‘Elsa . . .’
Elsa smiled gently to herself as Frankie finally spoke.
‘If yer were goin’ to ’ave a baby, would yer ever get rid of it?’
Elsa’s smile immediately collapsed. ‘What’s that you say?’
‘Wot I mean is, if you was goin’ ter ’ave a baby that yer didn’t want, would yer get rid of it?’
‘Get rid of it? A baby?’ Elsa was staring hard at him, unable to believe what he was asking.
‘If a bloke gives a gel a puddin’, and she don’t want it, d’yer fink it’s best – well – that she goes ter someone?’
For a brief moment, Elsa felt her heart thumping harder than she had ever known. Frankie had always seemed such an innocent boy, not at all worldly. She had never even heard him talk about girl-friends, let alone sex. As she stared down at the flickering wick inside the stove, all sorts of things were going through her mind. What was Frankie trying to tell her? Could it be that he himself had got a girl into some kind of trouble? ‘I’m not sure what you are asking me, Frankie,’ she said, still not raising her eyes from the stove. ‘Are you talking about – an abortion?’
‘Yeah! That‘s it! An abortion!’ As Frankie turned to look up at Elsa, he felt no awkwardness in speaking so frankly with her, yet it was something he had never been able to do with his own parents.
Elsa sat down on her usual stool by the stove. Both her hands were wrapped around her mug as she sipped her tea. She was totally unprepared for this kind of conversation with Frankie and, for a brief moment, could say nothing. But something inside her told her that she was duty bound to treat the boy as an adult. After all, that’s what he was now – more or less, and he had a right to be treated as such. Even so, Elsa felt she was taking on a great deal of responsibility by offering him any kind of advice. After all, Frankie was not her son, and she had no right to talk to him as though she was his mother. But then, she thought, if his own parents were incapable of sitting down and talking to the boy, who could he turn to? ‘Frankie.’ Suddenly, her mind was made up, and she turned to look straight at him. ‘Are you in some kind of trouble?’
‘Me?’ He laughed weakly. ‘No, it’s nuffin’ ter to wiv me – well, not really. It’s this girl I know. Some feller she went out wiv – ’e put ’er in the puddin’ club.’ At this point, he turned his look away from Elsa, unable to meet her eyes while he explained. ’Er mum and dad’ll kill ’er stone dead if they find out.’ The heat from the paraffin stove was now reflecting a warm glow on to his anguished face. ‘That’s why this gel wants ter get rid of the baby. Not that she wants to, but because, because – well, she has to.’
Winston now grunting at rival dogs in his sleep, was curled up as close as he possibly could around the paraffin stove. Elsa bent down and calmed his nightmare by gently stroking him behind one ear. She felt quite sick. What they were talking about was a human life. And Elsa could not forget what she had seen just a short while ago, in that photograph on the front page of the News Chronicle, the men, women, and small children who had been massacred by sadistic murderers. And now, she and Frankie were talking about the extinguishing of another young life, one that was being given no chance to see the light of day. What could Elsa say? What could anyone say that could possibly justify such a decision? ‘And what about the father of this child?’ she asked cautiously. ‘How does he feel about – the situation?’
Frankie thought long and hard before answering. There was a great sadness in his voice. ‘’E was in the Army. ’E got killed.’
Elsa’s face crumpled. ‘That’s terrible, Frankie,’ she said, in a barely audible voice. ‘It’s so terrible!’
‘The lousy thing is,’ said Frankie with a huge sigh, ‘my sis – I mean – this gel – well, she still loves this feller – even though ’e’s dead. It don’t make no sense ter me.’ He was looking at Elsa again, hoping that she would, as usual, say the right thing. ‘What do you fink, Elsa? Wot would you do if you was this gel?’
Elsa was staring so hard into the glow from the paraffin stove that her eyes were beginning to water. ‘You know, Frankie,’ she said, her voice soft and low, ‘to have a child must be a wonderful experience for a woman. Unfortunately, it’s an experience I never had, something I regret every single day of my life. If I had borne his child, today I would still have something left of the person I loved more than anyone or anything else in the whole world. I would have someone who was mine. In a way it would be as if Robert were still alive, because it would be him I was listening to, him who was caring for me, loving me, just like he always used to.’ She slowly turned to look at Frankie, and their eyes met in the glow of the stove. ‘Oh, Frankie! If God had given me Robert’s child, I would never have parted with it. How could I, when I loved Robert so much?’
For a moment, there was silence between them. Over Elsa’s shoulder, Frankie could see through the shop window, where snowflakes were just beginning to flutter down again. He knew exactly what Elsa had been trying to say to him, and she was absolutely right. All he could think about was Helen. He was perceptive enough to know how much she still loved Eric Sibley despite the fact that he was probably dead. So why get rid of Eric’s kid just because of the row it would cause with Reg and Gracie Lewis? Helen was wrong to do what she was doing. Helen loved Eric, she had to have his baby – their baby! She had to stand up to their mum and dad.
The silence was suddenly broken by the sound of a large oak wall clock chiming nine-thirty. Before it had finished, two other small clocks which were also waiting to be sold, joined in.
Frankie immediately panicked. ‘It’s ’alf-past! It can’t be – not already!’
Winston leapt up out of his sleep with a startled bark as Frankie rushed across to the shop counter, left his mug there, and quickly made for the door. ‘I didn’t know it was that time! I didn’t know!’
‘What is it, Frankie?’ said Elsa, anxiously rising from her stool. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’ve gotta stop ’er, Elsa! I’ve gotta go!’
‘Stop who? What are you talking about?’
Frankie was at the open door, already wrapping his scarf around his neck. ‘I can’t tell yer now, Elsa. I’ll tell yer later. I’m sorry, Elsa! I’m sorry!’ He opened the door wide. ‘Winnie! Hurry boy! Hurry!’
Winston, tail wagging excitedly, rushed out into the street, leaving his master to close the shop door behind him.
Elsa quickly made her way to the window, where she watched Frankie and Winston struggling to reach the other side of Hornsey Road. It was becoming difficult to see much, for the wind had come up and huge snowflakes were already turning into a blizzard which was blowing straight against the shop window itself. But before she was completely sealed in, Elsa could just see Frankie and Winston disappearing up Arthur Road.
Soon they looked like nothing more than two tiny specs on an artist’s huge, white canvas.
Chapter Eleven
Finsbury Park was looking like a Hollywood film set. After the heavy falls of snow the night before, the branches of the huge oak, elm and sycamore trees were bending with the weight, especially as the snow had frozen the moment it had settled. Ever since first light, the sun had tried desperately to tear a hole in the heavy wintry clouds, but without success, and now the twisting winds had turned into a blizzard, which scattered the massive snowflakes in every direction.
Saturday mornings were always the most popular time for strollers in the park, but today was definitely for the kids. By the time Helen Lewis reached the gates at the Seven Sisters Road entrance, it seemed that every kid in Islington was there and, even though the wind was howling, she could hear their excited laughter and cheers which were competing with a passing train on the adjoining railway line. On the snow-covered football pitch, harassed fathers and elder brothers were toiling away, pulling and pushing small children along in toboggans made out of old wooden boxes. High above them all, fluttering helplessly in and out of the clouds, two giant silver barrage balloons were be
ing buffetted by the high winds, held only by the steel cable attached to their RAF trucks on the ground below. It was a timely reminder that, despite the joy and excitement this dramatic winter’s day was causing in the park, the war was not yet over.
Helen trudged along a winding narrow path which led to the boating lake. It was hard going, for the snow was deep enough to drop into the top of her rubber bootees. Luckily, she was wearing a pair of ATS slacks which Eric had given her after bribing one of his mates in the Stores Unit back at his barracks, so her feet were still quite protected. But her camel-coloured winter’s coat was flimsy and not nearly warm enough for such Arctic conditions, and her yellow headscarf was totally inadequate to protect her from the snow which was covering it. During the summer months, the path she was now using was flanked on either side by flower-beds bulging with stocks, marigolds, lupins and English roses of every colour. It was one of Helen’s favourite walks, one which she always took when she was feeling miserable. Today was just such a day . . .
The park café was closed when Helen got there, so there wasn’t even the chance of a cup of hot tea to warm her up. With her handbag strapped across her shoulder, she dug her hands deeper into her coat pockets and made her way down to the lake.
As she trudged along, Helen was completely oblivious to the blizzard which was bombarding her with huge snowflakes. It was very difficult to see more than a few yards ahead, so she kept her head down, staring as she went at the deep fresh snow in which she was leaving her own footprints. Even so, her eyebrows looked as though they were made of cotton wool, and her face was blood-red with the intense cold. But none of this seemed to matter. Helen’s thoughts were on a tall, terraced house in Wilmington Road where, in a short time, she would abandon forever her unborn child – Eric’s child. It was a prospect that chilled her far more than the weather. It was all that was left of Eric, and she never wanted to part with it – never. But what could she do? If she had the baby, her mother would never accept it and how could she possibly support it on her own?
When she reached the lake, Helen found it almost completely frozen over, and covered with a thick layer of snow. From the distance, she could hear the angry chorus of cackling from the duck colony on the tiny island in the middle of the lake. Some of the inhabitants had ventured out on to the ice, but they became even more cross when their search for pieces of discarded bread proved a hazardous, sliding waddle across the newly formed skating rink.
After a few minutes, the blizzard eased off a little, so Helen plodded through the snow to the edge of the lake, and, stepping carefully over the low metal fence, found herself within a few inches of the frozen surface of the water. Her coat and headscarf were now covered with snow, but she made no effort to brush it off. Her eyes were mesmerised by the wintry scene around her. Everything was white – the lake, grass, trees, park seats, the roof of the park café – everything. But suddenly, Helen’s eyes flicked across to the far side of the lake, where a group of children were snow-balling each other. One of them was wearing a red scarf. It seemed to be such a striking fleck of colour against so stark a background, as though the whole scene had been painted. Standing there, hands deep inside her coat pockets, Helen could hear sounds filtering through her mind – the sound of coins being rattled inside a money-box. She was thinking back to just a few days before, when she had watched her brother Frankie counting out the money he had saved, handing over the pile of threepenny bits, shillings, and sixpences that added up to the one pound and two shillings Helen needed to make up the five pounds’ fee for her abortion. There were tears in her eyes as she thought about it. Frankie was such a good brother. Although she had several good friends of her own, in her heart of hearts Helen knew that Frankie was the one person she could truly rely on. Without being conscious of what she was doing, Helen took one hand out of her pocket and gently placed it on her stomach. She could feel the start of that tiny new life inside her, a life that within just a few hours would be snuffed out forever. Tears were trickling down her cheeks and melting the few puffs of snow that had settled there. ‘Oh Eric!’ she sobbed, over and over again. ‘Why? Why!’
‘Missus!’
Helen’s private moment of grief was suddenly broken by a chorus of kids’ voices. As she turned, she could see at least five or six of them leaping through the deep snow towards her.
‘You’re on the lake, missus!’
‘Get off – quick!’
‘It in’t safe! It’s cracking!’
Helen panicked. She had stepped without realising on to the frozen surface of the lake, and suddenly felt her feet beginning to give way beneath her and water covering her rubber bootees. The next few seconds seemed totally unreal, for just as she was struggling to step back on to the snow-covered grass verge at the lakeside, she found herself being grabbed at by the kids who had rushed towards her. With a mighty heave and a tug, Helen was yanked off the ice to end up sprawled out face down on the snow.
‘That was a near fing, missus!’
Helen looked up, to see a sea of young faces staring down in breathless astonishment at her. The voice who had spoken belonged to a small girl, aged no more than about six or seven. She was wearing a bright red scarf.
On the lake behind them the ice had now cracked to reveal a surface no more than an inch or so thick. And in the place where, only a few seconds before, Helen had been standing, a huge hole had appeared, to reveal the dark and murky water below . . .
Despite the blizzard, it took Frankie and Winston no more than a few minutes to get back home from the jumble shop. When they got there, Frankie’s mother told him that Helen had left for work as usual at a quarter to nine. Now Frankie was really panicking, for although he didn’t let on that his sister had taken the day off sick from the shoe shop where she worked, he knew she was now on her way to keep her appointment in Wilmington Road.
When Frankie and Winston reached the junction of Hornsey and Seven Sisters Roads, the clock on the top of the Public Baths building showed ten minutes to ten. There were now drifts of snow piled up on the pavements, and although the main roads were gradually turning to slush, there was hardly any traffic at all. Frankie looked along Seven Sisters Road towards the Nag’s Head, hoping that, by some miracle, a Number 14 bus would appear and take him and Winston up to Hornsey Rise. But after waiting for five minutes at the bus stop outside the North London Drapery Stores, he realised that the buses were clearly having a tough time keeping to schedule, so without another thought he and Winston headed off on foot towards Hornsey Rise.
It was a grim walk up Hornsey Road, for ‘the Rise’ was well over a mile away, uphill all the way, and a constant struggle to make progress in the deep snow and slush. There were times when Winston almost disappeared completely in the middle of a drift, and only the tip of his tail could be seen, but eventually he would reappear, shaking himself free of the snow that had gathered on his fur.
It was well over an hour later when Frankie and Winston reached the first road at the bottom of ‘the Rise’. On the way they had passed the Star Cinema, a real bug-hutch of a place where Frankie and Helen had often gone to Saturday morning Tom Mix cowboy serials, and, just behind that, poor old Mitford Road which had been practically devastated by one of Hitler’s bombs early in the war.
It was only when they reached Hazelville Road that Frankie suddenly realised that he had no idea where Wilmington Road was and, even worse, nor did any passer-by whom he asked. Eventually, however, he did get some sort of garbled directions from a girl in a newspaper shop, who clearly fancied him like mad. Blushing profusely, he rushed out of the shop, thanking her far more than he needed to.
Wilmington Road turned out to be completely different to how Frankie had imagined. It wasn’t in the least sordid-looking, in fact it was quite ‘select’, as Frankie’s mother would say. It was a long terraced road, with tall houses arranged on three or four floors. They looked a bit like the houses around where Elsa lived, and it gave him a funny feeling inside. Another
nice feature was the trees which lined the road, on each side. On one corner was a sweet shop, which also doubled as a sub-Post Office, and the vivid red post-box outside was practically submerged in the snow that had blown against it during the blizzard.
For a few moments, Frankie stood outside and gazed down Wilmington Road. There wasn’t a soul around and the bleak atmosphere only increased his sense of doom. What time was it Helen was due to go to this – this person who was going to do the ‘operation’? Was it eleven o’clock? Or was it ten? Panic was swelling up inside Frankie again and his stomach was churning. Over and over again he kept blaming himself for his stupidity. Not only did he not remember what time Helen was due there, but he hadn’t even asked her what number she was going to.
Frankie’s ears were now so cold they felt like blocks of ice, so he quickly pulled out the woollen scarf from around his neck, and placed it over his head, covering his ears. Then he cupped his hands together and blew into them. They were red with cold. Gradually, he started to make his way down the street, peering at the front of every house as he went. To him, they all looked exactly the same: especially most of them had clearly not seen a coat of paint since the start of the war. He stopped outside Number 6, with its small front garden and stone gnomes on a raised plinth, all covered with snow. They reminded Frankie of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. He spotted a middle-aged woman staring out of a first-floor window, she looked just like the sort of person who would perform such a terrible ‘operation’, he thought, full of suspicion. But when he stared back at her, he changed his mind, for the woman was joined at the window by a man wearing a dog-collar, and Frankie didn’t think a Vicar would be the sort of person who would approve of the kind of ‘operation’ Helen was going to have.
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