‘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