‘And with your looks, you’ve certainly got the right hooks to catch them,’ said Mattie. ‘Why don’t you give that blond chap you were telling me about last week a chance?’
‘You mean the doctor?’
‘Yes, that’s him,’ said Mattie. ‘Next time he offers to take you to the pictures, say yes.’
‘I will.’ Francesca forced a too-bright smile. ‘I might even say yes to that fireman who asked me to the Spitfire fundraising dance at Poplar Town Hall.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Mattie.
‘In fact,’ continued Francesca, chirpily, ‘from now on I’m going to—’
The Moaning Minnie on top of the hospital opposite let off a long wail. Everyone in the café stood up and started gathering their coats and bags together before hurrying to the door.
The ack-ack guns a mile away in Victoria Park started booming, shaking the ground beneath their feet.
‘Grab Alicia,’ shouted Francesca, throwing the last of her coffee down her throat, ‘and I’ll catch you up.’
Leaving her friend bolting the door, Mattie scooped her dazed-looking daughter out of her pram and wrapped the knitted blanket tightly around the baby. Hooking her handbag on her arm, she headed for the gap at the end of the counter. Francesca returned and the two girls hurried through to the corridor behind. Opening the door under the stairs, Francesca grabbed the torch off the hook and directed the beam in front of them as they descended the stairs.
Like Mattie’s own basement, Francesca had equipped half the area beneath the shop with all the things necessary to withstand a long raid, including two truckle beds, extra blankets, a small primus stove and a selection of tinned food, plus a bucket under the stairs discreetly hidden behind a curtain.
Cradling Alicia in her arms, Mattie settled herself at the end of her friend’s bed while Francesca lit the hurricane lamp overhead, bathing the enclosed space with a mellow yellow light. The first bomb found its target, followed by a dozen others in quick succession. The cellar shook, dislodging dirt from above and rattling the crates of lemonade stacked in the corner.
Carrying two canvas money bags, Enrico ran down the stairs. He stashed them away and then set about securing the café’s stock on the shelves while Francesca came to join Mattie on the bed.
The ground shook again as another bomb, a high explosive one judging by the blast, hit the ground nearby. Alicia stuck her thumb in her mouth and snuggled into Mattie.
‘Poor sweetheart,’ said Francesca, gazing fondly at her goddaughter. ‘She should be tucked up in her own bed not spending the night in a cold cellar.’
‘Shouldn’t we all?’ Mattie replied.
Francesca gave her a wry smile.
The ack-ack guns pounded again, followed by another half a dozen explosions close by rattling the bottles and dislodging more dirt. The ground shook once more, sending the lamp above them swinging wildly and the beams creaked.
With her heart pounding in her chest Mattie looked up, but the steel girders supporting the roof hadn’t shifted. She took a slow deep breath.
Another deafening bombardment rocked the earth, the noise of it filling the cellar and stopping all conversation. They sat without speaking until the Luftwaffe bombers above had discharged their payload and there was a lull.
‘You know, Mattie,’ Francesca said, ‘it wouldn’t be so bad if Stella was any kind of a wife to him but . . . Well, I mean, it’s just not fair, is it?’
Studying her friend’s face in the light from the swinging hurricane lamp, and seeing Francesca’s brown eyes filled with love and longing, Mattie gave her a sympathetic smile.
‘No, it’s not.’
And it wasn’t. Not one little bit. Because if it were, her brainless half-wit of a brother would be married to the woman who truly loved him rather than to the one who’d caught him with the oldest trick in the book.
‘If you could take a deep breath, Mrs Gilbert,’ said Dr Osborne, as he held the cone end of his stethoscope against her back.
Ellen did as he asked, and the familiar pain under her rib made itself known.
It was almost eleven in the morning on the third Monday in November and she was in the consulting room of the elderly family doctor. The surgery was in Sutton Street – a stone’s throw from where she lived.
Retracting his stethoscope from beneath her blouse, Dr Osborne straightened up.
‘Well, your lungs seem to be clear, Mrs Gilbert,’ he said, walking around and resuming his seat behind the paper-strewn desk. ‘And for that we must be thankful.’
He peered over his spectacles at her, the light from the table lamp reflecting on his bald head. ‘So how is the pain?’
As she was an only child, her parents had been quick to find the sixpence needed for a doctor’s visit, so Dr Osborne had seen Ellen through various childhood illnesses. He was younger then, with a full head of sandy-coloured hair. At nearly seventy he should have retired years ago, but like so many of the doctors who served the working population of the docks, he regarded his work as a vocation and Ellen, like many others, was thankful for it.
‘Bearable,’ said Ellen.
He looked puzzled. ‘Hasn’t the increased dose helped at all?’
‘It did,’ Ellen replied. ‘But it made me very drowsy and, well . . .’
‘You don’t want to upset Michael?’ Dr Osborne replied.
Giving him a pained smile, Ellen shook her head. ‘No. He’s worried enough already. Is there nothing else I could take?’
Dr Osborne sighed. ‘I’m afraid not. If the tumour was just in your bones, aspirin might ease it a little but as it’s infiltrated your lungs there’s risk of internal bleeding. Aspirin would make that worse so the only thing I can offer you is syrup of morphine.’ Resting his elbows on the leather-bound blotting pad in front of him, the elderly doctor steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them.
‘Have you told him yet?’ he asked, watching her intently.
Pressing her lips together, Ellen shook her head.
‘I know, my dear, that Dr Willard said three or four months, but you must understand these things can never be predicted precisely and it could be—’
‘I understand, and I want to but . . .’ Clasping her hands together, Ellen looked down at her lap.
There was a pause as she struggled to master her swirling emotions then her mouth pulled into a firm line and she looked up.
‘I know it’s a very hard conversation for a parent to have with their child, but it needs to be had,’ the doctor said.
‘I’ll tell him, Doctor,’ Ellen replied, ‘just as soon as I have things in place.’
‘For his care, you mean, when you’re . . .?’ Dr Osborne gave her an apologetic look. ‘When you can no longer care for him yourself?’
‘Yes,’ said Ellen. ‘I have spoken to the relative I want him to live with.’
Dr Osborne raised a busy eyebrow. ‘Haven’t they agreed?’
‘They are just sorting out the arrangements,’ Ellen replied. ‘But I’m sure they will . . .’ The image of Ida’s devastated expression when she realised who Michael was loomed into her mind. ‘I would be grateful if you could write me up for some more medicine.’
‘Of course.’ Unscrewing the top from his fountain pen, the elderly doctor scribbled on a sheet of headed notepaper and then handed it to her. ‘I suggest you take a full dose at night at least so you have a decent night’s sleep.’
Ellen took it. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’
Standing up, she slipped the prescription into her pocket and then took out a florin, which she gave to him.
Pulling out the drawer beside him, the doctor popped it into his cash box then slid the drawer shut.
‘Perhaps if they aren’t sure, it might be better to consider other arrangements,’ he said. ‘Barnardo’s, for example. In their home at Barkingside the boys live in houses with a house mother and father, just like a real family. They’ve even got this excellent scheme for children to have a fres
h start by being rehomed with families in Australia.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Ellen. ‘I don’t want Michael to be sent away to the other side of the world and from everything he’s ever known.’
‘Well then, what about getting your priest to approach the Poor Sisters of Nazareth on your behalf?’ said the kindly doctor. ‘I understand they have a number of houses all over the country.’
‘Thank you, Doctor, but when the time comes I know the person I’ve asked to care for Michael will be happy to make him part of their family,’ said Ellen, fervently praying that it would be so.
Rummaging around in the money belt concealed under her fur coat, Queenie pulled out a handful of change.
‘There you are, me lucky lad,’ she said, dropping three silver coins in Brian Murphy’s outstretched hand. ‘Twelve shillings, all thanks to Colourful Dancer in the three o’clock at Chepstow on Saturday.’
‘Thanks, Mrs Brogan,’ he replied, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down under his shaving rash. ‘And what odds are you offering on Music Man in the midday at York tomorrow?’
It was about three in the afternoon and because it was the first day of the working week, Queenie had been busy, paying out wins from the previous week and taking bets on the coming week’s races. She’d been up before five, as usual, to fetch the family’s daily loaf from the bakers in the market, if that’s what you could call the grey slab of National Bread. Having fed and watered the family and packed them off to their various daytime occupations, she’d taken her notebook, strapped on her money belt and set off on her rounds.
First off, she’d called in at Feilding’s to pick up the early edition of the newspaper with Saturday’s results, which she studied as she sipped a mug of coffee in Rose’s Café. Having noted the runners and riders she would be paying out on she’d headed to the market, paying out winnings to stall holders and taking bets. When the Mason’s Arms had opened its doors for its lunchtime customers, Queenie, fortifying herself with half a Mackeson, had continued her work at a corner table, jotting the takings and winning in her trusty notebook.
The pub had closed a few minutes before so now she’d shifted her operation to a quiet if dank corner under the arches at the end of Watney Street, so she could catch the afternoon trade and be ready for the knocking-off whistle at five.
‘Seven to four on,’ Queenie replied.
‘Then I’ll have a shilling both ways,’ said Brian, handing back one of the coins she’d just given him.
Extracting the pencil jammed under her battered felt hat and pulling the dog-eared notebook from her pocket, Queenie opened it at a clean page. Dabbing the pencil point on her tongue she scribbled the bet down, slid the money back into her belt and fished out a sixpence.
‘Ta,’ he said, taking it from her. ‘I’ll see you in the Compasses on Wednesday.’
‘That you will, God willing,’ Queenie replied as he walked away towards the bustle of the market.
Careful not to brush against the slimy green moss clinging to the brickwork, Queenie opened her ledger and raised her almost invisible eyebrows. Well, that’s a fine day’s work and no mistake, she thought as she scanned down the entries, and she still had the Railway Arms and Dover Castle to visit when they opened at seven.
Covering Watney Street and the roads close by, plus a handful of pubs along the Highway and Cable Street, Queenie only had a small turf compared to Fat Tony’s other runners, but it was more than enough to keep her busy. To be honest, you’d think with bombs raining down day and night, life would be enough of a gamble for most but, somehow, knowing you could be here today and gone tomorrow had brought out a sporting streak in everyone. Not that she was complaining.
She pocketed only a ha’penny for each bet she took, but even on a quiet day she walked away with two bob in her pocket. Although not a fortune it was enough for her to put a bit by for her funeral, buy a pound or two of Tate & Lyle from Slim Fred to add to the family’s sugar ration when Ida wasn’t looking or slip an extra pint of milk into Mattie and Cathy’s bags for their wee darlings.
Of course, betting outside the race track was totally illegal, but the landlords of the local pubs were happy to turn a blind eye to her antics. After all, what looked more harmless than a grey-haired granny chewing on her gums and enjoying half a pint in the corner?
Putting her record book back in her coat pocket and the pencil behind her ear, Queenie settled her old felt hat on her head and started off towards the market. The weak afternoon sun made her squint for a second as she emerged from the shadow of the railway arch. She glanced across at the clock, complete with a kilted highlander with bagpipes, hanging in the off-licence window.
Ten past. She had just short of an hour to spare before the factories turned out and the dock gates opened, and as her bunions were all but murdering her, Queenie decided to take the weight off her feet in the Railway café and have a well-earned cuppa.
Idly wondering if the tooth that had made Mattie’s daughter feverish all week had come through yet, Queenie headed up the market but just as she reached Carswell’s the Chemist, a woman clutching a paper bag accompanied by a boy wearing school uniform stepped out into her path.
It took Queenie a moment but then she recognised her.
‘Afternoon, Ellen,’ she said. ‘I heard tell you were back.’
Ellen’s mouth dropped open as she stared at her.
‘Mrs Brogan,’ she said, recovering herself. ‘How are you?’
‘Grand, and yourself?’
It was a stupid question. There was no need for Queenie to gaze into the bottom of a teacup or lay out the cards to see Ellen Gilbert wasn’t long for this world. It wasn’t so much the jaundiced hue of her complexion or the way her flesh hung lifelessly around her jaw and mouth, it was her eyes. Once so bright, they now had a dull flatness about them as if the soul inside knew it was soon to depart.
‘I’m well,’ said Ellen. ‘As well as I can be.’
They stared at each other for a second then Queenie spoke again. ‘And is this young Michael I’ve been hearing so much about?’ Again, it was a stupid question because there was no doubt at all as to who the boy standing beside Ellen was. In fact, with his unruly black curls and broad face, it could have been Jerimiah as a boy and Queenie’s heart ached at the sight of him.
‘Yes, this is Michael, my son,’ said Ellen, looking defiantly at Queenie. ‘Michael, this is Mrs Brogan.’
Even though he was just ten, Michael’s shoulders were already squaring off, like Jerimiah’s at the same age. The faint shadow on his top lip showed; like his father he’d be shaving by the time he was fifteen, and his oversized hands and feet indicated he would match Jerimiah’s stature in time. As he looked up at her with Jerimiah’s clear dark eyes, the urge to gather him into her arms threatened to overwhelm Queenie.
‘’Tis my pleasure to meet you,’ she said, hearing the emotion tight in her voice. ‘I see you’re at Greencoat School.’
‘Yes,’ said Michael, glancing down at the badge with an old-fashioned sailing boat on it. ‘But I’ve only been there a little while.’ His eyes darted past them on to the other side of the road. ‘Ma, the baker’s putting a tray of buns in the window. Can I have one?’
‘You can,’ Ellen said, handed him thruppence. ‘As long as you make sure you eat your tea.’
‘Ta, Mum, and nice to meet you, Mrs Brogan,’ he shouted over his shoulder as he scooted away.
Ellen’s gaze, full of heartbreak and love, followed the boy as he dashed towards the shop on the corner then her attention returned to Queenie.
‘He is Jerimiah’s,’ she said.
‘None could argue with that,’ Queenie replied.
Ellen let out a long sigh. ‘I’m sorry my return has caused your family such a lot of trouble, Mrs Brogan, but I had no choice. I just hope Ida can see that.’
Queenie didn’t reply.
Ellen glanced across the road. ‘Well, the blackout starts in an hour, so I ought to get Michael home
. Nice to see you, Mrs Brogan, and I hope to see you again sometime.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ said Queenie.
A ghost of a smile flitted across Ellen’s face then she turned and crossed the road to join her son. Queenie watched her drag herself wearily across the road to where her son was munching his way through a bun outside the baker’s.
Although Ellen’s arrival had driven a wedge between her son and Ida, Queenie did have Ellen to thank for one thing. At least this week when she entered the confession box she’d have a sin that she needed cleansing from her soul.
Wicked though it was, she couldn’t help but think that if Ellen hadn’t been about to meet her maker, Michael, who looked so like his father it hurt, might have been lost to her for ever.
Chapter Eight
‘STAND UP, DAISY, and let’s see how it fits,’ Ida said to the little girl standing in front of her.
Daisy Mullins who, as she’d just informed Ida, was six and three-quarters, drew herself up to her full height.
‘What do you think?’ asked Ida, looking at Daisy’s mother who was standing next to Ida.
It was just after four thirty on a dreary November afternoon. As usual at this time on a Tuesday afternoon Ida was dressed in her serviceable green drill WVS dress and was on duty at the rest centre in the Catholic Club’s main hall.
Although the rest centre was paid for by the council it was run by the Stepney branch of the WVS. Most of the space in the hall was given over to rows of camp beds but there was also a canteen and snack bar that was open for hot food day and night. During the daytime a nursery was held in the committee room opposite. Today the crèche was filled with young children while their mothers attended the cooking demonstration being given by a home economist from the Ministry of Food.
Ida was in charge of the second-hand clothing and shoes section, which was squashed at the far end of the hall. It comprised tightly packed dress rails which had been donated by one of the local clothing factories. On the rails hung a variety of daywear that was sorted by size into men’s, women’s and children’s. Pairs of shoes were lined up on the floor beneath. With people pitching up at all hours with just the clothes they stood up in, only the refreshment counter was busier.
A Ration Book Childhood Page 12