by Carol Rivers
'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 dismi
ssive 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 laugh 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.
In the kitchen he took the loaf from the larder. Carving off four thick slices, he lay them on the oilcloth. There was butter under the china dish, but it was still rationed and if it was one thing his mum loved it was a good helping of her old cough and splutter. The jam though, not that she knew it, was well and truly off the back of a lorry and more where it had come from any day of the week.
The girl wolfed it down and swiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
'See what I mean?' Micky chuckled. 'They'd eat horse dung if you served it up hot.'
'And so would you,' Ronnie answered him shortly, 'if Mum didn't put food in your belly.'
'That's why I help 'em out,' Micky stated quickly. 'If it wasn't for me they'd be brown bread.'
Ronnie sneered. 'Yeah, I can believe that an' all.'
'No kidding, bruv. Nicking from the debris is what keeps 'em alive. If it wasn't for me giving them a good whack for what they find, they wouldn't be standing here today. As half dead as they look it's me what keeps them breathing. Their mum don't give a toss what happens to her kids and sure as hell the ugly bastard that belts 'em don't.'
Ronnie knew the only reason Micky had half of London's back street kids working for him was for his own gain. He worked them like stink, returning the poor sods a pittance. Ronnie had turned a blind eye so far but now he was thinking twice. As for the nutter who used two little kids for a punch bag…
'What is this bloke to them?' Ronnie asked heavily. 'He not family or nothing?'
Micky laughed as he stuffed his mouth with bread. 'He's Mary Doyle's pimp and that's a fact.'
Ronnie cut another slice and halved it. 'Here, put this away, you two.'
They were at it like vultures when someone knocked on the front door. 'Keep quiet,' Ronnie warned them all. 'Not a whisper.' He went to open it. A warden was standing there and his uniform was covered in dust.
'Yeah?' Ronnie asked irritably.
'Is this the home of Winifred Bryant?'
Ronnie nodded. 'She's out.'
'You'd better let me in, son.'
Ronnie put up his hand to stop him from entering. 'Why should I do that?'
He looked into Ronnie's eyes. 'The Luftwaffe hit Poplar bad last night … and your mum …'
Ronnie stared into the warden's face. He must have got it wrong. Somewhere along the line, there was a mix-up.
'We dug this out, well, what was left of it.' He lifted an identity card and his mum's black purse with a metal clasp. Ronnie saw a stain, a dark red one smeared across the felt. Then he knew she was never coming home again.
* * *
CHAPTER 3
Nine days later
Ronnie pushed his hand under his open shirt collar and squeezed the tense muscles of his neck. Mum would have made him wear a tie, but he hadn't worn one since he was at school and never a suit. Removing his jacket he placed it carefully over the back of his chair as Sean and Micky walked in the room.
Mum would have approved, Ronnie thought as he studied his two brothers who were dressed in identical dark suits. They were wearing what her idea of real class looked like. But now she was gone and her sons being done up like a dog's dinner for the funeral was a sting in the tail if ever there was one. For years she had meticulously ironed their shirts and pressed their trousers, nagging them to smarten themselves up. Now she wasn't here to see the result of her efforts.
'How long is this going to take?' Micky peeled off his jacket. 'I've got things to do.'
'Such as?'
'Dunno, just stuff.'
Ronnie narrowed his eyes, the sense of foreboding that had beset him after Mum's death, growing inside him. 'Whatever it is Micky, forget it. There's family business to be taken care of this afternoon. Now shut up and sit down.' Ronnie nodded to the seat on his right. He had swallowed his irritation all week as Micky's attitude had gone from bad to worse. He accepted his brother was grieving, but he was well out of order today and Ronnie's patience was growing thin.
Micky dragged out a chair and slumped down on it. Sean was already seated; his elbows resting on the big oval dining table polished each day by their Mum for as long as Ronnie could remember. A pang of sadness went through him as he met Sean's red-rimmed eyes. He had wept openly, unafraid to show his sorrow. Of the three of them, Sean had been their mother's favourite and it wasn't surprising to Ronnie that he'd taken her loss as badly as he had Dad's.
When he'd returned home that day after identifying his mother and aunt in the makeshift mortuary, he'd gazed into his brothers' faces, unable to speak. He had felt as if all the life had drained out of him from that moment. Mum and Auntie Gwen had looked as if they were asleep, their faces unmarked by the hand of death.
'You're certain it's them?' the warden had pressed as he'd identified the two corpses lying side by side.
Of course he was certain. The dead women were his family, the only family that he, Micky and Sean had.
'We found her bag straight away,' the man had told him gently. 'I know it's no consolation, but she wouldn't have known a thing.'
No, it's no consolation at all, he had thought bitterly as he stared at the marble white face of his mother that had, twenty four hours ago, been full of life and energy. They loved their father, but all three of them worshipped their mother. Perhaps she had been asleep when it happened? Ronnie hoped to God that it was quick.
He could still hear the rustle of the utility tar
paulins as they were replaced over the two still forms. See in his mind's eye the uniformed man who had taken his arm, intending to lead him away. Felt the frustration in his gut as he'd tried to decide whether it was all some sick joke.
All he could think of then was the fact he wouldn't be looking into Mum's eyes again, their expression alert to whatever catastrophe had befallen her sons in her absence. She wouldn't be conjuring up a fried breakfast. Or chewing them off about they way they refused to get up in the mornings. Life as they had once known it had now come to an end.
Ronnie looked hard at his brothers. 'Sean, I know there's no way we can bring back Mum. But if she was here she would tell us to pull ourselves together and sort ourselves out. So that's what we've got to do, right?'
Sean shrugged helplessly. 'Why did it have to happen to her, Ron? I just don't understand.'
'There's no answer to that question, Seany. I wish I could give you one.'
'She never hurt no one. She'd give the coat off her back to anyone who asked. It was us that's done all the nicking. Why didn't that bomb fall on us?'
'I wish it had,' Ronnie muttered darkly. 'But what's done is done and we're still alive and kicking.'
'But that's just it, Ron, I don't feel right about what we did – you know – just before she went. It's as if it was us who made the bomb fall on her.'
Ronnie jerked his head round. 'That's rubbish Sean, and you know it. Get it out of your head. We loved her, treasured her. And what we did was all for her, to give her a comfortable life as Dad would have wanted.'
Sean swept the tears from his cheeks with a grubby hand. 'I don't know anything any more, only that Mum turned a blind eye to what we did and we took full advantage. She didn't have a clue as to what was happening half the time. If we'd told her we knocked off a load of stuff and wanted to bury it in the Anderson she would have given us all a slap for even thinking it.'