Blood Line: Sometimes Tragedy Is in Your Blood

It was a Saturday, which meant no school, which on a sunny day like this one meant his siblings would variously be scattered around the estate or, more usually, all together playing out back. There were so many of them now, they didn’t really need anyone else for fun. They were like a tribe now, the Hudson kids, everyone said so. Well, except for Margaret, who’d started seeing some toff from down south. Called Bob Sloper, he’d come to Bradford to stay with an aunt, his mam and dad having been worried about him staying down in Kent since the bombings. He was joining up any day soon, so they’d be making the most of their last days together. And Margaret would be a right narky cow once he’d gone.

‘Kids in the back garden, Mam?’ he asked Annie now.

‘They are, son,’ she said. ‘Can’t you hear them? Our Reggie’s got the tin bath off the hook and they’ve put some water in it to play in.’ She shook her head. ‘Been in and out all morning, our Brian and little Keith have. Little buggers, the pair of them. The ruddy floor’s wet through!’

Charlie laughed as he went through the house and into the garden. She was right. There was a soggy trail of tiny footprints all over the lino, which he dodged as he made his way to the back door. ‘Right,’ he said, scanning his siblings. ‘Reggie, Ronnie, Annie. Get your shoes on. And get your jumpers. You’re coming with me.’

The kids stopped what they were doing and looked excitedly at Charlie. He knew they loved it when they were allowed to go on adventures with him. ‘Me an’ all, Charlie?’ Annie asked him, as if not believing her luck.

‘You as well, Annie,’ he confirmed. ‘You’re eight now, aren’t you?’

‘Eight and a quarter,’ she corrected. ‘And why’d we need jumpers? It’s boiling.’

She was a sharp one, was Annie, Charlie mused. She’d go far. ‘Well, there you go, then,’ he said. ‘If you’re already eight and a quarter you should be earning your keep. And as for the jumpers …’ He tapped a finger against his nose.

‘Yeah, but she’s a girl,’ Ronnie pointed out.

‘Makes no difference,’ Charlie told him. ‘She’s like a bleedin’ boy, anyway.’

Annie puffed up with pride at this.

‘Can I come too then?’ June asked him hopefully. She was like Annie’s shadow.

Charlie shook his head. ‘Sorry, June. Too young for this one, I’m afraid. Besides, you gotta stay home and mind Brian and Keith, haven’t you?’

Little Keith stamped his foot. ‘I don’t need minding!’

‘Neither do I!’ Brian agreed.

By this time, the older three had run inside to dry their feet and get their shoes and jumpers anyway. ‘An’ you best stuff some paper in them,’ Charlie shouted after them. ‘It’s gonna be a long walk!’

Getting hold of sufficient clothing had always been an issue, but the war had made everything so much worse. The only time any of them got any extra clothes to wear was if Annie swapped one of her coupons for a pullover, or the odd pair of trousers. Everything was handed down, nothing was new, and nothing ever fit any of them properly. But they were so used to dressing like orphans out of some grim Dickens books that they didn’t much notice, let alone mind.

Shoes were harder, though. Having holes in the soles was always an issue, and though in the drier months it could be addressed by the use of a little creative padding, come the winter Charlie knew it would be a different matter.

Right now, however, his three siblings couldn’t care less. They were going on an adventure with Charlie and when he explained to them what it was they were going to be doing they were over the moon. It also became clear why they’d been invited along. ‘It’s cos we’re small, isn’t it?’ Annie said, as they left the estate and began making their way across the fields. ‘Cos we can wriggle into small spaces and you can’t,’ she said proudly.

‘It’s exactly that,’ Charlie agreed. ‘And it’s a very important job. You’ve got to be quiet too, mind,’ he added, anxious for them not to become too over-excited.

‘So no giggling or screaming,’ Reggie added, ‘or you won’t be coming again.’

It took around an hour to get to the place Charlie had already decided was the best option; what felt like miles and miles beyond the fields that abutted Canterbury, and further still, through other estates and unfamiliar streets. It was an area that had even Charlie momentarily short on chat, even though he’d already done a recce.

A suburb called Manningham, this part of Bradford felt like a completely foreign land, it was that different to what they knew. Consisting of wide avenues of huge houses, all of them three or four storeys high, it was the colour and brightness that was really arresting; with the sun shining down on lush flower-filled gardens and winking off fancy iron gates.

They clustered at the entrance of the walkway they’d emerged from. The houses round here ran in parallel streets, mostly, with pathways between blocks of houses at intervals. These led to a network of other, hidden pathways that ran along the backs of all the gardens. They were big gardens, too, and the pathways were usually empty, so it was from here that they could pinch the fruit unseen. ‘Ooh!’ Annie said, wide-eyed as she stared at the elegant homes around her, ‘is this where the rich folk live?’

Reggie took his sister’s hand and grinned. ‘It sure is. Them in there,’ Reggie said, pointing to the biggest of the houses, ‘they’re the rich baddies, and us, we’re the outlaws who have to sneak in and take some of their fruit.’

‘Like Robin Hood?’ Annie asked.

Charlie laughed. ‘Yes, Annie, just like Robin Hood. Only we’re going to skip the bit about giving it to the poor and just concentrate on the robbin’.’

The older boys both stifled laughs at this. Then they each grabbed the hand of a smaller sibling, and led them round the backs, where, with any luck, there would be rich pickings for all.

Having checked there was no one around, Charlie was soon over the first wall. After which Reggie, who would remain stationed on the other side, passed first Ronnie and then Annie over. The next stage was for Charlie to simply lift the younger ones above his shoulders so that one could knock the fruit down for the other to collect on the jumpers they’d removed and placed on the grass near the wall.

They worked silently, swiftly and systematically. And by the time they’d covered half the houses Charlie had earmarked as possibilities, the sack was full to overflowing with apples. There were plums, too – even though a woman with a broom had chased them off, they’d managed to get away with an impressive haul.

They were chased some more, too, by a dog – thankfully only a small one – and by a man with a pink face and a bald shiny head, who’d come roaring from his house and only narrowly missed getting hold of Charlie’s leg as he scaled the man’s fence.

‘You thieving little blighters!’ he yelled, as the four of them scampered away. ‘I’ll be getting the police on the lot of you, just you wait!’

He’d have a job, Charlie thought, as they retraced their route back through the maze of pathways. They were lush and green, the scent of cow parsley hanging thickly in the air. But he made them keep running till they were a good mile away, before hauling the sack off his shoulders and letting them stop and get their breath back. ‘What’s a blighter?’ Annie wanted to know as she munched on what was probably her sixth or seventh plum.

‘Like a bleeder,’ he said. ‘But one who’s going to have a bellyache come the morning.’

Charlie operated his fruit runs as often as he thought he could get away with it, widening his area of procurement with each new recce. He was making good money and he loved the way he was making it, not to mention loving being able to slip his mam a shilling here and there, for which she was always very grateful.

It didn’t sit so well with his dad, though. He’d tried a couple of times, trying to offer him a few bob for a night out – making a contribution to the family finances, was how he saw it – but, now as ever, his dad never had anything good to say about it.

‘Leave it on the shelf if you’re giving it away,’ he growled at Charlie one night. ‘I suppose you think it makes you clever, does it? Well, it doesn’t, lad, okay? Don’t think I don’t know where you get it from.’

Charlie balked at this. Like his father was so bleeding law-abiding himself? No, he wasn’t – he just couldn’t stand the thought of being in Charlie’s debt. And knowing that was the way he saw it cut Charlie to the quick. But he didn’t argue. He didn’t dare. So he just left the money where he was told. But as he did so he vowed to himself that it would be the last time he ever gave his dad anything. Still, it gnawed at Charlie. Made him feel sickened and sad.

Did he really hate Charlie that much? It seemed so. And if that were so, then Charlie was done with trying to change his mind. In future, if he was inclined to share any of his spoils with anyone, it would be his mam and his brothers and sisters, and that was all.

The war might have been hard, but it gave as well as taking away, opening up all sorts of possibilities for making money, which Charlie was only too happy to exploit.

As well as fruit-picking, he found he also had a talent for ratting, a skill that was currently in great demand. Bradford was a mill town, first and foremost, its skyline punctured not only by the scores of factory chimneys, but also by the plumes of black smoke that spewed from them. And they were factories mostly built in another era, and the elderly buildings were riddled with rats.

Charlie had killed rats and mice since he was a kid, and not just to be useful, either. He killed vermin for fun. He loved to know he had the power to sneak up on them when others couldn’t, upon which he’d usually batter them to death with a spade. Which again made him popular and much in demand locally, and as his reputation spread and he became known as ‘Tucker Hudson, the Ratter’ local factory bosses tracked him down and wanted to hire him.

The genius, as ever, was in the simplicity. Having agreed to quote for the job, Charlie would turn up and assess the extent of a factory’s needs, then, having agreed a price, return to do the job itself. He’d come back prepared, carrying a box of the necessary equipment and poisons, which would be deployed only once the workers had safely gone and the factory was closed.

The box of poisons was, in fact, empty. Having the run of a place, unsupervised, Charlie would then proceed to fill it – helping himself to fabric remnants, knickers, sacks – whatever the factory produced, really – in quantities that were unlikely to be missed. He would then go on and kill just enough rats with his spade to ensure he had a sack full of dead vermin to show the bosses, before going on to sell his haul either in the pub or around the estate.

For all that he was thriving, however – what with his fruit runs, his ratting and, his main love, his boxing – Charlie still felt like he was living on borrowed time. They’d had one big air raid since moving into the house and it had really brought it home to him how real it was all becoming. As they crammed into the Anderson shelter – the family, and as many of the neighbours as could squeeze in – he realised it was probably only a matter of time before he was called up to fight for his country.

He wasn’t afraid – he was afraid of nothing – and he also knew he’d be able to box, but it was an irritation he could do without. He liked being his own man. Doing what he liked, when he liked, and what he didn’t like was the thought of being answerable to anyone else. His dad was the only fellow who had any say in what he did, and he didn’t even like that. Not at all.

That late August night, as they’d taken cover from whatever the Germans were sending over, Reggie Snr – Big Reggie to his friends – had been drunk. Charlie could still visualise the scene – all the little ones scrabbling to get as close as possible to their mam, terrified by the sirens, terrified by the sound of shelling, terrified by the dark, terrified by the smell.

The adults did their best to lighten the atmosphere and chase the fears away for the children, belting out songs they still remembered from back in the last war, taught them by their own parents, in an impromptu sing-along.

Pack up your troubles in an old kit-bag,

And smile, smile, smile,