Cockney Orphan

by Carol Rivers

  Other than Freddie Smith’s patsy.

  The door closed softly. He looked up. Ada had gone.

  Vic got a thumbs-up from Georgie. His first mate was standing beside him in the corner of the pilot house, binoculars raised. Vic smiled, returning the gesture. Mission accomplished. All 185 soldiers of the Special Raiding Squadron were wading ashore.

  ‘Marina d’Avola dead on target,’ Georgie yelled above the gunfire. ‘We’ve done it! They’re on their way.’

  ‘God speed them all,’ Vic muttered as he leaped to the far side of the bridge. Puffs of silver light cut through the gloom, indicating enemy resistance as shown on the aerial photograph.

  ‘It’s the surf that’s the danger,’ Gerogie shouted, hurrying to join him. ‘Look at it, will you! Filthy great mountains of the stuff.’

  Vic wiped the grease and dirt from his eyes. He held his breath as he watched the men in the sea struggling to reach shore. Wave after wave rollercoasted over them. Some were fetched back in a tangle of debris. Others made it to the shoreline. There was no going back for any of them; they must advance, or die in the water.

  Pieces of armoury crashed into the sides of the landing craft. The drone of aircraft grew louder. Enemy gunfire from the pill-boxes rattled into the water. Men disappeared silently.

  ‘Somebody’s bought it, poor sod.’ Georgie nodded to the surf. A body was swept high on a wave, then was gone.

  They watched, hoping for life, though they knew there was none. ‘What state are we in?’ Vic yelled as a fresh salvo from the beach landed close by.

  ‘All present and correct, Skipper. But I wish we was on Oxford. By God I do. She’d show them a thing or two.’

  Vic nodded, the urge to retaliate overpowering. But with seventy-five tons as opposed to 90,000, the most they could offer Jerry was a token blast from toy guns.

  ‘Check all troops are despatched,’ Vic shouted, signalling below, and Georgie nodded.

  ‘Aye, Aye, sir!’

  Vic watched him disappear below deck. He couldn’t believe his luck to have come through with Georgie. When this little lot was over, they planned to build boats together, not demolish them.

  A sudden rush of water lifted the little ship high. Vic clutched the conning tower rail. Darkness was settling swiftly. It didn’t seem possible that out there a million Allied servicemen were converging on Sicily. He felt a swell of pride for the part his own small fleet had played.

  If only he had been able to write to Connie . . .

  A blistering scream echoed above his head. He ducked in time to see the underbelly of a plane. It soared low, throwing out a plume of metal grey smoke. He couldn’t tell if it was one of ours or theirs, but the thud was sickening and the blaze of the sinking wreck lit up the sky.

  Grief filled him. Friend or foe, they were fighting in service of their country. Tearing his eyes away he returned his attention to the shoreline. A burst of fire splattered starboard. The little ship rocked. A fountain of warm, wet sea – or was it oil? – cascaded over the bow. Stars lit up the water and fell like meteors. A crack astern and he reeled backwards.

  The fall winded him. He lay there, staring up at the pilot house roof, now ripped to burning ribbons. The rails that he had been holding minutes ago were glistening, a molten red. The sky spread above, a silent, star-filled expanse far beyond the earthly violence. He lifted his head. Georgie was coming towards him. The whites of his eyes glowed. He was bareheaded, tousled gingery tufts sticking up like scorched bristles.

  A small cone of smoke rose behind him. It was only when his knees buckled that the hole in his chest blew open. Vic held the burning, soft mass that once was his friend. He looked down in the darkness and cradled a smouldering bundle. Soon he couldn’t tell what was flesh and what was bone, as the ship erupted, blowing him and the remains in his arms high into the air, and, finally, down deep into the cooling water.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘You all right, Connie?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  Len looked at her in concern. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Just a bit tired that’s all.’

  ‘Well, only half an hour to go.’

  Connie smiled, returning her attention to the ledger in front of her. She hadn’t been able to concentrate all day. She had a sinking feeling in her stomach and it wouldn’t go away.

  ‘You do look a bit pale.’ Jenny frowned at her. ‘You haven’t eaten something off in the canteen?’

  ‘No, I didn’t go up there today.’

  ‘It might be the weather. Dad says we’re in for a thunderstorm, but then he always says that when it’s hot and sticky.’

  Connie didn’t bother to say what her problem was, and it had nothing to do with the weather. She had lain awake all Saturday night and half of Sunday night, her mind in turmoil over Lucky.

  She missed Ada so much. She was the only one she could talk to who would understand. Even Nan and Lofty, as much as they loved Lucky, had advised her that if Gilbert Tucker was who he said he was, there was nothing much to be done. As Lucky’s grandfather he would have every right to claim his grandson.

  When she had discussed her troubles with Gran, she was told what she didn’t want to hear. ‘The boy is linked to him,’ Gran had warned. ‘I wish I could say otherwise, but the lights never lie.’

  ‘You think he’s telling the truth and he is Lucky’s grandfather?’

  ‘I don’t know about telling the truth,’ Gran had puzzled. ‘But you, Lucky and him have some connection.’

  Connie sighed. There seemed no one who understood how she felt. Ada would have been up in arms on her behalf. She could hear Ada saying, ‘Connie Marsh, you and me are going up the town hall right now and demanding your rights!’ She smiled sadly as she heard Ada’s voice in her head. She was always a good and loyal friend. Where was she now?

  ‘Connie?’ Jenny was standing beside her. ‘The hooter’s gone. Time to pack up.’

  Slowly Connie put away her things and said goodnight to Len and Jenny. The feeling of apprehension was growing inside her. When would Gilbert Tucker turn up again? Connie closed her eyes in fear. She was working herself up into a state. Quickly she ducked into the cloakroom until the mad rush was over. She didn’t feel like walking home with anyone. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts.

  The late-July evening was mild and balmy when she walked into the big yard. The last few employees of Dalton’s were going through the gate. Connie stopped when she saw the truck. Although she saw Clint on the warehouse floor, they hadn’t had much time to talk. The bonnet of the truck was raised and she recognized the lower half of Clint’s body underneath.

  ‘Hi there!’

  ‘Hello, Clint.’

  He grinned his white smile. ‘At the speed you’re going, my guess is you’d be home before I could mend the truck and offer you a lift.’

  ‘Actually, I’m not going home straightaway,’ she replied, nodding ahead. ‘The weather’s so nice I’m going for a stroll.’

  He closed the bonnet on the truck with a bang. ‘Now, I’m real tempted,’ he said as he walked towards her, ‘to ask if you want some company. But, gee, you’d probably only say yes because you’re too polite to say no.’

  ‘I’m only going to the Gardens, that’s all.’

  ‘The Gardens are fine with me.’ He shrugged.

  ‘I might not be very good company.’

  He chuckled as he joined her and they walked through the gate. ‘Okay, I’ll just walk beside you – whistle a few tunes maybe – and take in the scenery.’

  This brought a smile to her lips. ‘There’s not a lot of scenery to look at.’

  ‘There’s you.’

  She gave him a frown, then, seeing the twinkle in his blue eyes, she laughed. ‘How is life for you at Dalton’s, lately? You’re always busy when I come down to the weigh-ins.’

  ‘Things are moving quickly in Europe.’

  Connie nodded. ‘The letter I had from Vic last week said he was leaving the U
nited States and would be in Europe by the time I received it.’

  ‘Then I guess he won’t be home on leave.’

  ‘No.’ Suddenly the tears filled her eyes. She couldn’t trust herself to speak, so she stared straight ahead, trying to disguise her unhappiness.

  ‘I guess I just put my great boot in it.’

  ‘Not really. It’s just everything seems to have come at once. I’ve got things on my mind and I’m trying to work them out.’

  He lifted his big palms. ‘What are friends for? Just fire ahead.’

  ‘You won’t understand.’

  ‘Try me.’

  Connie looked up at him. ‘Do you ever take no for an answer?’

  ‘Not in your case.’

  Connie sighed again. ‘I give up.’

  ‘Great. Now hang on to this arm, honey, and tell me all about it.’

  ‘So you’re pretty sure this old guy is Lucky’s grand father?’

  Connie sighed. ‘Pretty sure.’ They had been sitting on the bench in Island Gardens for nearly an hour. Once he had persuaded her to tell him the whole story, she had been unable to stop. She had described the last three years in detail beginning from when she found Lucky to the moment Gilbert Tucker arrived at Nan’s.

  ‘Why didn’t you go to the police about this creep?’ he asked.

  Her voice was husky. ‘What could they do? He only followed me, not hit me over the head or tried to steal my bag.’

  ‘What would you do if he was the little guy’s relative?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Tears filled her eyes. ‘I love Lucky so much, I don’t want to lose him. At the same time I want him to be with his family. But what if his family isn’t very nice?’

  Clint reached out for her hand. ‘Hey, there, I understand. Love makes you blind and yet it makes you brave; it makes you confused and yet you never see more clearly in all your life.’

  Connie looked up at him, shocked. ‘Yes, that’s exactly how I feel. How did you know?’

  He squeezed her fingers. ‘You’re not the only one to experience that powerful drug.’

  ‘But what can I do if he is Lucky’s grandfather?’ she wailed again, gazing into his eyes for an answer.

  ‘If he provides no proof that he is, there’s no way he can take Lucky from you. Leastways, that’s the way it would work at home.’

  ‘But,’ spluttered Connie, ‘Gran sees these lights around people, you see. And Lucky and me and Gilbert Tucker all have the same lights. So if Lucky turns out to be his grandson—’

  ‘Hey!’ Clint interrupted with a rueful smile. ‘You don’t believe in all that hocus-pocus, do you?’

  Connie shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, let’s say Gran is right and Lucky is the guy’s grandson. He brings along proof – demands to take the kid – what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to work out.’ She felt her lips tremble. ‘I can’t bear the thought of losing him. But how can I keep him?’

  Clint took both her hands in his as he turned to look in her face. ‘One of the first things you learn in the army is that all great battles have contingency plans. Have something tucked up your sleeve to distract the enemy.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘If it was me, I’d go to the authorities, beat him to it. Tell them everything and holler like crazy that you want to keep Lucky.’

  Connie smiled. ‘You sound like Ada.’

  ‘Well, what can you lose?’

  ‘Nothing, I suppose.’

  Suddenly Connie remembered the lady who had helped her and Vic when they went to the Welfare department. ‘I do know someone at the Welfare, a Mrs Burton.’

  ‘Why not give it a try?’

  Connie looked at the handsome young man sitting beside her. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Connie . . .’ She felt the warmth and strength of his hand over hers, the suppleness of his fingers. She remembered the way they had moved over the trumpet keys and made such beautiful music. In the soft summer’s evening, her heart raced. He was going to kiss her.

  She jumped up.

  ‘Connie, you know I’d do anything for you, don’t you?’ he said, trying to pull her back down.

  ‘Clint, I’m leaving now.’

  He looked dismayed but he let her go. ‘I should’ve kept my big mouth shut.’ He stood up. ‘No hard feelings?’

  She shrugged. ‘No, but I told you to begin with, we could only be friends.’

  ‘That’s all I want if you say so.’

  They walked, slightly apart, to the road and said rather embarrassed goodbyes.

  ‘I’m looking for a Mrs Burton.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mrs Burton.’ Connie hoped she’d remembered correctly as she stood in the office for Maternity and Child Welfare.

  ‘There’s no one here by that name.’ The clerk looked suspiciously like the unpleasant young man that she had talked to three years ago.

  ‘It was in October 1940 when I last spoke to her.’ Connie looked over his shoulder to the door beyond. Through the opaque glass she could see someone moving. But she couldn’t tell if it was male or female. ‘I’d like to discuss a private matter with her.’

  This was the wrong thing to say she discovered as the young man’s mouth fell open. ‘A private matter, you say? Then even if she did work here, this is not the place for personal discussions. We’re a very busy department and all our staff are occupied.’

  ‘I see,’ Connie said disappointedly. She walked into the corridor. The long hallway stretched on and on. There were offices on either side. Her spirits sank as she examined the headings on the doors. District boards of Works, Local Government Records, Parish Records – the departments were never ending.

  She tried another office. ‘I’m looking for a Mrs Burton.’

  The answer was the same. No one here by that name.

  Was her mission in vain? She had taken the Friday off especially and she only had one day to answer all her questions. Mr Burns had complained when she’d told him it was important. Finally he had agreed, reminding her that a morning would be deducted from her annual holiday.

  Her footsteps echoed along the stone floors. When she saw a door marked Ladies’ W.C. she went inside. Her cardigan, white blouse and navy blue skirt felt hot. She looked into the long mirror above the row of wash basins. Her hair had fallen across her eyes and there was a damp patch underneath it. She tried to brush it back but her fingers were slippery.

  She ran the cold tap. Splashing some water over her face, she looked into the white basin, which was going rusty round the plughole. The water gurgled. She felt as though she was twisting and turning with it.

  ‘Here you are, this might help, love.’

  Connie blinked the water from her lashes. An older woman dressed in a green overall was holding out a towel.

  ‘Thank you.’ Connie dabbed her face with it.

  ‘You can hang the clean one over the rail there and I’ll take the dirty towel. You’re not staff are you?’

  ‘No,’ Connie admitted.

  ‘This is not really a public W.C.’

  ‘Oh dear. I was just feeling so hot and sticky.’

  ‘Don’t mind me, love. Make yourself at home. I’m only the cleaning lady.’

  ‘Do you know many people here?’

  She laughed. ‘I should do. I’ve only been working here man and boy for thirty years.’

  ‘This lady was called Mrs Burton. She worked in the Department for Maternity and Welfare in 1940.’

  ‘Peggy Burton, you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know if it was Peggy. But it could have been.’

  ‘Well, that’s the only one I know and she ain’t here now.’

  ‘She was so helpful.’

  ‘Her son was killed in France and she didn’t come back to work after that.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Connie’s hopes were dashed. ‘I really need her advice again.’

  ‘She was sal
t of the earth was Peggy, a real nice lady. This problem of yours – it is urgent, is it?’

  ‘Oh yes, very.’ Connie nodded. ‘You see, since 1940 I’ve looked after a little boy whose mother was killed in the Blitz. His father never showed up and now a man is claiming to be his grandfather, not a very nice man either. He says he’s bringing me proof of who he is, but I don’t trust him. I was hoping Mrs Burton could give me some advice. I’ve no one else to turn to.’

  The cleaning lady looked hard at her. Then, coming closer, she lowered her voice. ‘In that case, I can tell you where Peggy is now.’

  Connie’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, yes please!’

  ‘Peggy wanted to do something meaningful after her loss, so she started a soup kitchen at the Mission Hall just off Poplar High Street. You said you was desperate and I know Peggy would be first in line to offer her help. Tell her Pops sent you, all right?’

  ‘You don’t know what a favour you’ve done me.’

  ‘Good luck, gel.’

  Connie walked out of the building with a new spring in her step. Her journey hadn’t been a waste of time after all.

  The Mission Hall was now a soup kitchen for the distressed and homeless of the East End. The old building, in former days a chapel, was a hive of industry. In the main area where once the congregation had kneeled, volunteers served a bowl of hot soup to anyone incapacitated enough to warrant it. Four long wooden tables and the chapel’s old pews were in full use when Connie arrived close to midday. Three women served the soup and bread, and the kitchen staff were hidden by a thin partition, the smell of cooking permeating to the wooden timbers above.

  Connie imagined or estimated at least fifty people sat down to eat at one time. As soon as one got up to leave, another took their place. The queues were long, but orderly. Connie wondered which one of the women was Peggy Burton. With their hair tied in turbans, and wearing pinafores, she didn’t recognize any of them.

  ‘Do you know if Peggy Burton is here today?’ Connie asked one of the women.

  ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  ‘Oh, thank goodness.’ Connie hesitated. ‘Pops, the cleaning lady at the council offices, sent me. I was very sorry to hear about your son.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Peggy said graciously. ‘But who are you?’