It was early in October when Connie noticed the stranger. She was walking briskly to work, her mind on what had happened the previous day – her visit to the council offices with Vic – when the man stepped across the road, pausing to light a cigarette as he examined the remains of a ruined house.
She lost sight of him as she joined the small groups of women she met every morning, hurrying to the dock factories and warehouses. He caught her attention again the following day, reading a newspaper as he stood on the corner of Kettle Street, the brim of his hat pulled over his eyes.
The next time she saw him was a week later, outside Dalton’s gates. Once inside the factory grounds she looked back, but he’d disappeared. As she entered the shipping department, Ada came hurrying towards her. ‘The wharf outside our office had a hole blown in it,’ she explained hurriedly. ‘We’re being moved along to the next office. Mr Burns told me to find as many boxes as I could to put our paperwork in. There’s some in the cupboards downstairs.’
‘I’ll hang up my coat,’ Connie said at once. ‘How bad is the damage?’
‘There’s glass and dust everywhere and a gale blowing in off the river. It’s bloody freezing. Mind, it’s October now, so I suppose it’s to be expected. Lucky for us, the office next door hasn’t been used for months, not since the fruit boats stopped coming. You’d think those U-boats would have better things to do than sink a load of flamin’ bananas.’
‘Well, I expect we’ll have to clear the mess up, won’t we?’
‘Len asked a couple of the young boys on the shop floor to help us.’ She gave Connie a little push. ‘I’ll come with you to the cloakroom.’
‘Ada, have you seen a bloke in a mac and trilby hanging around the gates lately?’ Connie asked her friend as they hurried down the staircase and into the small room provided for the female office staff.
‘No, why?’
‘I’ve noticed this man, once on the corner of Kettle Street, another time in Westferry Road and now outside Dalton’s.’
‘There’s lots of strangers about,’ Ada conceded as she scrutinized her make-up in the small square of chipped mirror above the hand basin. ‘What with the demolition and rescue squads and blokes tearing up railings for the war effort.’
‘Yes, but he wasn’t a workman.’
‘Might be a snoop! The papers say spies aren’t only in Whitehall, but could be anyone on the street.’ She turned quickly to Connie. ‘What with Mr Burns putting me on weigh-ins, I haven’t had a chance to ask if you went to the council about Lucky.’
Connie nodded as she combed her hair, adjusting the grip on the side of her head that held back her tumble of curls. They were all over the place this morning as she hadn’t had a chance to pin up her hair. She’d slept late after a noisy night and climbed out of the hammock in a daze. By the time she’d washed in the house and got Lucky ready for Nan’s, she hadn’t even had time for breakfast. ‘I went to the Public Health Department for Maternity and Child Welfare who said normally a certificate from the doctor or midwife attending the birth had to be sent in to get coupons, but of course we don’t know anything about his beginnings.’
‘Did Vic go with you?’
Connie nodded. ‘I wasn’t half glad he did too. We had to go to all these departments and then back to our doctor to ask for a letter to confirm that I was a suitable person to care for a baby.’
‘Course you are, can’t they see that?’
‘Well, I could be anyone, couldn’t I? Dr Deakin asked me a lot of questions about how I would manage. I told him about Nan and Lofty taking care of Lucky in the day. He also hinted that there shouldn’t be much opposition as the government are trying to accommodate over 400,000 city kids already. And there’s still thousands more in the pipeline to evacuate. I’ll probably be classed as a war nanny.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Someone who cares for non-evacuee children.’ Connie replaced her comb in her bag and snapped it shut. ‘But when we went back to the council offices, this clerk put the wind up me. He said I should think very carefully about taking on the responsibility of a baby. He said evacuation was the course of action to take.’
‘Bloody cheek!’ Ada cried. ‘What’s it got to do with him?’
‘Vic reminded him that only last month the City of Benares evacuation ship was torpedoed on its way to Canada. Only thirteen out of the ninety kids survived. He asked this chap to put it in writing that Lucky would be guaranteed survival after being removed from my safe keeping.’
‘Good for him.’
‘Then we were sent to see a Mrs Burton, who turned out to be really nice. After we’d been through the story again, she said the government don’t like moving bereaved children from the area too quickly as it’s caused a lot of mix-ups. Lucky’s dad might turn up or a relative even. As long as I can prove I’m assisting the war effort, there won’t be any objections, for a while anyway.’
‘What a lot of red tape just to do a good deed,’ Ada grumbled as they opened the stock cupboard and took out the boxes. ‘Talking of which, did you hear that when Buckingham Palace got hit last month, the queen is reported to have said she was glad they were bombed because she can now look the East End in the face.’ Ada’s eyebrows shot up. ‘So I wonder who’s forking out for a red carpet to be laid when she arrives?’ she added cynically.
Connie giggled. ‘It’d probably disappear down a crater never to be seen again.’
Laughing, they made their way back to the office. A gust of wind from the river almost blew them off their feet as they entered. All the glass was gone from the tall windows and the stools and chairs were knocked over. The surfaces normally crammed with papers, pens and envelopes were bare.
It was the first time they had seen Mr Burns in a tizzy. He was covered in the white dust falling from the ceiling and treading carefully over the shattered glass.
‘Mr B. makes a good Father Christmas, don’t he?’ Ada spluttered behind her box.
Connie had to agree. Even this disaster had a funny side to it.
The following Saturday Connie rushed home from work. Vic was taking her to Pat’s house. She washed her hair and pinned it carefully up on one side of her head above her ear. The other side fell loose in blond waves. Normally she didn’t use rouge but this time she added a discreet glow to her pale cheeks. Unlike Ada, whose obsession was make-up, Connie favoured a natural complexion. She put on a dark blue dress, old but stylish, and tightened a thin black belt around her slim waist.
Vic whistled through his teeth when he saw her. Then, turning round, he held his hand to his brow, gazing along the street. ‘Who’s the lucky man who’s going to take out this beautiful woman?’ he teased her.
‘I wanted to make a good impression,’ she admitted. ‘Last time I saw Pat and your gran I was covered in dust from under the stairs.’
‘Shall I wait in the car?’
‘Come in if you like. Everyone’s out.’
Vic sat in the front room whilst Connie got Lucky dressed in fresh white rompers, one of Doris’s matinée coats and a blue woollen bonnet to match his little blue elephant. Connie lifted him into her arms from the cot that Lofty had found on his travels. She was so proud of Lucky and eager to show him off to Pat and Gran.
When she returned downstairs, Vic took Lucky in his arms. ‘What are you feeding him on, steak? And what’s that, a tooth?’
‘There’s one coming on the top too.’
‘You’d better get ready with the bubble and squeak then and a nice bit of roast beef.’
They were laughing together as they left the house. But as Vic opened the car door for her, Connie caught sight of a figure up by the ruins of the Coles’ house. She was certain it was the man in the raincoat.
When she was settled in her seat and Lucky placed safely on her lap, she turned round to look through the rear window. The figure had gone.
Pat and Laurie Grant’s flat in Manchester Road was one of many terraces that ran in a straight line, except for the casualties of war, all the way up to the Queens. It had huge big windows, three big bedrooms, a scullery and kitchen. The large sitting room was filled with Laurie’s books and Pat’s embroideries. Pat’s friendly, broad-shouldered husband was a stevedore in the docks and Connie liked him at once.
The men were left to look after the children as the women gathered in the kitchen. Gran sliced a large green apple and indicated a chair. ‘Sit down, ducks, and help me with the pudding.’
‘What are you making?’
‘Apple pie without the pastry.’
Laughing, Pat turned round from the sink. She looked very smart in a lemon-coloured twinset and black skirt protected by a gingham apron. Her dark hair was pulled up at the back and two kiss-curls made up her fringe. ‘It’s apples mixed with condensed milk and some of Doris’s orange juice, with a square of chocolate thrown in and whipped together. I had a few nuts left over and made it crunchy. Bake for five minutes and you won’t notice the missing pastry, or at least that’s the idea.’
‘Whip this up for me, will you?’ Gran pushed the basin towards Connie. ‘Now, tell us how you got on with the little boy.’
Connie stirred the mixture with a fork, aware that Gran’s dark eyes were fixed intently on her. ‘Did Vic say that we went to the Welfare about him?’
Pat said he had, but Gran asked her to go over it again, which Connie willingly did. When she came to the end of the story, repeating more or less word for word what she had told Ada, the mixture was ready for baking.
‘So he can stay with you temporarily?’ Pat asked as she slid the basin in the big oven and took out a delicious-smelling savoury dish.
‘Yes, until his dad turns up.’
‘And what does your mum think of that?’ asked Gran bluntly.
‘I think she’d prefer him to be evacuated.’
Gran wiped a cloth over the table. ‘She’s thinking of his safety, no doubt. And of her daughter, who’s not a lady of leisure, but a hard-working girl having to rough it in an Anderson.’
Connie looked into Gran’s eyes. ‘I know Mum’s concerned for me, but firewatching and volunteer work is just as dangerous.’
‘And if his dad comes back, he won’t have far to look,’ Pat added quickly.
‘Yes, exactly.’ Connie nodded.
Pat winked at Connie. ‘And if you want my opinion, that baby took to you the very first night he laid eyes on you.’
Gran smiled, but Connie wasn’t convinced that she agreed with the situation. Pat slid a knife into the centre of the golden-brown baked potato and allowed a trickle of rich sauce and steam to ooze out. ‘It’s lentils, some onions and herbs with the potato and a little fat mixed with stock and a few more vegetables,’ she told Connie. ‘Not much of a substitute for meat, but it is quite tasty. You need loads of gravy to absorb the lentils. Now, I’m sure the boys and the children are hungry. Let’s eat shall we?’
When they were seated at the big drawleaf table, the laughter and chatter was in full swing, despite the brief moment of tension in the kitchen. If Gran had any reservations about Connie – and a baby – being suitable for her grandson, then she had kept them to herself.
Vic met Connie’s eyes across the table and she blushed. Pat grinned, her dark eyes twinkling as she offered second helpings. There was very little left when the meal was over, and there were satisfied sighs all round. The afternoon ended with a game of snap, with Doris the clear winner. When it was time to go, Connie presented her gifts. A bar of Nestlé chocolate for Doris, a jar of Chivers strawberry jam for Pat, a tin of Three Nuns tobacco for Laurie and a quarter-pound of tea for Gran. She had swapped all these at work for a bottle of Evening In Paris.
‘Come again soon,’ Pat said when it was time to leave. Laurie gave her a hug and Gran kissed her goodbye.
There were no lights to be seen on their journey home. They were silent while Vic negotiated the dark roads, and Kettle Street was deserted as Connie got out of the car.
Vic bent to kiss Lucky’s cheek. Then gently he covered her mouth with his lips. ‘Take care of yourself, sweetheart,’ he whispered.
‘You too.’
‘I don’t want to leave you.’
She didn’t want him to go either. It had been a wonderful day. She watched him walk back to the car. Then when she could no longer see the moving shape, she went indoors, reliving the wonderful time she had spent with his family.
It was a misty morning in November and Gran was queuing outside the butcher’s on East Ferry Road, wondering if, after buying the piece of mutton she’d saved her coupons for, she’d have enough energy left to cross the road to the chemist’s and haggle for a bottle of Sloan’s Liniment. There would no doubt be an array of coughs and sneezes to avoid in that particular shop, so perhaps she shouldn’t trouble and take an aspirin instead to cure the rheumatics. Her mind was debating this problem as the queue moved forward with excruciating slowness. She knew most of the faces and had already indulged in small talk, but the wait seemed endless this morning.
‘I reckon Winnie’s got himself elected in the nick of time,’ Albert Cross threw over his shoulder. ‘We need a strong leader. Paper says them U-boats are being made by the dozens, like toys, to set loose on us. Our neighbour’s lad was lost in the Atlantic last month. We were too slow on the uptake to spot Jerry’s merchant ships were men-of-war. Hoodwinked they was, the paper said, and there’s rumours going round that Jerry’s got new battleships, small but lethal like, could sink half our fleet without drawing breath. It’s not Britannia that’s ruling the waves no more, if you ask me.’
‘Chamberlain let us down bad,’ said Eve Beale next to him, shaking her head slowly. ‘Winnie’s got a mouth on him but he’s still wet behind the ears.’
‘Rubbish!’ another voice chimed up. ‘Churchill knows what he’s doing. Battle of Britain proved it.’
‘Our airforce was what beat ’em, not Whitehall,’ Albert Cross disagreed angrily.
Gran’s attention returned to the present as the usual arguments broke out, and she felt the stir of unease inside her. Eighteen was young indeed. But then she knew of boys as young as fifteen running away from home to join up. It was all excitement and thrills to them, so many unemployed and without an aim in life. The war had made heroes of some and victims of others. She didn’t want Vic to be either one of those, though she knew as certainly as the nose on her face, his time was due. She had seen it and now there was no turning back.
Gran felt her purse drop from her hands. She gave a little cry. How careless she was getting. Her mind was not what it used to be. She wasn’t concentrating. Her mind was always three steps ahead. With an effort she reached down to the pavement where her purse had landed. Thankfully, still buttoned tightly. Her hand was just a few inches away when she was beaten to it.
Long, smooth fingers closed over it. ‘You don’t want to lose this now, do you?’
She recoiled slightly at the voice, but caught herself from showing it as she straightened her back. The face was shadowed by the brim of a trilby hat.
Gran felt another deep wave of anxiety. Her purse was her most valued possession. The idea that she had lost her grip and dropped it was sin enough. But worse was the fact that she did not feel inclined to retrieve it.
‘What you waiting for, gel?’ Albert Cross laughed. ‘He ain’t gonna fill it for you, is he?’
Eve Beale nudged her arm. ‘You feeling all right, Gran?’
The purse remained in the outstretched hand. She looked into the man’s eyes. Not a colour exactly, not brown or blue or even grey, but nearer to murky.
‘It ain’t gonna bite you,’ Eve chuckled.
Gran took her purse and the man smiled. ‘My pleasure,’ he said and strode unhurriedly away.
Eve nudged her again. ‘That’s not like you, Gran, chucking your money away.’
Gran gulped a breath and nodded. ‘Just a bit short of puff that’s all.’
‘You’re nearly there now!’
But Gran’s thoughts were elsewhere.
There was always one rotten apple in the barrel and she had met him today.
Vic made his way home from the warden’s post in the early morning light. He walked slowly, inhaling the smoke from his cigarette. The raiders had flown, back to Germany and safety. Would the families of these pilots be waiting anxiously, wondering as he was, what mankind would bring upon itself next? Berlin, Hamburg and Munich had been hammered relentlessly by our bombers. How many innocent people had died in the process? London, Birmingham, Coventry, Southampton, Sheffield, Glasgow, Manchester had been targeted in return. The fires were still burning over English and German cities alike. And now with the Battle of the Atlantic there were countless losses at sea.
Vic looked up at the dawning sky. He watched the twinkle of the last stars. The same stars would be shining over all the countries of the world. Three weeks to the day to Christmas. Peace on earth and goodwill to all men. Hah! The poor souls he’d pulled out of that basement a few hours ago wouldn’t be celebrating. No pints in the pub on Christmas Eve or a knees-up round the joanna. Yesterday they had been going about their business, wondering where the next penny was coming from for presents, saying sod it, who cares, we’re alive aren’t we? Then, today, those worries were immaterial. Men and women lived by the hour now.
He walked on, more briskly now, turning up the collar of his coat. He passed the remains of the burning buildings and memories tormented him. He needed a couple of hours solid kip to shake off this mood.
But sleep wouldn’t come. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He could still hear the wounded, still feel the desperate grip of fingers on his arm. The blood that covered him from the ruptured artery and a look of surprise at the end – that look in a man’s eye – knowing it was the end – there was no tomorrow.
At seven, he rose and washed, rubbing away at his skin as if the memories were ingrained there. What was wrong with him? He’d held it together so far. Why this, now? He stretched out his bare arms. His hands were shaking. There was a feeling in the pit of his stomach, driving upwards like a cannon ball under his breastbone. He was sweating, his whole body shaking now.
Fear! It gripped his throat, tightening the knots in his shoulders, scything through his stomach muscles. He shook his head, his wet hair flinging out the beads of moisture.
‘Boy?’
He swung round. ‘Gran!’
She moved towards him, a small figure in black.
‘What are you doing back?’ he said, embarrassed at the tremor in his voice. Then his blood ran cold. ‘It . . . it’s not our Pat, is it?’
She shook her head slowly. ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘I left their place early. Got a breath of fresh air on me way home. Pat’s not working today so she don’t need me for the littl’un. Anyway, wanted to see you before you left. Don’t like you going off on an empty stomach.’
He relaxed a little, wiping the sweat from his brow. The last few weeks Gran had been looking after Doris whilst Pat went to work at the shoe shop. In her absence he’d sworn he ate a regular breakfast. But most mornings he couldn’t face it now.
‘I’ll put on the stove.’
He sat down at the table, pulling his hands over his eyes. ‘Not this morning, Gran.’
‘Ain’t you well?’
‘I’m fine,’ he assured her. ‘Just a cuppa will do this morning. I ate with the blokes earlier. Spoiled my appetite.’
‘You make a rotten liar, boy.’
He sighed. ‘I can’t get away with nothin’, can I?’
She smiled, an expression on her face that reminded him of when he’d been up to mischief as a kid, covering his misdeeds with a lot of baloney. He only had to meet her eyes and she’d see right through him, quirking up an eyebrow that made him shut his gob as swift as he’d opened it.
He heard the kettle go on, but not the frying pan and he was mildly surprised that he wasn’t about to be force fed. He listened to all the familiar sounds that he had listened to all his life, knowing move for move what she was doing: the splutter of gas, the catch of a match, the water boiling and the comfort of familiar human breath. Somehow all this helped his anxiety and slowly the sweat dried on his skin.
She brought him a mug and placed the big brown teapot on the table and pulled the cozy over it.
‘Drink your tea, son.’
Vic nodded, content to be in his oasis of calm and familiarity before he left for work. He was going to call for Connie and drive her to Dalton’s, so making him even later to the PLA offices. But he didn’t care this morning. He couldn’t wait to see her.