Christmas Child: an absolutely heartbreaking and emotional Victorian romance

by Carol Rivers

  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.

  Bella rubbed her bruised cheek as she sat up.

  A pale morning light seeped under the blackout. She stretched her stiff limbs as Terry stirred beside her, his long brown lashes laying softly on his swollen face. He'd rubbed the scabs from his nose in the night and was snuggled down in his coat. Both children were frozen, the temperature in the room at an all time low.

  'Terry, wake up.'

  His almond shaped eyes flickered. He groaned at he sat up. 'Terry hurts.'

  'He gave you another bashing, that's why.' Bella took his hand and pushed the blanket away from his tight grasp. 'We're leaving before they come back.'

  His eyes filled with tears. He lay down and pulled the blanket back over him. 'Terry don't want to.'

  Bella wondered why God couldn't have left just a few brains in his head. Enough to tell him when he
was safe and when he wasn't. Enough to make him understand that the man would kill them both after last night. Why had God forgotten Terry?

  She ruffled his thin brown hair. 'Be a good boy, now. And do as Bella tells you.'

  In the clothes they had worn day and night for more than a month they stole into the street. The cold March wind whipped around them and rain spattered down. Bella gazed up and down the rows of cottages. Only the rats, bugs and fleas that infested them moved in the early light. She looked up at the rotting pile of bricks that comprised number three, at the sunken roof and shattered windows lost in the drifting smoke of last night's raid. She shivered. It was the only home they knew and they were leaving it.

  'Terry wants to stay.'

  'We've got to find Micky.' She pulled his gas mask tighter across his shoulder. Jack would be home first, looking for trouble. And resisting the tears herself, she urged him forward.

  'Is the bombs coming?'

  'Tonight they will.'

  'Terry don't wanna run away.'

  Bella didn't want to either. But if only God had given him half a mind he'd know they didn't have a choice. The man said one day he would put them in a pot and cook them. And after last night, Bella believed him.

  Chapter 2

  Ronnie Bryant stood in the big kitchen of the rambling three-storey building and frowned out on the cold March morning. He pushed back his hair and stretched his aching arms. From the kitchen window he could see the piles of junk that filled the yards of Piper Street, and spilled around the Anderson like a shark-infested sea. No one would ever guess what was hidden under the floorboards of the air raid shelter. That's good planning, Ronnie my lad, he congratulated himself. The dugout had its uses after all. If the law came sniffing round, they were welcome to sort through all Dad's rubbish piled high on the stones. But it would take a shrewd copper to suspect the neat interior of the Anderson where all the booze and fags him and Micky and Sean had nicked from the docks were stashed safely away.

  A gentle dew sparkled on the legs and arms of the ancient furniture and junk going back to the year dot. Their Dad's treasure trove, his legacy to his sons as he was always telling them.

  Ronnie smiled, the quirk of his full, sensual mouth giving his young face a touch of maturity beyond his sixteen years. His cool grey eyes gleamed penetratingly, missing nothing under the heavy shock of raven black hair.

  He glanced across the kitchen to his brother dozing in Dad's old armchair by the range. Micky's curly dark hair flopped over his thin face and his size ten boots were filthy from the mud that had congealed on their soles. The lino in the hall needed cleaning before Mum arrived back from Auntie Gwen's. Another bonus that, Auntie Gwen asking her to stay the night. Luckily it was a good bus ride to Poplar from Cubitt Town. The two widowed sisters liked to chinwag and they wouldn't stir once the fire was made up.

  Ronnie sighed heavily as thoughts tumbled in his brain. Him and Micky hadn't had a wink all night and hadn't expected to what with dodging the raids and bringing the haul up from the docks in the old van Dad parked under the railway arches. It was a real rust bucket and on its last legs but it had done the job. What a night it had been! They'd worked like stink digging up the Anderson floor and battening down the boards again. When they sold this lot off he was going to give her and Auntie Gwen a good holiday. Send them to the seaside. That's what Dad would have wanted …

  Ronnie felt a moment's deep miss of the father he'd worshipped and the gap in their lives that had never been filled since his death three years ago. His loss hadn't been easy for Mum or indeed for any of them. But Sean had only been eleven when Dad went and taken it the worst. Odd that, as him and Dad had been opposites. Dad was a real man's man, and Sean all curls and a mummy's boy. Still was, in fact. Yet Dad's death had knocked him sideways. Micky on the other hand, had been down the market the very next week, trading junk up the Caledonian or Cox Street. Where there was a gap in the market it was up to a Bryant to fill it, Dad said. Mum didn't know the half of his escapades and never would. And when the Blitz had started last September, well, who wouldn't have made the most of what was on offer? The black market had come into its own and you were an idiot to ignore it.

  Ronnie was well aware that 1940 had seen the island at its best and worst. Not a night passing without catastrophe, destruction and death in some poor sod's case. But out of the turmoil came the best living they had ever made. Dad would have been in his element. And whichever way the war went, opportunities like last night were priceless.

  There was a loud knock and Ronnie started. But quickly he pulled himself together and went to the front door.

  There were two children on the doorstep. The girl, taller than the boy, had hair full of knots and the colour of brass, with eyes as round as pennies. Her coat had more holes in it than his mum's crocheting. The boy's hung down to his ankles. At first he had them down as beggars, but then she asked for Micky by name.

  'Who wants to know?'

  'Bella Doyle.'

  'Well, Bella Doyle, you're out of luck. Micky's not home. Come back some other time, kid.' He was about to close the door, when she stuck her foot inside.

  'I'm not a kid. I'm eight.'

  Ronnie was impressed. She had a mouth on her all right. 'Yeah, well, the answer's still the same. Micky's out.'

  The girl pointed behind him. 'What's he doing there then, if he's not home?'

  Ronnie swung round to find his brother propped against the wall. Micky Bryant yawned and narrowed his bright blue gaze. 'What's up then, Bells?'

  'Got something to tell you.'

  'Yeah? Such as?'

  Her eyes darted back to Ronnie. 'Can't say standing 'ere, can I?'

  Ronnie looked hard at his brother. 'Not now, bruv. Get rid of them.' He was about to walk away when Micky grabbed his arm.

  'Hang on a bit, Ron. These two turn up a few tasty bits now and then. They're as regular as clockwork on the debris come rain or shine. Don't look a gift horse, as they say.'

  Ronnie frowned. 'It's not a good time, Micky. And anyway Mum'll be back soon.'

  'Well why don't we let 'em stay till she gets back?' His thick, dark eyebrows lifted persuasively. 'She loves kids, probably call them dirty faced angels, feed 'em up and sort 'em out. Take her mind off what we've been up to whilst she's been away.'

  Micky had a point, Ronnie decided as he gave the suggestion due consideration. Anything to divert the numerous questions that would come flying at them the minute she walked in. And, with Sean kipping upstairs like Sleeping Beauty, she wouldn't have time to wonder why he was so dead to the world.

  He nodded grudgingly. 'Have it your way, but I don't like it.'

  'All right, you two can stay for a bit,' Micky said, grinning. 'But no nicking and no pissing on the floor, pal. OK?'

  'What's up with the boy?' Ronnie frowned as the children stepped in.

  Micky shrugged. 'Got bashed in the head once too often I reckon. You gotta wind him up and push him in the right direction. Their mum's one of them dock dollies that works the Rose. Don't suppose she ever gave it a thought as to why he's a screw loose.'

  Ronnie noticed the boy did look a bit vacant under all the dirt. He went down on his haunches. 'Here kid, what's your name?'

  'Terry,' his sister said.

  'Can't he speak for himself?'

  'Depends what you ask him.'

  Ronnie smiled. She was a card all right. 'Where'd he get all them bruises?'

  'It's the joker they live with,' Micky offered with a dismissive shrug. 'A big geezer who kips at their mum's gaff over Bow Street. If he's not on a bender he's knocking off any old skirt. Gives the kids a belting every day if they don't make themselves scarce.'

  'Thought no one was living over them places any more,' Ronnie said thoughtfully. 'Condemned by the council years ago, weren't they? '

  'Yeah, but who takes any notice of a bit of paper slapped on a wall?' Micky yawned once more. 'Funny thing is, Jerry's never landed a bomb on Bow Street. Makes you l
augh really, when it'd only take a breath to knock it over.'

  Ronnie cursed lightly under his breath. This was the last thing he needed. Two kids and a bastard drunk wasn't his problem today. He had enough of his own to be going on with. But he also knew it was way too late to stop the anger that was already building inside him. If it was one thing he couldn't stand it was a bully. Granted, there were blokes who walloped their women and kids and got away with it. Bullying the weak and infirm was a way of life for some on the island, but not for his own kith and kin. Mum and Dad had brought them up to observe family values. The old ding-dong now and then was only natural. His folks had gone at it hammer and tongs sometimes like all cockneys did. But only a row to clear the air. When an injustice like this got shoved right in your mug, it was hard to ignore it.

  'How did they know where you live?' he enquired suspiciously.

  'Must've told them, mustn't I?'

  Ronnie studied the girl again. Now that he looked she was blue with bruises. The clothes they wore were no more than rags hanging on bones. His Mum would have a fit when she saw them like that.

  'You two hungry?' he asked.

  The girl's eyes widened. They were troubling eyes, Ronnie noted a little uncomfortably; there was so much hidden in the depths of them.

  Micky laughed scathingly. 'Don't mention grub. These two are like bloody gannets. You want to see them demolish the rubbish they find in the bricks. Thick with dust it is and tastes like shit. But it goes down their gobs like dripping.'

  Ronnie stared incredulously at his brother. That he could talk so lightly of what in effect was starvation. He was seriously worried about Micky's state of mind. Nothing seemed to bother him these days. It was as if all he cared about was number one. Though if he was really honest, that had always been so, even before Dad died.

  'Come on then,' Ronnie said over his shoulder as he led the way to the kitchen. 'But after you've got to clear off.' Now he'd taken a closer look at them he knew he couldn't let them stay. His Mum wouldn't like those bruises any more than he did, a fact that Micky seemed to have overlooked.