Walking My Baby Back Home

by Joan Jonker

  Walking My

  Baby Back Home

  Joan Jonker

  Copyright © 1998 Joan Jonker

  The right of Joan Jonker to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2011

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN : 978 0 7553 9027 4

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Also by Joan Jonker

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Joan Jonker was born and bred in Liverpool. Her childhood was a time of love and laughter with her two sisters, a brother, a caring but gambling father and an indomitable mother who was always getting them out of scrapes. Then came the Second World War when she met and fell in love with her husband, Tony. For twenty-three years, Joan campaigned tirelessly on behalf of victims of violence, and it was during this time that she turned to writing fiction. Sadly, after a brave battle against illness, Joan died in February 2006. Her best-selling Liverpool sagas will continue to enthral readers throughout the world.

  Joan Jonker’s previous novels, several of which feature the unforgettable duo Molly and Nellie, have won millions of adoring fans:

  ‘Wonderful . . . the characters are so real I feel I am there in Liverpool with them’ Athena Tooze, Brooklyn, New York

  ‘I enjoy your books for they bring back memories of my younger days’ Frances Hassett, Brixham, Devon

  ‘Thanks for all the good reads’ Phyllis Portock, Walsall

  ‘I love your books, Joan, they bring back such happy memories’ J. Mullett, Lancashire

  ‘I’m an ardent fan, Joan, an avid reader of your books. As an old Liverpudlian, I appreciate the humour. Thank you for so many happy hours’ Mrs L. Broomhead, Liverpool

  Also by Joan Jonker

  When One Door Closes

  Man Of The House

  Home Is Where The Heart Is

  Stay In Your Own Back Yard

  Last Tram To Lime Street

  Sweet Rosie O’Grady

  The Pride Of Polly Perkins

  Sadie Was A Lady

  Walking My Baby Back Home

  Try A Little Tenderness

  Stay As Sweet As You Are

  Down Our Street

  Dream A Little Dream

  Many A Tear Has To Fall

  After The Last Dance Is Over

  Taking A Chance On Love

  Strolling With The One I Love

  My gratitude to Lorna and Bunny,

  who have never faltered in their support

  and loyalty to Victims of Violence.

  Without their commitment the charity would

  not have survived its twenty-two years.

  A friendly greeting from Joan

  Let me introduce you to Dot Baker, and her two children, Katy and Colin. Stubborn as a mule is Dot, but full of warmth and humour. And meet her friends and neighbours, who will fill your hearts with laughter. An accident brings a stranger into their lives. John Kershaw is a well-to-do man who wears expensive tailored suits and talks with a plum in his mouth. As Dot says, ‘Even his ruddy poker is posh!’. These characters have become my friends, I hope they become yours. Except for the baddies, of course, but they’ll get their comeuppance . . .

  Chapter One

  Dot Baker shivered as she hurried down Edith Road, her thin coat no protection from the bitterly cold wind. She’d been late getting out of work and was worried because she wouldn’t be home for the kids coming in from school. No fire lit for them to warm themselves in front of, no smell of dinner cooking on the stove. Still, it wasn’t often she was asked to work late so they wouldn’t mind just this once. And it meant a few extra coppers in her wage packet next week which would go towards having Colin’s shoes soled.

  As soon as she turned the key in the lock, Dot could hear her son and daughter talking, and when she stepped into the tiny hall she could hear the crackle of wood. She hoped it was Katy lighting the fire because she was very sensible for a thirteen-year-old, but eleven-year-old Colin was different. A real boy, who would do anything his mates dared him to. He had no sense of danger and she wouldn’t trust him with a box of matches.

  ‘Ye’re late tonight, Mam.’ Katy was kneeling in front of the hearth and she turned her head to smile at her mother. She was holding a poker through the bars of the grate, lifting the sticks of firewood to let the draught in to fan the flames. ‘I’d have started the dinner but I didn’t know what we were havin’.’

  ‘I don’t know meself what we’re having, sunshine. I wasn’t expectin’ to work late or I’d have peeled the spuds last night.’

  Colin sidled up to her. ‘Can we have chips from the chippy, Mam?’

  Dot slipped her coat off and threw it on the couch. ‘You and yer flamin’ chippy! We can’t afford to be forkin’ out to buy chips, we’re not made of money.’

  ‘Ah, go on, Mam, just this once,’ he coaxed. ‘Three pennyworth of chip and scallops between the three of us.’

  Dot’s husband had died ten years ago, in 1924, of pneumonia – a young man of twenty-eight. They’d had four blissfully happy years together in their little house in the Orrel area of Liverpool before fate stepped in and took him from her. She still missed him so much, and every time she looked at her son it was like a knife turning in her heart. He was the image of the father he couldn’t even remember – the same jet-black hair, hazel eyes and lopsided grin, even the way he held his head and walked with a slight swagger. All constant reminders and the reason she found it hard to refuse Colin anything. ‘Oh, all right, just this once,’ she conceded.

  ‘Yer shouldn’t ask when yer know me mam’s struggling as it is,’ Katy said, hands flat on the floor to push herself up. ‘It’s cheaper to make a pan of chips than go to the chippy.’

  Colin grinned. ‘I’m glad you’re not me mam, we’d never get anythin’.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so soft with yer, that’s a dead cert.’

  Dot sighed. ‘That’s enough, I’m too tired and hungry to listen to you two squabbling.’ She reached for her coat and took a purse from the pocket. ‘Here’s a
threepenny bit, son. Run all the way an’ I’ll have a pot of tea brewed by the time yer get back.’

  When the door closed on him, Katy shook her head. ‘Ye’re spoiling him, Mam. He’s got to learn that he can’t have everythin’ he wants.’

  ‘I know, sunshine, but I feel sorry for him. All the other kids in the street have dads that can take them to the park for a game of football, buy them comics and give them pocket money for the Saturday matinée. Colin’s missing all those things.’

  ‘He’s not the only one suffering, Mam! I can’t have anything I want, and look at yerself – out working at the British Enka every day except Sunday, and then yer’ve the housework to do. Our Colin should be made to pull his weight. He’s eleven years old, not a baby.’

  ‘He’s not a bad lad, Katy, don’t be hard on him. At least he doesn’t bring trouble to the door like some lads do.’

  ‘I know he’s not a bad lad, Mam, I love the bones of him. But he’s got to learn to grow up – you can’t carry him for ever.’

  ‘Let’s leave it for now, sunshine, I’m too tired to argue. I’ll stick the kettle on an’ butter some bread for when he gets back.’

  ‘I’ll see to that, Mam, you sit down and rest yer legs. The fire’s caught now, so take yer shoes off and warm yer feet.’ Katy picked up her mother’s coat and hung it on a hook behind the door. ‘We’ll eat the chips out of the newspaper, eh? They always taste nicer.’

  Dot smiled at her daughter. What she’d do without her she didn’t know. Katy could do the housework as well as herself, and the washing and ironing. And when it came to shopping she could spot a bargain as quick as someone twice her age. The local shopkeepers knew better than to try and fob Katy Baker off with a rotten cabbage or a stale loaf. ‘Ye’re a good girl, sunshine. I’d be lost without yer, I really would.’

  Katy giggled. She was a pretty girl, very like her mother. They were both slim, had the same thick auburn hair, turned-up noses and perfect white teeth. But while Dot’s eyes were hazel, her daughter’s were a vivid blue. ‘Flattery will get yer nowhere, Mam, except for a cup of tea and a buttie. Yer’ll have to settle for that.’

  She had reached the door of the tiny kitchen when they heard shouting coming through the wall of the house next door. It was a man’s voice, loud and angry. ‘He’s at it again, Mam. Why is he always shouting at her?’

  ‘He’s just a bad ’un, Katy, a real bully. How Mary ever came to marry him I’ll never know. She’s just the opposite, quiet and pleasant.’

  ‘They haven’t been married long, have they?’

  ‘They got married just before they moved here, four years ago. Mary’s only twenty-six now, and the queer feller’s twenty-eight. He looks older because he spends every night in the pub knockin’ the beer back. Yer can tell he’s a boozer by the colour of his face and the beer belly he’s got hangin’ over his trousers.’ Dot kicked off her shoes and wiggled her toes in front of the fire. ‘That’s probably what he’s shoutin’ for now. He’s after money for the pub and she’s got none.’

  Katy filled the kettle and lit the gas ring. ‘How many rounds of bread shall I cut?’

  ‘Two rounds each should do. We can always cut more if we need it.’

  The roar from next door brought Katy from the kitchen. ‘Mam, does he hit Mary?’

  Dot gazed into the flames for a moment, wondering whether it was fair to worry her daughter. But she’d be leaving school at Christmas, entering the world of the grown-ups. Perhaps it would be better to prepare her for that world, rather than let her think life was all sunshine and roses. ‘Have you ever noticed that sometimes we don’t see Mary for days on end?’ she said quietly. ‘Or that she uses the entry when it’s dark to get to the corner shop for her messages? Well, those are the times she’s covered in bruises after the bold lad has given her a good hiding.’

  Katy looked horrified. ‘But that’s not fair! There’s nothing of Mary – she’s as thin as a rake, she couldn’t stick up for herself! Why would he want to hurt her?’

  ‘I gave up trying to figure Tom Campbell out a long time ago, my duck. He’s got a good wife in Mary, I don’t know what more he wants. She keeps the house spotlessly clean and feeds him well, considerin’ the little money he gives her. In fact, that’s why she’s so thin – she starves herself to feed him.’

  ‘Hasn’t anybody said anythin’ to him, tried to stop him?’

  Dot’s laugh was hollow. ‘Apart from us, and the O’Connors on the other side of them, nobody knows. He’s as nice as pie to everyone, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He’s an angel outside the house and a devil inside. And what makes him tick, only the devil himself knows.’ There was a rap on the window and Dot hastily slipped on her shoes. ‘That’s Colin, don’t mention next door in front of him. Yer know what he’s like for repeating things, and Mary would die of shame if the whole street knew her business.’

  ‘It’s her horrible husband that should die of shame, not Mary,’ Katy said as she went to open the door. And as she stood aside to let her brother pass, she muttered under her breath, ‘If he was my husband I’d hit him with the poker. I’ll never let any man knock me around.’

  Colin breezed in, his cheeks whipped to a rosy red by the wind. ‘That feller next door’s not half givin’ the pay-out. He’s got a right cob on over something.’

  ‘It doesn’t take much to start him off, son, he’s a bad-tempered bugger if ever there was one.’ Dot took the steaming parcel from him and the smell of chips set her mouth watering. ‘You can have yours on a plate if yer like, but me and Katy are eating ours from the paper.’

  ‘Yeah, me too! I asked the man to put plenty of salt and vinegar on an’ he did, he put lashings on.’ Colin licked his lips. ‘Yer can’t beat chips from the chippy. They always taste better than the ones made at home.’

  The fire was crackling merrily now, making the room look more cosy. ‘Push the couch nearer the fire, son, might as well make ourselves comfortable.’ Dot set the parcel on the table and after opening the newspaper she tore it into three and shared the chips and scallops out evenly. ‘Dig in, kids, while they’re still hot.’

  ‘I got the cane in school today.’ Colin’s voice was matter-of-fact. As well it might be, since getting the cane was nothing unusual.

  Dot’s hand paused on its way to her mouth. ‘What did yer get it for this time?’

  ‘I wasn’t the only one – half the class got it.’ The lad grinned when he pulled out a chip that was about six inches long. ‘Look at the size of this, Mam, it’s a whopper.’

  ‘Colin, I asked yer what yer got the cane for. It’s nothin’ to be proud of, yer know.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault, it was a stupid lesson! Even you couldn’t have done it, Mam, or our Katy.’ Colin put that bit in for spite. His sister was always in the top three of her class while he had never been higher than sixth from bottom. ‘It was a music lesson and Mr Jarvis told us to draw ten lines across a piece of paper. I did that all right, it was easy. Then he told us to put one of those musical notes on each line, and we had to make a tune out of it. I thought he was havin’ us on at first, it was that far-fetched. I mean, fancy expectin’ us to be able to make a tune! Me mates were all the same, they just sat lookin’ at the piece of paper, not a clue what he was on about.’ Colin tore at the newspaper to make sure he hadn’t missed any chips before screwing it into a ball and throwing it on the fire. ‘Then Mr Jarvis came around, rapped us all on the knuckles with a ruler and told us to get stuck in.’

  ‘I don’t believe that!’ Katy looked at her mother and winked. ‘Mr Jarvis wouldn’t tell yer to get stuck in.’

  ‘No, he didn’t use those words.’ The boy’s eyes were full of mischief as he sprang to his feet and plucked the poker from the brass companion set. ‘This is what he said. “You, boy, don’t sit staring into space, get those notes down”.’ He had his teacher’s nasal voice off to a T, and his stance. Even his lips were set in a straight line and his eyelids were blinking fifteen to the
dozen, both familiar features of Mr Jarvis.

  Dot and Katy were doubled over with laughter. ‘If the poor man could see yer now, it would be ten strokes of the cane across yer backside.’ Dot wiped her eyes. ‘And yer’d deserve every one of them, yer little monkey.’

  ‘Go on, finish the tale,’ Katy urged. ‘What happened?’

  Colin put the poker back on the companion set. ‘We had to hum the tune we’d made up.’ Once again, his eyes danced with mischief. ‘He started off with the clever clogs, you know, like David Conway and Peter Flynn. Yer might know they’d do well – both of them are too clever for their own good. They’d managed to make a tune up and Mr Jarvis was delighted with them. He’d praised them to high heaven, said they were a credit to the class and would make somethin’ of themselves when they grew up. They were sittin’ there with silly smiles on their gobs and I felt like clouting them one.’

  ‘Don’t be going all around the world, son,’ Dot said. ‘How did you get on?’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask if I were you, Mam, ’cos yer won’t like it.’

  ‘I’m askin’, Colin, so spit it out.’

  ‘I did the notes all right, they’re easy. All yer do is draw a line down, put a little egg shape on the bottom and fill it in with black pencil. And I made eight of ’em, like Mr Jarvis said. The only trouble was, I put them all on the same line and when he asked me to hum the tune, I had to hum the same eight notes. He wasn’t very happy about that.’

  ‘I can’t say I blame him,’ his sister giggled. ‘It must be like trying to flog a dead horse teaching the likes of you.’

  ‘Oh, yer ain’t heard nothing yet, Sis, the fun was only just startin’.’ Colin’s high, boyish laughter filled the room. ‘Yer know Spud Murphy who sits next to me – well, he hadn’t got a clue either, so he copied me. And Danny, next to him, copied him. Half the class had done what I did, that’s why half the class got the cane.’

  ‘I don’t know what I’m laughin’ at,’ Dot said, wiping her eyes. ‘I’ve got an idiot for a son and I’m sittin’ here laughing me ruddy head off.’