by Cathy Sharp
Copyright
Harper
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by Harper 2017
Copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers 2017
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Cover photography © Henry Steadman (child characters posed by models); background street scene © Charles Hewitt / Hulton Archive / Getty Images
Cathy Sharp asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008211608
Ebook Edition © February 2017 ISBN: 9780008211615
Version: 2017-02-10
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
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
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by Cathy Sharp
About the Publisher
CHAPTER 1
‘Here’s the money for some bread, Archie,’ Sandra Miller said. ‘There are eggs and bacon in the pantry so you can get yourselves a meal when you come home.’
The old-fashioned wireless behind her was playing one of the biggest hits of the music charts the previous year – ‘Oh Mein Papa’ sung by Edie Calvert and one of Sandra’s favourites, but she snapped it off impatiently as her son fiddled with his football boots and pushed the ten-shilling note at him.
‘Yeah, all right.’ Archie shoved the money into his pocket and looked bored. He knew the routine: let yourselves in with the key that hung on a string through the letterbox, make a meal for himself and his younger sister June, and leave the washing-up in the sink for when she got back. It wasn’t ideal and Sandra hated the fact that her kids were one of a growing number of latchkey kids whose mothers worked and didn’t get home until later in the evening.
Sandra hadn’t planned this kind of life when she’d married Tim Miller. He’d been a soldier then and the war that had devastated Europe and much of the world had been raging fiercely. They’d anticipated their wedding night because Tim had been going back to the Front and Sandra had feared she might not see him again. However, they’d been some of the lucky ones. Tim had come through the war unscathed. He’d landed a good job as the manager of a grocery store and until one foggy night in January 1950, Sandra’s life had been perfect … until the ring at the door and a young constable’s stuttering announcement that her husband had been killed cycling home from work in thick fog.
She’d been carrying Archie when Tim got leave from the Army in November 1941 and came home to marry her, but Sandra’s parents had stood by her and she’d appreciated their loving kindness. Her throat caught with grief as she recalled the night when their house had been blown apart with them still inside. They’d had no warning, because it was one of those terrifying rockets they called the V2; it came out of the night and suddenly a home and the people in it were gone just like that, leaving a gaping hole in Sandra’s life and that of her kids.
If her parents had lived she would have had someone to look after her children when she was working late, but unfortunately Tim had been an orphan and the kids had only her to feed, clothe and teach them about life, and sometimes Sandra felt it was a heavy burden, even though Archie did all he could to help her.
‘What time will you be home then?’ Archie asked, a little resentful now. Sandra knew he didn’t mind doing little jobs down the Docks or even washing windows for elderly neighbours to bring in a few shillings, but he hated it that she was hardly ever home before it was time for cocoa and bed.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I’ll come straight home from the office, I promise. I’m not working at the pub tonight.’
Twice a week she did a few hours in the evening at the Dog & Gun in Bethnal Green, to earn extra money, because growing kids needed so much, and Sandra hated the idea that hers might have to go short.
‘I’m sorry, Archie,’ Sandra apologised, the reproach in his eyes pricking her. ‘I know I expect a lot of you, but I can’t help it …’
‘Yeah, I know, Mum,’ he said and grinned at her. When Archie smiled it was as if the sun had come out. With his dark-red hair and his green eyes, he was the image of his father and her heart turned over with love. ‘We’ll be all right.’
‘I know I can rely on you to take care of June …’
‘Yeah, I’ll look out for the brat.’ From the lofty position of his thirteen years, Archie saw his nine-year-old sister as a troublesome kid, but despite their constant bickering, Sandra knew that he would care for her as best he could. Yet he shouldn’t have so much responsibility and it hurt Sandra because she couldn’t provide the loving, stable home her children were entitled to.
Leaving the house, Sandra ran to the end of the dingy lane to catch her bus because she didn’t want to be late for the office; she was so used to the boarded-up houses on either side that she no longer noticed. This slum area was all she could afford since Tim died, although she was always looking for something better. She worked in a biscuit factory in the accounts department, keeping track of invoices and making up the wages. It was hard work but she didn’t mind that – in fact the only thing she disliked about her job was Reg Prentice. Reg was the office manager and a menace to anything in a skirt. None of the girls liked him, but most of them had the courage to stand up to him and tell him to get lost when he touched their bottoms and squeezed up against them in the corridor.
Sandra had asked him to leave her alone several times. In fact, he’d been such a nuisance that the previous evening, when he’d pushed her up against the wall, she’d slapped his face and told him that if he didn’t stop harassing her she was going to Mr Jenkins, the overall manager of the factory.
‘Do that and you’re out of a job,’ Reg hissed against her ear. ‘Besides, I’m your manager. He’s hardly going to believe a little scrubber like you. We all know what you widows are like; you can’
t do without a man. I know you don’t say no to some others.’
‘I’m not interested in men, just in doing my job …’ Sandra protested.
‘I’ve seen you givin’ Mr Jenkins the eye,’ Reg sneered. ‘Well, he’s the sort that doesn’t stray and he doesn’t like loose women … By the time I finish tellin’ what I know you’ll be lookin’ for work without a reference.’
‘I don’t give in to bullies,’ Sandra retorted. ‘He wouldn’t believe you. I know Martha Jenkins and she will vouch for me.’
‘Not by the time I’ve done,’ he muttered beneath his breath.
Sandra had walked out on him, but a lingering doubt nagged at her mind. If Reg really had it in for her, she might be in serious trouble. He was a vindictive man and she wouldn’t be the first woman to lose her job because of wicked lies …
Her bus was stopping. She got off and walked quickly towards the factory, noticing the headlines on the newspaper stand. Anthony Eden had taken over from Mr Churchill when he resigned and now he was talking about calling a general election – as if that would make any difference to women like her! Reaching her workplace at the corner of Brick Lane, Sandra hung her jacket in the small dark cloakroom and entered the office. Here it was lighter, because of the large window at the back, and there were several desks, some equipped with typewriters, others like her own, piled high with folders and an overflowing in-tray. Reg smirked at her as she passed him and she saw two of the other girls whispering and giving her odd glances.
‘Don’t sit down, Mrs Miller,’ Mrs Landsbury said from the doorway into her office. ‘Mr Jenkins would like to see you immediately.’
Sandra looked at the manager’s secretary and saw frosty disapproval in her eyes. She glanced at Reg and knew at once that he was gloating. Obviously she was in trouble and she had no idea why …
‘I want to play with Mimi,’ June said that evening, pulling at Archie’s hand as he dragged her into the baker’s at the end of Whitechapel Road. ‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t go round her house. Her dad got her some skates and she says I can borrow them …’
‘You can go round there on Saturday,’ Archie said as he paid for the crusty cottage loaf from the baker. ‘It’s no use you sulking, June. Mum told me to look after you. I’ve got to get some tea for us both and then I’ve got schoolwork to catch up on. I have to do twenty sums tonight and they’re hard ones.’
‘I hate sums,’ June said, making a rude face at him as they walked together towards the row of dilapidated houses where they lived. The entire street was scheduled for demolition, some of the terraced houses already derelict, and the gutters choked with rubbish. Archie had heard the landlord telling his mother that she would have to find somewhere else to live, but she said everywhere was too expensive and she was staying put until she was forced to quit.
‘If you don’t do your schoolwork you’ll never get on …’ Archie muttered and put his hand through the letterbox to fish out the key on a string.
‘I’m going to be a famous model and wear lovely clothes when I leave school. I don’t need sums to look pretty.’ She kicked at the scarred front door, with its peeling green paint. ‘I hate comin’ back to an empty house.’
With her pale-blonde hair and her blue eyes, June took after their mother. She looked so sweet that butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but she could be a real pain as far as Archie was concerned. He would’ve liked to let her go with her friend so that he could have some peace, but there was no chance of that, because Mum would create if June wasn’t home when she got back.
‘Mum said she would be home earlier tonight,’ Archie lied, trying not to notice that there was a faint smell of drains in the kitchen again. Mum had poured loads of strong disinfectant down the sink but the stink always came back. ‘Maybe she’ll let us listen to Dick Barton on the radio—’
‘I don’t like Dick Barton,’ June said and flung herself down on the lumpy old settee. ‘I don’t like Journey into Space either. It frightens me when you listen to that, Archie …’
‘What do you want to do then?’
‘I want a comic. Can I have School Friend?’ She sprang up eagerly.
Archie fingered the change from the loaf and sighed. Sometimes his mother would let them spend a few pennies on comics. He would have liked one about Rock ’n’ Roll, because he was a big fan of Bill Haley & the Comets, and he was saving up because he wanted to go and see James Dean in East of Eden. He’d seen it once already, but he admired the rebellious American teenager who drove fast motorbikes, even though Archie wasn’t old enough to see his films really; his friend down the local flea pit let him in with a wink and a nudge sometimes. However, June wouldn’t stop moaning unless she had her own way. She would create all night and he would never get his homework done.
He gave her a florin. ‘Here, go and get it from the corner shop but come straight back. If you run off, I’ll come after you and you’ll be sorry!’
June stuck her tongue out, grabbed the money and ran.
Archie saved most of what his mother let him keep from the odd jobs he did on Saturdays and in the evenings in summer. He’d dodged school for a while to find work down on the Docks, but the inspector had come after his mother and threatened to fine her if he didn’t go regularly, so he’d had to give that up, which annoyed him, because he desperately wanted a gramophone. He listened to the popular songs on the radio, but it wasn’t the same as having your own records. Some of his friends at school had record players and they bought the latest hits with their birthday money. Archie usually had clothes for his birthday from the nearly-new shop down near Petticoat Lane. His mother didn’t buy from the market stalls, because she said a lot of the stuff was worn out.
‘Some people buy new clothes and then sell the ones their kids have grown out of,’ Sandra had told Archie when she’d bought him his first pair of long trousers the previous Christmas. ‘These have hardly been worn, love. I wanted to buy new, but I just couldn’t manage it – even with the money you earned from delivering papers.’
‘They’re all right, Mum,’ Archie had smiled at her. ‘At least they’re long trousers and people won’t think I’m still a kid.’
‘I’m going to save up for some new ones for your birthday next year,’ she’d promised. ‘I did knit you a new jumper …’
‘It’s great,’ Archie said, because the stripes were his school colours, which meant he could probably get away with wearing it there. The uniform was supposed to be grey trousers and a navy pullover or blazer and a white shirt. Archie’s shirts were frayed at the cuffs but he pulled them up inside his sweater and hoped that no one noticed.
He was still investigating the contents of the pantry when his sister returned clutching her comic and a tube of wine gums.
‘Hey, I said you could have a comic, not spend all of it,’ Archie said.
‘I’m hungry,’ June said as she dragged her coat off and flopped down on the old sofa.
‘What do you want – fried bacon and egg, or would you prefer scrambled eggs on toast?’
‘Can I have bacon and egg with toast … in the middle like a sandwich, and I’d like some brown sauce.’
‘What did your last servant die of?’ Archie demanded. ‘Set the table while I get it ready then … and I’m having some cocoa with mine …’
Archie looked at the clock. It was already half past eight in the evening and his mother still hadn’t got back from work. June had gone up to bed and taken her comic to read on the promise that Mum would bring her some more cocoa when she came home.
Having finished the homework he’d been given, Archie eyed the dirty plates, cups and saucepans he’d used to cook their tea. He hated washing up and Mum seldom expected him to do it, but he knew she was going to be really tired when she got in, and he felt guilty. Sighing, he filled a kettle with water and set it on the range to boil; Mum always said you should pour boiling water over the soda and then add the cold, because it got the grease off better. He wished she would b
uy some of the washing-up powder that made things easier, but she said soda had always been good enough for her. It was because she couldn’t afford newfangled things like washing powder, but it didn’t help him when he was stuck with a chore that he hated.
He remembered the old days when his father was alive. They hadn’t been rich but there had been money for new clothes, good food, trips to the zoo or a Disney film, and birthday presents that weren’t second-hand. He remembered his dad coming home with fish and chips wrapped in newspaper on Saturday lunchtime. Normally, he’d have sweets in his pockets for Archie and June and he’d given them threepence pocket money a week that they could save in their moneyboxes for whatever they wanted. Archie missed those things, but most of all he missed the way his dad smiled and swung him round or tossed him in the air, the games of football they’d played in the park, and the feeling of love in the house. His mother still loved them both, Archie knew that, but she was so tired all the time and so seldom around.
He listened to Dick Barton and then switched the radio off because it was music he didn’t like much. Sometimes, he listened to country music but mostly he liked Rock ’n’ Roll, because it was exciting. It made him realise that he was a teenager, and teenagers were different these days. The old dark days after the war had begun to change and life was easier, even here in the East End, though Archie’s family couldn’t afford to do all the things that other families did – those that had both a mother and father working were better off these days. The newspapers talked about a time of new prosperity and opportunities for everyone, and even here in the scruffy East End things were improving in some places. One of his best friends, Jamie Rawlings, had told him only that morning that his dad was getting a car soon.
