Hattie’s Home, page 3
‘Don’t upset yourself, Arthur,’ her mother said, and Clara’s heart sank. Of course, she would always side with him over her.
‘I’ll stop upsetting meself when you get her out of here,’ he said, downing the whiskey. ‘And make sure no one sees her.’
Her mother stood up and ushered her to the front door.
‘How could you let him say that about your own granddaughter?’ Clara looked to see if her mother’s face held any sign of shame.
‘It’s your own fault, gel. You’ve made your bed.’ Her lips were tight-pressed, her eyes hard.
‘Get back in here and close that door,’ her father bellowed down the passage. ‘You’re letting all the heat out.’ Her mother slammed the door and, startled, Martha began to cry again. Tears rose in Clara’s own eyes. It seemed she had already failed to protect her child’s beautiful smile.
Clara banged on the door with her fist, rage for her child suddenly making her bold, and she called through the letterbox, ‘You’re the bastard! And you’re a bitch!’ In all her life she had never once sworn at her parents, but now she was a parent herself and she thought they deserved it. She sank down on to the front doorstep, trying at once to comfort her child and stem her own sobs. She wiped her eyes, unable to still the trembling that shook every inch of her body.
‘It ain’t you that’s not good enough, it’s them! They’re not good enough to be your nan and grandad, my darling,’ she whispered. ‘You’re better off without ’em and I won’t let anyone hurt you, not ever!’ she promised with a kiss. At that moment, she believed she could keep her promise and so, it seemed, did little Martha, for with two teardrops still trembling on her cheeks, the baby looked up and smiled.
It had grown dark. The night sky was sharp, icy, and the earlier snowfall had made the streets treacherous. Her parents hadn’t asked if she had anywhere to stay. She didn’t. Almost penniless and with little else than the clothes she and the baby were wearing, she had got herself home by stowing away on a ship from Sydney. Sometimes she was in awe of her own daring. She still didn’t know how she’d managed such a thing. She’d been discovered, of course, and the crewmen had a whip-round for her, to pay her passage and give her a bit extra. That was all she had to live on and it was running out fast. But her sudden flight had meant she’d had no chance to prepare – hers and Martha’s clothes were intended for sunnier climes. Now she shivered on her parents’ doorstep, pierced by a freezing wind that blew round the Square. The cold weather had come as a shock to her and she was sure the thin blanket would barely keep the baby warm. She opened her coat and nestled Martha into its folds.
‘There, nice and warm now, aren’t you?’ And Martha gurgled her agreement.
She was still in unbelieving shock that her parents’ hearts hadn’t melted at their first glimpse of Martha. She’d naively believed that the long voyage home was the hard part, and that once here she would be forgiven, not for her sake, but for the baby’s. It seemed inconceivable that anyone could look at her child’s innocent face and not love her. And yet her tiny presence had only seemed to intensify their disapproval, the baby merely evidence that she’d slept with a black man, which, according to the harsh judgements of her parents and their kind, made her a slut, married or not. But Mrs Almond’s daughter was right, Barry was indeed a bigamist who’d broken her heart; she could understand it if her parents had blamed him for that, but not for the colour of his skin.
Where could she go now? She had no backup plan. And that was her all over, acting before she had thought things through. Letting her heart lead her halfway round the world, without asking any questions, thinking that love could overcome any amount of prejudice. She was a prize fool and Barry had seen her coming. If she’d only stopped to think before marrying him… but this was no time for ‘if only’s. She shivered. Either she’d forgotten how cold English winters could be or this one was particularly biting, and now she might have to face it out on the street.
Lights were spilling from kitchens and parlour windows into the Square and Clara found herself envying the occupants who took their shelter and warmth for granted. She thought of going to her brother Pete’s, but he and his wife lived the other side of the Old Kent Road, too far to go tonight. Besides Pete was his father’s darling and would always side with him. When she’d left for her new life in Australia with Barry, she believed she’d left her family and their condemnation behind forever. But they’d made it clear they didn’t want her and she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of begging again.
She stood up and, carrying the baby and her small suitcase, walked towards St Anne’s, the pretty church in the Square where she’d been christened and gone to Sunday School. She used to win prizes, coloured postcards of Bible stories. Her favourite had always been the Good Samaritan story, and the memory prompted her to walk up to the church door. It was locked, but she knew another way in. She walked round the Square to the parish room at the rear of the church. This was where her father spent those interminable parish meetings, this was where she’d earned her Girl Guide badges and where they’d put on amateur dramatics. She never thought she’d be so desperate to be let in. She rattled the hall doors, but with little hope. It was as she turned away that Martha began a tentative grizzling, which Clara knew would intensify to a banshee scream if she didn’t stop soon and feed her.
‘Shhh, shhh, Mummy knows you’re hungry, babe. It’s coming soon…’ She looked around for some private space and her eye was caught by a light in an upstairs window of the house opposite. The ridiculous idea came to her that she should knock on the door. Surely kindness existed in Bermondsey, even for a woman with a brown baby? But as she was about to mount the stairs to the front door, the light went out and her courage failed her. She hurried down the basement steps. At least down here no one could see her from the pavement. She sat on the damp bottom step, shielded from view by the airey wall, and fed her ravenous child, grateful that she could at least provide her with food, if not shelter.
Martha’s gold-flecked brown eyes took on a glazed calm that eased Clara’s battered heart. ‘I love you, sweet baby,’ she crooned, not wanting to look away.
But when Martha was satisfied and her eyes closed, Clara began to look around her. She was sitting a few feet from the basement’s boarded-up front bay window. The place had obviously suffered some bomb damage for her feet were resting on a jumble of broken bricks, from part of the collapsed airey wall. The basement door on her left was within touching distance and something made her reach out and give it a shove. She jumped when it swung open with a long, low creak. In spite of the cold, she felt herself break into a sweat. Why not? The place looked empty. The pitch-black passage was uninviting, but however damp and cold it was inside, it must surely better than spending the night on the street.
She stepped over the high wooden flood step and felt her way along the passage. Her fingers brushed walls of embossed Lincrusta and came away wet. There was a mouldy stench of damp and urine, which became overpowering as she ventured further into the basement. She froze at a scuffling sound. Perhaps someone else was using the place for a shelter? The scuffling came again and she squealed, jumping back as something ran over her foot. A mouse? No, bigger. She took shallow gasps of breath as she crept to the back kitchen. Pearly moonlight streamed through the backyard window, allowing her to investigate the abandoned remnants of someone else’s life. Two broken-backed chairs, a table, an iron bedstead with no mattress, a nest of old army blankets near an unlit fire. She ventured into the scullery beyond. There was a sink, so at least she’d have water. She turned the tap and a stagnant trickle of water sputtered out, then stopped. Perhaps the pipes had frozen, it was certainly cold enough. It was then she realized her feet were splashing around in water. The scullery was an inch deep in it and the smell told her it was rising from a broken drain somewhere. Perhaps she’d be better off on the street after all. But a freezing draught penetrating a broken windowpane was enough to persuade her to stay; it was colder outside. She could sit with her feet up on the kitchen chairs all night, holding the baby so the rats didn’t bite her. She prepared herself to stay awake all night. But it was so dark and cold, she soon found herself longing for the warmth and blue skies of Australia. It wasn’t the country she’d hated, only him, and even that hatred had taken a long while to grow in her. She’d so wanted to believe it had all been a terrible mistake, that he really had loved her.
She opened a cupboard and felt about inside, quickly pulling out her hand as a disturbed spider brushed her fingers. ‘Oh dear God, help me,’ she prayed. ‘I need a light, a candle, a match, anything…’ But there was no light apart from the snow-bright moon.
She left the scullery, feeling her way back into the kitchen. She poked the pile of blankets with her foot, but decided to suffer the cold rather than wrap those around her. Placing the two chairs together, she sat on one and raised her feet to the other. Eyes wide and ears pricked, she sat nestling Martha inside her coat, following the path of the moon through the window for what seemed like hours. Her eyes began to droop but a sound made her start – perhaps it was only the wind rattling the rotten window frame. She blinked and forced her eyes open, but as soon as she nodded off again another noise jolted her awake to a cold sweat. This time it sounded like the thump of a loose fence board outside. But she was grateful for the sounds, as they kept her vigilant.
It wasn’t long after she had succumbed to sleep that a figure crept into the basement. He made no more noise than a rat and Clara did not wake as he approached her with a stooped, shuffling gate. He stopped and cocked his head to one side as, by the light of the moon, he studied the baby’s face, peering up at him from the folds of Clara’s coat. Martha’s trusting, curious eyes were wide open and a joyful smile lit up her face. It was the smell rather than any noise that woke Clara. At the sight of a man standing over her, she let out a scream which she quickly stifled, plugging her mouth with a fist. The man was short and wide, with long muscular arms and a marked stoop. His face was bony and his large head was tilted to one side. It was too dark to make out his age, but the immediately obvious thing about him was that he stank. An eye-watering mixture of urine and body odour emanated from him. The baby stirred in her arms and made the loud, bright two-toned sound that Clara was convinced was the child’s version of ‘hello’. It seemed Martha had already seen the intruder and was greeting him.
Clara put up a hand, palm outward as if to fend him off. ‘Please, don’t hurt my baby! D-d-don’t…’ she pleaded, her teeth chattering so much she was unable to finish. The man lumbered forward and she leaped off the chair, backing away into the flooded scullery. ‘I’ll go… I’m sorry, if this is your place. I didn’t mean to take it.’ Now she found herself backed into ankle-deep smelly drainwater in the scullery. Her hand felt the backyard door. She yanked it, trying to twist the knob. It was stuck fast, though she rattled it with all her strength. Giving up, she turned and pressed her face to the wall. Curls of peeling wallpaper brushed her cheeks as she stood rigid with fear, shivering in the freezing scullery, shielding Martha from whatever was to come.
She stayed there, wrapped around her child, frozen to the wall, and it seemed as if the basement must become her tomb. But the blow she was expecting never came, and eventually Clara heard sounds other than her own half-choked breath and banging heart. Footsteps shuffling back along the passage, then the unmistakable click of the front door closing. Had he gone? She inched round, listening to the faint scurrying noises of a rodent’s claws on lino and the wind whistling through the broken window. There was no other presence in the basement, she was sure of it. But when she finally plucked up courage to return to the pitch-dark kitchen she found the visitor had left them two gifts. A rare, if rather wrinkled, tangerine and a lingering aroma of unwashed body.
3
Lou’s Baby
January 1947
Ronnie didn’t know what to do. His mother had returned from Fairby Grange, the council’s convalescent home out in Kent, even more doolally than when she’d left. He wished she’d stayed there. He’d been doing all right on his own. He was meant to have stayed with his uncle while his mum was away, but Ronnie hadn’t fancied that. He’d bunked off school and shifted for himself on the bombsites. Now his mother was sitting on the kitchen floor, rubbing her great big stomach and groaning. Usually he could persuade her to get into bed, but tonight she wouldn’t budge. She’d told him she had a tummy ache. She would sit up, she said, and wait for Dad and Sue to come home. But his dad was dead and so was his little sister, Sue. Neither would be coming home. Their two-room flat in Barnham Street Buildings had only the one bedroom, where his mum slept. His bed was in the other room – the kitchen. Eventually he decided to leave her where she was and crept into his little cot-bed, wedged between the range and the table.
He was woken in the middle of the night by her weeping. He sat up sharply, rocking the flimsy cot-bed. His mother sat on the kitchen floor exactly where he’d left her, surrounded by a puddle of water.
‘Mum, no! You’ve gone and wet yourself!’ he cried, getting out of bed to pull her up. ‘What you do that for?’ he asked crossly. The room they called the kitchen had a range, but no sink or tap, so he grabbed a cloth from the bucket they kept under the table and began mopping up the mess.
‘Ronnie, love, leave that, get me Mrs Wren…’ His mother’s voice was faint, her body rigid. Pain rippled across her face, twisting her mouth, wrinkling her forehead. He was about to protest that Mrs Wren would tell him off for waking her up, when his mother let out a loud groan, and he jumped up. He charged out of their flat and downstairs to the second-floor landing where Mrs Wren lived with her husband and elderly in-laws. He banged on the door until a light appeared and it was opened.
‘Ronnie, come in. Don’t stand out there in the freezing cold, boy. What’s happened?’ Mr Wren was in his pyjamas and his unBrylcreemed hair was fluffy as a white candyfloss. ‘Is it your mother?’
Ronnie nodded. ‘She’s wet herself.’ He explained, and Mr Wren, seeming unsurprised, called into the bedroom to his wife, who acted as the unofficial midwife of Barnham Street Buildings. ‘Mina, it’s Lou’s time!’
The commotion had woken up the elderly Wrens, who slept in a double bed that took up half the kitchen. Mrs Wren appeared in her curlers and told Ronnie not to worry. Not stopping to dress, she threw a coat over her nightie and led the way upstairs. Once in their flat she took Ronnie by the shoulders. ‘I’ll need you to get me plenty of water. How many buckets you got?’
‘One.’
‘Well, get filling and don’t get in me way.’
The five flats on each landing were served by a single stone sink and cold tap outside. Now he trotted along the freezing landing and hoisted the zinc bucket into the sink, turning it full on so that water splashed up to soak him. He was trembling under the full weight of the bucket by the time he got it indoors.
‘Mind out, you’re slopping it everywhere!’ Mrs Wren was red-faced and seemed flustered. ‘Giss it here, gawd’s sake, I’ll heat it up in the saucepans, you fill it up again.’
His mum was now in her bedroom, but Ronnie could still hear her groaning all the way down the landing, and he was tempted to leave the bucket and run. But Mrs Wren shouted at him to hurry up and someone in another flat ordered them to pipe down. He deposited the bucket in the kitchen and hunkered down behind the closed bedroom door, watching through the crack as Mrs Wren leaned over his mother.
They had forgotten him. He stuffed fingers in his ears to shut out his mother’s screams, but it was too much. He’d heard about Nazi torturers, it must be something like that. But why was Mrs Wren torturing his mum? He couldn’t listen any more. If Mum died they’d put him in a home and he’d had enough of that old lark when he was evacuated. They’d have to catch him first. He crept over to the cupboard and removed his mother’s bag. The contents of her purse were disappointing, nothing he could lift without it being obvious. But somehow he didn’t think his mum would be in any state to check her purse for a while, so he pocketed the two bob coin and replaced the purse. Ronnie slipped out, hoping to find the tea stall in Crucifix Lane still open. Two bob should get him quite a bit more than his usual arrowroot biscuit and strong brown brew.
Down in the courtyard, in spite of the late hour and the freezing cold, some of the gang were still hanging about. Among them were his best friends, Nutty Norman and Frankie the Fish. But Ronnie didn’t want to answer any questions about his mum tonight and nipped round the back of the dust chutes to avoid the gang. He cut along the soot-caked railway arches, scooting from lock-up to lock-up, imagining himself on a secret mission deep behind German lines. He crouched low, sprinting along the ice-slick pavement, dodging from arch to arch, pressing himself into the dark shadows, holding his flick knife up, ready to plunge into any German guard who might challenge him. ‘Hand yer hock!’ he said out loud in a harsh German accent. But as he was passing one of the arches a figure came lumbering out of it in a sudden, blinding flurry of fresh snow. A German guard! ‘Hand yer hock!’ Ronnie screamed as the man crashed into him. Ronnie felt the knife bury itself into flesh until it hit bone. He sprang back as the man fell heavily to the snowy ground.
‘Effin’ hell!’ He dropped to his knees, shivering. He’d come out wearing only his shorts and jacket, but it was the thought that he’d killed someone that had turned every limb to jelly. He examined the man by the light of a single lamp hanging over the arch. He was squat, not much taller than Ronnie, and he lay curled like a baby, nestled in the soot-streaked snow. Ronnie shoved the man’s shoulder. He knew he should feel a vein somewhere to check if he was dead, but he had no idea which one. ‘Bloody hell, you don’t half pen-and-ink, mate,’ he muttered to the body as he turned the bony face towards him, trying all the while to keep his nose in the air. But as the smell of urine and dirt permeated his nostrils, he realized with a shock that he couldn’t have picked a worse person to kill.
