by Carol Rivers
* * *
PROLOGUE
Christmas Day 1940
Isle of Dogs
East London
'Terry's cold, Bella.' Five-year-old Terry Doyle squatted next to his sister in the dank, rubbish-strewn alley opposite the row of derelict cottages. Bella Doyle, only eight-years-old herself, slid her arm protectively around her brother's bony shoulders, painfully aware his thin white shirt was no protection against the winter's bite.
Terry was starving and today was no exception. They'd been scavenging on the debris all day and found little to satisfy their appetite. If only their mother and that pig of a man she'd picked up at the Rose hadn't decided to come home early! They must have had a skinful, then run out of booze or money or both.
Bella was weighing up this problem carefully; a problem she had been faced with more times than she had eaten hot dinners. In fact, to Mary Doyle's children, a hot dinner was something they could only dream about, and often had.
Bella knew that to enter their home now, a rundown dockside cottage dripping water from its mouldy walls, would be a risky business. After the week-long binge that their mother and her boyfriend Jack Router had enjoyed, even setting eyes on her children would be aggravation to Mary Doyle.
Bella understood the evils of alcohol even at her young age. If asked, she couldn't put it into words. But she knew through bitter experience how it could corrupt a person's nature. Their mother hadn't always been the drunkard she had turned into and Bella somehow understood this. She sensed the sinful nature of Mary's work and the crucifying poverty of their lifestyle, though she suspected that once upon a time her mother had been a child too. Perhaps with a brother or sister or both, and part of a real family. Mary Doyle had been innocent once. Before she had turned into a wild animal and lay with men to earn her living. And the blame for this degradation, Mary had daily informed Bella, lay squarely on her children's heads. They were bastards, appearing unbidden in her life. At the best of times, the sight of them was almost more than she could bear. At the worst, she left them alone with Jack Router.
'What we going to do?' Terry mumbled, trembling with the cold, his hand frozen inside Bella's.
'We'll wait a bit, right? Till they go out again.'
'But the planes might come over.'
Bella shook her tousled and filthy copper curls. 'They won't come over tonight. It's Christmas. Even the Germans know that.'
'Do Germans have kids as well?'
'Course they do.'
'Do they give 'em presents?'
'Dunno. Might do.'
Terry leaned his slight weight against her and Bella sighed heavily. All the buildings in Bow Street were condemned. She knew that because she'd read the notice nailed to their door. "This dwelling is considered unfit to live in and is condemned by the council."
But this had been in the summer before the Blitz started. Since then, the paper had worn away and life had gone on much the same, Blitz or no Blitz. Bella had been thankful that at least, she and Terry still had a roof over their heads. More so, when Mary and Jack were not sleeping or fighting underneath it.
Now snow was drifting across the street and Bella's stomach churned emptily. She had stowed a crust of bread between the floor and the bug-ridden mattress they slept on in a corner of the cottage. Bella had planned to share it with Terry as soon as they'd got home from the debris where they'd been looking for anything of value left over from the raids. But today they had come home empty-handed. And they'd been waiting an eternity in the hopes that the cottage would soon be vacated.
'They must be asleep,' Bella decided, taking off her coat and folding it around Terry's shoulders. It wasn't much protection; threadbare and darned, it was the only comfort she could give him. If only Terry could remember to dress himself properly. He didn't seem to know what kept him warm and what didn't. He had a habit of forgetting and Bella was always looking out for him.
'I don't like it here,' Terry complained, his bare knees knocking under his short, raggedy trousers. 'I'm cold. I wanna go in.'
'So do I,' Bella agreed impatiently. 'But not for a bashing. And we'll get one, as they won't be in no mood to see us.'
'Where we going, then?' Terry asked forlornly, swiping the running snot from his nose. 'To Micky's?'
'Don't reckon Micky would like that, either,' Bella said, shivering in her thin dress that was more tears and holes than fabric. 'It's Christmas Day. His mum will be dishing up the dinner.'
Micky Bryant was their benefactor. The one light in Bella's dark life. He was twice as old as her, but he didn't seem like it. He seemed like her other half. He looked out for them. And all the other street kids. He paid them for what they found. And sometimes gave them grub. He told them to keep shtum, as if his mum knew he was knocking off stuff, she wouldn't be best pleased.
Micky had two brothers too. Sean was all right. But Bella didn't care for the oldest one. She'd seen him at a distance and he looked - well, she didn't know how he looked. But she suspected he wouldn't encourage Micky's friendship with kids from the slums. Micky would laugh at that if she told him. He'd give her a wink and roll his lovely eyes. Micky didn't have airs and graces. Not like his brother, Ronnie.
'I'd like an 'ot dinner,' Terry said hopefully, his thin face and hollowed dark eyes under his thin black hair looking to Bella, like the face of an angel. A dirty, grubby, smelly little angel, but an angel none the less. She loved Terry with all her heart. She'd cared for her baby brother since the day he was born. Mary had brought him into this world with language so foul that even the old girl - who was always in at the deliveries - had turned away in disgust.
Bella remembered the violence of her mother's labour. As though she cursed nature and everything in it for her unwanted condition. But to Bella the miracle of birth had opened her young eyes to the first sensation of love. The blood soaked newspaper on the floor where Terry had suddenly appeared from between Mary's legs had seemed like a royal blanket of welcome. The old girl had slapped his silent body, all mauve and sticky with blood, and Bella had held her breath as she listened for Terry's first cry.
When it came, it was as if her own lonely heart had called back. And because there was no where else to put him, Bella had reached out and there he was! In her arms. This speck of life, staring up at her, with eyes like jewels in an old man's wrinkled face. She'd loved him from the off. And instinct had told her to keep him safe. So she'd kept him away from Mary until his pathetic screams had to be silenced by her huge, milk-swollen breasts. Mostly Mary had fallen asleep and Bella had held him there, snuggled up to the round fullness, his tiny fingers pleated around Bella's as he learned to suck.
Bella looked at her brother now. He didn't have a bad bone in his body. At least, what bones were left after the bashings he got from Jack Router. And that was what hurt her the most. What made her angry. What made her feel so powerless. She could take the man groping her. She made herself take it, so he wouldn't touch Terry. And the one thing in her favour was Mary's jealousy, her need for men as much as their money. She was still young and beautiful in her own eyes. Her daughter's youth was an anathema to her. She resented it. Jack knew that too and he played on it.
Another hour passed and dusk began to fall. The pretty snow flakes stuck to Bella's dark lashes and surrounded her brown eyes like tiny stars. They couldn't stay here much longer. Bella knew they would freeze to death. Terry's lips were blue and his face a ghostly white.
'Come on, we're leaving,' she told him, shaking him awake from the frozen doze he was falling into.
'Where to?' Terry whimpered as she hauled him to his feet.
'Back to the debris.'
Terry's big eyes filled with tears. 'I want to go home, Bells.'
In a grown up fashion far beyond her eight years, Bella took hold of her brother's shoulders. 'Listen Terry, might as well face it. We've got no home. Not when he's with her. Not when he thumps you like he does. And certainly not when they're both pissed. We'd be dead meat if we went
back now and you know it.'
The tears trickled down Terry's cheeks. He said nothing, just stared at Bella and sniffed back the mucous streaming from his nose. She took his hand and squeezed it. 'I promise I'll find us a place to kip. And something to eat. All right?'
He nodded slowly and Bella took one last glance at the cottage. No sign of them coming out yet. She could only guess they'd drunk themselves daft. There would be hell to pay when they woke; in the absence of alcohol, the fighting and screaming would start. Bella had hoped that her mother would tire of the man, but for better or worse, she kept with him. And as far as her children were concerned, it was mostly the worst.
Shivering uncontrollably herself now, Bella hugged Terry to her. 'About a mile down the road is the pie and mash shop. In the blackout, no one will see us turn over the bins.'
Terry sobbed softly. 'I was sick last time we did that.'
'Listen,' Bella consoled him with her innocent logic, 'if pigs can eat that muck, so can we.'
He hung his head and she pulled him along the alley. It was dusk and the blackout was strictly enforced. There was no light showing, not even a full moon. But she knew every step of the way. When they'd eaten, they'd walk to the debris. She'd seen the remains of a burned-out house today. Some of its blackened rafters hung loosely inside. She'd take Terry there. It was better than sleeping in the open. And if the rest of the roof didn't fall in on them, that would be a bonus.
They could even make-believe they were in a posh house and were having a proper Christmas. They could pretend to open presents from under a Christmas tree. And sit round an imaginary fire opening them. She liked pretending. As they stuffed themselves with plum pudding, she would tell Terry the story about Joseph and Mary riding on the donkey and following a star. Mary and Joseph didn't have no home at Christmas either. In the end, the star led them to a stable where Mary had her baby in the straw. There was cows and sheep and the donkey, too. It was a pity there wasn't no animals on the island, only rats. Thousands of 'em, all over the place. Just as hungry as she and Terry were.
Bella hurried on, dragging Terry beside her. She was eager to investigate the bins at the back of the pie and mash shop and find shelter before it was too dark. And she might be wrong about the Germans. Their planes could be on their way over this minute. P'raps they hadn't even heard of Christmas.
Well, nor had she and Terry, really. Not until last year, when Micky had bunged them both a tanner along with two of his mum's apple pies.
* * *
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
The London Blitz
March 1941
'You bugger, don't you hit our Terry again!' Eight-year-old Bella Doyle stared defiantly up at the big man whose fist was clenched in readiness to strike.
Jack Router turned his bloodshot gaze slowly from the small boy huddled in the corner to scrutinize the parcel of rags and lice infested hair gazing up at him.
'What did you say, girl?'
Bella moved cautiously backwards, out of reach of the man who had just knocked seven bells out of her little brother. Drunk and swaying Jack Router might be, but when the occasion warranted it, she knew he could turn on a sixpence.
'I said leave him alone. You're a bastard bully for clobbering our Terry. And I'm telling me Mum when she comes home.'
'Oh you will, will you?'
Instantly regretting her quick tongue, Bella knew there was no escape. Above her, the gaping hole in the ceiling where the rafters of the roof hung down and to her right, the closed door and blacked-out window. Not that she'd try running anyway. Not without Terry.
Jack Router curled a thick, grubby finger in her direction. 'Come here now, Bella. We should be friends you and me. Give your Uncle Jack a little cuddle. That's all he wants. And you like it, you know you do, girl.'
With her back pressed hard against the wall of the derelict cottage, Bella inched her way towards Terry. The man watched in amusement, his belly quivering above his belt as he enjoyed the child's terror.
'What's it to be then, eh? You or him?' He reached out his hand and Bella froze as a look of satisfaction crept over his face. Tilting his head, he shrugged lightly. 'You know, it was just a tap I give him, that's all. No more than he deserved for spinning your mother a pack of lies.'
'It wasn't our Terry's fault,' Bella protested in a whisper. 'It was Rita Moult from number nine. I heard her myself. She told everyone.'
'Rita?'
'She's all smiles and winks to you,' Bella burst out, 'but behind your back she told our Mum that you've had more dock dollies than hot dinners.'
'You lying little cow! She wouldn't dare, the bitch!'
Bella began to panic. 'I'm not lying, honest.' She watched furtively as the man thrust hesitant fingers across his sagging jaw his eyes moving slyly in their sockets. After his midday session at the Rose and Crown, he was breathing fumes. Even from where she was standing, Bella could smell him. Her stomach turned as he belched and rubbed his gut.
'Well now, you've got me all confused,' he grunted as his gaze travelled back to the boy. 'Let's see what your brother has to say for himself, shall we?'
Bella knew this was a trap. In a second or two he would swing round and catch her. But she couldn't let him clobber Terry again. Whatever he did to her, was nothing in comparison to what he'd done to Terry.
But this time he surprised her and with a powerful lunge he aimed his boot into the boy's hip. For all the ale in his belly, he delivered a blow that swept the human bag of bones along the filthy floor like a duster.
Without hesitating Bella threw herself forward and sank her teeth into the outstretched hand. Even as he screamed and pulled her up by her hair, she clamped her teeth tight, hanging on like a terrier. He shook her violently but Bella bit deeper, tasting his salty blood on her tongue. She imagined him dying the worst death possible like burning in one of the bombed buildings or boiling in oil. And the wanting of it was so strong it wasn't until all the air was punched from her stomach that her teeth finally parted.
'Look what you've done to me!' the man yelled in pain.
His eyes gleamed as he brought her against him. 'Fight me would you, Bella Doyle? I'll teach you, girl. See this?' He tapped her nose with his knuckles as he held her aloft with one meaty hand. His tongue rolled out to lick the dried beer coating his lips. 'This is for girls like you that need to be taught a lesson.' He pushed hard, sliding his fist over her cheek and finally downwards to her chest.
'Whisper to me, Bella. Say the nice things Uncle Jack likes to hear and it'll soon be over.'
All the struggle was gone from her now. Her legs and arms were suddenly weak as if she'd run up to the top of a hill and down again. It was a familiar pattern and she recognized it, knowing that no power on earth could now save her. Closing her eyes she tried to pretend she was up in the sky above the planes. Her mind began to draw pictures, taking her aloft on the clouds, flying in the blue ocean over the earth where there was release and freedom.
But just as he brought her against him, his fingers peeling away the layers of her clothing, the door flew open. Mary Doyle's faded green eyes flashed as she took in the scene before her. Fully attired in her working clothes, her chipped red nails dug into the worn black skirt that crinkled tightly over her stomach. Above her belted waist, a thin white blouse trembled on her drooping breasts. Slowly, a patch of angry crimson spread over her throat, creeping up into the lifeless red hair that fell on her neck. 'What in the name of Jesus is going on here?'
Jack Router stared innocently at the woman as he dropped Bella to the floor. 'She's an animal, Mary. She bloody bit me. Look! See them marks? All because I was trying to treat her decent.'
Laying still, Bella knew her luck could go either way now. Their mother was as likely to land him a punch as she was to believe him and blame her children instead.
'She was cursing me, Mary, love. I swear on me old mother's life. All I did was walk in that door and they gave me a mouthful before I'd even
taken me coat off.'
Mary Doyle's gaze narrowed suspiciously. 'If you've lifted one finger against my kids – '
The man laughed suddenly. 'What'll you do? Chuck me out?'
'As sure as hell I would and you know it.'
'Ah, you drunken slut.' He pushed his face into hers. 'You'd do me a favour if you did. If I found myself a pigsty to kip in, it would be an improvement on this shit hole. I'm sick to death of you and your brats. I must've been mad to take the bastards on.'
'You were willing enough at the time,' she reminded him sourly, returning the crude gesture. 'You had nothing, were nothing! And if it wasn't for me you'd be six feet under and still scratching the coffin lid. You're a curse to women, you bag of shite.'
Bella gulped down her fear. Her wary brown eyes looked out from under the tangled curtain of auburn hair; she was waiting for the inevitable, a verbal and physical assault that had begun from the moment Rita, alias Mouth Almighty, had set her poisonous tongue free.
The first blow cracked aloud in the air. Jack Router stumbled, the heel of his boot landing heavily on Bella's leg. With a stifled cry she scrambled aside, dragging Terry with her into the only other habitable room of the dwelling. Here they crouched on a filthy mattress covering themselves with a threadbare blanket.
Bella buried her head against Terry's. He stank where he'd peed himself but the room smelled like the bog anyway. She prayed the planes would soon fly over and when the siren went, Mary Doyle and her man would be off, screaming at one another still, but thirst would drive them to search for liquor.
Terry's snuffling grew loud. His mouth fell open as the blood congealed in his nose.
'Tomorrow we'll tell Micky,' she whispered as a plan formed in her mind. Micky would know what to do. He always did.
Bella comforted herself with the picture of Micky's gun, not aimed at the wriggling sewer rats but pointed lightly against the brow of the man's head.
