Kitabı oku: «Sins of the Father»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Keep Reading …

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

Prologue

The woman stood outside the train station, a leaflet held out in appeal, whilst a high wind fought to snatch it from her hand.

‘Please,’ she begged, ‘have you seen this little girl?’

As had so many others, the man ignored her plea, brushing her aside as he hurried past. Rain began to fall, small spatters at first, but as heavy clouds gathered it became heavier, soon soaking both her hair and clothes.

It didn’t stop the woman. Nothing would. Clasping the rest of the leaflets close to her chest, she tottered forward, thrusting one towards a young woman emerging from the station wearing a straight red skirt and pointy-toed shoes.

‘Please, have you seen this little girl?’

The woman took it, her eyes showing sympathy as she said, ‘Sorry, no.’

‘Please, look again.’

The young lady lowered her eyes to the picture, but then, needing both hands to open her umbrella, she shook her head, the picture falling onto the wet pavement. She wrestled the wind to keep the umbrella over her head, her grip tight and knuckles white as she bustled away.

The woman watched her for a moment, but then her eyes came to rest on the leaflet lying wet and forlorn on the pavement. A gasp escaped her lips. The eyes of her child seemed to gaze back at her, rain spattering the picture as though tears on her cheeks. She shivered with fear, vowing silently, Oh God, I have to find you–I have to.

She straightened her shoulders, desperation and determination in her stance. Another train disgorged its passengers, and as they streamed from the station she saw a tide of faces. Hand held out, she once again proffered her leaflets.

It was dark before she gave up, uncaring that she was soaked to the skin and almost dead on her feet as she trudged home.

The house felt empty, desolate, as she walked inside, the plush décor meaning nothing to her now. She was alone. They had all gone, but it didn’t matter. The only one she cared about was her daughter.

With hair dripping onto thick, red carpet and wet tendrils clinging to her face, she wearily climbed the stairs to her bedroom, peeling off sopping clothes before throwing on a pink, quilted dressing gown. Tears now rolling down her cheeks, she flung herself onto the bed, clutching a pillow to her chest. It had been three months and she feared the police had given up, but she wouldn’t. She would die first and, if anything, death would be welcome.

It was her fault, she knew that. A sob escaped her lips. Money had become her god, but the means of procuring it had put her little girl in danger. Her stomach churned, as a wave of fear overwhelmed her. Something dreadful had happened to her child.

Why had she let money become an obsession? It had begun in childhood–and her iron will had grown from the desperation to lead a different life from the one her mother had suffered. But there was more to it than that. It was also men! Her need to make them pay–her need for revenge.

And they had paid, and she had made her fortune, but at what cost? Oh, my baby! My baby! The money was meaningless now. She’d burned it all, given up every last penny, but still they hadn’t found her daughter. What more do you want from me? her mind cried, eyes heavenward.

She sobbed, unable to stand the fears that plagued her. She forced her thoughts in another direction. To the past, and to where it had all begun.

Chapter One

Emma Chambers pulled the threadbare blanket up to her chin, only to have one of her three sisters tug it back. The attic room was freezing. In the far corner was another straw-filled mattress, this one crammed with her four brothers. One of them turned over, breaking wind loudly, whilst another, the eldest, snored sonorously.

The house stirred, awakened from its slumber. Faint sounds reached Emma’s ears: a door closing, a cough, and then the sound of creaking rungs as her father climbed the ladder. Through the piece of material slung across the attic to divide children from parents she heard her mother’s soft groan and sensed her dread.

At sixteen years old and living with little privacy, Emma had no illusions. Her father was drunk, his feet stumbling on the rungs, and that meant the scant money he may have earned as a builder’s labourer had already lined the local publican’s pocket. The King’s Arms stood on the corner of their street in Battersea, South London, acting as a magnet for her father. It was rare that he was able to pass it without going inside.

There was more noise now, impatient curses as he finally made it through the small, square opening, his footfalls clumping across the wooden planks. Then came the sound of his boots hitting the floor as he flung them off, followed by the swish of clothing. Emma tensed, fearing for her mother, and shortly afterwards the nightly argument began.

‘Come on, woman!’

‘No, Tom.’

The sound of a slap, a sob, and then his harsh voice: ‘You’re my wife.’

‘The baby’s nearly due. Can’t you leave me in peace?’

‘Leave it out, you’ve weeks to go yet. Now come on, Myra, lift your nightdress.’

‘I don’t feel well. Can’t you do without for one night?’

‘No, I bloody well can’t.’

It started then, the grunts, the groans. Emma wanted to scream, to run round to her parents’ side of the attic and drag her father away from her mother. He was an animal, a pig, but she knew from past experience that it would only make things worse. Better to do nothing, to just pray that it would be over quickly and that her mother would be all right.

Emma held her hands over her ears, hating the sounds, and as one of her sisters turned over, she found herself without coverings again. Her stomach rumbled with hunger. There had been only cabbage soup for dinner, and so it wasn’t surprising when one of her brothers loudly broke wind again.

Food had preoccupied Emma’s thoughts more than anything during the past week, but the thought of her dad’s pay packet today had cheered her up. Now, though, there’d be no bread to supplement their meagre diet, and though she tried to still it, hate surged through her–hate for what her father had become.

Emma fidgeted again, trying to find comfort on the lumpy old mattress whilst wondering what had happened to the father she had known before the war. Yes, he’d been taciturn, but he’d also been loving, with an innate kindness. She could remember sitting on his knee, his affectionate cuddles, but the man who’d returned after the war, though looking the same, was a stranger–one who was short-tempered, hard and embittered.

A chink of moonlight spilled through a small hole in the roof, one that let in rain, and Emma frowned. They hadn’t always lived here. Before the war their home had been several streets away, in a comfortable if not large house, where at least her parents had a separate bedroom. The front door had opened straight on to the pavement and she had fond memories of playing with her friends, chalking numbers on the paving slabs for games of hopscotch.

The war had changed everything. At first they’d been fine, children untouched by the distant fighting, but gradually the air raids had started to hit London, increasing in frequency until it seemed that bombs fell night and day. Many of Emma’s friends had been evacuated to the countryside but a few remained, her special friend next door, Lorraine, among them.

One morning they returned from the bomb shelter to find her friend’s house flattened, and theirs so badly damaged that it was too dangerous to go inside. All that remained of the wrecked house was the staircase, leaning from the adjoining wall, the steps now leading up to open sky. They had stood, mouths agape, too shocked at first even to cry.

It was the last time Emma saw her friend, the family going to live with Lorraine’s grandparents in another borough. Unlike us, Emma thought. Her mother’s parents had died, and her father’s now lived in a tiny one-bedroom flat, a reserved old couple that they rarely saw. There were aunts, but they had moved away from London at the start of the war. Emma recalled her mother’s distress because they had no one to take them in. With so much property destroyed, accommodation had been hard to find, but then they’d been offered this attic flat, and, with no other option, her mother had taken it.

Still uncomfortable, Emma shifted on the mattress. Some people had profited by the war, their landlord amongst them. He’d been clever, buying up property when it was cheap, willing to take the risk that the building would remain standing. This house, and others in the street, had originally been divided into two flats, but the landlord had converted the attics to shoehorn in as many families as he could, raking in extra rent.

She knew her mother had expected to live here only as a stopgap and planned to move as soon as something better became available, but then the war ended, her father’s army pay ending with it when he was demobbed. If he’d returned the same man, they would have been all right, but now he drank heavily, lost job after job, and here they remained, the rent sometimes unpaid and on catch-up, her mother’s dream of a nicer home unfulfilled.

Emma’s stomach growled with hunger again. Huh, they’d been better off when her father was away. At least his army pay had been regular, but now…

There was a loud groan, a familiar one. Sighing with relief, Emma knew that her father had finished. She yanked on the blanket again, snuggled closer to her sister for warmth and, knowing that her mother was now safe, she finally fell asleep.

Emma found herself the first awake. As quietly as possible, she crawled from the mattress, but as soon as she left the warmth of her sisters’ bodies her teeth began to chatter. God, it was freezing! She moved to the ladder, climbed down to the room below and, after lighting a candle, she cupped the flame as she hurried downstairs to the middle landing. There was only one toilet, shared by all three tenants in the tall, dilapidated house. Alice Moon and her husband lived on this floor, but there was no sound from their rooms. Pleased to find the smelly toilet free, Emma was soon hurrying back to the top-floor flat.

She kneeled in front of the hearth, lighting what little kindling they had, soon holding out her hands greedily to the tongues of flame that licked merrily up the chimney. For a moment she was mesmerised by the sight, but then, with an impatient shake of her head, she covered the flames with a few lumps of wood that Dick, her eldest brother, had procured from somewhere. There were nuggets of coke left, again obtained by Dick and, fearing they were stolen, Emma hastily shovelled them on top of the smouldering wood as if this small act could protect her brother. She frowned, knowing that though she shouldn’t encourage him, unless Dick was again lucky in his gatherings there was little chance of getting more fuel.

What sort of man had their father become? What sort of man let his wife and children go hungry and cold whilst he poured ale down his throat?

When the fire was a manageable glow, Emma hung the kettle over it to boil, her mouth drooping despondently. Her mother loved a cup of tea, saying there was nothing like it to perk her up, but there was none left. As though it were her own, Emma felt her mum’s disappointment.

Stretching her arm up to the rafters, Emma took down a bundle of dried nettles and, as the kettle boiled, she made the infusion, just in time to see her mother’s swollen legs coming down the ladder.

Myra smiled as Emma gave her the tin mug, her hands wrapping round it in pleasure. ‘You’re a good girl.’

As her mother lowered herself onto a stool, her stomach looked huge and cumbersome. Yet the rest of her was thin, too thin, her arms and legs like sticks. She was only in her mid-thirties, yet she appeared old and worn beyond her years.

In the flickering candlelight, Emma saw her grimace of pain. ‘Are you all right, Mum?’

‘Stop fretting, I’m fine,’ she said, taking a sip of the nettle tea.

‘Do you think there’s any money left?’

‘I looked in his pockets before coming down and found none.’

‘How could he?’

‘That’s enough! It isn’t your place to question what your father does. You know as well as I do that he hasn’t been the same since coming home from the war. He had a terrible time and it changed him.’

‘Mum, you can’t keep using that as an excuse! It’s been three years and he rarely has nightmares now. If you ask me, he should count himself lucky. At least he’s in one piece, which is more than you can say for Mr Munnings next door.’

‘Enough, Emma! I know you’ll soon be seventeen, but you’re getting too big for your boots lately and talking about things you don’t understand.’

Emma hung her head, her face hidden by her long, wavy blonde hair as she mumbled, ‘If he’s blown his money on booze again, what are we supposed to do for food? The rent is overdue too, and I can’t see the landlord being fobbed off anymore.’

‘You always worry too much. We’ve managed before and we’ll manage again. We’ve still got some potatoes, and perhaps Dick will earn a few bob on the market today.’

‘Without flour there’ll be no bread.’

‘Then we’ll do without. Now come on, buck up. And talking of potatoes, you can peel some spuds and I’ll fry them for breakfast.’

Emma did as she was told, finding as she dug in the nearly empty sack that most were sprouting roots and had turned spongy with age. She sorted out the best of them and, with her hands in the sink turning blue in the ice-cold water, she surreptitiously watched her mother.

There was another small grimace of pain that she tried to hide, but Emma saw it and suspected the baby was coming. This would be her mother’s ninth child, and it had been a difficult pregnancy, one that seemed to drain her of energy.

The racket overhead started then, the sound of her siblings waking, squabbling, and then her father’s voice rang out.

‘Shut that fucking noise!’

There was instant quiet for a moment, but then one by one they came down the ladder. First to emerge was Dick, the eldest boy at fourteen years old. In his arms and clinging to his neck like a little monkey, he held the youngest boy, Archie, who at two hero-worshipped his big brother. Next came thirteen-year-old Luke, the quietest of them, a thoughtful, introverted boy, always the odd one out. He was handsome, almost beautiful, and his pale, blue eyes seemed to hold a strange, deep knowledge. There had been odd occasions when Luke had unnerved them, once predicting that their mother was carrying a boy, and as though he had the ability to see into the future, he had told them in advance when their father was arriving home from the war. Emma loved Luke dearly and he was her favourite brother.

He was followed down the ladder by eleven-year-old Susan, and then there was a lull.

‘Where are the others?’ Myra asked.

‘Still asleep,’ said nine-year-old Bella, the last to appear, clutching her peg doll and pretty as a picture with blonde hair and wide blue eyes.

Ann, at six years, along with three-year-old James, had arrived after their father had been given leave during the war. They were always the last up every morning, but they’d show their faces as soon as the smell of food wafted into the attic.

All the children made for the fire, pushing and shoving each other to get close, whilst Myra smiled serenely at her brood. She had a look about her; one that Emma was familiar with, a look that always preceded labour.

‘Come on, Em, get a move on with those potatoes,’ her mother said.

‘They’re ready.’ After carefully slicing them, Emma got between her siblings to place the frying pan on the fire, adding, ‘Get dressed, you lot, or you’ll get no breakfast.’

There was grumbling, but all except Dick did her bidding. As the eldest boy, Dick thought himself too old to be given orders, but now, seeing how pale his mother looked, he lifted up Archie, saying with a frown, ‘I’ll see to this one.’

‘You’re a good boy,’ Myra said, but then with a small cry she bent forward, arms clutched around her stomach.

‘Mum! Mum! What’s wrong?’ Dick cried.

‘I…I think the baby’s coming,’ she gasped, but then, after taking a few deep breaths, she managed to straighten, her eyes encompassing them all. ‘It’ll be a while yet so there’s no need to look so worried. In the meantime, Emma, you’d best get the kids fed. And you, Dick, be prepared to take them out for a while later, and…’ Her voice died as she bent forward again, this time unable to suppress a scream.

Emma’s face blanched. She’d seen her mother in labour before, and had even watched some of her siblings being born, but this time she knew it was different. ‘Mum, what is it? What’s the matter?’

‘I dunno.’ Despite the freezing room, perspiration beaded Myra’s brow. ‘Oh, God!’ she suddenly cried. ‘Quick, Emma, run downstairs and fetch Alice!’

Emma fled the room, almost falling down the stairs in her haste. She hammered on Alice Moon’s door. Come on! Come on, her mind screamed as she hopped about in anxiety, relieved when at last the woman appeared.

‘Please, come quick, it’s my mum.’

‘Stone the crows,’ Alice said, her voice thick with sleep, ‘what’s all the fuss about?’

‘Mum’s in labour, but something’s wrong. She’s screaming, Alice!’

At last the urgency in Emma’s voice registered and Alice’s sleepy eyes cleared. Shoving Emma aside, she rushed upstairs, oblivious to the fact that she was still in her long flannel nightgown.

Alice Moon took over. She urged the children out, sending them down to her flat with Dick in charge, and unceremoniously got Tom Chambers up to help his wife back to their attic bed.

For three hours Emma crouched beside the mattress, her hand numb with pain from her mother’s fierce grip, and her legs cramped whilst Alice tried to help with the birth.

‘Myra, I’m sorry, love, but I’ve got to have another go at turning it.’

There was no reply, just a groan, and Emma’s heart thudded with fear. The last time Alice had tried this, her mother’s screams had been horrendous. Please, she willed, please let it work this time.

Alice bent to her task, her face grave, and then the screams rose again, echoing in the rafters.

‘No! No! Don’t,’ Myra cried.

Alice shook her head in despair. ‘Tom!’ she yelled.

His head appeared at the top of the ladder. ‘What do you want now?’

Alice stood up and, though she spoke quietly, Emma heard every word. ‘She’s bad, Tom, real bad. You’d better get the doctor.’

‘Leave it out, woman! She’ll be all right. You’ve birthed the last three kids and there’s never been a problem.’

‘For God’s sake, man, will you listen to me! It’s a breech birth and I can’t turn the baby. She needs help, she needs the doctor.’

‘He won’t come without his fee.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Tom, wake up! You don’t have to pay the doctor now, not since this National Health Service was introduced. Now get a move on or you could lose your wife. I don’t care how you do it–bloody drag him here if you have to–but get him.’

Emma didn’t hear her father’s reply. Her eyes were wide with horror. Blood was pumping from her mother’s womb, soaking the mattress. ‘Alice! Alice!’

The woman turned at her cry. ‘Christ, she’s haemorrhaging. Quick, Tom, before it’s too late!’

But it was too late. By the time a disgruntled doctor climbed the ladder, Myra Chambers and her baby were dead. Emma was still sitting by her mother, refusing to accept that she was gone, and only when her father touched her shoulder did she react.

‘Don’t touch me!’ she yelled. ‘This is your fault! Why couldn’t you leave her alone? She’d still be alive if you hadn’t filled her belly again!’

Emma cringed then, braced for a clout. She had dared to speak up, to shout at her father, but instead he stared at her, white-faced, his eyes avoiding the lifeless body of his wife, and beside her the baby, pitifully small and wrapped in a rag.

‘You…you…’ he spluttered, but then his body seemed to fold. He staggered across the attic, then clambered down the ladder.

Still Emma didn’t move, Alice unable to cajole her away. It was only when Dick came to her side, crouching down and placing an arm around her shoulder, that she broke. The anger seeped away to be replaced by a surge of grief that almost choked her. She sobbed, and turning, clutched Dick, finding that his tears mingled with her own.

‘Come on, Em,’ Dick urged. ‘Alice needs to see to Mum.’

Emma dashed tears away with the heel of her hand, but looking at the poor worn-out body of her mother, anger arose again. ‘He killed her, Dick.’

‘Don’t be daft, Em. Alice said that by the time the doctor got here it was too late.’

‘I’m not talking about the doctor. It was Dad who killed her.’

‘You’re talking rot. Of course he didn’t.’

Emma was too emotionally drained to argue. She forced herself to her feet, cramped legs screaming with pain, and with a last look at her beloved mother, she allowed Dick to lead her away.

‘You’ll have to tell the kids, Emma,’ Tom Chambers said as Emma climbed down the ladder.

She looked at her father’s red face, crumpled in grief but, instead of sympathy, she felt nothing but contempt. ‘Why me?’

‘It’ll be better coming from you.’

Anger still stemmed her grief and, unable to bear the sight of his face, Emma left the room, slamming the door behind her as she went down to the middle landing. For a moment she paused outside Alice’s door, her temper diminishing as she wondered how to tell her brothers and sisters. Somehow she had to hold herself together for their sakes. Taking a great gulp of air, Emma went inside.

‘Has the baby been borned?’ asked Bella. ‘Is it a girl, Emma? I hope it’s a girl.’

‘What’s up, Em?’ Luke asked, eyes perceptive as he studied her face. Luke the quiet one, the intelligent one, so sensitive that their mother always said he was like a cuckoo in her nest. At that thought, a sob arose that Emma was unable to stifle and, holding her hand across her mouth, she looked wildly across the room at Alice.

‘Shall I tell them, love?’ the woman asked gently.

For a moment Emma was tempted, but then Luke was by her side, his soft eyes now wide with fear. ‘I knew when Alice came to fetch Dick that something was wrong. What is it? Is Mum all right?’

Emma could only shake her head, but Luke immediately realised the implications, his face blanching. ‘Why didn’t I see this coming?’

Unable to answer, Emma’s eyes flicked around the room at the others all looking at her worriedly. God, how was she supposed to tell them? How could she break the awful news that both their mother and the baby brother had died? Only little Archie seemed oblivious, absorbed as he gnawed on a crust of bread.

Emma crossed the room and, sitting down, she pulled James onto her lap, beckoning the others to her side. With her eyes heavenward for a moment she prayed for inspiration, but her mind remained blank.

‘Why is Luke crying?’ Susan asked.

Emma looked at Susan, poor plain Susan, who always seemed to have a runny nose and caked eyes. She was the sickly one, lacking the resilience of her siblings, and, like all of them, as thin as a rake. Susan’s bony knees showed beneath a threadbare skirt as she moved closer. Taking her hand, Emma struggled to answer her question. ‘Luke’s crying because…because…’ It was no good, the words wouldn’t come, and once again Emma’s eyes flew to Alice.

With a small, sad shake of her head, Alice took a deep breath. ‘Listen, pets, I’m afraid your mother and the new baby have gone to heaven. They’re with the angels now.’

Susan was the first to speak, her voice high. ‘You mean…you mean our mum’s dead?’

‘Yes, love, I’m afraid so,’ Alice said.

A loud cry pierced the air and, as all eyes went to Bella, Alice quickly drew the child into her arms. Susan too began to cry, and it was Luke who comforted her, whilst Emma struggled to answer Ann’s questions.

‘What does she mean, Em? What’s dead?’

‘Mummy was ill and she didn’t get better.’

‘What? Like Mrs Dunston’s dog?’

The Dunstons lived on the ground floor, the only ones to have use of a small garden at the back of the house. ‘Yes, love, that’s right.’

‘They buried him in the garden. Is that what they’ll do with our mum? I don’t want them to do that to our mum,’ she cried, tears filling her eyes.

‘They won’t, darling.’

James suddenly squirmed on her lap, and looking at everyone with obvious bewilderment, he too began to cry. ‘Want my mummy. Want Mummy.’

It was too much for Emma, her tears spurting as she pulled James close. For several minutes they remained like that, clutching each other and crying, none of them aware that little Archie was sobbing too, obviously affected by their grief.

The door opened. Dick came into the room and immediately swept the toddler up into his arms. ‘It’s all right, Archie. It’s all right,’ he consoled.

Many minutes passed, but at last their tears subsided.

They were still clinging to each other, until Alice gently pushed Bella away, patting her head as she said, ‘I’m sorry, pet, but I’d best go back upstairs. You lot stay here for a while, and if you’re hungry there’s more bread and a pot of jam in the larder.’

Food, Emma thought, feeling sick at the thought, but then James squirmed in her lap again.

‘Want jam,’ he said.

Emma wiped his snotty nose before standing up to place him in her seat. She then went to the larder, but as she cut several slices of bread, her eyes alighted on a newspaper lying on the table. Just below the banner she saw the date, 7 December 1948, and knew it would be etched on her mind for ever. It was the day their mother had died, their cornerstone was gone, their lives changed. What was going to happen to them now? The thought forced its way to the front of her mind. The task of looking after her brothers and sisters would fall to her now.

Oh Mum, how am I going to cope?

Chapter Two

On a balmy Sunday morning in June, Alice Moon sat quietly across from her husband, the words she had rehearsed sticking in her throat. Would he agree? God, she hoped so. They had a strong marriage, and she was thankful every day that Cyril had been demobbed in 1945 without a scratch to show for the years of fighting.

Oh, it had been awful without him, and many times she had feared for her own life as bombs rained down on London. Like Myra, she had refused to leave, but felt the children should have been evacuated. Instead, when Myra moved into the attic, Alice had spent night after night helping her to get the kids up when the warning sirens pierced the air, all of them half asleep as they hurried to the nearest shelter. It sometimes felt like a miracle that they’d all survived when so many houses and factories in the area had been flattened. Alice shuddered at the memories, glad they hadn’t ever had to shelter in an underground station, as many people had during the raids. In Balham it had been dreadful, and she was still haunted by what happened in 1940. A high-explosive bomb hit Balham High Road, penetrating the booking hall at the underground station. It had ruptured a large water main, along with the sewer, causing water, mud and gravel to pour down the stairs onto the platform, where about five hundred people were sheltering. Her friend Doreen Broker had been killed, along with sixty-four other poor souls.

Who’d have thought the war would last so long? Cyril had only been on home leave twice in six years. It had been the same for Tom Chambers, but Myra had been lucky, Tom leaving her pregnant on both occasions.

Tears welled in her eyes. Lucky! How could she think that? The poor woman was dead now, and those kids left without a mother. Surreptitiously wiping her eyes on the corner of her apron, she took a deep breath, hoping against hope that she could do something for at least two of them. ‘Cyril.’

He looked up from his newspaper, expression impatient. Cyril’s time on the Sunday morning crossword was sacrosanct and she’d disrupted his concentration. ‘What?’

Now that she had his attention, Alice was determined to plough on. ‘I’m worried about poor Emma.’

‘What? Emma upstairs?’

‘Who else do we know called Emma?’ Alice asked. Not waiting for a reply, she added, ‘She’s not coping with the kids.’

‘Well, that ain’t surprising. Bloody hell, seven of them, and noisy little sods they are too!’

‘That’s just it. I think she could manage the older ones, but little Archie is nearly three now and James four. They’re too much of a handful for her.’

Cyril shrugged, his eyes going back to his newspaper. ‘They’ll soon grow up and join the others at school.’

Alice stiffened, determined to keep his attention. ‘Tom Chambers isn’t any help. When he’s not at work, he’s in the pub and rolls home drunk all hours.’

‘Have a heart, Alice. The man’s just lost his wife.’

‘Huh! He’s been like it since he was demobbed. As for losing Myra, it’s been six months now, and if you ask me, things can’t go on the way they are.’

‘He had a rough time of it, and Tom’s one of many who can’t pick up the pieces. Anyway, I reckon you should keep your nose out of it. What goes on upstairs is none of our business.’

‘Myra was my best friend, and for that reason I think it is my business. I’ve been trying to help Emma as much as I can. In fact, to give her a break so she can keep up with the housework and laundry, I’ve been looking after Archie and James for a few hours every day, but it’s rotten for her in the evenings too. She never gets the chance to go out with her friends now, and from what she’s told me, they’ve all drifted away.’

‘I don’t see why the older lads can’t look after the younger ones now and then.’

‘Since when have lads taken on babysitting?’

Cyril pursed his lips. ‘Well, it’s good of you to help her out, but I hope you’re not suggesting babysitting in the evenings.’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Good, and don’t go wearing yourself out looking after Archie and James during the day.’ On that note he seemed to lose interest, his eyes going back to his crossword.

‘Cyril Moon! I’m not an old woman! I’m only thirty-eight and quite capable of looking after a couple of kids. In fact, I enjoy it.’

‘All right, there’s no need to shout.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just that I want to put something to you and I’m all of a dither.’

His head tipped to one side, brow creased. ‘Well, you’d best spit it out.’

‘It’s like this. You see, I’ve been thinking…’ She hesitated, trying to find the words.

‘Go on.’

With a spurt, Alice said, ‘You know I love kids, Cyril, but we ain’t been lucky, have we? We’ve tried and tried, and though the doctor said there’s no reason why I can’t fall, well, it hasn’t happened.’

‘We needn’t give up, and anyway, it’s fun trying,’ he said, winking lewdly.

Alice had to smile, but then her face straightened. ‘Cyril, fun or not, we’ve been married fifteen years and it’s time we faced the facts. We’re never going to have kids of our own.’

His lips pursed. ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right, but never mind, love. We’ve still got each other.’

‘I know we have, but as I said, I’ve been looking after little Archie and James, and I’ve grown very fond of them. I…I was wondering if we could take them on.’

‘Take them on! What do you mean? Surely you’re not talking about adoption?’

‘Well, not right away, but maybe later, if they settle with us.’

‘No!’ he said emphatically. ‘I don’t fancy taking on another bloke’s kids.’

‘Please, Cyril.’

‘No, and that’s final!’

At his tone, her expression became a contrived one of despair.

‘Alice, don’t look at me like that. Surely you don’t seriously expect me to take on Tom’s little brats?’

‘They aren’t brats!’ Alice cried, jumping to her feet. ‘They’re lovely little boys who need love, attention, and a stable home. We can give them that!’

Cyril voice hardened. ‘Pack it in, Alice. Doing your nut ain’t gonna make any difference. I said no, and that’s that.’

Alice flopped back onto her chair and, throwing up her apron to cover her face, she began to cry, sobs shaking her shoulders. She should have known he wouldn’t agree, but as minutes passed, a hand touched her shoulder.

‘Come on, don’t take on so. Surely it doesn’t mean that much to you?’

‘Oh, Cyril, you have no idea how much I’ve longed for a baby, ached to hold our son or daughter in my arms. It’s never going to be, but whilst looking after the boys I really have come to love them. Archie is like a little monkey, and likes nothing better than to be cuddled. He used to latch on to Dick, but now that the boy’s working, he’s turned to me. James is cheeky, but not in a bad way, and he’s gorgeous, with his blond hair and grey eyes.’

‘Dick! Working? This is the first I’ve heard of it.’

Alice mopped her eyes. ‘He was fifteen in March and has got himself a job on the market, working on Charlie Roper’s stall.’

‘Has he now? Well, he’ll do all right with Charlie, but the lad would have been better off learning a trade.’

‘Yes, maybe, but as an apprentice he’d only be paid peanuts, and though he doesn’t earn a great deal on the stall, it’s been a godsend. They couldn’t cope without it.’

Cyril returned to his chair, his expression thoughtful, and Alice knew to keep her mouth shut. She sat quietly, her breath held and fingers secretly crossed as she watched his face.

At last he sighed and their eyes met. ‘All right, Alice. If it means that much to you, we’ll give it a go with the kids. Mind you, don’t count your chickens yet. I can’t see Tom wanting to give them up just like that.’

Once again she jumped to her feet, kissing Cyril on the cheek. ‘The pub isn’t open yet, so he’s sure to be in. I’ll go and have a word with him now.’

‘You do that, but as I said, don’t count your…’

But the door had already slammed shut, Alice not hearing the rest of her husband’s warning as she hurried upstairs.

Tom couldn’t stand the noise and had chucked the kids out. At last the room was quiet. Only Emma remained, perched on a low wooden stool, her face set in concentration as she endeavoured to sew a patch onto a pair of trousers. He glanced at her and the pain of his loss was like a blow to his stomach. Christ, she was so like her mother, with the same golden blonde hair and vivid blue eyes. As if sensing his scrutiny, Emma raised her head, lips curling in distaste as her cold gaze met his. He seethed. She should show him some bloody respect, but instead she hardly spoke to him, her hatred like a living thing, that filled the room and tainted the air.

Tom looked away from Emma, tempted to give her a good hiding, but he knew it would only make things worse. She wasn’t a child now, she was seventeen, and if the girl took it into her head to walk out, he’d be in a right old fix. Christ, he needed to get out of there–he needed a drink, but with little money left this week he could afford only a pint. He sank back in the chair, berating his life, thoughts drifting.

They’d been happy once, him and Myra, but then the war had started and he’d been called up. As his mind took him to the front, Tom shook his head, not wanting to think about it, yet still the memories invaded. He didn’t want to remember the sickening things he’d seen and done. Yet as always, even as he struggled to forget, the first horror returned to haunt him. He was in a landing craft, nerves taut as they waited to beach. The young chap next to him was in the same state, shaking, his eyes wide with fear, and they’d started to talk, inane chatter just to break the tension.

When they’d hit the beach, the shout went up to disembark and, lugging their packs, they surged forward. Tom didn’t know how far he had run when the bloke next to him suddenly spun, a look of shock on his face before he fell. Until that moment he hadn’t realised how frail the human body was, but as the soldier clutched at his stomach, guts spilling out, his screams combined with the sound of explosions and gunfire. Tom shuddered at the memory, recalling how he’d been paralysed with shock, unable to move, horrified to see the soldier’s dying moments.

Bullets raked only inches away and at last he moved, diving to the ground, terrified as he used the young man’s body as shelter. It was like a living hell; the thunder of mortars, machine-gun fire, the stench of cordite, shouts, yells, cries as more bodies fell to the ground. He had no idea how long he had lain prone behind the soldier’s body, hands over his ears as shell after shell exploded, but then a corporal hauled him to his feet. Tom had seen the look of disgust on his face, and then he’d been shoved forward.

‘Get moving,’ the corporal had shouted and, feeling like a coward, Tom had followed the command, bent double as he raced up the beach, more and more soldiers falling beside him. He’d lost it then, firing his weapon without thought, determined to kill or be killed.

That moment had changed him, and as the weeks went by he had hardened. He would kill, feeling nothing, becoming an animal with only one thought–survival. One enemy soldier had actually begged for mercy, but, grim-faced, Tom had shot him, uncaring of the blood that spilled from his body.

When the war ended, he no longer felt human, returning home to find that many streets and buildings he’d known were gone, bombed to oblivion. He’d tried–oh, how he had tried–but soon after his return the memories began to haunt him until, day and night, he relived the horrors of war. It had been years now, but still they plagued him. When would they stop? When would he find peace…?

There was a tap on the door. Alice Moon poked her head inside and Tom welcomed the interruption.

‘Can I have a word?’ she said.

‘Yes, come on in.’

‘Hello, Emma,’ Alice greeted as she crossed the room. ‘Doing a bit of sewing, are you?’

‘Yes, but I’m still useless at it.’

‘You’ll learn.’ As her eyes raked the room, Alice added, ‘Where are the youngsters?’

‘Dad made them go out to play.’

Alice’s lips tightened momentarily, but then she focused on Tom. ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’

‘There’s only a stool.’

‘That’ll do me,’ she said, making herself comfortable. ‘Look, I won’t beat about the bush. I’ve seen the way Emma struggles to look after the kids, and to help her out I’ve had the two youngest for a couple of hours in the afternoons.’ Shifting a bit on the stool she rushed on, ‘I’ve grown fond of them, Tom. They’re lovely boys, and Cyril and I would like to take them on permanently.’

There was a stunned silence, but then Emma’s voice rang out. ‘Alice, it…it’s good of you, but we can’t let you take James and Archie.’

‘Shut your mouth, girl. This is my decision, not yours,’ Tom barked.

‘But, Dad—’

Tom felt his face redden. ‘I said shut up!’

‘Now then, Tom, there’s no need to shout. It must be a shock for her, but listen, love,’ Alice turned to Emma. ‘They’ll be better off with Cyril and me. I love them and we can give them a good home. They’ll want for nothing, I’ll see to that.’

‘Oh, Alice, I know your place is like a palace compared to this, but Dad can’t break the family up.’

Tom surged to his feet. ‘I’ll do what I bloody well like.’

‘Please, Tom, calm down,’ Alice cajoled. Then she spoke softly to Emma again. ‘It’s for the best, love. I’m only downstairs and you can see the lads whenever you want.’

‘Hold your horses, Alice,’ Tom protested. ‘It’s me you should be talking to, and I ain’t said you can have them yet.’

‘Surely you can see the sense of it? Emma is run ragged.’

Tom flopped onto his chair again, running a hand over his chin. There was no denying that it made sense. With the others at school, Emma had only James and Archie to worry about, and without them she could go out and earn a few bob, if only part time. After all, the girl had turned seventeen in February and it was about time she earned her keep. The rent owed was piling up, he knew that, and he doubted the landlord would put up with it for much longer. Tom knew he should pull himself together, cut down the booze, but he had a craving inside, eating away at him and driving him to the pub whenever he earned a few bob. A wave of self-pity washed over him. Bloody hell, no wonder he’d turned to drink! Any man would. He’d fought a war, and instead of things getting better, they were still stuck with bloody rationing. Work was tight, and on top of that he’d lost his missus. All he had left was a horde of bloody kids that drove him mad with their constant noise.

It was the thought of having two less to worry about that made Tom’s decision. Looking up, he nodded at Alice. ‘All right, you can have ’em, but I can’t give you anything towards their keep.’

‘None’s expected, Tom.’

‘Right, that’s settled then.’

‘But, Dad…’ Emma protested.

‘If I hear one more word from you, my girl, you’ll be sorry. I’m doing what I think is best and that’s that.’

‘She’s bound to be upset, Tom,’ Alice placated.

‘Do you want the kids or not?’ he said, his tone threatening. He could change his mind, and Alice knew that.

She nodded. ‘You know I do.’

‘Right then, when do you want to take them?’

‘I’ll have to get beds first. After all,’ she chuckled, ‘I can hardly stuff them in with me and Cyril. I’ll buy them tomorrow, so how about Tuesday?’

‘Yeah, that’s fine with me. It’ll give Emma time to prepare them, not that I think they’ll mind. After all, as you said, they’ll only be downstairs.’

Alice rose to her feet, her voice high with excitement. ‘Thanks again, Tom. I can’t wait to tell Cyril.’ She then turned to Emma and her face straightened. ‘Oh, love, don’t be upset. They’ll be fine with me, I promise.’

‘Leave her to me, Alice,’ Tom said, pleased when the woman left. He’d soon sort Emma out and she could start looking for work. Dick was already earning a fair few bob on the market, and with his daughter bringing in money too, things would finally start looking up.

Emma sat quietly. She should be heartbroken, but instead was disgusted with herself for feeling relief. When Dad told her to look for work she’d felt a surge of excitement. God, it would be wonderful to get out of this flat, to find a job, if only part time. She’d be earning money, her own money, and maybe she could find a way to go out a couple of evenings a week. She missed her mates, missed sharing confidences, having a laugh, talking about boys, fashions, the latest records.

Nowadays she felt like a staid old woman, her life revolving around cooking, cleaning and taking care of the kids. Once again Emma felt a wave of excitement. With Luke coming up to his fourteenth birthday, maybe he could see to the others after school, and then she could work full time. Come to that, he could see to them during the school holidays too. Without James and Archie, that left only the girls, and they wouldn’t be much trouble. Well, Susan maybe, with her constant moaning and petty illnesses.

Emma’s mind continued to whirr, wondering what sort of jobs might be available. The sound of footfalls on the stairs interrupted her thoughts and she looked up with a start when Dick walked in.

‘Hello, love.’

Their father offered no greeting, and Dick ignored him, saying to Emma only, ‘Watcha,’ before looking round the room and adding, ‘Where are the kids?’

‘Playing outside. Didn’t you see them?’

‘No, but I saw a gang running wild on the bombsite and no doubt our lot are with them. Hang on, where’s Archie?’

‘He’s playing outside too.’

‘What! But he’s only a nipper.’

‘He’ll be all right. Luke will keep an eye on him.’

‘I still think he’s too young. You should have kept him in, Em.’

‘It wasn’t me who chucked him out.’

Dick’s expression soured as he turned to look at his father, but the man rose to his feet, saying, ‘I’m off out. You can tell him about the kids, Emma.’

‘I suppose the pub’s beckoning,’ Dick said, his voice thick with sarcasm.

‘Watch your mouth! Money’s tight and I’m only having one pint–not that it’s any of your business.’

‘How come you’re skint already?’

‘’Cos I had to stump up some of the rent arrears.’

‘If you paid the rent every week it wouldn’t mount up. I’m not surprised that Mr Bell put his foot down.’

‘I told you to watch your mouth. Like Emma, you’re getting too big for your boots and I ain’t standing for it. Now as I said, I’m off, and I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself in future. I’m the man of the house, and don’t you forget it.’

As the door slammed, Dick said, ‘What’s this about the kids?’

‘Alice Moon came to see Dad. She’s grown fond of James and Archie. Dad has agreed that she can have them permanently.’

Dick looked thunderstruck. ‘But he can’t do that!’

‘I felt the same way at first, but since then I’ve had time to think about it. The boys will be better off with Alice. She’ll look after them and they’ll have the life of Riley. Not only that, they’ll only be downstairs so we can see them whenever we want.’

‘It still ain’t right.’

‘Without James and Archie to look after, I’ll be able to get a job. I’d like that and I’ll be able to put some money in the pot too.’

Dick sighed heavily. ‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right, but I’m gonna miss the little tykes, especially Archie.’

Emma pictured her youngest brother’s cheeky face, and knew she would too. Dick sat on the only chair they had, the one vacated by their father, and his eyes closed. He’s tired, Emma thought, and it isn’t surprising. To earn a few bob extra Dick had taken a shift at the Sunday market, rising at five. Sighing, she went back to her sewing, her thoughts drifting again.

Emma felt a wave of guilt. It would have broken her mother’s heart to see the family torn apart and maybe she should have fought more to keep James and Archie. Yet she couldn’t help feeling excited. Working in a shop would be nice; especially a clothes shop or jeweller’s. Distracted, the needle pricked her finger and she let out a small yelp, lifting it to her mouth to suck the blood. She hated sewing. In fact she hated all housework. It was never-ending, the washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning. Her eyes widened in realisation. The work would still have to be done, but how was she going to keep on top of it if she was at work all day? For a moment Emma was flummoxed, but then straightened her shoulders with determination. The rest of them would have to help, to muck in and do their share. She’d give each of them a job, one that, depending on age, they’d be capable of doing.

A small smile played around her lips as she settled back again, ignoring her pricked finger as she finished off the patch. Susan wasn’t too bad with a needle and could do the repairs from now on. It was time to sort them out, to move on. For the first time since her mother’s death, Emma felt like living again.