The parlour was clean and tidy. The motley assortment of worn furniture shone, thanks to a liberal application of beeswax and elbow-grease. From the open fireplace red lumps of coal glowed brightly, the reflecting light spreading over the scrubbed, cracked linoleum and the coconut mats scattered about the floor. The solid oak dining table, scarred from years of abuse, was covered with a white cotton cloth, and in its midst sat a vase filled with hyacinths, their golden colour adding the final touch of homeliness to the normally drab, dismal room.
Sitting in one of the battered, brown armchairs that rested either side of the fireplace, Nellie Ford cast a critical eye around the room, then nodded, satisfied that all was ready for her daughter’s homecoming. A smile softened her face as she visualised the forthcoming visit.
When her daughter Emily had first started work as a live-in maid at the home of George and Rose Winter, an elderly brother and sister who occupied a Georgian house in Hackney, Nellie had thought life would become unbearable without her daughter’s presence. And at first it had been. Mind you, the seven shillings and sixpence that Emily gave her out of her nine-shilling wage was a godsend, though on her last visit home Emily had seemed restless, talking about leaving the Winters for good and finding a job that paid decent wages. But Nellie knew the real reason behind her daughter’s desire to come home. It wasn’t that she was unhappy with the Winters – they were a lovely old couple, and they thought the world of Emily, who over the years had become a companion to them, taking over the running of their household with the ease of one born to it. Oh no, the only reason Emily wanted to come home was because she was worried about her mother, even though Nellie constantly reassured her that she was all right.
A sudden movement from upstairs, where her husband Alfie lay sleeping off the effects of last night’s drunken binge, brought Nellie’s head up sharply, her eyes suddenly fearful. Then, as the sound receded, she visibly relaxed, her entire body slumping with relief. Resting her head against the back of the chair, she let her eyes roam over the mantelpiece. The carriage clock showed that it was nearly nine-thirty. She still had a good forty-five minutes before she had to leave for work. Above her head the floorboards creaked noisily, and again she felt a tightness grip her stomach, a feeling that was quickly followed by one of irritation at herself. What was she worrying about!
Good Lord, with the skinful he’d had on him last night, paid for with the last of her housekeeping money, he’d probably sleep the day away, or at least long enough for her to get out of the house before he woke up. And once Emily was home, he’d behave himself and leave her in peace. As she gazed into the roaring flames, her lips moved silently, repeating her thoughts. Peace… that’s all she wanted from life now.
Once, many years ago, when the beatings had first started, she had dreamed of running away to find a new life for herself and her two children, yet always Alfie would cry and tell her how sorry he was and that he’d never do it again. And she, fool that she was, had believed him. She had also still been in love with him then, ready to forgive and forget, always finding excuses for his behaviour. As time went on, and her love for the man she had married began to die, she had visualised meeting another man, one who was strong enough to stand up to her husband and take her and the children away to a better place, a better life.
But that hazy image of a man had never materialised and, even if he had, she doubted if she would have had the courage to grab at the chance of happiness. She would have done once, but years of mental and physical abuse had turned her from a spirited young girl into a cowed, beaten, defeated woman. Now, at thirty-nine, she no longer dreamed of finding happiness; all she craved from life was peace… peace of mind, and a release from the never-ending assault on her tired body.
Heaving herself out of the comfortable armchair, she groaned silently as her body reminded her painfully of last night’s beating.
Her eyes flickered to a framed, gilt-edged photograph of a sombre couple, hand-in-hand on their wedding day, and she felt her lips begin to tremble.
How could she have known that the handsome, kindly young man who had courted her so charmingly would turn into a foul-mouthed, vicious bully? Her gaze moved past the man’s image and rested on the girl. She saw herself as she had been then – so young, so full of life and optimism for the future – and as the memories became stronger, it was as if she were looking back at a stranger. Where had that girl gone, the girl who had always had a laugh on her lips and a spring in her step? Had she ever really been that young?
As tears of self-pity threatened to overwhelm her, Nellie gave a brisk shake of her head. What did that matter now, she chided herself? Going over the past was a fool’s pastime. You couldn’t change what had already happened. All anyone could do was carry on, and hope that one day things would be better.
And things would be better, once Emily arrived back home, and not just for the afternoon either, but for three whole weeks. Her step suddenly lighter, Nellie walked quickly into the scullery to check on the stew she had prepared for dinner, thinking that at least something good had come out of this awful war.
Because if the Winters hadn’t become mortally afraid of being hit by one of those new Zeppelin bombs, then they would never have thought of closing up the house in Hackney and moving to a relative’s house in the country. Just until the end of October, Mr Winter had told Emily, going to great lengths to explain that it was for his sister’s sake they were having an early holiday.
Well, Nellie didn’t care what the reason was, all she cared about was the prospect of having her daughter to herself for three whole weeks; and Emily was being paid her full wage while her employers were away. Oh, they were good people, the Winters, but what mattered most to Nellie was the hope that one day, at one of the frequent social gatherings at which the Winters entertained their friends, her Emily would meet a young man, a kind, decent young man from a good background.
And it could happen, it could. Her head bobbed up and down on her shoulders, as if trying to reassure herself that her dream would one day come true. It wouldn’t have happened in her younger days, but now, with the world seemingly turned upside-down by this dreadful war, the boundaries between the lower and upper classes were finally showing signs of being torn down and thrown aside. Of course there would always be divisions between the rich and the poor, but the need to bow and tug the forelock in the presence of the gentry was fast becoming a thing of the past. Any changes now would come too late to benefit Nellie, but she would put up with anything as long as her daughter was happily settled.
And her Lenny, of course. Her conscience pricked her, as if remonstrating with her for omitting her son from her thoughts. At least that was one young soul whom the war wouldn’t claim, for her only son wasn’t quite right in the head. Yet he hadn’t always been that way.
Up until he was nine, Lenny had been the same as any other lad his age. Then, one day, while out playing with his friends, he had fallen from a high wall, hitting his head on the cobbled pavement. At first he seemed to recover, but as he grew older and his body began to fill out and expand, it became obvious that his mind wasn’t developing with the rest of his body. Now, at seventeen, he still had the mentality of a nine-year-old. Oh, he wasn’t a simpleton. He could read and write and add up well enough, but only within the capabilities of a child. The most heart-rending part of his disability was the fact that he was fully aware he wasn’t like other young men of his age. Not that there had been many young men to compare him with, these last two years, she thought sadly, thinking of the boys – because that’s all they were – who had dashed to join up in the early, heady days of the war. But on the whole Lenny seemed happy enough; and he had a job. It wasn’t much of one, just running errands for the stall-holders down Well Street market, where he was well known, but it gave him a sense of self-esteem, and the bits and bobs he brought home with him had saved them from going to bed hungry on many occasions.
Entering the small scullery, Nellie shivered. Even with the large pot of stew bubbling on top of the gas oven, the stone-floored room was icy-cold. Stopping only long enough to check that the gas jet under the pot was still alight, she made her way back to the warmth of the parlour, her thoughts returning to her daughter and the worry that she would give up her secure job, and with it the only chance she would have of finding a suitable husband.
Oh, stop worrying, she chided herself. Her daughter had a good head on her shoulders, and knew when she was well off. A lot of women in service were leaving to find work in the factories and on the trams, now that the majority of able-bodied men were fighting overseas, but it wouldn’t last. Why, look at how the men had joined up in their thousands at the start of the war, almost trampling each other in the rush to aid King and country, confident that the war would be over by Christmas. The battle of Ypres had put paid to that hope. Then there had been that awful night last year when those terrifying, cigar-shaped objects had rained their bombs down on the East End, flattening houses and killing hundreds. There had been other raids since, but so far this part of Homerton had been lucky to escape the deadly missiles. But for how long?
When the war had first started, Alfie had been working in one of the warehouses in Bush’s, the chemical factory in Ash Grove. Being in full employment, and confident that at thirty-eight he wouldn’t be called upon to sign up, he had ranted on about the unfairness of limiting the age of enlisted men to thirty, even though there had been nothing to stop him from joining up voluntarily.
It was around this time that he had started staying out all night, giving Nellie reason to believe that he had found another woman. She could still remember the joyous relief she had felt, for with him absent from the double bed, the beatings had stopped. During that peaceful period of time, Alfie had even been nice to her, as if compensating her for his sudden lack of interest. As if she’d cared!
Then, ten months ago, just before Christmas, he’d come home with a face like thunder to tell her he’d been given the sack for stealing. Shouting and swearing his innocence, he had stormed out of the house, not getting back until the following afternoon. It was shortly afterwards that he began staying in at night, his mean eyes watching her every move, as if waiting for the right moment to strike, his spiteful tactics sending her nerves on end in fearful anticipation of what was to come.
But he kept his hands to himself until 1st March, when conscription for single men up to the age of forty-one came into force, with married men being given two months’ reprieve. The beatings had resumed that very night. In June, Kitchener, along with the entire crew of the Hampshire, went down after the ship hit a mine off Scapa Flow. So died the man whose picture and pointing finger had forcibly reminded the men of England that their King and country needed them. Kitchener’s death had sent shockwaves through the British Isles. Yet still England and the Home Counties maintained the patriotic fervour that had sent men in their thousands to join up – until 1st July, when at a place called the Somme 19,000 men, many of them the eager, young men of 1914, were systematically mowed down by the Germans’ guns, their deaths adding to the 50,000 men who had already been crippled or maimed in one way or another.
Now, four months later, the slaughter was still going on, and elderly men, veterans of the Boer War, were calculating that soon both sides would have to dig in for the winter. Meanwhile back home, men who hadn’t so far heeded the call-up were being tracked down with the aid of the electoral register, and thrown head-first either into combat or into prison, there to await court martial and, if found guilty, the firing squad. And that one upstairs was nearly out of his mind with fear. As well he might be.
There were plenty of conchies hiding behind closed doors, protected by loving wives and mothers, but they, like her husband, couldn’t hide for ever. It was only a matter of time before Alfie’s name came up on the electoral register and, when it did, the police would come knocking on their door.
And when that day came Nellie would cheer. Yes, she would. She’d hang out the flags and dance in the street as they carted him away.
Closing her eyes she prayed that day would come soon, for she didn’t know how much more she could take. A deep sigh came from her parted lips. How much easier it would be if only she could confide in someone. But she had made the decision early on in her marriage to keep her troubles to herself; and especially to shield her children from the truth of what went on in their parents’ bedroom.
Nor could she herself turn her husband in to the authorities. Oh, she’d thought about it the moment the new conscription laws came into force. She’d gone so far as to walk down to the police station in Mare Street, but once outside the imposing building her courage had deserted her. She knew, too, that there were many women in the street – women whose husbands and sons were away fighting in France – who would be only too eager to do the job for her, and were just waiting for her to give them the word. But she couldn’t do it. She wanted Alfie gone, prayed for him to be gone. And though she knew she would be fully justified in getting rid of her husband in any way she could, Nellie’s conscience would never give her any peace if she had a hand in his arrest… and maybe in his life, if he was sent overseas.
A sudden movement upstairs brought her out of her day-dreams. Oh, God! He should have slept for at least another hour. Nibbling at the corner of her bottom lip, she wondered whether to make a dash for it or stay and face him. She had a cleaning job in Morning Lane to go to, but that wouldn’t make any difference to him if he came down and found her gone and no breakfast waiting for him.
Hating herself for her cowardice, she quickly laid the table, wincing painfully and holding her side where her husband’s boot had found its mark the previous night. The sound of his heavy boots crashing across the floorboards above galvanised her into action. He was always hungry when he woke up, and these days, with the threat of conscription hanging over him, the slightest thing would set him off into a murderous rage. Agitated now, she ran back into the scullery and quickly put a large copper pan on top of the hob, put a dollop of dripping into its cavernous depth and took two sausages from the larder, together with two eggs, courtesy of Mrs Riley, who kept three chickens in her back yard four doors away.
Frantic with haste, Nellie broke one of the eggs, tears filling her eyes as the bright yellow yolk mingled and spread over the sizzling egg white, but there was nothing she could do; these were the last two eggs in the house.
The pounding footsteps were coming closer, then the back door banged noisily as her husband made his way to the outside toilet. Almost frantic with haste, she sliced two thick pieces from a crusty loaf, smothered them with marge, poured out a mug of strong tea, placed the eggs and sausages on a tray and carried it into the parlour, laying it down carefully on the freshly starched table-cloth, her heart hammering with every trembling action.
‘What’s this?’ The gruff, angry tone brought Nellie’s heart leaping up to her throat. ‘You’ve broken me bleeding egg, yer stupid cow.’
Backing away, Nellie clutched at her neck, as if for support.
‘I’m sorry, Alf. I… I didn’t expect you up so soon. I was in a hurry to get your breakfast ready so you wouldn’t have to wait… Look, if you like, I’ll go and see if I can get another egg off of Mrs Riley…’ Her voice faltered at the murderous glare in her husband’s bloodshot eyes.
‘Shut yer gob an’ leave me in peace,’ the loud roar silenced any further effort on Nellie’s part to placate him. For the next few minutes, the only sound in the room was that of loud slurping and belching as Alfie Ford consumed his meal with gusto. With a final stomach-churning belch, he pushed back his chair, rubbed his ample belly and surveyed the woman standing before him. Christ! What a bleeding mess. Look at the state of her. The skinny, haggard woman, wearing a shapeless grey dress that hung on her slim body, her brown hair scraped back into a scraggly bun, bore no resemblance to the pretty, shapely young girl he had married all those years ago; she looked old enough to be his mother. Disgusted by the sight of her, he turned his gaze away and said roughly, ‘Well, don’t just stand there staring at me like a bleeding idiot, go down ter the corner shop an’ get me five Woodbines. I’m gasping fer a fag.’
Taking the dirty plate from the table, Nellie stuttered nervously, ‘I’m sorry, love, I haven’t any money till I finish my cleaning job today. I could fetch you some on my way home…’
The wooden chair went crashing back, upturning on the cracked lino and scattering one of the straw mats. With a swiftness that no longer surprised her, Nellie found herself clutched roughly by the arm.
‘Please, Alf, not again. You’ll kill me one of these days. I can’t take much more, Alf, I can’t take much more…’
A heavy fist shot out, catching her a violent blow just behind her ear. As her head rocked back on her shoulders, a loud banging came from the other side of the partitioned wall.
‘You all right in there, Nellie?’ her neighbour, Dot Button, shouted through the thin wall. The strident voice caused Alf to drop his arm. He had to be careful, he wasn’t liked around these parts, especially by the women whose men were away fighting. They would think nothing of shopping him to the local police if Nellie gave the word, especially that old cow next door. She never missed an opportunity to remind Alf that her precious husband Jack, who was older than Alfie, and her son Bert had joined up without any prompting from anyone. More fool them, he thought viciously. Though if he was married to that harridan next door, he might be tempted to join up himself. He smiled grimly at his sudden flash of humour, the smile slipping almost at once as he thought of Emily’s forthcoming visit.
With his daughter living at home for three weeks, he was going to have to be on his best behaviour, because his Emily wouldn’t stand for any nonsense. Even as he fretted about the long days ahead, he couldn’t help feel a surge of pride in his daughter’s fiery temper and strong character. If only his wife displayed some of the same attributes, he would respect her a lot more. As it was, she was easy prey… Yet even mice could turn, if goaded sufficiently. Reminded of his precarious position, Alf let go of the slim form. Yet, even knowing the power she had over him, he couldn’t resist giving her a brutal push that sent the unfortunate woman crashing awkwardly against the corner of the heavy table.
‘Yer keep yer mouth shut, understand,’ he hissed viciously. ‘What goes on between me an’ you is private. It’s family business, nothing ter do with anyone else. One word outta yer to that nosy cow next door, an’ I’ll do fer yer.’ Picking up his heavy jacket from where he’d flung it over the back of his chair, he thrust his arms into the sleeves and buttoned it up over his shirt and braces, all the while keeping his eyes on the still figure sprawled on the floor.
Snatching his cap from the peg on the back of the door, Alf wrenched the door open and stormed out into the cobbled street, just as Dot Button was coming out of the adjoining house. The stout woman barred his way, her black eyes filled with animosity.
Hugging her woollen shawl tighter around her ample curves, she sneered, ‘Think yer a big man, don’t yer, Alfie Ford. Well, it doesn’t take much ter knock seven bells outta a defenceless woman, yer bleeding coward.’
‘Get outta me way, yer old cow, an’ keep yer nose outta my business. Besides, I ain’t touched ‘er. Yer can ask ’er if yer like…’ The burly man tried to push past the obstacle in his way and found himself being shoved backwards. Taken by surprise, he stumbled, his heart jumping in sudden fear at the prospect of falling flat on his face in the street. Already curtains were twitching behind the windows of the long row of terraced houses. Another few minutes and the whole street would be out in force.
‘Don’t give me that load of old cobblers, I know what’s going on… Yeah, that’s right, yer get yerself off, yer miserable bastard.’ Dot’s voice echoed after him. ‘An’ if yer know what’s good fer yer, yer keep yer hands off poor Nellie, or the next person yer try it on wiv’ll have a bayonet pointing at yer belly.’
Bursting with rage, Alfie Ford had no option but to walk off with as much dignity as he could muster, but there was no escaping Dot’s strident voice.
‘Yer should be over there with the rest of the men, like my Bert an’ Jack. They’re real men, they are, not jumped-up little piss-pots like you.’
Alf walked on, his heavy boots crunching over the cobbled pavement, his whole being seething with rage at the scathing words, while his frantic mind tried to find a way out of his predicament.
That his days were numbered he had no doubt. Because, if the police didn’t track him down, then one of those bitches in the street would shop him soon. It was a wonder they hadn’t done so already. Beads of sweat broke out on his face and neck at the prospect of going to war. He had read about the fighting in the trenches, and the poison gas that the Germans were now using. But it was that crack about facing someone armed with a bayonet that caused his very bones to turn to jelly. If only the new conscription law had stopped at forty, he would have been safe. As it was, he still had a good eighteen months before his forty-first birthday. There was no way he could hide for that amount of time. Tears of anger and fear stung his eyelids. Bugger that bloody Kaiser and his army, which was dug in so deep in the trenches that it would need a miracle to blast them out. Taking off his cap, he nervously ran his fingers through his greasy, thick black hair.
Soon he would be forced to choose between prison or joining up, and from what he’d heard about the way conchies were treated by their fellow prisoners, he’d be better off in the trenches.
Once at the end of Wick Road he gazed with longing at the Tiger on the corner of Sydney Street. The pub wasn’t open yet, and even if it had been, he couldn’t have gone in. But he stayed where he was, his eyes fastened on the stout, closed door. He needed a drink, needed one badly, but he hadn’t a penny to his name. Rubbing a hand over his stubbled chin, he was about to wander off, when he saw a tall, thin man coming out of St Mary’s and St Dominic’s Church, which was adjacent to the pub. Alf’s face broke into a smile of greeting as he recognised Freddie Little, an out-of-work painter from the next street.
Keeping the smile pasted to his lips, Alf waited until Freddie came abreast of him, studiously ignoring the look of alarm that leapt to the other man’s face.
‘Freddie, me old mate, ’ow are yer.’
‘All right, Alfie,’ the man answered, while trying to walk on.
‘‘Ere, ’ere, what’s this, not got time fer one of yer mates, Fred.’
Knowing himself to be trapped, Fred Little groaned under his breath. Alfie Ford was no friend of his, or anyone else’s for that matter. Their only claim to friendship was the fact that they had both so far dodged the call-up. But not any longer. Fred had had enough of hiding, and of putting up with the scathing comments that were hurled at him every time he stepped out of doors, and he had just come back from the recruiting office. Even there he had been met with ill-concealed contempt.
‘Took yer time, didn’t yer,’ the sergeant had said derisively. ‘What happened, given up hoping it’ll all be over before yer was dragged in?’
Still, Fred had done it now, and curiously enough the relief he felt was overcoming his fear of the trenches. He had popped into the church for a few minutes, just to say a prayer or two for moral support, but now he was wishing he hadn’t bothered. If he’d gone straight home he wouldn’t have run into Alfie Ford.
Two women passed by, their eyes accusing.
‘Lost somefink, ’ave yer, mate,’ one of them sneered.
‘Perhaps you’d better go down ter the ’ospital an’ see if they’ve got any backbones going spare.’
Casting a malevolent glare at the women, a look that was returned with a vengeance, Alf grabbed the smaller man and steered him towards the pub. Keeping a vice-like grip on the silent painter’s arm, Alfie kept up a stream of idle chatter to keep Fred occupied until the pub opened its doors.
Fred offered no resistance. After all, he told himself, it would be the last time Alfie Ford would be able to get a free drink out of him.