Martin started to hide things. They were small objects that we didn’t notice had gone, little bits and pieces that could easily have been mislaid, like Len’s Sunday tiepin, or my butterfly brooch. At first we thought it must be our own carelessness but then they’d turn up in old jam jars or Lily’s button box, places where we would never have put stuff ourselves.
‘I think I can guess who’s behind this,’ I said. ‘Someone I can touch with a very short stick.’
But Martin always looked innocent and we never caught him in the act. I think he thought it was funny, as if he was waiting to see how angry we could get when we couldn’t find what we wanted. Sometimes, when he was bored or tired of our questions, he would go and get whatever it was straight away, pretending I had left my ring on the washstand or my gloves on the table in the hall.
When Len asked Martin to confess he just kept lying.
‘It’s not me, Dad. Honest. You’re always losing things.’
Then he started to be faddy about his food.
‘I do my best,’ I said to Len. ‘Sometimes I don’t give him any vegetables at all and yet he still won’t touch his meals.’
I tried everything: fried whitebait and pilchard splits, corned-beef fritters, steak and kidney pie, luncheon-meat surprise. We were strict with him and said he couldn’t have a pudding if he didn’t eat his main but that didn’t stop him. At least it meant extra baked custards or apple turnovers for the rest of us, because I wasn’t going to let anything go to waste.
The child was spoilt enough as it was. We gave him tuppence a week to spend on gobstoppers, pear drops and Spangles; anything he liked, we were that good to him. Perhaps Martin thought he could live off that alone. He worked out the combinations that he could buy from the jars in Ivy’s shop – four Black Jacks or four Fruit Salads or a Bassett’s sherbet fountain. Some weeks he would buy a tuppenny stick of liquorice and try and make it last for days, keeping it in his pocket, nibbling bits off the end when he was nervous. But I told him all those sweets were going to have to stop if he didn’t eat his tea.
I tried to be cheerful but it was damned hard. ‘Not hungry?’ I would say brightly. ‘Never mind.’
It was a Sunday when it all blew up. We were waiting for the pub to open and Len was grumpy because it was that bit later. It had been raining and so we’d been shut up in doors as well. Len was pacing up and down, annoyed with the both of us probably, me trying to do my best in the kitchen, Martin kicking his football against the bedroom wall. Opening time at the Haystack was still a good hour away. I should have been back looking after George but Len had asked me to stay on and give him a bit of company since Martin was being so difficult.
It started with the usual thing. Six o’clock and Martin refused his baked beans on toast. This time he did not even bother to pick up his knife and fork but stared ahead like he was simple.
‘Come on, Marty,’ I said. ‘It’s your favourite. I made it special because you’ve been feeling poorly. Speak to me. Tell me what’s wrong.’
His father said, ‘Come on, son. Eat it up. We can’t go on like this.’
Martin turned and looked at his father all innocent, as if Len was the one that was mad, but he still didn’t say anything.
‘Come on, don’t be silly.’
I could tell Martin was hungry because it was a Sunday and the sweet shop was closed. When I told people about it later, they said it was because he wanted attention. Well, he was certainly getting it now.
‘This is daft, son, daft.’
The boy just stared into space. He wouldn’t say anything. He wouldn’t even look at his father.
‘Come on … tell me why you won’t eat. Is there something wrong?’
Soon it would come, Len’s temper. I had not seen it for such a long time.
‘Why are you doing this? Come on, tell me. Why won’t you speak? Why won’t you eat? Tell me.’
Martin must have known that he could stop it at any point. All he had to do was to speak or to eat, but he just continued to stare down at the plate of food, refusing to look at either of us.
Then Len lost his rag. ‘Haven’t we had enough problems in this family? Why are you doing this to us? We haven’t done anything wrong. In fact, we’ve done everything for you. Everything, you little bastard.’
‘Len … don’t call him that,’ I said.
‘You’re a selfish, ungrateful little bastard. Do you hear me?’
‘Len …’
‘No, Vi, don’t protect him, his mother did that. I’ve had enough of this nonsense. After all we’ve done for you. Is this how you show your gratitude? Come on, tell me. Is this what you do? Perhaps I’m going deaf. Perhaps I can’t hear you. But Vi can’t either. Neither of us can. Because you’re a wilful, selfish, ungrateful little bastard.’
‘Len, he’s a child …’
‘I don’t care what he is. Come here.’
He pulled the chair out backwards so that Martin fell towards him and on to the floor. Then he caught his son by the back of his jumper and dragged him towards the door.
Instead of struggling Martin tried to make himself as heavy as possible, collapsing his weight so Len would have to work harder.
‘Don’t try that on me.’
Martin closed his eyes like he wasn’t in the room and let his body be turned on to its side and Len pulled him away out of sight.
‘Come on,’ he shouted. ‘Don’t think you can get away with all this rubbish. I’ve had enough and it’s going to stop right now.’