Sons and Daughters

by Mary Jane Staples

  About the Book

  By the year 1949, life in Walworth has almost returned to normal. Sammy and Boots, now in a highly successful partnership, are rebuilding the old family firm. But an old enemy resurfaces – Mr Ben Ford, better known as the Fat Man, who seems determined to ruin the various branches of this growing business. It takes all the well-known Adams ingenuity and determination to outwit the thugs in the Fat Man’s pay.

  Meanwhile, an attractive blonde woman shopping in the market has caught Boots’s eye. But Polly does not need to feel apprehensive – the sight of this woman has stirred the worst of memories for Boots, from the darkest days of the war. And on a happier note, there is some surprising news for Chinese Lady – news which will affect the whole of the Adams family.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Family Tree

  Prologue

  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

  About the Author

  Also by Mary Jane Staples

  Copyright

  SONS AND

  DAUGHTERS

  Mary Jane Staples

  THE ADAMS FAMILY

  THE BROWN FAMILY

  Prologue

  1949

  Millions of people displaced by man’s inhumanity to man during the Second World War had managed, under the aegis of the Allies, to return or be returned to their countries of origin. Stalin’s armies had secured the release of two million Russian prisoners of war, most of whom his police had arrested, tortured and either murdered or despatched to Siberia to die of starvation and freezing cold, on the grounds that they should never have surrendered in the first place.

  Jewish and other survivors of the death camps had been resettled in Palestine, or returned home according to their wishes, while the whole world tried to take in unbelievable accounts relating to the purpose and use of Nazi gas chambers and crematoria.

  Slave labourers from every country invaded and occupied by the Germans had perished by the thousands in the appalling conditions forced on them by the sadists of Hitler’s war factories. Those who survived had gradually found their way home.

  Many Nazi war criminals of the SS had avoided capture and used a prearranged escape route to reach safety in South America or anti-Semitic Middle East states. Or elsewhere.

  In the UK, a number of men and women who had served in General Sikorski’s Free Polish Army refused to be returned to Poland, since it was now one of Stalin’s post-war puppet states. These particular Poles applied for permanent residence in Britain, and received it. And, surprisingly, so did some German prisoners of war, mostly of the staunch anti-Nazi calibre, who were disgusted by all that they had come to know of Himmler’s atrocious SS and its murderous ideology.

  These Poles and Germans settled down to life in Britain. So, it was rumoured, did a few undetected war criminals.

  With the return home of the men and women of the Armed Forces, the people of the UK seized the chance to rebuild their lives. Families split and unsettled by the demands and circumstances of the war made the effort to resume normal life.

  The families relating to Mrs Maisie Finch went about the pleasure of reunion with typical enthusiasm. Marriages that had been blessed by the arrival of children during the war were followed by post-war marriages and births. In the third year of the war, Boots and Polly had become the parents of twins, Gemma and James. And in 1945, Felicity, the blind wife of Tim, had had a baby girl, Jennifer.

  Post-war, a girl, Estelle, and a boy, Robert, had been born to Bobby and Helene Somers. Bobby’s brother Edward and wife Leah had brought forth a girl, Eliza. Sammy Adams’s son Daniel, married to Patsy from America, was presented with a girl, Arabella. Boots’s French daughter, Eloise, and her husband, Colonel Lucas, had a boy, Charles. And Emma and Jonathan had a girl, Jessie.

  With the advent of 1949, life was in full swing for Mrs Maisie Finch and her extensive family.

  Chapter One

  Late July, 1949

  The day was breezy, the sky above London a pattern of swirling white clouds against the canopy of blue. The cockneys might have admired the picturesque look of such a sky if they hadn’t known July clouds could turn as spiteful as April’s and drop heavy showers on them.

  It was midday Saturday, and in Walworth’s East Street market a flowing tide of shoppers surged around the stalls. The war had been over for four years, and while some foods were still rationed, home-grown produce was up to the mark in quality and quantity, and imported fruit was beginning to add colour and choice to laden stalls.

  A well-dressed man, whose stylish grey trilby was worn at a dashing angle, was moving from stall to stall, pausing to say hello to stallholders he had come to know years ago. The responses were of a typical cockney kind.

  ‘Well, if it ain’t Mister Bleedin’ Sammy Adams ’imself in a Sunday suit. How yer doing, Sammy?’

  ‘Still standing up,’ said Sammy.

  From another stallholder, ‘Blimey O’Reilly, ain’t seen you in years, Sammy old cock. Thought Hitler had got yer with his bombs.’

  ‘Well, he tried, believe me he did,’ said Sammy. ‘He dropped one straight through the roof of the family castle, and it fell down. Fortunately, no-one was in it at the time, including me.’

  It was an excursion into the old and familiar for Sammy, who had left his office early to visit the market. He was now forty-seven, but still a fine figure of a bloke with electric blue eyes that could make some ladies feel he could see more than was good for him. Sharp as a needle, but with an unfailing sense of humour, his exchanges were lively with the men and women he had known since he himself had been a stallholder. Sammy had a long memory for good turns done and friends made in true and hearty cockney fashion during his struggling years. Although some faces were missing, he liked the fact that those who’d survived the war had kept their stalls going. They were all older than he was, but still sturdy on their feet, still offering bargains to the people of Walworth and the kind of competition that made Walworth Road shop prices look a bit over the top.

  Down near the middle of the market was a stall that specialized in quality fruit and vegetables, the prices always a little more per pound than elsewhere, but the quality guaranteed. The woman running it looked up into the face of her next customer. She blinked.

  ‘Well, bless me old plates of meat,’ she said, ‘is that you, Boots?’

  Robert Adams, known as Boots, smiled. Just fifty-three, he was a distinctive figure in his Norfolk jacket, light grey trousers and tweed hat. He had served in both world wars, but neither had soured him. His whimsical nature, his interest in life and people, and his love for his family were always evident. If age could not weary those who had fallen, neither did it yet sit tiredly on survi
vors like Boots. His wife Polly, who thought him the best of men, also thought it was time he showed his age, since she was sure she herself showed her own. Actually, that was not the case.

  ‘Hello, Ma,’ said Boots, ‘how are your best pippins?’

  One could have said he wasn’t referring to her apples, for Ma Earnshaw was decidedly overflowing and always had been. Still, everyone who knew her agreed that even at her advanced age she made up for the beanpole look of her old man, a retired railway porter who was talking about going to live by the seaside at Southend. Some hopes, said Ma Earnshaw, I’m living and dying at me Walworth stall.

  ‘Now then, Boots,’ she said, ‘none of yer sauce, I used to get all I needed from yer brother Sammy. How are yer, love, and how’s that Sammy?’

  ‘He’s around,’ said Boots, ‘he’ll be along to say hello.’

  ‘I felt for yer fam’ly when the bombs started dropping,’ said Ma Earnshaw. ‘It got around, Boots, that you lost Em’ly.’

  ‘Damned dark day, Ma, for all of us,’ said Boots.

  ‘I felt real sad for you, Boots,’ said Ma. ‘Them ’orrible bombs did for others like Em’ly. Mind, I heard from someone that you’d got married again—Here, wait a bit, is that lot yourn?’

  ‘This lot?’ Boots turned and looked down at three girls and a boy. ‘Well, they’re all family. The two small ones are mine. Gemma and James. Twins by my second wife. The larger ones are Sammy’s, Paula and Phoebe. Say hello to Mrs Earnshaw, young ’uns, she’s an old friend.’

  ‘Hello.’ The three girls and a boy responded in chorus.

  ‘Well, ain’t you all a sight for sore eyes?’ smiled Ma, her weathered face creasing benignly.

  Paula, fourteen, was fair, slim and skittish. Phoebe, twelve, was dark-haired, dainty, winsome and adopted. The twins were seven but hardly identical, for Gemma owned the dark sienna hair and piquant looks of her mother, while James had his father’s deep grey eyes, dark brown hair and firm features. Each was a bundle of energy, even if at the moment they were shyly quiet under the motherly gaze of Ma Earnshaw.

  ‘I think they’d all like some oranges,’ said Boots.

  ‘Well, bless ’em,’ said Ma Earnshaw, ‘and for old times’ sake they can ’ave two each and I couldn’t say fairer.’

  ‘You could if you’d include two each for their parents,’ said Boots, ‘and two for the girls’ brother Jimmy.’

  ‘I don’t know I was ever able to say no to you, Boots,’ said Ma. A natural gent, that was how she saw Boots, a credit to his mother and his Walworth roots. ‘Mind, they’re tuppence ha’penny each, five for a bob. Penny oranges, well, they’re like Queen Victoria, gone for good.’

  ‘There are compensations,’ smiled Boots, ‘such as the happy fact that you’re still with us. Now,’ he said to the children, ‘who’s got the shopping bag?’

  ‘Me,’ said Paula. ‘I,’ she said correctively. Not being certain, however, she retracted. ‘Me,’ she said.

  ‘Eyes right,’ said Boots. At least, that was what the children thought he said, and so they all turned their heads, perhaps in anticipation of seeing an organ-grinder and his monkey. Organ-grinders and their performing monkeys were a disappearing feature of London’s streets. Kids, accordingly, didn’t like to miss the chance of spotting one of these popular combinations.

  What these Adams children saw, however, was an advancing blonde lady of pleasant looks and fulsome figure. She was comfortably dressed in a blouse and skirt, and wore a close-fitting hat. She came to a startled halt at suddenly finding herself under the survey of four staring children. Her fine blue eyes blinked. However, since she was only one more woman among the many in the market, the three girls and a boy turned their eyes back to Boots after a mere second or so.

  ‘Uncle Boots,’ whispered Paula, ‘why did we have to look at her?’

  ‘Yes, why did you?’ asked Boots.

  ‘Because you said “Eyes right”,’ whispered Paula.

  ‘No, I said, “I’s right”,’ explained Boots.

  ‘Yes, eyes right,’ said James.

  ‘Well, never mind now,’ smiled Boots. He glanced at the woman, noting her looks. She was now awaiting her turn at the stall, while keeping her distance. ‘Open up the shopping bag, Paula, my poppet.’

  Paula did so, and Ma Earnshaw put eighteen shining oranges inside it. The fruit was from Israel, the independent post-war homeland of the Jews, including many of those who had managed to survive the concentration camps.

  ‘That’s three and sevenpence ha’penny,’ she said. ‘It’s a shocking price for oranges, Boots, and I can’t say it ain’t, but it’s what winning the war’s done for us. Like it did last time, in 1918. Makes a body wonder if we’d be better off losing the next one. See what I mean?’ she went on as Boots offered four silver shillings and a smile. ‘All that much for eighteen oranges. It hurts me customers and me as well.’

  ‘Cheer up, Ma,’ said Boots, ‘the kids won’t feel any pain, and you can give the change to your grandson. So long now.’

  ‘Been grand seeing yer, Boots,’ said Ma, and off he went with the girls and the boy, the well-built blonde lady watching him with interest before advancing to the stall.

  ‘Oh, hello, Mrs Kloytski,’ said Ma Earnshaw. ‘How’s yerself and Mr Kloytski?’

  ‘Ah, him?’ said the blonde lady in thickly accented English. ‘He is very good. Yes, all the time. “I am very good,” he always says.’

  ‘He means in good ’ealth, I expect,’ said Ma. ‘Well, it’s nice you’re both settling down, like all the Polish people that’s living in London these days.’

  ‘Better than in Communist Poland, yes?’ said Mrs Kloytski. ‘Ah, who was that man with the girls and a boy?’

  ‘Oh, that was Mr Adams that used to live off Browning Street,’ said Ma. ‘His fam’ly was always reg’lar customers of mine.’ She cast a knowing smile. ‘If you fancy him, ducky, well, so ’ave a lot of ladies in their time.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Mrs Kloytski, ‘it is only that I thought I might have seen him somewhere. Somewhere in London, I think.’

  ‘Well, London’s where he lives,’ said Ma. ‘Now, what can I serve yer with?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Two pounds of your best apples, please, four pounds of potatoes, one red cabbage and one white cabbage.’

  ‘My, you and Mr Kloytski do like your cabbage, eh?’ said Ma amiably, and began weighing up the apples.

  ‘Was he in the British Army?’ asked Mrs Kloytski.

  ‘What, Mr Adams? Well,’ said Ma, ‘he wasn’t in any French or German Army, it was our Army all right, where he got to be an officer. Very high-ranking, me old man said.’ Ma weighed potatoes, then selected two large crisp cabbages, one red and one white. ‘There y’ar, Mrs Kloytski, two pounds of me best apples, four pounds of spuds and the cabbages. That’s two shillings and eightpence.’

  ‘Oh, I am obliged, Mrs Earnshaw, yes,’ said Mrs Kloytski. She paid up and left, walking very brisk and graceful, Ma Earnshaw thought.

  Boots took his twins and Sammy’s two girls to a stall selling knick-knacks and toys at bargain prices. There, he invited them to select a toy each. Paula chose a girls’ annual, Phoebe chose a painting book, and Gemma and James indulged themselves by taking their time.

  ‘Crikey,’ said Phoebe after a while, ‘are we going to be here all day instead of getting home in time for lunch?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ said Paula, and glanced around. ‘Bless me, Uncle Boots, there’s that lady again.’

  Boots turned his head and saw the fulsome blonde woman on the other side of the market. Their glances met, and again he noted her looks. Curiosity surfaced as she turned away, moving to examine a stall selling jellied eels, still a favourite with many of Walworth’s cockneys. Something stirred Boots’s memory, but it was too faint to pull any image into being, and Sammy joined them at that moment.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, only Gemma and James taking all day to choose a toy each,’ sa
id Paula. ‘Daddy, Uncle Boots is treating us. I’ve got an annual and Phoebe’s got a painting book.’

  ‘And who’s got a bagful of oranges?’ asked Sammy. ‘Ma Earnshaw said she’d sold you eighteen of the best.’

  ‘Me,’ said Paula. She looked up at Boots. ‘I mean I’ve got them, don’t I, Uncle Boots?’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Boots, ‘so you have.’ He gave her a smile. He had an easy affection for young people, especially those of the Adams family. ‘I’s right, Paula,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, now I see what you mean,’ said Paula.

  Gemma and James made up their minds then. Gemma chose a pack of bright crayons, and James a tin box of paints. Boots settled, and they all went on their way. The eyes of Mrs Kloytski followed them.

  Chapter Two

  Mr and Mrs Kloytski lived in a house in Wansey Street, off Walworth Road. Wansey Street’s well-built terraced houses had always had a superior look, and still did, for they’d escaped any bomb damage. The Kloytskis had very friendly near neighbours in Mr and Mrs Hobday, and Cassie and Freddy Brown.

  Mr Kloytski was about to say goodbye to a visitor. Mr Kloytski, a handsome man in his thirties, looked pleased with life. His visitor, a soberly dressed man in his forties, looked as if he had known better days than this one.

  ‘No, I’m afraid I cannot let you have the negatives as well as the photographs, only my promise to keep them securely locked away,’ said Kloytski. His English was excellent, but there was an accent identifying him as no native of England.

  ‘Existing on a promise of yours isn’t my idea of how to be happy,’ said the visitor, scholarly features expressing disgust and disillusion. ‘You’re a swine, you know, and your wife, quite frankly, is a bitch.’

  ‘Come, come, my friend, is that the way to talk about a woman who has given you sweet pleasure?’ said Kloytski.

  ‘That sweet pleasure has turned humiliatingly sour.’

  ‘We needed you and what you could do for us,’ said Kloytski, ‘and since your feelings and inclinations are sympathetic, a decision was made to take advantage of your – ah – sexual urges. Surely your times with my wife were preferable to your times with women you picked up in Soho, yes?’