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‘Crikey, you’ve got your hands full, Gertie. I know you’ve got four sons, so a girl must’ve been a lovely surprise for you and your husband.’
Gertie frowned into the distance. None of what Rosie assumed was true. Gertie now had just two children alive and, far from being delighted about another baby, her husband had knocked her out cold when he found out he’d not fathered the child she was carrying. ‘Got just the one boy now. Three of them was lost in a raid during the Blitz. Direct hit … happened before Vicky was born.’
‘Oh … I’m so sorry,’ Rosie gasped. The memory of almost losing Hope when their house was destroyed still tormented her. Her remorse over that day was a constant companion and she could see in Gertie’s eyes that the woman was battling similar demons.
‘Don’t blame yourself,’ Rosie said softly. ‘I can’t know how you feel, not really, so I won’t say I do. But I nearly lost Hope so I know what it is to feel guilty.’ She paused. ‘She was nearly crushed to death in her pram on the day we got bombed out in Shoreditch. It was my fault, no getting away from it.’ Rosie cleared the huskiness from her voice with a small cough. ‘My dad had been injured in the back garden, you see, and I was so concerned about getting him indoors that I forgot all about my baby in the front room.’ It was the first time Rosie had admitted to anybody what she’d done. Not even Doris knew what had occurred that terrible afternoon.
‘I still wake up at nights howling about the night my boys were killed. I feel so ashamed,’ Gertie croaked. ‘Least you was close enough to put things right before it was too late.’ She sunk her chin to her chest. ‘I wasn’t there for them … nor was me husband … or me eldest boy. All out, we was, and Simon and Adam and Harry perished all alone in the house. Harry was just about the age Vicky is now. But it’s the other two that I ache most for. Being older, they might’ve understood and been so frightened, the poor little loves.’ Gertie swiped the heel of a hand over her cheeks. ‘Please God they didn’t suffer too much.’
Rosie put an arm about Gertie’s shoulders and hugged her tight. ‘They’re at peace now, Gertie,’ she soothed. ‘You’ve done it so far, you can carry on a bit longer … then a bit longer after that. That’s what I told myself, when I felt like beating my head against the wall to punish myself.’
‘The ambulance girls … they fought like demons to keep my Harry alive. He was protected a bit by being in his pram, you see.’ Gertie gulped back the lump in her throat. ‘But they couldn’t save him. One of the poor lasses was bawling almost as loud as me when they put the three bodies in the back of the ambulance.’
‘Oh, Gertie, I’m so sorry …’
Gertie sniffed and blew her nose. ‘Wanted to join the ambulance auxiliaries after that. Rufus wouldn’t hear of it. But I went along for the interview anyhow.’ Gertie looked crestfallen. ‘Didn’t pass the test, though. Best if you’ve got no young kids, they said, ’cos of the dangerous nature of the job.’ Gertie grimaced. ‘I told ’em about the dangerous nature of living in the East End. Didn’t go down too well with the snooty cows.’
Rosie was impressed that Gertie had tried to join the auxiliaries. It seemed such a fitting thing to do in the circumstances. She remembered how efficiently the ambulance teams had got on with things when they’d been bombed out at home. At the time Rosie had been wrapped up in caring for her daughter and had happily allowed the auxiliaries to take over tending to her father. The middle-aged woman who’d patched him up, along with a younger female colleague, had almost carried him up the cellar stairs. Though the two of them looked like butter wouldn’t melt, they’d come out with a few risqué jokes to distract John while loading him into the back of a makeshift ambulance.
With bad grace Doris had offered Rosie and Hope a roof over their heads with her in Hackney until John came out of hospital and the Council re-housed them. None of the trouble they’d suffered though could compare with Gertie’s suffering.
‘What’s your oldest lad’s name?’ Rosie asked ‘Bet he’s quite the young man now, isn’t he?’
‘Oh, Joey’s cock of the walk, all right. Thirteen, he is, and giving me plenty of lip.’ Gertie managed a tiny smile. ‘Mind you, that one always did have too much to say for himself. Gets that off his dad.’
‘I bet your husband dotes on his princess.’ Rosie nodded at Victoria. ‘My dad calls Hope his princess.’ She gave her friend a smile. ‘Best be getting off, I suppose … be late for tea. Dad’ll wonder where we are.’ Rosie regretted drawing attention to her own circumstances; Gertie would wonder why she was referring to her father so much rather than to a husband.
‘Fine reunion this has turned out to be,’ Gertie’s mumble held a hint of wry humour.
‘Glad I bumped into you, Gertie,’ Rosie said, glancing at her daughter, clapping hands with Victoria.
‘Shall we meet up again?’ Gertie looked at Rosie quite shyly as though anticipating a rebuff. ‘The little ’uns seem to be getting along. We could take them for a stroll round a park another day. Perhaps have a picnic … if you like.’
‘I’d like that very much,’ Rosie said enthusiastically. ‘We can reminisce about old times. What a to-do that was about Olive Roberts. Who’d have thought it?’
‘Never liked that woman,’ Gertie’s eyes narrowed as she reflected on the kiosk attendant at the Windmill Theatre who’d been unmasked as a dangerous Nazi sympathiser.
‘Quite hair-raising, wasn’t it?’ A gleam of nostalgia lit Rosie’s eyes. ‘We saw some times there, didn’t we? Good and bad.’
Gertie grunted agreement. ‘I miss the old place,’ she said. ‘Funny thing is, when I was at work, I couldn’t wait to finish a shift and get home to me boys, though they drove me up the wall. Now I’m home all the time I wish I’d got a job.’
‘Now Hope’s turned two I’m after a nursery place for her so I can get back to work.’ Rosie tidied her daughter’s fair hair with her fingers. ‘I want to help bring this damned war to an end.’
‘Not going back on stage?’ Gertie asked.
‘No fear.’
‘Before you disappear, you must tell me about your other half.’ Gertie teasingly prodded Rosie’s arm.
‘Tell you more when I see you next week,’ Rosie replied, turning the pram about, ready to head back towards Shoreditch. ‘How about Thursday afternoon at about three o’clock? We could meet right here outside Gamages …’
‘Suits me; Rufus goes to a neighbour’s to play cards on Thursdays.’
‘Your husband back on leave, is he?’ Rosie asked.
‘Oh …’course, you wouldn’t know that either. He’s been invalided home from the army,’ Gertie said briskly to conceal the wobble in her voice.
Rosie read from Gertie’s fierce expression that the woman felt she’d suffered enough condolences for one day. ‘See you Thursday then.’ Rosie let off the brake on the pram.
The two women headed off in opposite directions, then both turned at the same time to wave before settling into their strides.
Rosie walked quickly, aware her dad would be wondering where she’d got to, but at the back of her mind was the conversation she’d had with Gertie about the ambulance auxiliaries. Rosie wanted to do a job that was vital to the war effort and in her book there was nothing more important than saving lives. So she reckoned she knew what employment she’d apply for. All she had to do was break it to her dad that she was going to volunteer for a position with the ambulance auxiliaries.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_8763b1ec-9a18-5ed1-b018-b0f8a14bc1f3)
‘Long time no see, mate.’
John Gardiner almost dropped the mug of tea he’d been cradling in his palm. He’d opened the front door while carrying it, expecting to see his daughter on the step. He’d been about to say, ‘What, forgot your key again, dear?’ because Rosie had earlier in the week knocked him up when he’d been snoozing on the settee.
Instead his welcoming smile vanished and he half closed the door in the wonky-eyed fellow’s face. It’d been a year since he’d caught sight of Frank Purves, and then they’d only nodded at one another from opposite pavements. On that occasion John had been tempted to hare across the road to throttle the man for having spawned a fiend. But, of course, he hadn’t because that would have given the game away. And John would sooner die than cause his daughter any more trouble. He kept his welcome to a snarled, ‘What the hell d’you want?’
‘Well, that ain’t a very nice greeting, is it?’ Frank stuck his boot over the threshold to prevent John shutting him out. He stared at his old business partner although just one of his eyes was on the man’s face and the other appeared to be studying the doorjamb. Popeye, as Frank was nicknamed, had never let his severe squint hold him back. ‘Just come to see how you’re doing, and tell you about a bit of easy money heading your way, John.’
‘I told you years back that I ain’t in that game no more, and I haven’t changed me mind,’ John craned his neck to spit, ‘I’ve got a wife and family, and I don’t want no trouble.’
‘Yeah, heard you got married to Doris Bellamy. Remember her. All used to hang about together as kids, didn’t we?’ Frank cocked his head. ‘Gonna ask me in fer a cuppa, then?’ He nodded at the tea in John’s unsteady hand. ‘Any left in the pot, is there, mate? I’m spitting feathers ’ere …’
‘No, there ain’t.’ John glanced to left and right as though fearing somebody might have spotted his visitor. ‘Look … I’m straight now and all settled down. Don’t need no work.’ As a last resort he waggled his bad leg at Frank. ‘See … got a gammy leg since we got bombed out up the other end of the road.’
‘Yeah, heard about that, too.’ Frank gave the injury a cursory glance. ‘Thing is, John, that bad leg ain’t gonna hold you back in your line of work, is it?’ He shifted his weight forward. ‘You owe me, as I recall, and I’m here to collect that favour.’
‘Owe you?’ John frowned, the colour fleeing from his complexion. Even so, he was confident that what he was thinking wasn’t what Frank Purves was hinting at. John reckoned that Popeye couldn’t know anything about that, ’cos if he did the vengeful bastard wouldn’t be talking to him, he’d be sticking a knife in his guts. Lenny’s actions had started a feud between the Gardiners and the Purveses that Popeye knew nothing about. But one day he would and when that day came John wanted to get in first.
‘When you chucked it all in you left me high ’n’ dry with a pile of labels I’d run off. Never paid me for ’em, did yer? Plus I had a fair few irate customers waiting on that batch of gin.’
John’s sigh of relief whistled through his teeth. He ferreted in a pocket and drew out some banknotes, thrusting them at Frank. ‘There! Go on, piss off!’
Frank looked contemptuously at the two pounds before pocketing them. ‘I’m in with some different people now. They’re interested in you, John. I been singing your praises and telling ’em you’re the best distiller in London. They ain’t gonna like your attitude when they’ve stumped up handsomely to sample your wares.’
John’s jaw dropped and he suddenly reddened in fury. ‘You had no right to tell a fucking soul about me. I don’t go blabbing me mouth off about you doing a bit of counterfeiting.’
‘Yeah, well, needs must when the devil drives, eh?’ Frank leaned in again. ‘Lost me son, lost me little bomb lark business ’cos me employees crippled themselves. A one-armed short-arse and a fat bloke wot got nobbled in France. Ain’t saying they aren’t keen but, bleedin’ hell, they’re a fuckin’ liability.’ Frank finished his complaint on a tobacco-stained smile. ‘Got nuthin’ but me printing press to fall back on.’ He glanced over a shoulder. ‘Need a few extra clothing coupons, do you, mate?’ He gave John a friendly dig in the ribs. ‘That’ll put you in the missus’s good books. Get herself a new frock, can’t she? Get herself two if she likes.’
‘You forging coupons now?’ John whispered, aghast.
‘I’m forging all right, just like I was when I run off all them dodgy spirit labels for your hooch.’ Frank’s lips thinned over his brown teeth. ‘We need to talk, mate … seriously …’
John knew he’d never get rid of Popeye until he’d let him have his say. And he didn’t want the neighbours seeing too much. Popeye lived the other side of Shoreditch but he had a certain notoriety due to his ducking and diving. Not that you’d think it to look at him: Popeye had the appearance, and the aroma, of a tramp. ‘Just a couple of minutes; they’ll all be in soon fer tea. Don’t want no awkward questions being asked,’ John snarled in frustration.
‘Right y’are …’ Frank said brightly and stepped into the hall.
John pointed at a chair under the parlour table by way of an invitation. He limped into the kitchen and quickly poured a cup of lukewarm tea with a shaking hand. ‘There, get that down yer and say what you’ve got to.’ John glanced nervously at the clock, dreading hearing his wife’s or his daughter’s key in the lock.
‘Look at us,’ Frank chirped, watching John fidgeting to ease his position. He pointed at his left eye. ‘There’s me with me squint and you with yer gammy leg.’ He guffawed. ‘Don’t hold yer back, though, John, do it, if you don’t let it?’ He grinned wolfishly. ‘Bet you still manage to show Doris yer love her, don’t you? Bit of a knee trembler, is it, balancing on one leg on the mattress?’ He winked. ‘Gotta get yer weight on yer elbows.’ Popeye leaned onto the tabletop to demonstrate, rocking back and forth on his seat. ‘I’ve got meself a nice young lady works in the King and Tinker, name of Shirley.’ He paused. ‘Your daughter’s called Rosemary, if I remember right. Heard you’d got a grandkid; so young Rosie’s given up the stage, has she, and got married now?’ Popeye paused to slurp tea.
‘Fuck’s sake, you got something to say, or not?’ Agitatedly, John snatched Popeye’s cup of tea off him. He’d been about to throw it down the sink but knew if he disappeared into another room, Popeye might decide to follow him. And he was desperate to get him out of the house, not further into it.
‘So what’s the nipper’s name? Rosie call her after her mum, did she? Prudence, God rest her, would have liked that, wouldn’t she, John?’
‘Me granddaughter’s name’s Hope,’ John ejected through his teeth. ‘She’s a lovely little darlin’ and I don’t want her coming back home and having you scare the bleedin’ life out of her with yer ugly mug.’ John grimaced at Popeye’s dirty clothes and the greying stubble on his face.
Frank ran a hand around his chin, understanding John’s look of disgust. ‘My Shirley’s always telling me to smarten up. Perhaps I should.’
‘Sling yer hook before they all come in!’ John had almost jumped out of his skin at the sound of next door’s dustbin lid clattering home.
‘Right, here’s the deal.’ Suddenly Popeye was deadly serious, mean eyes narrowed to slits. ‘I know this outfit what’s deep in with anything you like: dog tracks, bootlegging; pimps ’n’ spivs, they are. Based over the docks—’
‘I get the picture,’ John interrupted, having heard enough. ‘You’re out of your league and you’ve promised ’em stuff you can’t deliver. Ain’t nuthin’ to do with me, Popeye. I’ve paid you up. That’s us quits.’
‘It ain’t me who’s got to deliver on this occasion, it’s you, mate. I’ve run ’em off a nice line of girly mags in the past and I’ve been doing their booze labels. Trouble is they’ve got no bottles of Scotch to stick ’em on. Their distiller got his still broken up by the revenue men a while back.’
‘Well, let yer big mates buy him another one.’ John hobbled to the door and held it open.
Popeye ignored the invitation to leave and sat back comfortably in his chair. ‘’Spect they would do that, but trouble is the fellow what knows how to use it’s doing a five stretch. So I told ’em I knew how to help them out.’
‘Right … thanks for the offer of the work. But I ain’t interested. Ain’t even got me still now.’
‘Now, I know you ain’t destroyed it, John.’ Popeye pulled an old-fashioned face, crooning, ‘Don’t you tell me no lies, now. Might not be down in the cellar … where is it?’ He jerked his head back, gazing at the ceiling. ‘Attic? I reckon since you moved here you’ve stashed it away all neat and tidy, ain’t yer?’
‘I got rid of it when we was bombed out of the other place.’
‘Don’t believe you for one minute. It’s here all right … somewhere …’ Popeye glanced around thoughtfully as though he might set off in search of it.
‘Get going; we’re done here.’ John yanked at Popeye’s sleeve to shift him.
‘Don’t think so, mate.’ Frank ripped his arm out of John’s grasp. ‘If you don’t sing along they’re gonna want their cash back, ain’t they?’
‘What?’ John tottered back a step, apprehension stabbing at his guts. ‘What fucking cash?’
‘The cash they give me, to give to you.’ Popeye shrugged. ‘I told them you’d need an advance to buy stuff to get going so they give us a monkey up front.’
John licked his lips. Five hundred! That was a serious sum of money. ‘Well, you’ll just have to give it back, won’t yer?’
‘Can’t … do … that …’ Popeye warbled. ‘Make me look like a right prat. Anyhow, I ain’t got it.’ He sniffed. ‘Needed some readies meself so I had to use it to keep someone sweet. You know the old saying: rob Peter to pay Paul, but John’s getting it in the end.’ He gave a wink. ‘You know I’m always good for my word. Never once not paid you up, have I?’
John swallowed noisily. ‘Sounds like you’ve got some explaining to do then when they come looking for you.’
‘Not me … you.’ Popeye nodded slowly. ‘This is where they’ll head. You don’t cross people like that, John. You should know that.’
‘They come here looking fer me I’ll call the Old Bill and tell ’em everything, especially that you’ve just tried to blackmail me to get involved in counterfeiting.’
Popeye came to his feet in quite a sprightly fashion considering he was over sixty and overweight. ‘Now, that ain’t wise, talking like that, John. I’ll pretend I never heard it.’ Popeye walked up to the smaller man and eyeballed him as best he could, before strolling out into the hallway. ‘Right … be seeing you then. You come to me next time; only fair … my turn to make the tea. Say, end of the week and we can make arrangements to put the still up in my basement if it’s likely to cause ructions with your Doris. Give the missus my regards now, won’t you?’
‘Fuck off.’ John slammed the door after Popeye and ground his teeth when he heard the faint laughter coming from the other side of the panels. He paced to and fro then went upstairs as quickly as his limp allowed. He found the steps in the airing cupboard and positioned them beneath the loft hatch. A few minutes later he poked his head into the cool, dark roof void, his heart thumping so hard he thought it might burst from his chest.
He’d promised Rosie on his life that he’d never make another drop of moonshine. Doris had no idea that he ever had run an illegal still. Nobody had known, other than his daughter and his business associates. Now Popeye had blabbed his business about, God only knew how many people were aware he’d once risked a spot of hard labour.
John hauled himself into the loft, wincing from the effort, and approached the dismantled still covered in tarpaulin. He crouched down and peered at the tubes and funnels and receptacles. Suddenly he smiled wryly. The contraption had survived the bombing, having been wedged in the corner of the cellar with a cover over it. Now he was wishing that the bloody thing had been in the loft of his old house, and been smashed to smithereens with the roof. But the hundred pounds in his Post Office book had come courtesy of this little beauty. And that money was being saved up for another little beauty, and one day she’d thank her granddad for buying her presents. John felt his eyes fill with tears as he put the hatch back in place. He’d do anything for his little Hope, and protect her with his life, if need be.
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_74e1e6eb-1029-5738-98c4-a7bb3e66eb63)
‘Insult my Irene again, you bitch, and I’ll wipe the floor with yer.’
Rosie spun about to see that Peg Price had sprinted down her front path to yell and jab a finger at her. The woman must have been loitering behind the curtains, waiting for her to return, Rosie realised. On the walk home her surprise meeting with Gertie, and everything they’d talked about, had been occupying her mind and she’d not given her run-in with her rotten neighbours another thought.
Rosie contemptuously flicked two fingers at the woman’s pinched expression before pushing the pram over the threshold and closing the door behind her.
A savoury aroma was wafting down the hall from the kitchen, making Rosie’s stomach grumble.
‘That you, Rosie?’
‘Yeah. Sorry I’m late.’ Rosie carried on unfastening Hope’s reins, thinking her father had sounded odd. But she gave his mood little thought; she was too wrapped up in counting her blessings. And she was determined to work for the London Auxiliary Ambulance Service. If she got turned down, as Gertie had, she’d try again and again until she was accepted.
Rosie cast her mind back to the time when the female ambulance auxiliary had entered their bombed-out house and with a simple joke made her laugh, then tended to her father with brisk professionalism. Rosie had been impressed by the service, and the people in it. But her baby daughter had taken up all her time and energy then. Now Hope was older, toddling and talking, and Rosie had the time to be useful. She wanted her daughter to grow up in peacetime with plentiful food to eat and a bright future in front of her. Wishing for victory wasn’t enough; she needed to pitch in and help bring it about, as other mothers had throughout the long years of the conflict.
From the moment Gertie had recounted how the ambulance crew had battled to save her baby’s life, Rosie knew that’s what she wanted to do … just in case at some time the baby dug from beneath bomb rubble was her own.
John appeared in the parlour doorway wiping his floury hands on a tea towel.
Lifting her daughter out of the pram, Rosie set Hope on her feet. The child toddled a few steps to be swept up into her granddad’s arms.
‘How’s my princess?’ John planted a kiss on the infant’s soft warm cheek.
In answer Hope thrust her lower lip and nodded her fair head.
‘See what Granddad’s got in the biscuit tin, shall we, darlin’?’
Again Hope nodded solemnly.
‘Don’t feed her up or she won’t eat her tea,’ Rosie mildly protested, straightening the pram cover. She watched her father slowly hobbling away from her with Hope in his arms. Lots of times she’d been tempted to tell him not to carry her daughter in case he overbalanced and dropped her. But she never did. Hope was her father’s pride and joy, and his salvation.
In the aftermath of the bombing raid, it had seemed that John’s badly injured leg might have to be amputated. Sunk in self-pity, he’d talked of wanting to end it all, until his little granddaughter had been taken to see him in hospital and had given him a gummy smile. At the time, Rosie had felt pity and exasperation for her father. In one breath she’d comforted him and in the next she’d reminded him he was luckier than those young servicemen who would never return home.
John carefully set Hope down by her toy box and started stacking washing-up in the bowl.
‘You stewing on something, Dad?’ Rosie asked. Her father was frowning into the sink and he would usually have made more of a fuss of Hope than that.
‘Nah, just me leg giving me gyp, love.’ John turned round, smiling. ‘Talking of stew, that’s what we’ve got. Not a lot in it other than some boiled bacon scraps and veg from the garden but I’ve made a few dumplings to fill us up.’
