the bloody countryside ain’t gonna be bombed?’

  ‘I don’t suppose they can,’ I said. ‘But the Germans aren’t interested in farms and villages, are they? They want to drop their bombs on cities and railways and the docks. Why would they waste their bombs on a load of cows and sheep?’

  ‘Well, I ain’t goin and no one’s gonna make me.’

  ‘You’re a selfish little bugger, Tony Patterson! This isn’t all about you, you know. Think of Olive, she’s only five and she’s terrified of the bombs, she’s a bag of nerves.’

  ‘Well, let Olive go then. You go with her! I’m not stoppin her or you, am I? You two go and then Mum won’t have to worry about you and I can look after her.’

  ‘Look, Tony,’ I said gently. ‘I don’t wanna go either but if it’s what Mum wants, then I need you to come with us, I need you to help me. You’re the man of the house now and I know that this is what Daddy would want you to do.’

  ‘Bloody stinking rotten war!’ he yelled.

  ‘Think about it, Tone, for Olive’s sake. Just think about it.’

  He nodded and stood up, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched. He kicked a pebble and walked away down the street, the toes of his boots slapping on the pavement. There were holes in the elbows of his jumper. I hoped that he would think about it. I didn’t want him being difficult, making things worse for all of us, especially Mum.

  * * *

  The day after this conversation, me and my best friend, Angela Townsend, were sitting in the upstairs bedroom of 59 Edison Terrace. The back wall had been blown out but an old iron bed was still all in one piece. Scraps of flowery wallpaper hung in strips and blew around in the breeze and bits of brown lino still clung to the floor. Neither me nor Angela had ever lived in a whole house and we loved it there. We made believe that it was ours. Between us we’d dragged the bed over to the gaping hole, from where we could look down on the kids climbing over the rubble and across all the gardens and allotments down to the river, where the tall cranes rose up into the sky.

  Angela tucked her legs under her. ‘I wonder who used to live here?’ she asked.

  ‘I haven’t got a clue,’ I said, ‘but I don’t think they were skint. Not as skint as us, anyway. Mum couldn’t afford lino like this.’

  ‘I bet it was a beautiful lady. Bet she looked like Vera Lynn, with red lips and blonde hair, and I bet she wore silk dresses with fur stoles.’

  ‘Bet she lived here with her handsome husband.’

  ‘Yeah. Bet he was a right looker.’ Angela sighed and rested her chin on her hand. ‘Bet he bought her flowers and necklaces and perfume. Bet he opened the door for her when she got in and out the taxi. Bet they took a lot of taxis.’

  I smiled. ‘Do you think they had kids?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Angela. ‘Her what lived here was far too busy for kids.’

  ‘Busy doing what?’

  ‘Working for the radio.’

  I smiled. She was still thinking about Vera Lynn.

  ‘I wonder where they are now?’ Angela said. She stroked the mattress of the bed.

  ‘They might have been killed.’

  ‘I hope not,’ she said, chewing at her nails. ‘I hope they’re staying in a hotel.’

  Hotels were the epitome of glamour as far as me and Angela were concerned. Angela’s face had gone rather sad so I said gently: ‘I thought you’d stopped chewing your nails?’

  ‘It’s a habit.’

  ‘Well, it’s not a very nice one, Angela. Her as lived here wouldn’t have chewed her nails.’

  ‘It helps,’ she said.

  I knew that Angela tended to chew at her nails when she was worried about something.

  ‘Is everything all right at home?’ I asked gently.

  Angela’s eyes filled with tears. I reached across and held her hand. ‘Wanna talk about it?’

  ‘There’s nothin to talk about really, Nell, because there’s nothin I can do about it.’

  ‘Sometimes it helps to talk, even if there’s nothin to be done,’ I said.

  Angela wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘Mum’s not getting any better and Gran’s taken to wandering the streets. We try to keep the door locked but she’s a crafty old cow and any chance she gets, she’s gone. The other day she was climbing over the bombsite in her nightie and her bum was showin and all the kids were laughing at her. I’m worn out with it all, Nell.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, squeezing her hand.

  She wiped her eyes again. ‘I’m all right really. I love my gran. She might be an old cow but she’s my old cow,’ she said, grinning.

  ‘And your mum?’

  ‘No one seems to know what’s wrong with her – she hasn’t been well since she had Mavis. She spends most of her time in bed now. It’s not her fault, I know it’s not, but it’s hard, Nell. Sometimes I feel like a middle-aged woman with a couple of kids to look after.’

  ‘I wish I could do something to help you.’

  ‘You’re my friend and that helps.’

  ‘What about your lot? Have you heard from them?’ I said. Angela’s brothers and sister had been evacuated with all the others a while back.

  ‘Robbie’s pretty good at keeping in touch. He says the people who’ve taken them in are nice. Little Mavis misses Mum and Stanley’s still wetting the bed. Mum’s hoping by the time they come home, he’ll be house trained.’

  I grinned at her. ‘I don’t think your Stanley will ever be house trained.’

  ‘Neither do I, but Mum lives in hope. She’s not too worried though, cos they’re safe and being looked after. Robbie’s fallen in love with the family’s two dogs, Peppa and Woody, and he says he wants a dog of his own when he comes back.’

  ‘That’s all your mum needs,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘That’s all I need.’ She sighed.

  I didn’t know how to say it, so I just came out with it: ‘I might have to go away, Angela.’

  Angela chewed at her nails again.

  ‘What, all of you?’ she asked, softly.

  ‘Not Mum and the baby. She says Freddie’s too young to be travelling all over the country and Mrs Ryan said Mum’s not strong enough to travel yet.’

  ‘What about Tony? Is he going as well?’

  ‘Not sure about that one. He says he’ll think about it.’

  ‘I can’t see him leavin your mum, Nell.’

  ‘Neither can I, but I put him on a bit of a guilt trip, so I’m hoping he’ll come round to the idea. I wish we could be evacuated together, Angela.’

  ‘I wish we could too, but Mum would never be able to travel – neither would Gran.’

  ‘I can’t imagine leaving Bermondsey.’

  ‘Well, right now I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.’

  ‘I know,’ I said gently.

  ‘Think of it as an adventure, girl, or a holiday.’

  ‘It won’t feel like much of a holiday without Mum.’

  ‘I’ll miss you if you go, Nell.’

  ‘I’ll miss you an all,’ I said, linking my arm through hers.

  We sat in silence looking out over Bermondsey until the light went from the sky and it was time to say goodbye to the glamorous ghosts of 59 Edison Terrace and make our way home. We were starting to shiver when all of a sudden the air-raid siren began wailing. I nearly jumped out of my skin. No matter how many times I heard it, it still frightened me to death. We leapt off the bed and ran down the stairs, which still had the banister on one side but was completely open on the other. In the street we joined a crowd of people hurrying towards the Underground. We soon realised we weren’t going to make it; there was a massive boom as the first bomb dropped, the blast sucking the air out of
our lungs and nearly knocking us off our feet. I grabbed Angela’s coat and dragged her into a doorway. We flattened ourselves against the wall and covered our heads.

  ‘Siren was a bit bloody late,’ said Angela, shaking.

  We clung together, terrified.

  ‘Bloody Norah!’ she added.

  Just then the door behind us opened and we both fell into someone’s hallway. We didn’t have time to thank our saviour as a second bomb rocked the house and we were manhandled under the kitchen table and into a Morrison shelter. Me and Angela found ourselves knee to knee with Gilbert Delaney, who was in our class at school.

  ‘Hello, Gilbert,’ I said shyly.

  ‘Hello, Nell,’ he replied, grinning and scratching behind his ear.

  ‘What were you kids doing out there in the dark?’ asked Gilbert’s dad, lighting up a fag.

  ‘We were on our way home, Mr Delaney,’ I said, coughing.

  ‘What have I told you about smoking under here?’ said his wife.

  ‘It settles me nerves,’ he said, winking at us.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t bloody settle mine,’ she said, glaring at him.

  ‘Would you rather I went outside and smoked, dear?’

  ‘Don’t tempt me,’ she said.

  We stayed under the table until the all-clear went. Then we thanked the family, said goodbye to Gilbert and made our way home through the dark streets. It was pitch -black and the air was full of smoke and bits of debris. We clung to each other like grim death as we stumbled along. Angela lived in the block of flats opposite, where we hugged and went our separate ways.

  Tony was waiting for me outside the flats.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ he shouted. ‘Where’ve you been? Mum’s been doing her nut with worry! We thought you was a goner! We thought that bomb had got you!’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘It came a bit close but…’

  ‘Nell!’

  Mum was standing at the top of the steps. Her face was white and her eyes were round and terrified. I’d never seen her looking so frightened. She came running down the stairs and she grabbed hold of me and wrapped her arms around me, holding me so tightly I could hardly breathe. ‘Oh, Nell!’ she cried. ‘My Nell, I thought I’d lost you! Where were you? What have I told you about staying out after dark?’