Hattie’s Home, page 18
He left the room without another word and she wasn’t sure if he’d threatened her or simply been giving her some good advice. Lenny was like that. He would keep people second-guessing themselves and pounce when they least expected it.
He’d been the doting lover until one day he hadn’t. She’d questioned him over something so small, about a purse of hers that had gone missing, and he’d lashed out with the force of a coiled spring released. With Lenny you never saw anything coming.
She let herself out and walked almost in a daze towards Jamaica Road and then down to the river. She stood on the ruined Cherry Garden Pier for a while, looking out over the steel-grey Thames, noting her trembling limbs and the deep breaths that filled her lungs but left her gasping for air. With a sick feeling in her stomach, she remembered why she’d preferred rushing off to join the army to staying in Bermondsey, and she wished more than ever that she’d never come back.
But the feeling didn’t last. By the time she’d walked to the railway arches in Crucifix Lane, she realized that fear for Martha’s safety was so much worse than her fear of Lenny’s fist.
*
Johnny had his back to her. His humped shoulders were covered in a moth-eaten blanket and he was sorting out a pile of paper. She’d walked along the railway arches and let her nose lead her. It hadn’t been long before she came to Johnny’s arch.
‘Johnny,’ she called out from the doorway, not wanting to startle him into running away.
At the sound of his name, he spun round, his low forehead creased with fear. But when he saw who it was, fear turned to anger.
‘Go way!’ he growled. ‘You took her!’
He gathered up whatever he was sorting out and stuffed it into his coat, though the garment was so tattered it appeared to be held together by crusted dirt and grease.
‘Took who, Johnny? Took the baby?’
‘Baby gone, my girl gone, you took them away. Don’t like you.’
She walked slowly into the arch, blasted by the smell and the heat rolling off an oil-drum fire.
‘I’m looking for the baby, Clara’s baby. I didn’t take her. Do you know where she is?’
Johnny stood up, waving his arms in the peculiar windmill action he used when agitated. ‘In the park! Baby’s in the park!’
Fear gripped her. Had he left her in the bunker all along? ‘In the shelter? Did you leave the baby there?’
‘Not me!’ he roared. ‘You took her and Johnny can’t see her no more. Sad.’
He controlled his waving arms, folded his hands under his armpits and sat on the barrel. ‘Little baby, my friend,’ he said, and began to cry.
Hattie stifled her own gagging and moved closer. ‘Johnny, I need your help. The little baby, someone else took her from the park… not me!’ She edged back as his hand whipped out towards her. ‘And her mummy is very sad. You wouldn’t want Clara to be sad, would you? Someone came and took the baby from her, last night. Someone nicked some food from our NAAFI and whoever did that, we think took the baby. I saw your camp in the shelter… were you there last night, did you see anyone take her?’
The watery blue eyes gave her a look of surprising intelligence and for an instant she wondered if he wasn’t as simple as he appeared. Then he nodded. ‘Johnny seed someone.’
12
The Wrong Baby
March 1947
Ronnie had broken the padlock easily. There hadn’t been much in the food safe, not to feed all them people, but it had been better than nothing. He’d put their bacon and a sausage and a bit of other meat he didn’t recognize into a big bowl that was still half full of dripping. There’d been some bread and some cheese that he’d stuffed into his pockets. He’d intended to take it straight back to his mum, but outside the wind was howling like a pack of wolves and the snow had stung him, like he’d been pushing through a swarm of bees. He’d sheltered in the lea of one of the huts, debating whether to go back to the NAAFI or push on. Everyone must be asleep by now, but peering through the hut window he’d seen a paraffin light still lit. It had been turned down low and its glow spilled out from a little table. He’d seen a woman holding a baby, its head resting on her shoulder, and she was patting its back gently, pacing up and down. She’d turned her back to him and Ronnie had seen the baby’s face. Round, with large dark eyes and a head of black hair, thick with tiny ringlets. The baby had seen him too, and her little head had craned to keep him in sight as her mother walked up and down. When he’d smiled at her through the window, she’d smiled back as if she knew him. The woman had turned again and Ronnie had ducked out of sight. He’d hunkered down against the wooden hut, shivering and trembling with joy at the same time. He’d found Mum’s baby, the one she’d lost! It was definitely her. He remembered all that black hair from the night she was born, and she knew him! He’d promised he would do everything he could to make Mum happy again. And now God had given him this chance.
By the time he’d reached the Jamaica Road entrance he’d been almost crawling, the cold was so intense. He’d always hated them bloody shelters, they was spooky. He knew there was a tunnel leading from one of them straight to the Paradise Street nick. The tale was that before ever it was a nick, it belonged to a doctor, a body snatcher who’d built the tunnel to bring back dead bodies from St Olave’s Workhouse graveyard. He was just like Frankenstein and it gave Ronnie the shivers. But it was the only place he could think to get out of the biting wind. He’d needed to wait until the weather cleared before he could go back to the huts. He’d pushed open the metal door and let in a flurry of snow. After feeling for the matches and the candle hidden in a niche behind the door, he’d descended the stairs one by one, his knees still trembling from the effort of ploughing through the snow and the shock of finding his baby sister.
He hadn’t expected Pissy Pants to be there. It was one of the scavenger’s camps, but not his favourite. Johnny was warming his hands by a small spirit stove where a billycan was boiling up water. Ronnie had deposited the bowl of food in front of his fellow vagrant. ‘Fancy a fry-up?’ he’d asked and Johnny grunted a yes.
Johnny had made camp coffee in a mug for them to share, and then he’d fried up the grub on a small black pan. Ronnie had spread dripping on to hunks of bread and soon they’d been feasting on the best food Ronnie had tasted in a long time. He’d smiled so much that sometimes he couldn’t chew the next mouthful. He couldn’t remember when he’d last been so happy. He’d wanted to tell Johnny about the miracle of finding his sister, but he would never understand. It was enough that the miracle had happened and that it would change everything.
Later, in the early hours, when dawn was tinting all the snow pink, Ronnie had crept out of the shelter and made his way back to the baby’s hut. The door hadn’t been locked and it had been a simple matter to slip in quietly, creep to the cot and lift out the sleeping child. She was heavier than he’d thought, but he’d held her as he’d seen the woman do last night, close to his chest, with her head resting on his shoulder. It was very quiet outside, the wind had died down and the humped snow muffled every sound. Icy breath plumed from his open mouth as he’d trudged steadily across the park, witnessed only by a rabble of hungry starlings, skirmishing in the snow for scraps. They’d scattered as he approached, their hard cries disturbing the baby. He hushed her and nestled her deeper inside his coat. But his arms were already aching and as he’d shifted her weight she’d almost slipped from his arms. Quick as one of the noisy birds he’d dipped and scooped her up before she could land on the frozen ground. Her eyes had stayed fast shut, her dark lashes tipped with lacy snowflakes. He’d have to hurry before the snow started falling again. He couldn’t remember their Sue being so quiet, but he’d been just three when she was born and seven when she had died. He did know she used to scream blue murder, Mum said, because she was a hungry baby. Perhaps this one got enough to eat.
He was out of the park and heading along Jamaica Road when she’d finally stirred, her mouth opening in a round pink yawn, her little fist rubbing her sticky eyes. When she’d opened them she’d stared placidly at Ronnie, who’d given her an encouraging smile. An uncertain look played across her face and then she’d begun to cry. He’d reached for the teddy he’d stuck into his pocket on the way out of the hut, but it was gone.
‘Shhh, shhh, I’m taking you home,’ he’d crooned, but her cries had only grown louder, attracting the attention of a passing milkman who was dragging his crates along on a sled.
‘All right, son?’ he’d called and Ronnie waved.
‘Just me little sister! Cold!’
Through the deserted early morning streets he’d trotted, increasingly alarmed at the baby’s cries – he couldn’t afford any more unwanted attention. But eventually the motion had rocked her to sleep and she’d fallen silent. When he’d reached the buildings it was fully light, but only old Granny Stout on the ground floor was up and about.
‘’ere Ron, run us an errand?’ she’d called from her front door, holding out a screw of paper with some money in it.
‘No!’ he’d yelled.
‘Get us a packet of Weights, son, I can’t get out in this.’
‘Later, I’ll come back later,’ he’d said, trying to hide the baby.
‘What you hiding there? You been tea leavin’ again?’ the old lady had said in her trembly whiney voice.
He’d ignored her and stumbled up the stairs, pulling the key from inside the letterbox and letting himself in. Mum was asleep and he’d laid the baby on the pillow next to her. The little thing had a funny-coloured skin, which he hadn’t noticed on the night she’d been born. And she had a fat neck too. But her hair was the same as he’d seen, black as his nan’s old cat, and the way she’d smiled at him in the night – she had to be his sister.
He’d watched his mother and the baby sleeping, his excitement bubbling up like an unstoppable spring, so that he couldn’t wait any longer. He’d shoved Lou’s sleeping form till she stirred. When she saw him she smiled sleepily. ‘Hello, Ron, you little street raker, where you been?’ she’d said and he’d smiled back. She’d remembered his name.
‘Here, Mum, look who I’ve brung home.’ He’d lifted the baby so she could see her. ‘It’s the baby you lost!’
Lou had jerked up, wide awake. ‘Oh, Ronnie, love, what have you done? This ain’t my baby!’
His smile had faded. ‘’Course it is, you’re getting all mixed up again. Look! She’s got black hair just like our baby’s, and brown eyes. And she knew me, she smiled at me!’ He’d pushed the child towards her. ‘Don’t start all that again, Mum. You know this is me, don’t you?’ He stabbed at his own chest. ‘Well, this is her!’
* * *
When Lou took the child from him it was as if a sunbeam crossed her frozen heart. The warmth and weight of the child felt so familiar that, even knowing it wasn’t hers, Lou felt comforted. She nestled it in the crook of one arm with its chubby legs dangling over her forearm. One fat little hand grasped her nightgown as the child inspected her with a puzzled smile, seeming to know she was a stranger, yet prepared to be friendly. It was a beautiful brown-skinned little girl. Lou rested her lips on the baby’s head and for a moment inhaled the smell of baby hair, so new, so sweet. Perhaps she could keep this one. The thought had insinuated itself before she could check it, bringing the old sadness rushing back. It was so tempting to go back into that semi-dark dream world where nothing was as it really should be. But something about the child’s appearance had forced her to dismiss the beckoning dream. The poor little thing wasn’t well. It was obvious to her. And if it was what she suspected, then the baby might not be long for this world. The mere thought of some other mother’s approaching grief galvanized her and she got up, still holding the child.
‘Now listen here, Ron. This baby ain’t mine and she ain’t your sister neither. Your blonde sister’s in heaven and the new one, the dark-haired one, I didn’t lose her, I give her away – to a young couple whose own little baby had died.’
Ronnie shook his head. ‘You lost her – you never give her away! Why would you do that?’
She struggled for a way to explain. ‘Because I couldn’t look after her, you see. I couldn’t even look after you, son, so how could I take care of a tiny baby?’
Telling Ronnie the truth of it seemed to dissolve the weight of guilt. She’d done it for love, that was all, and it left her mind clearer somehow.
‘Now tell me honestly, Ron, where did you find this baby? We’ve got to get hold of her real mum.’
‘She was in the park,’ he said dejectedly.
‘In the park? What, out in the snow?’
‘No! In one of them squatter huts.’
Now she guessed who the baby belonged to – that poor little cow Clara.
‘We can’t keep her, love, she ain’t ours.’
Ronnie’s face suddenly creased into tears and Lou remembered her son was still a child himself. She shifted the baby on her arm and put the other round Ronnie.
‘You know how sad I was when I lost our Sue?’
He sniffed a yes.
‘Well, that’s how this baby’s mum is feeling right now. We can’t do that to her, can we?’
‘Please, Mum, can’t we just keep her? I’ll help you look after her and then it can all be like it was when Sue and Dad was here…’
She kissed the top of his head. It smelled bad, so different from the baby’s, and yet she could remember Ronnie’s own baby hair, spun fine-gold like an angel’s. Now stiff with dirt and grease, she wondered how she’d not noticed it before, and his clothes stank to high heaven, as if he’d been living in a sewer.
‘Listen, boy. This little mite’s not well. Dry your eyes – here.’ She offered him the cuff of her nightgown. ‘Now run round the doctor’s and bring him here. Don’t take no excuses about it being too early – tell him it’s an emergency.’
* * *
Johnny Harper had been as convincing as his limited vocabulary would allow. Sausages and bacon he’d said, and a pot of dripping. He’d known exactly what had gone missing from the NAAFI and he’d known the name of the burglar too. Hattie had been certain that the food thief and the baby thief were one and the same, but Ronnie, Lou’s son? Why would he take a baby?
She knocked hesitantly on the flat door. What if she was wrong? But Lou answered almost immediately, her eyes alive in a way Hattie hadn’t seen before. She practically dragged Hattie inside.
‘Don’t worry, love, you’ve come to the right place. Clara’s baby’s here.’
‘Oh, thank God, thank God, Lou, we’ve been out searching all day. How did she get here?’
‘I’ll tell you later. But listen, Hattie, I’ve had to call out the doctor. He’s inside with the baby now.’
Lou led her to her bedroom where the doctor was still examining Martha. He looked up and Hattie’s elation melted away at the sight of his worried expression.
‘Are you the mother?’ he asked and Hattie shook her head.
‘I’ll have to make the decision without her then. This child is dangerously ill. She has diphtheria. I’m afraid if she’s to live through the night I must get her to hospital. Can you inform the child’s mother?’
Hattie nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’ The words stuck in her throat. How on earth could she tell Clara her baby might be dead by tomorrow morning? She walked over to the bed. Martha was almost unrecognizable from the sunny child who had so easily stolen Hattie’s heart. Her neck was swollen to twice its normal size and her breathing came in painful rasps. Her bright eyes were closed and a sheen of sweat covered her face.
Hattie felt tears sting her eyes. ‘Oh no, not our little Martha,’ she whispered to a God she did not know. ‘Please, not our lovely baby.’
She leaned over Martha, willing her to open those bright eyes, and for that heart-stopping smile to light up her face again. But the child slept painfully on as the seconds ticked away. Lou put a comforting arm round her shoulders. ‘She was like this when my Ronnie brought her in. She must have had it for a while. Didn’t anyone notice?’
‘No, we never thought it could be diphtheria. It just seemed like a bad cold. It’s bitter in the huts at night and the walls are so thin,’ Hattie said. ‘We tried to keep her warm…’
‘It’s not always easy to spot,’ the doctor interrupted. ‘You shouldn’t blame yourself. Fortunately, this lady here recognized the symptoms. Her prompt action might make all the difference.’ The doctor hurried back to his surgery to telephone for an ambulance, leaving that ‘might’ hanging heavily in the air between the two women who stood watching over Martha, until Hattie broke the silence.
‘How did you know?’ she asked.
‘Her neck, her breathing...’ Lou explained. ‘My Ronnie had it when he was tiny, but they caught it in time.’
‘Do you think we’ve caught Martha’s in time?’
Lou looked at Hattie with pitying eyes. ‘It’s bad, love. Poor Clara’s had enough trouble for a lifetime, but she might have to face worse than all that put together now.’
It was only after the doctor had returned and they were waiting for the ambulance that Hattie thought to ask the question.
‘Was it your Ronnie that took her?’
Lou’s grief-lined face clouded with sadness. ‘It’s all my fault, love, not his,’ she said in a low voice. ‘You know I give me own baby away? Well, he thought that this little girl was mine. He thought it’d make me happy if he brung her home to me. Poor little sod, he feels bad now.’
Lou sat down on the chair next to the bed and let her head drop into her hands. ‘I’d never live with meself if what he done robs that young girl of her baby…’
Hattie took the woman’s hand. ‘Don’t say that, Lou. If he hadn’t brought her to you we’d still be thinking she had a cold. Perhaps you’ve given her a chance.’
‘Gawd’s good, darlin’.’ Lou looked anxiously towards Martha, who had begun to whimper. She stretched out a hand to pat her. ‘Shhh, babe. Your mummy’s coming soon.’
