The Family

‘’Course they’re bothered,’ Robert muttered. ‘Only it won’t be till they’ve sobered up that they’ll remember it.’ From his superior height he cast a look at the top of his brother’s wiry dark curls, glistening with droplets from the November night air. ‘Want a drink?’ he asked in an attempt to cheer Stephen up. ‘I mean a proper drink, not another sup of shandy.’

Stephen shook his head then let his chin drop towards his chest. He stuffed his icy fingers into his pockets to warm them.

‘I’m gettin’ one,’ Robert stated confidently. The door to the saloon bar was within arm’s reach, but he stayed where he was. Much as he would have liked to enter and buy himself an ale, he wasn’t old enough to be served; besides, he had no money. It would have been easy enough to cadge one off somebody, but right now he couldn’t stir up the cheek to do it. Hearing his name called, he raised a lethargic hand in greeting as two young women emerged from the twilight, huddled in their coats. Alice and Bethany Keiver were their cousins, and their friends.

‘Had enough in there with that rowdy lot?’ Alice asked gently, putting an arm about Stevie’s slumped shoulders. She offered no more words of sympathy; she and her sisters had given the boys enough support earlier that day. Having only recently lost people they loved to the Great War, the Keivers knew that pity, however well meant, should have its limits. But Alice’s voice throbbed with emotion when she suggested, ‘Why don’t you both come up the station with us and see Sophy off?’ She cocked her head, waiting for an answer. ‘We’re going to fetch little Luce and let her come with us. It’s way past her bedtime.’ She grinned, thinking how excited her seven-year-old sister would be about going out with the grown-ups so late at night. ‘Come on,’ Alice urged, ‘Sophy’s catching her train in about half an hour.’

Sophy, the eldest of the Keiver girls, was in service in Essex. She’d travelled down yesterday, but her employer was not prepared to give her more than a day’s leave to see her Aunt Fran laid to rest, so she had promised to return within hours of the funeral.

‘Yeah, it’ll give you both something to do. Take your minds off things. We can get some chips on the way back,’ Bethany encouraged. ‘You hungry, Stevie?’ she asked brightly.

He shook his head, snorting back a sob.

‘We’re all right,’ Robert said gruffly. ‘Goin’ off home soon in any case.’ This was a lie. Neither he nor Stevie wanted to return to the dank, depressing room in Campbell Road where they lived. Better to loiter on the corner of Fonthill Road, breathing in air so cold it glassed their throats, than return to a place where their mum’s whispering presence seemed to melt into every shadow.

‘Best be off then,’ Alice murmured and the two sisters walked on arm in arm in the direction of Campbell Road, heads down against the drifting mist.

Stephen raised his bloodshot eyes to Robert’s face. ‘What we gonna do now Mum’s gone?’ he croaked.

‘Same as we did before,’ Robert returned. ‘No, that ain’t right,’ he corrected himself with a bleak smile. ‘I’ll be doin’ the same as before, but you won’t.’ His tone grew bitterly ironic. ‘Come Monday morning, you’ll be out o’ school and knockin’ yer guts out down the market, same as me. I was thirteen when I started work, so it ain’t gonna kill you, doin’ the same. We’re going to need every penny we can get to pay the rent and get fed now Mum’s not around, so you’ve gotta do your bit.’

‘But I ain’t thirteen,’ Stevie whimpered.

‘Soon will be. You’re close enough.’

At this, Stevie’s fragile composure crumbled and he started sobbing again, head hanging between his hunched shoulders.

‘Bawlin’ ain’t gonna help,’ Robert said quietly. He’d learned young to control his tears. His lash-happy father had taught him that all crying got you was something else to howl about.

The saloon door suddenly swung outward and Robert dodged nimbly aside to avoid a blow from its iron handle.

‘Wondered where the pair of you had got to. What you doing out here all on yer own?’ Tilly Keiver asked in her whiskey-grizzled voice. ‘Come back inside. It’s bleedin’ freezin’ by this doorway.’ She tilted her head to examine her youngest nephew’s blotchy face. ‘Come on, Stevie, mate,’ she encouraged him, putting a red-raw hand on one of his shoulders. Through the rough fabric of his coat she gave his thin frame a squeeze. ‘Yer mum’s watchin’ over you, y’know. She wouldn’t want you so upset on her account.’ Tilly’s voice had thickened with emotion and she blinked as heat blurred her eyes. She’d been very close to her sister and had been distraught when the Spanish flu had finally overcome her. Fran had put up a fight for almost a month, but it had come as no surprise when she’d grown too weak to battle on. In a way it had been a blessing to see her suffering at an end.

Putting her lips close to Robert’s ear, she whispered conspiratorially, ‘Let’s get the two of yers a little summat to warm the cockles, shall we?’

Robert recoiled slightly as her alcoholic breath wafted across his face. But he smiled. He could do with a bevy, all right. Despite being a good height and well built for his fourteen years, the publicans around the Islington area knew him and his family well; they knew how old he was and would only serve him on the sly now and again when they were feeling friendly. When he could afford it, Robert frequented hostelries further afield.

‘Get yerselves sat down by the window, outta sight.’ Tilly pointed to a bench and the two brothers slid obediently on to its smooth shiny surface and watched their aunt disappear into the thick atmosphere. The pub was packed with mourners, yet few had bothered to turn to acknowledge them this time. The wake had been going on for hours and most people were too far gone to remember the poor orphan lads they’d consoled at the cemetery that afternoon, then later when they’d all first filed soberly into the saloon bar. Robert had known what was behind their crooning voices and sad smiles as he received hugs and handshakes from one and all.

Poor sods, they’d all been thinking, they’re orphans, even if they are almost grown and one of them already out earning. Stevie’s going to be a burden on Rob if he don’t toughen up. What a family! Their old man was a wrong ’un and did them all a turn by going missing during the war. But now Fran Wild’s kids have got no mum, no money, and no nothing … except one another.

As they’d offered up their pity, and their silent prayers that such bad luck might pass their own kids by, Robert had stared into their eyes, and known exactly what was going through their minds. He’d made himself a promise: by the time he was twenty, they’d be looking at him in a different light. And if there was an afterlife, and his mum was watching over him and Stevie, for the first time in her miserable existence she’d be feeling happy and proud. He’d make sure of that.

ONE

Early June 1927

‘Gawd help us! Thought you was dead. Everybody thinks yer dead, y’know.’

‘Well … I ain’t …’ Teeth tightened against his lips, the sallow-faced fellow gestured that further explanation wasn’t going to be forthcoming and yanked his arm free of the woman’s restraint. He’d been on the point of buying a baked potato from a trader when she’d accosted him. Now he grabbed his thrupenny bit back from the merchant and dropped the hot tater on to the tray. Eyes darting to and fro, he retreated from the stall then turned to barge a path through the crowd thronging Dartford marketplace.

‘’Course you’d know yer wife got sick ’n’ died, God rest her soul. Spanish flu, it was.’ The woman doggedly pursued him, dodging past limbs in an attempt to catch up. ‘But then the two of yers had been livin’ apart for some while, hadn’t you?’ she shouted in his wake, puffing along with her shopping bag of vegetables banging against a stout leg. She angled her head to read his reaction. Her expression betrayed a mixture of fascination and horror as it clung to his back. In common with a lot of people, she’d been secretly pleased to assume that this nasty individual’s disappearance had been due to him pushing up daisies.

‘Nice to see you, Lou.’ The remark was delivered over a shoulder in a scathing tone. ‘But I’ve gotta be off.’ He continued barging his way through the crowd, uncaring of the pained grunts of those he elbowed aside.

‘Yer youngest lad’s getting wed soon. Yer oldest boy’s done all right fer himself.’ Lou Perkins had given up the chase and stood wheezing and wondering how on earth she’d recognised him. It was close to ten years since she’d seen him, but he looked twenty years older and, from the crater in one of his cheeks, appeared to have been in the wars. But for having noticed the snake tattoo on one of his naked forearms, and thinking it looked familiar, she might not have bothered to peer again at his grizzled face. ‘Got houses, ’n’ a car too, he has …’ Her voice tailed off as he vanished into the throng. She shook her head in mute amazement. She’d only made the trip to Dartford to give her sister a hand. The poor cow had knocked out five nippers in seven years and was due to drop the sixth at any moment. Lou was a dab hand at helping babies into the world. In fact, she recalled trying to help that fellow’s wife give birth to her third child. It had been a tragedy when the little girl had finally been delivered stillborn after a long labour. She continued staring although he was lost to view. Had she been able to pursue him she’d have seen the fellow dodge down an alley and come to a stop, a decidedly foxy smile crinkling features that moments before had been resentfully set. Knowing him the way she did, she’d have realised that it was learning about Robert’s flash lifestyle, rather than Stephen’s forthcoming wedding that had brought about the transformation.

Lou started to trudge back through the market place. She’d come out for a breather and to do a bit of shopping for the kids’ teas. Now she wished she was heading back to Islington straight away instead of in a fortnight’s time. She reckoned when she did return the tale she’d got to tell would keep her in drinks in the Pooles Park Tavern for a couple of months at least. Jimmy Wild might look like death warmed up, but he was definitely very much alive! What a turn-up!

Ten days later

‘Coming back inside?’

‘Just finish this and I will.’ Robert Wild drew deeply on his cigarette. He turned to face his brother, head tilted back as a smoke ring escaped his lips to drift towards the sky. ‘Happy?’

‘Yeah, course … me wedding night, ain’t it?’ Stevie grinned. ‘Ain’t a man alive who wouldn’t be happy, knowing he’s got that to look forward to.’

‘Yeah …’ Robert’s smile was rather wry; they both knew the wedding night had come early. Robert hoped the kid wouldn’t too. That’d give every gossiping old biddy a field day in around six months’ time. He loosened his collar to let air to his damp throat. It was mid-June and despite the lateness of the hour the sultry heat felt as unbearable as it had at noon. The twilight had not properly descended and above their heads stars sparkled faintly in a sky still blue.

Robert extended the packet of Players that had been idly cradled in a fist. His brother withdrew one, stuck it between his lips and struck a match.

‘Got to thank you for all this …’ Stevie started gruffly, staring at the glowing ash between his fingers. ‘Me ’n’ Pam know we owe you a lot.’ He shuffled and stuck his free hand in the pocket of his tailored jacket, ruining the lines of his smart bridegroom’s outfit. ‘She’s sent me out to look for you and bring you back inside. She wants me to do a speech in there saying thanks and so on in front of everyone.’ A backwards flick of his head indicated the Duke of Edinburgh pub, where his wedding reception had been underway for some time in a private room with trestle tables groaning under platters of delicious food and a free bar until ten o’clock.

There was more grub on display this evening than Stevie reckoned he’d put away over his twenty years. But then being hungry had been part and parcel of his and Robert’s childhood, so at first he’d reasoned that he might not be qualified to judge whether it was a proper feast. He’d listened to his wife’s parents – who claimed to be of good stock although they were so tight-fisted you’d think they didn’t have a pot to piss in – gawping awestruck at the spread as though plucking up the courage to dive in. Stephen had smiled to himself and in a deliberately loud voice encouraged them to fill their boots.

Robert had paid for everything, right down to the bride and bridesmaid’s dresses and the flowers. His in-laws might think they were a class above, but they’d never found the manners to offer a contribution to the cost of marrying off their daughter. Considering her condition, if they’d put off until her old man prised open his wallet they’d have been celebrating a christening before the wedding. Not, of course, that the old miser knew that his little princess was up the spout.

‘Come back inside or she’ll be nagging me for the rest of the night …’

‘No need for any of that,’ Robert cut him off. He ground the stub of his cigarette underfoot. ‘You already thanked me enough, and I told you – you don’t owe me. It’s your wedding present.’ He smiled. ‘Saved me a job traipsing round in Gamages looking for a vase.’ He strolled towards the pub entrance and raised his voice to be heard over the cacophony from within. ‘Still time for a few bevvies before chucking-out time.’

The brightly lit pub seemed to rock on its foundations with the wedding guests’ roistering. They’d been at it for several hours and would probably continue for several more before the landlord called time. A piano was being bashed fit to shatter the keys and a female voice was warbling at full volume. Beyond the frosted glass, the heads of dancing couples waltzed by.

‘Ever think of Dad?’

Robert stopped dead and turned. Even though he’d been gone from their lives almost ten years now, the mention of Jimmy Wild had the power to tilt his guts. He came back towards Stevie so they could converse in a normal tone rather than holler at one another across the pavement.

‘Never give the shit a thought,’ he lied. ‘You?’

‘Dreamed of him last night,’ Stevie said hoarsely. He smiled diffidently. ‘Can’t put it out of me mind. We was all back in The Bunk. You, me, Mum, all of us. Number twenty-seven, it was. It was morning and we was getting ready for school and he’d given Mum a good hiding over something; then he started on me ’cos he checked the sheets and knew I’d wet the bed.’ He gave a self-conscious chuckle. ‘Then Aunt Til come barging in, Uncle Jack ’n’ all. Old Til started squaring up to Dad and he slunk off out, like he always did … like butter wouldn’t melt …’

For a moment there was a protracted quiet as both men recalled how often that scene had been played out in their early years. Robert slung an arm about Stevie’s shoulders. ‘That ain’t a dream, mate, that’s a nightmare. And it’ll be down to the amount of booze you knocked back on your stag night.’ With an attempt at drollery he added, ‘But you’re sober now. Sweet dreams from now on.’

‘Yeah …’ Stevie said, but he sounded unconvinced.

‘Look, I know your wedding day’s a time for reflecting. But there’s better things to think about than getting a hidin’ off that bastard ’cos you wet the bed when you was little.’ Robert patted his brother’s shoulder. ‘If you’ve got to reminisce, think about how happy Mum’d be to see you togged out in all yer duds and how she’d love to know her first grandchild’s on the way too.’

Stevie blinked in alarm. ‘Not so loud! It’s supposed to be a secret,’ he muttered, glancing about for eavesdroppers. ‘Pam’s still not told her folks. Bleedin’ good job she’s not yet got a belly on her.’