by Robin Jarvis
‘You stop that!’ Kath warned. ‘You got no right to come nickin’ poor Mrs Meacham's lovely things.’
Ma Stokes stared at her in surprise, her magnified eyes blinking in confusion.
‘I'm only takin’ what's mine by right,’ she declared with brazen indignation.
‘How do you make that out?’
‘It's what Doris would have wanted,’ the old woman replied, spurning the contents of the drawers and gravitating towards the wardrobe, ‘always promised I could have whatever I fancied. A dear friend she was, said she wouldn't like her bits an’ pieces to go to no stranger. These frocks aren't up to much, are they? Not as much as I thought there would be,’ she griped, ‘what's in the other bedroom?’
‘Just my stuff!’ Kath told her.
Mrs Stokes regarded the girl suspiciously. ‘Bet you've been through all this already,’ she accused. ‘I know your type—out for all they can get. Had the best of the pickin's, have you? You shouldn't even be livin’ here no more. Well, I'll just go and see what you've pinched.’
Kath leaped to the door of her bedroom and barricaded it with her body.
‘Get out!’ she yelled, her face suddenly disfigured with a desperate anger.
‘Something to ‘ide, ‘ave we? I knew it, I knew it—you're a filchin’ little guttersnipe, when all's said and done, aren't you? Let me by, I won't let you get away with it.’
Using her overflowing bag as a battering ram, she tried to push the girl out of the way but Kath's temper was flaring now. Wrenching the bag away from her, she flung it down the stairs, then caught hold of the crone's arms and twisted them behind her back.
‘Listen, you old hag!’ she shrieked, frogmarching the caterwauling woman up to the bannister and forcing her head over the edge. ‘If you don't get down those stairs right now—I'll throw you over this and say it were an accident!’
Mrs Stokes jabbered and squawked. The spectacles fell from her nose and went clattering down the stairs as the girl hitched her scrawny arms painfully behind her.
‘Aaargh!’ she squealed. ‘You're hurtin’ me! I'll have the law on you, I will.’
Kath lowered her face to the old woman's ear.
‘Don't think I won't do this!’ she snarled menacingly. ‘You're a fine one to talk, aren't you? You're nothing but a vicious old shrew—a poisonous witch who no one likes. What loss do you think you'd be to anyone? The day you die, the street'll throw a party and I'll come to dance on your grave. You know what I had to do to poor Mrs Meacham's dog? I'd do that again and worse to put an end to your nasty, small-minded existence. You just provoke me one bit further and it'll start the day off lovely.’
‘No!’ Mrs Stokes blubbered, frightened by the callous savagery in the girl's voice. ‘Let me go, I'm seventy-five!’
‘Aged bones snap more easily than young ones, don't they?’ Kath ranted. ‘Shall we see how true that is? Do you think knackered old boots like you bounce when they fall?’
‘Leave me be!’ the old woman screeched.
Kath held her over the bannister a moment longer, then snorted in disgust and shoved her away.
Mrs Stokes squeaked and whimpered like a timid mouse. For the first time in her life, her belligerent and spiteful spirit was utterly cowed and she pulled away from the girl, frightened and alarmed, fumbling blindly over the landing.
‘I'll fetch a bobby,’ she cried, retreating to the safety of the stairs, “you see if I don't!’
‘Go ahead!’ Kath bawled back. ‘I’ll tell him what you were doing here in the first place. You know what they do to looters, don't you?’
Mrs Stokes’ shrivelled mouth opened but she thought better of whatever she had been about to say. Kathleen Hewett had scared her, for one awful moment she really did think the girl was going to hurl her downstairs.
Muttering impotent threats in an inaudible monotone, she descended the stairs in defeat, retrieved her spectacles, and slammed the front door behind her.
Leaning against her bedroom door, flushed and trembling, the woman masquerading as Kathleen Hewett battled to regain her composure. Never before had she come so close to jeopardising her position. An uncontrollable urge to lash out and kill had overwhelmed her. She was beginning to lose control, succumbing to the tantalising waves of violence that now pervaded the atmosphere and she shivered as she struggled to master her base, cruel nature once more.
At the edge of the bomb site, a shaft of light streamed into the ruined cellar, glittering with the dust and tiny stones that rattled through the slanting rays, as a pair of small feet came dangling down.
Edie Dorkins dropped on to the basement floor and scarpered over to her airman.
Frank Jeffries was still unconscious. An ugly, bruised lump had risen on his forehead and his short fringe was matted with a clot of blood that had oozed from the broken skin.
Edie had tried to make him as comfortable as possible. Crawling out of their hiding place at dawn, she had gone scavenging and brought back a filthy cushion and a blanket stolen from someone's washing line.
Dragging the battered door off him, she lay the American's head on the grimy pillow, brushed the dust from his face then covered him with the blanket.
It had been a terrifying night. For nearly two hours Belial had raged around the wasteland wearing the shape of the Flying Fortress—revelling in its might and destructive potential. But eventually the bomb site had grown quiet and Edie sensed that, for the time being at least, the demon had stopped searching for them.
Now, Frank's face was grey with a ghastly, deathly pallor and, apprehensively, the girl reached out to touch him.
Edie uttered a cry of dismay—the airman's skin was horribly cold and clammy.
Fearing that it was too late, she took out a cracked bottle that she had found and put it to his parched lips.
The water Edie had taken from the drinking fountain of the Wyrd Museum spilled from the bottle's neck, and flooded into his mouth.
When all the liquid had gone, the girl rocked back on her knees and held out her hands, drawing a curious, branching symbol in the air above Frank's head.
Very slowly, the American's corpse-like appearance faded as the faintest bloom of colour returned to his flesh.
‘Kath,’ he croaked, stirring in his stupor, ‘I don't want to die... Kath... help me... the bomber... she's burning. . .’
Heartened by the results of her nursing, but realising the patient needed more help than she could give, Edie glanced up at the broken ceiling. Frank ought to be taken from the bomb site, to be cared for and made well in a proper hospital. Yet what could she do? If she went for help the tin hats would catch her. In the confused tangle of her fey mind, the girl did not know what to do and, huddling next to the stricken airman, she prepared to sit out the rest of the day, watching and waiting.
Chapter 20 An Unholy Encounter
Old Mother Stokes stomped into her home and gave the umbrella stand a peevish kick.
‘Who does that little hussy think she is?’ she grumbled, ‘threatenin’ a frail old woman like me.’
With a face that could sour milk, she tramped into the living room and prickled with outrage at the sight that met her eyes.
There, crawling around on the floor, an American was giving rides to her great-grandson and, watching him from the armchair, Jean was laughing happily.
‘What's going on here?’ she demanded.
Angelo blinked up at her and Jean's laughter died.
‘Jean!’ the old woman barked. Who's this you've brought into my house?’
‘Name's Signorelli, Mam,’ Angelo said rising from the carpet, and extending a hand to her, ‘mighty nice to see you.’
‘Senior what?’ she rapped back. ‘Did I hear that right? He's a ruddy wop! Jean, how dare you bring a wop into my house!’
‘I’m American, Mam,’ the lieutenant persisted, withdrawing the hand that had deliberately been ignored.
‘You're a dirty cat, Jean Evans,’ her grandmother spat, ‘entertai
nin’ a Yank while your poor father's prob'ly met with a ‘orrible end—dastardly murdered for all we know. ‘Aven't you got no shame?’
Taken aback by the fury of her outburst, Angelo was at a loss for words but Jean wasn't.
‘You've got a filthy mind!’ she said forcefully. ‘He's only here because his friend has gone missing!’
‘Likely story,’ came the snorting and unconvinced reply, ‘Won’t find no missing Yanks here!’
‘Beggin’ your pardon, Mam...’ Angelo began.
‘Get him out of 'ere!’ she told Jean. ‘Don't want his sort in decent people's houses.’
‘I will not!’
‘You do as you're told—I won't have you bringin’ shame on us! And where's that dirty urchin that Peter dragged home?’
‘Neil's upstairs.’
‘He can sling his hook an’ all!’ Mrs Stokes rattled. ‘Peter was a fool for bringin’ him here. I'm takin’ the nasty devil straight round to the town hall. Let them feed an’ clothe him, I've had enough!’
‘You wouldn't!’
But her grandmother's mind was made up and she strode into the hall and thumped on the bannister.
‘Get down here, you little beggar!’ she cried.
Wondering what all the shouting was about, Neil had already opened the door of the box room and gazed down at her.
‘Get down here!’ she told him. ‘Move yourself. It's time you were gone!’
‘Gran!’ Jean called, hurrying to her side. 'This isn't what Dad would want!’
Mrs Stokes huffed and stuck out her chest impatiently. ‘It don't matter what he'd want, does it?’ she sneered. ‘Not with him gone for ever by the looks of things.’
‘But I can't go!’ Neil shouted down. ‘I've got to stay here!’
‘You ungrateful upstart!’ the old woman snarled, clambering up the stairs and clamping her bony claws about his ear.
‘You'll come with me and like it!’ she snapped.
‘Get off!’ he protested, wincing as she twisted his earlobe and propelled him downstairs. ‘I've got to get Ted!’
‘Stop it!’ Jean told her grandmother. ‘Let him go!’
‘You'd best bite your tongue, madam!’ the old woman screeched back. This is my house now and if you want to have a roof over your babbie's head, then pipe down.’
Jean glared at her, and knew that she meant every word. “Why are you so foul?’ she cried. ‘For as long as I can remember you've been nothing but a hateful old misery! I don't know how Dad stuck it out all these years.’
‘Right!’ Mrs Stokes roared. ‘You can pack your things and go as well!’
‘I would if I had somewhere to go!’
Her grandmother regarded her as though she were a pile of stinking dung. ‘You've always been trouble, Jean Evans!’ she said. ‘I knew it and so did your father. Too wilful, you are, and you've got an evil mouth. It was Billy my Peter loved best. I know what was going through his mind when he got that telegram. He'd rather you were the one that died, not his son. Worth ten times you, was Billy—Peter knew it and so does I!’
Shaking with anger, Jean clenched her fists but Angelo was at her side and he pulled her gently away.
‘Leave it,’ he said, ‘she ain't worth the trouble. You know that ain't true. She's just a twisted refugee from Hallowe'en.’
‘I hate her!’ Jean yelled. ‘She's like a poisonous old snake!’
‘You gotta move outta this place,’ he said tenderly, ‘it's drivin’ you crazy. Let the barracuda grouch all she likes and leave her be.’
Mrs Stokes pulled open the front door and with a vicious shove pushed Neil through it.
‘Good riddance!’ she spat.
‘Jean!’ the boy cried. ‘Promise me you won't sleep in the Anderson tonight.’ But the door slammed in his face and he stepped out into the road to stare up at the window of the small bedroom which Ted was still shut inside.
‘I’ll just have to wait till the old bag goes to the Underground tonight,’ Neil muttered, as he dragged his feet down the road and wandered aimlessly out of Barker's Row.
Inside the hallway of number twenty-three, Mrs Stokes turned to her granddaughter with a malicious sneer on her hatchet face.
Jean looked at her coldly. ‘I'm going to move in with Kath,’ she informed her. ‘I’ll pack up mine and Daniel's things, we'll be out of this place before tonight.’
‘I won't miss you,’ the old woman said, ‘but I expect I'll be able to hear the brat bawlin’ all the way over here.’
Jean bristled but before she could say anything Angelo took hold of her hand and pressed it gently. ‘Pack your things, Jean,’ he said, ‘I’ll help you take them across the road.’
Ma Stokes glowered at the pair of them, she could see how much the American cared for her granddaughter and she despised the thought of her finding any kind of happiness. Then, like the blossoming of a black, venomous weed, a horrible idea occurred to her but she suppressed the unpleasant grin that threatened to steal over her sharp features.
‘I'm glad your father ain't here to see this,’ she growled. “You're as bad as that Hewett trollop! Well, you've made your bed now. I'm going to the Underground and when I come back tomorrow you'd best be gone. If I find any of your things—they'll be burned.’
With a strangely triumphant smile on her shrewish face, the old woman left the house and trotted lightly down the road.
‘It's too early for her to go to the shelter,’ Jean muttered, curiously, ‘she's up to something.’
‘Aw, who cares,’ Angelo said, ‘let the old wasp hum some, there ain't nothin’ she can do to hurt you no more.’
‘You don't know her,’ Jean muttered. Well, I'd best start packing my things.’
As the afternoon wore on, a white mist rose steadily into the cold evening air, until it filled the streets of the East End, hanging in ghostly skeins across the rooftops and enshrouding the bomb sites in a dense, milky vapour.
As the shadows lengthened, in the foggy world above, Frank Jeffries moaned dismally and winced as he tried to move.
‘What hit me?’ he uttered groggily. ‘A coupla freight trains b-by the feel of it. Oooch!’
Gingerly, he raised his hand and felt the great lump on his head with cringing fingertips.
‘I g—got me a buffalo egg up there,’ he shuddered, ‘where the heck am I?’
Turning his head sideways, his bleary eyes swam into focus and there before him, with her face lit by a brilliant grin, was Edie Dorkins.
‘Hello, sweetpea,’ the airman said, ‘What happened?’
The girl narrowed her almond eyes and the fearful memories of the previous night sparked and kindled in Frank's mind.
‘Hell,’ he cried, ‘that's right, there was a Fort—acomin’ right at me?’
Sucking the air through his teeth as the bump on his head throbbed painfully, he let out a chastising groan.
‘I been workin’ too hard,’ he said, ‘I’m g—goin’ screwy. Gee, Frank, you sure got a lively bag o’ tricks in that head of yours. Imagine, a B-17 tearin’ round here!’
Suddenly, another image reared in his dazed thoughts and the American whistled softly. ‘Kathy,’ he breathed, ‘I came to see Kathy—I g—gotta go to her.’
Lurching to his feet, Frank staggered and swayed, clutching hold of the cellar wall.
Edie leaped up to steady him and the American put his hand on her shoulder.
“Whoa,’ he cried, ‘the legs've turned to j-jello. No, no, I'll be all right in a minute. I just g-gotta take me some real deep breaths.’
Waiting for his strength and balance to return, he gazed around at the basement, peering up at the hole in the ceiling through which a turgid stream of mist was pouring, like a snowy waterfall tumbling in slow motion.
‘Hold on, now,’ he mused, ‘What g—goes on here? Looks like another day's g-gone by up there. That right, sweetpea?’
Edie nodded solemnly.
‘No wonder I feel so hungry!’ he exclaimed. Ther
e, I figure I can fly solo now.’
Taking his hand from the girl's shoulder he took a shuffling step forward.
‘Not bad,’ he said brightly, ‘now all I gotta d-do is find a way outta this dungeon.’
The girl scuttled to where a fallen beam rose at a steep angle out of the ragged fissure in the ceiling and skipped the length of it.
‘No need to show off, sweetpea,’ Frank laughed. ‘OK, here I come.’
After several minutes and some loss of patience, the airman finally managed to lumber out of the cellar and stood wreathed in the fog.
‘G—gonna be a cold night,’ he told his spritish friend, ‘you better get back to your folks.’
Edie pouted sullenly and dragged her toe through the dirt.
‘Ain't you got no one?’ Frank asked, sorrowfully. ‘Gee, that's too bad. Hey, why d-don't you come with me? Kathy won't mind.’
Pursing her lips and withdrawing further into the mist, the girl shook her head.
‘You can't stay out here,’ Frank told her, ‘come on.’
Sadly, Edie spun round and flitted through the fog, vanishing into the ether like a spectre herself.
“Wait, sweetpea!’ the airman called, but the girl did not reappear.
Frank shivered as the icy damp seeped into his flesh and he felt his pulse beating in the broken skin of his forehead.
‘Kathy,’ he repeated, to himself, 'I gotta g-get to her.’
Twenty minutes later there came a frantic knocking on the door of number twenty-three, Barker's Row and both Jean and Angelo hurried into the hallway to answer this fervent summons.
To their astonishment, they discovered Mickey Harmon standing on the doorstep with his bicycle propped up against the gate. The gossipy adolescent's face was full of excitement, which visibly doubled when he saw the American standing beside Jean.
‘Is Neil in?’ he asked eagerly, trying to peer past them and staring intensely at the bulging suitcase that had been placed at the bottom of the stairs.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jean told him, ‘I’m afraid Neil's gone. Was it something important you wanted him for?’
