“Jamie, there’s something I have to talk to Roy about, and he won’t like it. You know how he gets, so maybe you’d better wait in your room.”
“Oh, Gran, tea, I’m hungry!”
“Well, all right, we’ll eat first, then you go to your room.”
Roy slouched in without a word, fell into his chair, grabbed the breadknife, and sliced several ragged hunks off the loaf. Gran quickly cut some slices for Jamie and herself and put cheese on their plates while there was still some left. She looked from Roy to Jamie while she chewed. Roy ate like a pig as usual, and made a noise drinking his tea. Jamie knew Gran hated that, so he was extra careful with his own table manners. He might be slow, but he knew a thing or two. He tried to talk about things to keep a nice time going, but Roy rolled his eyes and didn’t say a word, so he stopped trying. Gran looked as if she could hardly swallow now, so she must be very worried.
“Have you had enough, Jamie?”
“Oh, yes, thank you, Gran.”
“Please go to your room for a while. Roy and me got to talk about something.”
He knew she was watching him on his way up the hallway, so he turned back to look at her. It was definitely going to be one of those times.
“I love you, Gran.”
“I love you, too, Jamie.”
Roy made a noise like someone being sick.
* * *
They began by blaming each other, but it turned loud and ugly when Gran and Roy started all the shouting. The terrible things they yelled roiled Jamie even more than bombing did.
She said he stole things, that she’d lose her jobs if they found out. He said she was … an itch? And she said he had a dirty mouth. She said it had to stop, he said what’s she going to do about it, and she said she’d call the coppers on him. A crash like a dish breaking. He hoped it wasn’t Gran’s good one from her nice home. She said he was no good, just like his mother. Then there was some quiet. A sudden funny cry like that time he’d pushed Gran over and she couldn’t go to work for a few days. But at least it was quiet, which was always better.
Jamie curled forward on his bed, hands clamped over his ears in case they started again, and soothed himself with rocking—back and forth, back and forth. Gran would be cross if she saw him. “Fiddle-faddle, big boys don’t rock,” she always said. He held his ears tighter; he couldn’t do with so much noise—big bangs, sirens, people shouting outside, Roy and Gran shouting at each other inside. Keep rocking, such a comfort, softly, softly.
Crashing, a big crashing. Would the house fall down? Shaking, people shouting, but not Roy and Gran, rock, rock, eyes closed, rock, rock. Sirens yowled, but far away.
A knock at the door, Roy shouted something. Jamie began to hum, had to stop the noise and Roy getting in. His breath had gone all raggedy; it might even stop if this went on much longer.
Say like Gran, “Fiddle-faddle, fiddle-faddle,” sounded brave. Louder better, “Fiddle-faddle.” More louder, “Fiddle-faddle.” Can’t hear them now. “Fiddle-faddle!”
Roy slapped down his hands.
“Stop rocking, idiot. And stop that stupid fiddle-faddling. What’ll Gran say?” He had his unkind look, a hitting look. He kept making fists, uncurling them, and then fisting again. Wasn’t dressed up now, except for grease in his hair. There was a big dark spot on his trousers, quite low down. Looked wet. Roy probably hadn’t noticed it yet or he would have changed.
“Won’t do it no more. No more. Promise. Don’t tell!” Jamie sat on his hands, pulling in his chin. He risked looking up at Roy, and Roy turned away and moved to the door. He looked back in Jamie’s direction over his shoulder at the postcard on the wall.
“I’m going out, got business with a bloke. Gran’s not feeling well. She’s had a nosebleed and her dress got blood all down the front. She’s all right, just taking a nap now. Don’t bother her. Leave her be. I’m going to lock the door, can’t have you wandering about. You’re not to go out, no matter what. Understand?” Roy got out his shiny black comb and scraped it along his side hair again. Always combing.
“Suppose the warden tells us to get down the shelter. What then? Suppose bitz comes on us?” Roy looked him in the face now. He was blinking an awful lot.
“Bel-itz, stupid. I’ll be back soon. I think it’s all over for tonight. Sit tight. No fusses. And leave Gran alone or I’ll give you a good thrashing.”
“Yes, Roy. I’ll be good. Know what tomorrow is?”
“Yeah, for the hundredth time, it’s your bloody fifteenth birthday, and don’t expect nothing from me, we just had Christmas and you got an orange today, too.”
Jamie suddenly felt brave. “Language, Roy, what would Gran say?” Roy snorted too much, so rude. Couldn’t he find words? “Gran’s got the stuff for cake. I’ll share.” Jamie smiled up at Roy.
“Bloody hell, what did I do to get a retard for a cousin?”
“Don’t you like me anymore? You gave me an orange this morning.” Jamie felt tears coming up, must try not to let them out. One slipped down.
“Don’t start blubbering. Christ, I can’t stand it! I’m going out.”
2
Jamie knew Roy had left when he heard the front door hinges squeak, then the lock click when Roy turned the key. The sirens started again, very loud. Just a bit more rocking, just till he felt better. Just for a little bit.
Jamie thought about Gran and sat up. Supposing she had another nosebleed while she was asleep, would all her blood leak out? If he tiptoed, opened the door carefully, he could just make sure she was all right. He tried it, stumbling a bit, he wasn’t very good at this, dead clumsy, Gran said he was, but he managed. He listened outside her bedroom. He turned the doorknob very slowly, ever so slowly, expecting it to make a noise that would get him in trouble. He opened the door without even a squeak.
Lots of blood had gone right through her blanket and the sight made him feel funny. There wasn’t any blood coming from her nose, though, so it must have stopped. Bad smell in here. Farts? Probably, and time for her next bath, too. Could it be Saturday already? She was very asleep, the blanket wasn’t even going up and down, and she wasn’t snoring for once. He’d better leave her be till she felt better, like Roy said.
He stopped moving when the air raid warden banged on their door, but Gran didn’t wake up.
“Everyone down to the shelter. Right away, please. You in there, Millie?”
Jamie couldn’t go down to the shelter without Gran, and Roy would hit him if he went out on his own. Gran might shout at him if he woke her. He kept quiet so the warden would think they were all out and go away. Best that way.
Jamie tiptoed back to his room. What to do now? Fifteen was quite big. So big he could touch all his walls if he turned around with little steps. Gran had painted them last year, but not a happy color. She got the paint cheap in a sale. He’d been sick in the toilet soon after and the color was nearly the same. He didn’t much like having his room the same color as sick, but he didn’t say so; she would have got upset. Mustn’t hurt her feelings.
So quiet all of a sudden. No noise upstairs, no shouting and nasty thumps, no crying when Mr. Blackstone hit Mrs. Blackstone before their bed started squeaking and Gran got all pink and cross. Did Roy hit Gran? Is that what made her nose bleed? Better not ask.
Everyone had gone away and left him and Gran. He wished he had some new comics. And a book. He only had one book, a little one with pictures of flowers. Gran said books weren’t for boys like him. But he wanted to know about things, real outside things; he hardly ever went to see outside things. Gran had two books with writing and no pictures. They used to sing the ABCs together, him and Gran. That was fun, but he’d forgotten them now.
Jamie felt around under his bed and pulled out Biffy’s box. He knocked on the lid. “Can I come in?” he whispered. He was careful and slow as he opened it and said, “Hello, Biffy, it’s all right, Roy’s gone out.” Biffy was a green dog, nice and soft with big eyes, and they’d been together for years and
years. He didn’t take him out of his box a lot because Roy usually pulled Biffy’s ears to make Jamie cry. Biffy could only cry inside. Well, Roy was out, so Jamie and Biffy could have a good cuddle while he waited for Gran to wake up. He just wished he could see Biffy’s beautiful heart. He had to keep the stolen brooch somewhere safe where Roy would never think to look. There’d been a little split in Biffy’s side, so he pushed his best sparkly deep inside so it had the fluffy stuff over it. And then he’d asked Gran if she could sew him up. He hugged himself, pleased with his tricky ways. Slow could be clever. And if he ever needed lots of money, he would just open Biffy up a little bit, without probably hurting him, and get it out.
He was hungry again, but he’d have to wait for Gran because he wasn’t allowed to take food without asking. Really hungry.
Gran needed her rest, she got tired a lot. She did for ladies that lived in big houses in the West End and she always talked about how they got their money’s worth. She sounded angry when she said that. Jamie didn’t know why. She worked and they paid. He’d get a job in the West End one day and buy food and chocolate. Cho-co-late. Gran was ever so proud when he learned to say it properly. Gran said it was important to talk nicely; people treated you different. So Jamie always talked slow and tried to get all the word bits in. He was always forgetting blitz, though. Kept saying bitz. Saying bler was hard, tongue kept going in the wrong place.
Gran said Roy would get more respect if he talked nicely, but he took no notice. He should stop putting all that greasy stuff in his hair, too, looked like nothing on earth, she said. Roy didn’t have a proper job and that made Gran cross.
He thought hard about what Gran said. She’d said Roy was no good. Did that mean he didn’t have to listen to Roy? He was older than Jamie, not that much taller, and he wasn’t slow. But Roy was no good, put grease in his hair, and didn’t talk nicely. And he didn’t show respect for Gran. Who was better? Jamie knew he was nicer than Roy. Is nicer better? What sorts of things mattered more than other sorts of things? What a muddle. He never asked Gran about things like that anymore. Maybe one day he’d know someone who liked answering questions.
Listen to me, Jamie! Get out, leave, Jamie, leave!
His head shot toward the door. “Gran? Is that you?” No reply. He tiptoed toward her bedroom again. He had to get out of the house. What made him think that just now? Roy told him to stay inside. But the voice was stuck in his head. Leave, Jamie, leave. Sounded a bit like Gran, only whispery. If he went out Roy would go mad again. But it was like there was someone inside his head. Jamie laid Biffy gently on his pillow so he could have a nice rest until Roy got back.
Gran kept her key in her handbag. Should he get it out and have a look? He could watch for Roy. Would that be such a bad thing to do? The bag was on the kitchen table, big and old and brown and creasy. He found the big key, but her wallet wasn’t there. Funny, Gran always had her wallet in her bag. She kept everything together in case she forgot something important, and it wouldn’t do to get locked out. Roy locked her and Jamie out on purpose once, and Jamie had sometimes seen him take money out of her wallet. Roy said he’d beat the hell out of him if he told, but Gran knew; he’d seen her look inside it and shake her head. Her face looked so sad.
Jamie went to the front door and stood in front of it. It looked so big and heavy and hard. A new smell now, what was it? It was like when Gran burned the toast. Jamie went into the kitchen. No toast getting burned. He’d have liked some toast, even toast too much cooked. Yes, that was her lovely dish smashed on the floor. Poor Gran. His feet crunched on broken things.
The smell must be coming from outside. He coughed. Another smell, a smoky smell, was catching at his throat now.
Get out.
Jamie struggled into his coat and shoved his gloves into the pockets. He tiptoed to the front door and listened. He put the key in the hole—not so hard—and turned it slowly so he wouldn’t make a noise. It only went one way. He’d never unlocked a door before. Easy.
* * *
Roy hung around the old marketplace for half an hour, but things were getting bad outside and his bag was heavy. He’d got a message that someone had a job for him, a real plum. He vaguely remembered the bloke, someone he’d gone to school with, a mate of the Reddy boys. Vicious little sods, they were. And they had it in for him, too. He’d managed to avoid them after that cock-up in the West End, and made a point of going around with a couple of toughs so the brothers knew if they gave him any trouble, they’d get trouble back. There’d be a reckoning sooner or later, though.
Hey, wait a mo! Friend of the Reddy boys? Maybe he’d been had, a setup. Better think about getting out of here, out of London. He’d left a real mess at home, but he thought he’d pretty well covered his tracks. The fire seemed to have caught hold. Good riddance to the old hag, and Jamie, too. The kid’s mum must have been a real slag, drinking so much it made her baby come out retarded.
His own mum’s drinking must have started later, because he came out smart enough. A picture of her popped into his head, uninvited and unwelcome. He’d hated that mean foxy face, the mouth always ready to stab him with curses, the scrawny hands always ready to take up anything within reach to lash him with if he didn’t make his getaway fast enough. He’d got pretty good at reading the signs and disappearing before the real trouble started, especially when Dad came home drunk. Dad sometimes beat her almost senseless. Rather her than him. Out of the blue one day, a strange woman took him away and dumped him on Gran, who’d been shocked and none too happy. She’d never liked him, he could tell. His parents said he’d be brought back soon when that woman came for him. Never saw them again. Were they really dead like Gran said? He hoped so, though Dad hadn’t been so bad when he was sober.
Best idea would be to get out of the city soon as he could. He’d come back when everything had calmed down and get the government handouts. There was a little insurance policy, too; he’d tucked that with his other important papers in his inside pocket. And he’d found one of the old girl’s sisters, a Mrs. Myrtle Freeman. He’d watched the house for a bit. Nice place, the sort of neighborhood where someone would be ashamed to be related to someone like him, would pay to make him go away. Tomorrow. He patted the bulky pocket of papers certifying he wasn’t fit for duty and wondered if the trains were still running. He started walking.
He must get himself to the Golden Lion tomorrow, too. Derek left word there he’d be back in the next few days. He’d moved out of their neighborhood years ago, but he never forgot his old friends. Not one to be snooty, Derek, and he was the bloke with all the big ideas. He’d tell him where to lay low. Where to now? Couldn’t very well go home—it wasn’t there anymore, he’d seen to that. Anderson shelter. They’d sprouted up all over. Just keep walking, got to trip over one sooner or later, or at least an underground station.
* * *
The Reddy brothers rifled through the house with sharp-eyed efficiency. They dressed like wardens on nights like these and reveled in the orders to evacuate they could give out whenever they felt there might be something worth lifting. Nobody noticed the kit bags they carried. None of the real wardens carried them, but people didn’t question much when they were scared.
“Hey, Vince, we’ve got to meet Roy in a jiff. Be fun sorting him out, little rat!”
“Yeah, let’s take turns. I’ve got me good heavy boots on tonight. Since it’s such a special occasion!” Jed made a high-pitched shrieking noise that always grated on Vince’s nerves. That was the way he laughed when he was excited and looking forward to a treat.
They left the house, kit bags only half full. They’d make another call later, but first Roy. Couldn’t let it get around that some little wanker pulled a fast one on the Reddy brothers.
“It was that idiot Derek let him get away. Think he was in on it? Pisser joined up next day, very convenient.” Vince felt ripe for a fight.
“Wonder how he explained why he wasn’t in the army already. Well, if the twerp comes
through it we’ll have a little word with him, too, won’t we?” said Jed. They grinned at each other in imagining the scene.
“Hey, you two, come with me. We need all hands on deck,” said a big, bossy copper with broken purple veins all across his cheeks.
They exchanged glances. The kit bags were only half full. Make a dash for it? They rounded the next corner and there stood an army transport full of sullen civilians and a couple of soldiers; too risky.
“Here’s two more. You’re all needed over the bridge, St. Paul’s area. All hell’s let loose.” The copper cleared his throat of heavy phlegm. “Whole city’s on fire, they say.”
They climbed in and sat glued together on a bench. They’d miss the meeting.
“That fucking Roy’s got the luck of the devil,” muttered Jed.
“Later, we’ll get him later, have a real old ding-dong!” said Vince.
Their protests regarding their lack of firefighting experience went unheeded, so both of them pulled and tugged and sweated to a degree they found unreasonable and unsustainable. The heat was dreadful, and the filthy-smelling smoke stuck in Vince’s throat and made his eyes smart. Every now and then he’d straighten up and look around for a chance to escape. A ghostly St. Paul’s emerged from time to time as the smoke drifted, but there was no way to retrieve their bags and get away without being seen. Several teams of men toiled on the other sides of the square.
The fires only grew and roared and fed on themselves, however hard the men fought. After a couple of hours they didn’t notice the smell. Vince didn’t think he could take it much longer, although he didn’t want to admit it. They’d never been through anything this bad. Incendiaries popped and flashed blindingly before the fires they started sent up wicked white flames. It was light as day. He felt and heard the grind and rumble of bombers as they swooped over again and again, following the fires and picking their targets. The whistle of the bombs as they dropped raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He wanted to run no matter what when one of the bombs went quiet a hundred feet above them. That meant they were ready to drop. They were forced to keep going, though, and had to hang onto the writhing, hissing hoses for dear life. They weren’t allowed to let go.
The Blitz Business Page 2