by Anna King
A heavy fist shot out, catching her a violent blow just behind her ear. As her head rocked back on her shoulders, a loud banging came from the other side of the partitioned wall.
‘You all right in there, Nellie?’ her neighbour, Dot Button, shouted through the thin wall. The strident voice caused Alf to drop his arm. He had to be careful, he wasn’t liked around these parts, especially by the women whose men were away fighting. They would think nothing of shopping him to the local police if Nellie gave the word, especially that old cow next door. She never missed an opportunity to remind Alf that her precious husband Jack, who was older than Alfie, and her son Bert had joined up without any prompting from anyone. More fool them, he thought viciously. Though if he was married to that harridan next door, he might be tempted to join up himself. He smiled grimly at his sudden flash of humour, the smile slipping almost at once as he thought of Emily’s forthcoming visit.
With his daughter living at home for three weeks, he was going to have to be on his best behaviour, because his Emily wouldn’t stand for any nonsense. Even as he fretted about the long days ahead, he couldn’t help feel a surge of pride in his daughter’s fiery temper and strong character. If only his wife displayed some of the same attributes, he would respect her a lot more. As it was, she was easy prey… Yet even mice could turn, if goaded sufficiently. Reminded of his precarious position, Alf let go of the slim form. Yet, even knowing the power she had over him, he couldn’t resist giving her a brutal push that sent the unfortunate woman crashing awkwardly against the corner of the heavy table.
‘Yer keep yer mouth shut, understand,’ he hissed viciously. ‘What goes on between me an’ you is private. It’s family business, nothing ter do with anyone else. One word outta yer to that nosy cow next door, an’ I’ll do fer yer.’ Picking up his heavy jacket from where he’d flung it over the back of his chair, he thrust his arms into the sleeves and buttoned it up over his shirt and braces, all the while keeping his eyes on the still figure sprawled on the floor.
Snatching his cap from the peg on the back of the door, Alf wrenched the door open and stormed out into the cobbled street, just as Dot Button was coming out of the adjoining house. The stout woman barred his way, her black eyes filled with animosity.
Hugging her woollen shawl tighter around her ample curves, she sneered, ‘Think yer a big man, don’t yer, Alfie Ford. Well, it doesn’t take much ter knock seven bells outta a defenceless woman, yer bleeding coward.’
‘Get outta me way, yer old cow, an’ keep yer nose outta my business. Besides, I ain’t touched ‘er. Yer can ask ’er if yer like…’ The burly man tried to push past the obstacle in his way and found himself being shoved backwards. Taken by surprise, he stumbled, his heart jumping in sudden fear at the prospect of falling flat on his face in the street. Already curtains were twitching behind the windows of the long row of terraced houses. Another few minutes and the whole street would be out in force.
‘Don’t give me that load of old cobblers, I know what’s going on… Yeah, that’s right, yer get yerself off, yer miserable bastard.’ Dot’s voice echoed after him. ‘An’ if yer know what’s good fer yer, yer keep yer hands off poor Nellie, or the next person yer try it on wiv’ll have a bayonet pointing at yer belly.’
Bursting with rage, Alfie Ford had no option but to walk off with as much dignity as he could muster, but there was no escaping Dot’s strident voice.
‘Yer should be over there with the rest of the men, like my Bert an’ Jack. They’re real men, they are, not jumped-up little piss-pots like you.’
Alf walked on, his heavy boots crunching over the cobbled pavement, his whole being seething with rage at the scathing words, while his frantic mind tried to find a way out of his predicament.
That his days were numbered he had no doubt. Because, if the police didn’t track him down, then one of those bitches in the street would shop him soon. It was a wonder they hadn’t done so already. Beads of sweat broke out on his face and neck at the prospect of going to war. He had read about the fighting in the trenches, and the poison gas that the Germans were now using. But it was that crack about facing someone armed with a bayonet that caused his very bones to turn to jelly. If only the new conscription law had stopped at forty, he would have been safe. As it was, he still had a good eighteen months before his forty-first birthday. There was no way he could hide for that amount of time. Tears of anger and fear stung his eyelids. Bugger that bloody Kaiser and his army, which was dug in so deep in the trenches that it would need a miracle to blast them out. Taking off his cap, he nervously ran his fingers through his greasy, thick black hair.
Soon he would be forced to choose between prison or joining up, and from what he’d heard about the way conchies were treated by their fellow prisoners, he’d be better off in the trenches.
Once at the end of Wick Road he gazed with longing at the Tiger on the corner of Sydney Street. The pub wasn’t open yet, and even if it had been, he couldn’t have gone in. But he stayed where he was, his eyes fastened on the stout, closed door. He needed a drink, needed one badly, but he hadn’t a penny to his name. Rubbing a hand over his stubbled chin, he was about to wander off, when he saw a tall, thin man coming out of St Mary’s and St Dominic’s Church, which was adjacent to the pub. Alf’s face broke into a smile of greeting as he recognised Freddie Little, an out-of-work painter from the next street.
Keeping the smile pasted to his lips, Alf waited until Freddie came abreast of him, studiously ignoring the look of alarm that leapt to the other man’s face.
‘Freddie, me old mate, ’ow are yer.’
‘All right, Alfie,’ the man answered, while trying to walk on.
‘‘Ere, ’ere, what’s this, not got time fer one of yer mates, Fred.’
Knowing himself to be trapped, Fred Little groaned under his breath. Alfie Ford was no friend of his, or anyone else’s for that matter. Their only claim to friendship was the fact that they had both so far dodged the call-up. But not any longer. Fred had had enough of hiding, and of putting up with the scathing comments that were hurled at him every time he stepped out of doors, and he had just come back from the recruiting office. Even there he had been met with ill-concealed contempt.
‘Took yer time, didn’t yer,’ the sergeant had said derisively. ‘What happened, given up hoping it’ll all be over before yer was dragged in?’
Still, Fred had done it now, and curiously enough the relief he felt was overcoming his fear of the trenches. He had popped into the church for a few minutes, just to say a prayer or two for moral support, but now he was wishing he hadn’t bothered. If he’d gone straight home he wouldn’t have run into Alfie Ford.
Two women passed by, their eyes accusing.
‘Lost somefink, ’ave yer, mate,’ one of them sneered.
‘Perhaps you’d better go down ter the ’ospital an’ see if they’ve got any backbones going spare.’
Casting a malevolent glare at the women, a look that was returned with a vengeance, Alf grabbed the smaller man and steered him towards the pub. Keeping a vice-like grip on the silent painter’s arm, Alfie kept up a stream of idle chatter to keep Fred occupied until the pub opened its doors.
Fred offered no resistance. After all, he told himself, it would be the last time Alfie Ford would be able to get a free drink out of him.
Chapter Two
‘’Ere, drink this, it’ll make yer feel better.’ Dot held a mug of steaming tea to Nellie’s trembling lips. ‘Gawd help us, Nellie, why don’t yer shop him, or if yer don’t want ter do it, there’s plenty round here who’ll do it fer yer, me included.’
Weakly Nellie shook her head, much to the frustration of her neighbour. ‘I can’t, Dot,’ she said quietly. ‘He’s my husband, when all’s said and done, and I can’t turn him in to the authorities. Besides…’ she added lamely, ‘he’s not always like this…’ Her voice trailed off miserably as she realised how inane her words sounded.
Dot stared at her friend, then blew her
cheeks out in exasperation. She couldn’t for the life of her understand why Nellie refused to talk about her troubles, even going so far as to deny there was a problem, when the whole street knew what was going on. Knowing it was useless to pursue the conversation, Dot slurped noisily at her mug of tea and asked, ‘When’s yer Emily coming ’ome?’
At the mention of her daughter’s name, Nellie’s face broke into a smile.
‘This afternoon, probably about two. Oh, Dot…’ she sighed heavily, ‘I really miss her, but she’s better off where she is. The Winters are a nice old couple, and kind with it. Miss Rose is always giving Emily her old clothes. Well, I say old, but some of the stuff is almost brand-new, hardly been worn some of it. And Mr Winter is always giving her books to read. Good books too, not those dreadful, cheap novelettes you can buy for a penny, but Dickens, Thackeray and Tolstoy – all the books I read as a child, but I never thought Emily would have the chance to read them. Dot, about Emily coming home…’ Nellie hesitated for a moment before carrying on. ‘The thing is, she doesn’t know about my problems, and I’d rather she didn’t find out. She’s already talking about leaving the Winters and coming back home for good, and… and as much as I’d love to have her by me every day, well, like I said before, she’s better off where she is.’
Nellie’s anxious eyes strayed to the stout woman, as if begging her to agree, and Dot, a loyal friend for nearly twenty years, forced a smile to her lips and replied gently, ‘I know what yer mean, Nell, I know what yer mean.’
Inwardly, despite her soothing words, Dot was seething. That bit about the books had brought it home to Dot just how different their upbringing had been. She, like most of the women in the street, had attended the local school, but Nellie had been taught in a convent school. She wasn’t one for confidences or gossip, but she had told Dot about her parents dying when she was very young and being brought up by two maiden aunts. The women had been Catholics, hence the convent-school education.
When the Fords had first moved into number fifteen, everyone had taken to the young, affable cockney man, while steering clear of his quiet, well-spoken wife. A lot of the women had unfairly classed Nellie as being stuck-up, declaring that she wouldn’t last long around these parts. But they had been proved wrong. In all the years Dot had known her, Nellie had never tried to lord it over anyone in the street – not like some, she thought darkly, like Ida Wilson at number nine, before her thoughts returned to Nellie. In fact today, by mentioning the books, was the first time in a long while that Nellie had referred to her background. It was funny, really, how both Nellie and Emily spoke so nicely, while Lenny was a true cockney, just like his father. Though that was the only thing that father and son had in common.
Still, it wasn’t to be wondered at. Emily had been with the Winters since she was fourteen, while Lenny had been brought up with the market traders in the East End. Draining her mug, Dot looked with pity at her friend. She looked worn out, poor cow, but what woman wouldn’t be, married to that pig of a man?
Alfie Ford wasn’t one of your usual wife-batterers – at least those sods were open about what they did. No, Nellie’s husband did it on the sly, when there were no witnesses to his brutality. The vicious bastard always made sure he didn’t mark Nellie where it could be seen. And though Dot herself had never actually seen any bruising, she’d heard enough over the years through the thin terrace walls to know that her friend was being abused, and she’d made sure the rest of the neighbours knew too. She’d like to bet that beneath her clothes Nellie was black and blue. But what could Dot do about it? If only Emily would come home for good, that would put a stop to the beatings. For the nineteen-year-old girl would never put up with her father’s brutal treatment towards her mother. And poor Lenny, bless him, didn’t seem to have a clue about what was going on, though Dot sometimes thought that he wasn’t quite as simple as Nellie imagined.
Any further speculation was cut short as the front door banged open to emit a smiling young man, his arms filled with a large cardboard box from which the browning stalks of an overripe cabbage was hanging. At the sight of his mother and neighbour sitting so quietly by the roaring fire, Lenny Ford came to an abrupt halt, the smile sliding from his open, handsome face. At seventeen, he was a tall young man, his body, like his father’s, thickset and muscular, but here the similarity ended. There was a gentleness about Lenny that was completely lacking in his father. Now, looking at the surprised faces of the two women at his entrance, his lips began to tremble as the familiar feeling of inadequacy hit him like a physical blow. Slowly lowering his precious gift onto the table, he turned to the two women and said in a trembling voice, ‘He’s hit you again, ain’t he, Mum?’
Immediately, all her pain was forgotten as a wealth of emotion rose in Nellie’s breast at the sight of her son’s distress. How long had he known what was going on? Dear Lord, what could she say to take that look of pain and helplessness from his eyes? Putting aside all other thoughts but her son, she came towards him briskly, saying, ‘Don’t be silly, Lenny, nobody’s hit me. Whatever put that idea into your head?’ Her eyes held his anguished gaze steadily.
Behind her she could sense Dot fidgeting angrily in the chair, clearly bursting to refute the outrageous lie. Ignoring her friend’s agitated state, Nellie walked towards the table. Picking out the mouldering cabbage, she lifted up two large oranges, also the worse for wear, and peered in obvious delight into the interior of the box.
‘Oh, Lenny, you clever boy. You must have worked hard this morning to get this much.’ Glancing over to where Dot was still glowering, she called out cheerfully, ‘Look, Dot, look what Lenny’s brought home for us. There’s oranges and some apples. Oh, and see here, there must be about three pounds of potatoes at the bottom of the box.’ Beaming up at her son, she touched his arm lovingly.
‘You’re a good lad, Lenny. Now, why don’t you go upstairs and have a little nap. You must be tired, you’ve been up since five. I’ll bring you up a mug of tea and a sandwich before I leave for work.’
His face dejected, Lenny pulled his arm away, all his earlier happiness evaporating. Walking slowly over to the door, he hung his cap on one of the four pegs, together with his jacket, and then, his face set, he said stiffly, ‘I might be a bit slow in the head, Mum, but I ain’t stupid.’ Before Nellie could respond, Lenny turned his head towards Dot and said, ‘He did, didn’t he, Mrs Button. Me dad’s been getting at her again, ain’t he?’
Disconcerted by his straight talking, Dot was momentarily lost for words. But not for long. Gathering up her shawl from where it had fallen to the back of the chair, she eased herself to her feet and looked the young man straight in the eyes.
‘Yer know, Lenny, I’ve always said yer wasn’t as daft as people make out. Now I know I was right. An’, yes, yer dad’s been at yer mum again, the bleeding swine… An’ it’s no use yer trying ter shut me up, Nellie Ford,’ she shot out fiercely as Nellie made to interrupt. ‘The lad’s got a right ter know what’s going on in his own house.’ When Nellie continued to stare at her with mournful eyes, Dot became uncomfortable, but she wasn’t sorry for speaking out. Someone had to look out for Nellie, because she wouldn’t do it for herself.
Hugging the shawl tighter around her shoulders, she determined to say one last thing before leaving. Addressing herself to the tall young man, she said firmly, ‘Now look here, Lenny. Your Emily’s coming home today. You tell her what’s been going on, an’ between the two of yer, yer should be able ter help yer poor old mum, ’cos I tell yer this. If someone don’t stop that pig of a father of yours, he’s gonna end up doing yer mum some serious damage one of these days.’
Still neither Lenny nor Nellie made any reply, both of them feeling out of their depth at the unexpected confrontation forced upon them by their determined neighbour. When the front door had banged shut and they were alone, Lenny slumped into the armchair, his face contorting as his immature mind tried to grapple with the problem that had been thrust into his lap. Watching hi
m, Nellie had to restrain herself from pulling him into her arms, much as she had done when he was a small boy. In spite of his bulk, he was still that same boy, despite his desperate attempts to act like a grown man. He had even gone so far as to beg her to let him join up, as if, by putting on a uniform, he would magically be transformed into the man he craved to be. Oh, the times he had come home nearly in tears because someone who didn’t know him had called out after him in the street, cruelly deriding him for being safely tucked away at home, and he, poor soul, had been unable to defend himself. Aware that she was becoming maudlin, and suddenly remembering the job waiting for her, Nellie said briskly, ‘I’ve got a cleaning job to go to, Lenny. I’m late enough as it is. Now look, you get yourself up to bed while I fix you something to eat. And don’t worry about what Mrs Button said, she’s only being over-protective. She’s a good friend, is Dot, none better, but she’s a habit of poking her nose into other people’s business. Go on now, get yourself up the stairs…’
‘Mum, you can’t go on letting him treat you like this…’
Angry now, Nellie whirled on him.
‘That’s enough, Lenny. I don’t want to hear any more about it. Now then, Emily should be here about two, and with a bit of luck I’ll be back home before her. And listen, Lenny,’ she took hold of his hands firmly, ‘not a word about what Mrs Button said. Do you understand me, son? Not a word; promise me.’
His eyelids flickering rapidly, his shoulders hunched in defeat, Lenny shook his hands free and made for the stairs. Mrs Button was right. Someone had to help his mum, and he couldn’t do it, but Emily would know what to do. Emily wasn’t afraid of anyone, least of all their dad, whereas he… Tears of shame stung at his eyes as he climbed the wooden stairs to the small bedroom he had shared with his sister, until Nellie had decided they were getting too old to share the same bed and had bought a second-hand truckle-bed from the market. How he and Emily had fought over who would keep the bedroom, but it had been Lenny, always the first to capitulate in an argument, who had ended up sleeping on the rickety bed in the farthest corner of the living-room. Which was the safest place to be, with his father coming home stinking drunk at all hours of the night, cursing and shouting as he crashed and bumped his body against the furniture in the darkened room, while the young boy huddled further down under the threadbare blankets, praying that he would escape his father’s attention, until his mother came down and helped the belligerent, staggering figure up the stairs.