Cockney Orphan (5 page)

‘We won’t know who they are,’ Connie pointed out, ‘till Vic finds them.’

Kevin quirked an eyebrow. ‘Vic, eh?’

Connie rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t you start.’

‘So you was with Sylvie last night, was you, bruv?’ Billy asked, and everyone stared at Kevin.

‘Well yes, sort of.’

‘And what’s that supposed to mean? Was it just the two of you in the shelter?’ Olive asked directly.

‘No, Sylvie’s auntie and two cousins were with us.’

‘I’m relieved to hear it.’ Olive folded her arms. ‘Now, as we’re all back together again, we had better decide what to do tonight if those planes come
back.’

‘Chances of another raid are strong.’ Ebbie nodded.

‘Then we’ll all go to the public shelter together.’

‘I’d rather stay here,’ Billy protested gloomily.

‘No you won’t, young man,’ his mother insisted. ‘You’ll come with me to Tiller Road. I like to be with other people, I feel safer.’

‘Why doesn’t Dad take you along, Mum? Me and the boys can stay here. After all, Dad got the Anderson all ready for us.’ Connie didn’t care for the small garden shelter,
but it was preferable to a public one and would be bearable if her brothers were with her.

‘I’m going over to Sylvie’s shelter,’ Kevin objected, spoiling that particular plan.

‘Well, I’m sorry, but I’m not for it,’ Olive decided. ‘We’re a family and families stick together.’

Ebbie sighed, holding up his hands. ‘Tell you what, kids. Give Tiller Road a chance, for your mother’s sake. Then, if any of you have a serious objection on your stay there,
we’ll give it serious consideration tomorrow.’

Reluctantly Kev nodded his approval as did Billy. None of them wanted to upset their mother. Connie gazed down at the baby. She didn’t like the thought of a public shelter at all. But she
didn’t want to be left on her own either. Not that she would be if she stayed. She would have – Lucky! She looked at the baby’s smiling face. It was not just herself she had to
consider now. She was in charge of another little soul, albeit temporarily.

Most of her friends from school had married, very often their first boyfriends. When invited round to their houses, she had wondered how they managed, kids and grown-ups alike all thrown
together in a couple of rooms.

She would be nineteen next year and had no ring on her finger. Much to her mother’s dismay, she was determinedly pursuing a career. Hadn’t Mr Burns told her that she was
indispensable? Dalton’s Import, Storage and Transport Services was a well-regarded name. She wanted a future without the threat of poverty that had blighted her own parents’ lives and
those of nearly everyone else on the Isle of Dogs.

It might be a dream, but she would rather have a dream than a failure, where the glamour soon wore off and a girl was trapped for the rest of her life.

‘Connie?’ Her mother’s voice made her start.

‘Yes, Mum?’

‘That child’s going red in the face.’

‘What does that mean?’

The room erupted in laughter, followed by an awful pong.

There was no let up for the East End that night. The bombers returned, wave after wave, dropping their lethal cargoes over the docks. Connie had no chance to wash the baby
properly or invent a crib. As the siren sounded the warning, the drone of aircraft followed.

‘Right, we make a dash for it, all together,’ Ebbie shouted and everyone dropped what they were doing. ‘Bring your gas masks and a blanket each, and, Connie, let me hold the
baby whilst you get him ready.’

Ten minutes later, breathless and flushed, the Marshes were being herded like sheep into the public shelter in Tiller Road. Connie made up her mind as she was pushed and shoved and forced to
create a shield around the baby with her arms that this would be her one and only night here. It was far worse than she had imagined. Not even the Anderson could be as bad as this. The crush of
bodies, the lack of privacy and the unpleasant smells were enough to make her appreciate the shelter at home.

When the noise of the bombing became unbearable a man began to sing, or rather yell. Others chimed in. Connie knew people were terrified and were trying to cover their fear. But the nervous,
false singing only made things worse. Squashed as they were on benches, chairs and mats on the ground, the shelter was starved of oxygen. She tried to feed Lucky from Doris’s bottle, but her
hands jumped as the explosions shook the ground underneath them. All night, she rocked him or pressed him against her, trying to comfort him. Between Jerry and the internal unrest, morning
couldn’t arrive too soon for Connie. When day broke, she was almost too exhausted to move.

‘You’ve got work at half past eight,’ Olive reminded her as they packed up their belongings and struggled into daylight. ‘What are you going to do with the
child?’

Connie had been hoping her mother would volunteer her help. ‘I don’t know, Mum.’

‘Well, it’s obvious isn’t it? I’ll have to look after him. But you must ask Mr Burns for time off so that you can take him to the Welfare people tomorrow. I’m
sorry, he’s a nice little chap, but he isn’t our responsibility. And anyway, I’m sure they’ll soon turn up a relative or two.’

The glimmer of hope that Connie had been cherishing now extinguished. Without her mother’s help, she couldn’t look after the baby. Her work came first.

The Marshes were silent as they turned the corner of Kettle Street. No one knew what they would find. But good news met them in the form of Nan, who was sweeping the glass and tiles from the
pavement outside her house.

‘You’re back safely!’ she cried excitedly. ‘Well, you’ll be pleased to know we’re all in one piece. Our house, yours, the whole street.’

Connie saw the tears of relief glisten in her mother’s eyes. Even her brothers started running towards home, punching each other playfully as they went.

Number thirty-three was a welcome sight. Connie walked towards it, wondering how she was going to get through Monday when she felt so tired. More than anything she wanted to curl up in her nice
warm bed and sleep. Her body felt battered, her neck and face stiff, her arms bruised where she’d held Lucky for so long. But she was still breathing and that was what counted.

An hour later, she was hurrying down Kettle Street, dressed in her working clothes. Her naturally wavy blond hair was drawn up at the sides and pinned in a neat roll over her forehead. The white
blouse and skirt beneath her coat were regulation wear for the office and her shoes sturdy heeled brogues. The stockings that she had preserved so carefully were now past their prime, but Mr Burns
held high standards of dress for his staff and Connie always made certain she observed them.

As she turned into Westferry Road, a tall figure hurried towards her. Vic Champion cut a handsome figure in daylight, his dark and now dustless hair slicked back across his head. His shoulders
looked even wider under the smart, single-breasted, grey and tan checked overcoat.

‘Vic, what are you doing here?’

‘Looking for you. I’ve brought these.’ He handed her a brown paper parcel. ‘From Pat. The baby’s dry clothes.’

‘Oh, thanks, but I’m on my way to work. Mum’s looking after the baby today.’

He took her arm. ‘Where do you work?’

‘At Dalton’s, the transport people.’

‘My car’s round the corner. I’ll drive you there.’

‘You have a car?’

He nodded. ‘I don’t know for how much longer though. What with the petrol so short.’

A few minutes later, she was being chauffeured in a comfortable green Austin to her place of work. She hadn’t been in a car since her driving lessons last year. After Britain declared war
on Germany, she had taken ten lessons with an elderly instructor from Poplar who offered his services free as a contribution to the war effort. Connie wanted to help her country if necessary, by
enlisting, with driving as one of her skills. But Mr Burns had persuaded her out of it, remarking dryly that the work she was doing was more important, if a little less glamorous. And as there were
very few cars on the roads due to the petrol rationing, it seemed to have been a pointless exercise.

Vic drove them through the cluttered streets, his big hands capably steering the vehicle. There were few other motorists about, mainly fire engines and their crews and lorries being piled high
with debris. He made several detours as roads were too obstructed to pass. The East End was waking up to the next round of clearance, cleaning, and fighting innumerable fires.

‘Where do you work?’ she asked curiously.

‘Wapping, in the PLA offices. Have done since I left school. Dead boring really, but it pays well.’

‘That’s important,’ Connie acknowledged.

‘It’s a respectable job, as Gran would say. It was her who pushed me into it. She said it would be a waste to work on the merchant ships, which is what I wanted to do. Not that I
hope to be there much longer. I’ve put in for the navy.’

‘Yes, Pat said.’ Connie frowned. ‘Have you always lived with your Gran?’

‘Since we were kids.’ He nodded. ‘Mum and Dad died when we were young.’

‘That must have been awful.’

‘It would have been without Gran. Which reminds me, I made enquiries at our post about the baby’s mother. The tenant of the house was a Miss Elsie Riding, an elderly spinster, who
lived alone. She also died during that raid – her body was found quite close to the girl. As for the people in the house next door, luckily they evacuated last month. There was only one
woman, a few doors along, who had noticed a young girl going in and out of Elsie’s. She didn’t know who she was. Apparently Elsie kept herself to herself.’

‘There must have been some identification. Everyone carries a bag, or papers of some kind.’

‘Nothing that our blokes have found yet.’

‘But who could she be, then?’

‘I’ll check the list each day. It’s updated after each raid, so someone of her description and the baby’s might turn up. How’s Laughing Boy, by the way?’

‘Dad suggested we call him Lucky and it’s sort of caught on.’ Connie smiled as Vic stopped the car outside Dalton’s. ‘Thanks for the lift.’

‘My pleasure.’ He grabbed her wrist as she went to get out. ‘Connie, are you free on Saturday?’

‘Why?’ she asked stupidly.

‘We could go for a drive.’ He laughed shyly. ‘Though with the raids as they are, I appear to be asking you out at the worst possible time in history.’

‘I’ve got to work in the morning,’ she said quietly.

‘The afternoon then. About two?’

She nodded. ‘I’ll wait on the corner.’

He was still smiling as he drove off, leaving Connie to wonder if he really had just asked her out on an official date.

The tall wooden gates of Dalton’s Import, Storage and Transport Services were still intact, as was the huge wharf-side warehouse behind them. The transport department
where Connie worked was located to the rear and she hurried there eagerly amidst the early morning rush.

The faces that looked at one another held expressions of surprise and joy, as colleagues hugged, patted backs and even shook hands at the fact they were still alive. Amongst them was
Connie’s best friend, Ada Freeman, a slim young woman with long auburn hair who pushed her way through the throng to grab Connie in a warm embrace.

They hugged and linked arms as they made their way to the shipping office. They had so much to tell one another that they didn’t at first see their boss, Alfred Burns, inspecting his
watch.

‘Good morning, Connie . . . Ada.’ He nodded as they filed by, giving them a businesslike smile, as usual.

‘Good morning, Mr Burns,’ they chorused, also as usual.

‘A nice morning, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Mr Burns.’

‘Glad to see you in.’

It was not surprising to Connie that her manager’s last remark was his only concession to the previous thirty-six hours of high drama. Even the bombing had not altered his routine or the
expression on his deadpan face. Short and dapper in his pinstriped suit and waistcoat, he kept his finger firmly on the pulse of the shipping office. Connie was thankful that her little world at
work had not been disrupted, even by the Luftwaffe.

She wanted to tell Ada all about Vic and Lucky, but by the time they were sitting on their tall stools and facing their ledgers and typewriters on the narrow shelf they both worked on, Leonard
English, the head clerk, was doing the rounds. After loudly allotting them their instructions for the day, he lowered his voice to a whisper.

‘Are you both all right?’

‘Yes, thanks, Len.’ Connie smiled as she opened her ledger, blowing away the dust that seemed to have covered the entire planet since the bombing began. ‘What about you and
your mum?’

He gave a little shrug, his thin face and pale blue eyes wearing a perpetually hungry expression. Connie always felt he deserved a good meal. Len lived with his eccentric mother, who was now the
topic of his conversation. ‘Mother didn’t approve of last night at all,’ he said soberly, as the girls tried not to laugh. ‘She’s thinking of complaining.’ He
gave them a droll smile. ‘I told her to go ahead, I’d pay her ticket to Berlin. And you know what?’

‘What?’ both girls whispered.

‘She accepted.’

The giggles were rife as Mr Burns glanced up from his desk. ‘Everything all right over there, Mr English?’

‘Yes, thank you, Mr Burns.’ Len gave them a wink and said in an exaggerated voice, ‘We’ll get on with the processing of goods, Miss Freeman, Miss Marsh. The bargees will
be assessing their loads before the weigh-in. We’ll carry on as normal and if there are any, er . . . disturbances, the cellars below are open to staff. Now, who is going down to meet the
deliveries?’

‘It’s me this week, Mr English,’ Ada said in a high-pitched, squeaky voice that almost had Connie hooting again.

‘Very good.’ Len leaned over their ledgers in pretence of scrutiny. ‘See you girls in the canteen.’

When he had gone, Connie glanced at her friend sitting a few feet away. Ada was still trying not to laugh, her green eyes sparkling as she kept her hand over her mouth. Connie did the same and
looked away. Exhaustion, relief, disorientation and fear were to blame for their heightened states, and in Connie’s case a tingling anticipation of Saturday.