He Called Me Son (The Blountmere Street Series Book 1) Read online

  Barbara Arnold lives with her husband in Christchurch, New Zealand, where as well as writing novels, she teaches creative writing. She has two sons and nine grandchildren.

  He Called Me Son is her debut novel and the first in the trilogy The Blountmere Street Series, followed by The Best in Blountmere Street. The third novel in the trilogy is expected to be available early 2012.

  HE CALLED ME SON

  By

  Barbara Arnold

  Published by B. Arnold

  Copyright © Barbara Arnold 2011

  This book is based on some true events. However, it has been fictionalised and all persons appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any mean, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  eISBN 978-0-473-18641-8

  To Roger

  With my love for your belief in me

  Acknowledgements

  With profound thanks to all those who have had input into this novel. Writing can be a lonely craft and I am appreciative of your fellowship and encouragement.

  To my “Editor In Chief”, Caitlin, for helping me download, upload and often offload!

  To Simon Garner for his cover design.

  To Sid1, Flickr.com for the cover image.

  To Margaret, for her web design, and for being so patient with this queen of computer dummies.

  To Janet, for designing promotional material.

  Special thanks to Barbara, Bryan, Freda and Stuart, without whose input I would probably never have even begun this novel.

  My deep gratitude to editors: Judith, Gary, Aidan and Lisa.

  To all those in my writing classes over the years and my many friends and writing colleagues for spurring me on to finish this novel and, of course, to edit, edit, edit …

  To my sons, Simon and Nick for their unwavering support.….

  With special love and thanks to Gwen for her sometimes thrice-daily calls. Go well, my friend!

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  From the late 19th Century, Britain operated migration schemes which sent more than 100,000 children to Australia, New Zealand, Canada and other Commonwealth countries. These children did not travel with mothers or fathers but alone in groups. Taken from poverty and disadvantage, it was believed that they would have a better life working in the clean expanses of the British Empire where they were a source of much-needed labour.

  During the final period in which the British migration policy operated from 1947 to 1967, it is estimated 549 children, mainly between the ages of three and fourteen, were sent from the United Kingdom to New Zealand.

  Excerpts from House of Commons Health Third Report and Liverpool National Museum – Child Migration Exhibition.

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  London 1949

  I heard the sound of crockery as it hit the wall and The Old Man’s drunken bully-boy demands for food. There would be more dents in our cardboard-thin walls, and the grey roses on the wallpaper would be drooping even further on their stems. Worse, Mum’s face would be bruised and bleeding.

  I pulled the threadbare blanket over my head. In summer, it scratched and made my arms and legs itch. In winter, I had to double it to keep warm. I held my breath and curled myself into a ball. I could hear my sister Angela doing the same, pushing her head down further, so that if the Old Man came in, he wouldn’t be able to grab hold of her hair and drag her out of bed.

  I could hear a woman’s voice. The Old Man had brought another of his floosies home from the pub and was ordering Mum to feed her. The bedroom door opened with a telltale squeak and the light came on. I peeped through a hole in my blanket. Instead of the Old Man, a woman entered, bringing with her the smell of cheap perfume and gin. She crossed to me and pulled back my blanket. Her finger-nails, painted a gaudy red, penetrated its loose weave, tearing another hole. Her face looked as if it had been coloured with crayons, crimson circling her mouth, deep blue, violent around the eyes, bumpy lines along the eyebrows.

  ‘’eaven preserve us, what ‘ave we ‘ere? A couple of kiddy-winkies. I thought it was the lav. It might as well be; there ain’t much more in ‘ere.’ The woman bent closer to me and I pushed myself higher up the bed.

  ‘So Ted’s got a couple of sprogs. They always ‘ave.’

  The woman wore high heeled shoes. They tip-tapped on the floorboards as she crossed to Angela and whisked the blanket off. ‘Not so bad looking either. What’s yer names?’

  Angela stayed sulky and silent. The woman looked to me for an answer. I clamped my lips together.

  ‘’ave yer got tongues in yer heads, or ‘as the cat got ‘em?’

  ‘Clear off!’ Angela eyeballed her.

  ‘So you can talk.’ The woman traced a finger down Angela’s cheek. Angela shuddered and shoved her away.

  From the kitchen I heard the ring of metal on metal and Mum’s muffled pleas. It made me tremble inside, and I felt ashamed I couldn’t face up to the Old Man and rescue her.

  ‘Poor little perishers.’ The woman took a shilling from her purse and offered it to Angela, but Angela smacked it from her hand. It hit the floor with a clink and rolled under the bed.

  The woman shrugged and turned away.

  I heard our Old Man yell, ‘Come on, Bunty, there ain’t no grub ‘ere. Let’s get out of this ‘ole. The stench’s getting up me nostrils.’

  The woman put her finger to her lips as she tottered from our room. ‘It’s all right. ‘e won’t know I’ve been in ‘ere. Poor little perishers,’ she repeated, closing the door quietly behind her. ‘’Ere I am, Ted, just been to the lav. Fry you up an egg and a bit of bread at my place, all right loveykins.’

  I heard our Old Man lurching his way towards the stairs, stumbling, half falling down them. His final shot of, ‘I can promise yer one fing, I ain’t never comin’ back to this dump again,’ were welcome words.

  As soon as the front door banged shut, I flung myself out of bed and on to the floor. I ran my hands over the fluff-covered floorboards under the bed until I felt cold metal, and I scooped the shilling into my hand, tightening my fingers around it.

  ‘She gave it to me. It’s mine. Give it to me,’ Angela whined, already out of bed and standing over me. She grabbed a handful of my hair, pulled me to my feet, and tried to loosen my grip on the treasure.

  ‘It’s mine now,’ I said, elbowing her away.

  ‘Let’s go half each. Please, please.’

  I held on tight and ignored her. Suddenly I remembered Mum in the kitchen. She was probably trying to tidy herself up. A going-red-inside feeling burnt me up. I had thought of the bob before I had thought of her.

  I clutched it all night, and for the next two days, I held that bob tight, changing it from one hand to the other when it became sweaty. I didn’t put it down when I went to the lav, trying to cling to my willie with one hand and the coin with the other. Once I got my hands muddled. The shilling clinked into the pan, and I had to roll up my sleeve and fish it out. Having that bob made me feel rich.

  The following Monday at school I sat at my desk fingering the coin. It was sticky and stank of pee, but I didn’t care.

  After we’d recited the Lord’s Prayer, our teacher Mrs Colby began calling the class register, sort of singing our names
in alphabetical order. Fascinated, I stared at her face. I reckoned she had as many hairs sprouting from her chins as there were kids in the class. Some of the hairs curled upwards towards her nose, while one particularly coarse one like an electric wire wound its way past her throat in the direction of her chest.

  She began The List. ‘Those paying for school dinners come forward.’

  Alice Aborne - one shilling. Tick. Alice stepped up to Miss Colby’s desk and handed her a bob.

  Victor Acton – one shilling. Tick.

  Tony Addington - one shilling. Tick.

  Usually there were thirty five names, thirty five shillings, thirty five thick black ticks for kids who could afford to pay for their school dinners. But today there were thirty six. I was off the poor list, at last. I handed my shilling over. My shilling. I didn’t care if the dinners smelt and tasted like cold sick. I’d paid for them with my own shilling. I gave the coin a final pat before passing it to Mrs Colby. If I could, I would have thanked it out loud. I scrambled back to my desk next to Dobsie.

  ‘You off the Poor List?’ he whispered.

  ‘The Old Man’s cleared off, and Mum’s got herself a job. We’ve got money now.’

  I sang it in my head when I was in class, in the playground, on my way along Blountmere Street to the Gang’s Camp on the bombsite, opposite our flat. We’ve got money now.

  That afternoon at the camp, as usual Dobsie took charge of our game of cowboys and Indians. ‘I’m Hoppalong Cassidy. You can be Roy Rogers, Tony, and you can be Gene Autry, Herbie.’

  ‘What about me?’ Dennis asked.

  ‘You can be Gabby Hayes.’

  ‘But he’s old. He can’t blinkin’ walk, let alone ride a horse.’

  ‘D’you want to play or don’t you?’

  Dennis nodded grudgingly.

  Dobsie began to move stones. ‘Come and help me with these. We’ll pile ‘em up so we can hide behind ‘em and shoot at each other.’

  ‘What about Indians? We’ve got to have some Indians.’

  Dobsie considered for a moment. ‘Dennis can be an Indian as well as Gabby Hayes.’

  But Dennis had already gone off the idea. I had a suspicion he had been waiting for the chance to show off something he thought was pretty special. He pressed his lips together in a smug half smile and fiddled with something in his inside pocket. Then he brought out a crumpled copy of The Eagle which he spread on a moss-covered breezeblock. ‘Pinched it from Old Boy Barkers’ shop,’ he said, flicking over a couple of pages. ‘I nicked some liquorice while I was at it.’

  ‘How’d you do that? If Old Boy Barker isn’t watching you every flippin’ minute you’re in his shop, Ma Barker is.’

  ‘Quick as a wink; sleight of hand.’ Dennis held his palms flat to show they were empty, then twisting them together in a mysterious move, he put them behind his back and brought them to the front again. This time a stone sat in the middle of his hand.

  ‘Anyone with a bit of savvy can do that.’ Dobsie sniffed.

  ‘So why don’t you nick something then?’ Herbie asked.

  Dobsie drew in the dust with a stick. ‘Done it ‘undreds of times. Tony’s turn to nick them tomorrow. Fags and a couple of comics. Easy.’

  ‘I’ll nick ‘em. It don’t make no difference to me.’ I said, but all at once the bubbles that had been fizzing in my stomach all day flattened and disappeared, leaving me feeling like a glass of day-old Tizer. Even reading The Eagle wasn’t enough to keep me at the camp and the song in my head had gone.

  Making some excuse about Mum not being well, I shinned the wall behind the camp. With my hands in my pockets, I shuffled across the road to our flat. Yanking at the string around my neck, I pulled the key from under my jersey and opened the door, I bounded up the stairs two at a time, and barged into our kitchen. Mum and Angela were dishing Spam and potatoes onto our three remaining china plates. Mum had her vague far-away look. She looked sick. Her face was the colour of cheese and there were lines like pencil marks around her eyes. It made me feel scared.

  ‘Where d’you think you’ve been?’ Angela demanded.

  I pretended not to hear her and snatched at the plate with the most food. I took the plate to the table, plonked myself on a chair and began forking spud into my mouth. I saved the Spam until last. Spam was a treat. I swallowed it with gulping noises, in a hurry to get to Lori Lorimore next door to listen to Dick Barton, Special Agent on her wireless set.

  ‘I said, where’ve you been?’ Angela looked to Mum for support, but Mum kept her gaze directed on the door. I wondered if she might fly through it and far away.

  ‘Mind your own business.’ Mouth full, I spat bits of food onto the newspaper that covered the table. It had been there for days and greasy stains smudged the ink.

  ‘Why should I? ‘Cos I’m a girl I have to do everything round here. I can’t go out with my mates after school.’

  There was no way I was doing the washing up and that was flat, so I ignored Angela’s carry on and concentrated on scraping every last bit from my plate. It made Angela as mad as hell when I didn’t answer. I repeated the word hell to myself. Men who said hell could nick fags and comics without blinking.

  ‘Well! What’ve you got to say for yourself?’

  Nothing. So that’s what I said - nothing.

  ‘If you won’t open your stupid mouth, I’ll make you.’ Angela lunged across the table at me, grabbing the front of my shirt. ‘I’ll get you, you lazy little rat. I’m older than you, and I’ll get you.’

  ‘Be quiet, the pair of you and eat your tea.’ Mum rested her elbows on the table and held her head like she had a headache. She hadn’t touched her dinner and I wondered if she’d let me eat it. She was always going on about not wasting food.

  ‘It’s not fair. He doesn’t do anything. Tell him it’s his turn to do the washing up.’

  ‘It’s not. I’m going into Lori’s to listen to Dick Barton. She said I could.’

  ‘For once, you’ll have to stay home, won’t you?’ Angela struck her fork on the table. It made a tear in the newspaper.

  ‘Now don’t start getting upset again. We can wash up. It won’t take us long.’

  The way Mum was talking to Angela, she might as well have been toadying to the Old Man when he came back boozed. I hated it. It was fear rolled up in smarmy words.

  She pushed her plate with the untouched food towards me, limped outside to the scullery and filled the kettle. A rush of water juddered through the pipes. She brought three enamel mugs into the kitchen, and spooned condensed milk into them, putting a soothing spoonful into her own mouth.

  ‘But it’s not fair.’

  ‘But it’s not fair,’ I mimicked.

  ‘Will you two stop.’ Mum raised her voice, which was unusual for her. ‘It’s almost a quarter to seven, Tony. You’d better finish eating quickly and be getting next door.’

  ‘You always take his side. You never let me away with the things he does.’

  Mum didn’t answer. She hated quarrels. I wouldn’t mind betting she’d already taken off to the secret place in her head that was quiet and peaceful: somewhere our Old Man never existed, and where she didn’t have to struggle to buy a tin of Spam.

  When I got to her flat next door, Lori was already warming her wireless set. Like our kitchen, hers smelt of paraffin, but apart from two rickety chairs, the table and a sideboard propped up with books, our kitchen was bare. In Lori’s, there were photographs everywhere. They hung in rows on her walls, and covered the top of her sideboard; even round the skirting boards. And anywhere there was the smallest space she had tucked a cup, a bowl or some ornament. The thing that frightened me, though, was an alabaster dog that kept watch over the fireplace with its mouth wide open displaying jagged teeth. Its eyes were yellow and I didn’t like to turn my back on it for fear it would forget where it belonged and attack me.

  ‘Sit down, Tony, the programme’s about to begin.’ Lori indicated a bulging armchair and handed me a plate with two
chocolate biscuits on it. I stuffed the biscuits whole into my mouth, in case that dog got hold of them.

  ‘Dick Barton, Special Agent.’ Da de da, da de, da. As soon as I heard the announcement and the opening music, I fidgeted to the edge of the chair, and for the next quarter of an hour Dick Barton made me forget about nicking a few fags and a couple of comics.

  When the programme finished, Lori turned off the crackling wireless set. ‘I’ll make us a quick cup of tea, shall I?’

  Lori was a funny old biddy (that’s what Herbie called old women: biddies), with grey-blonde frizzled hair, and scarves she wore winter and summer trailing to the ground. But she was all right, really. If it hadn’t been for Lori, we might have starved. She probably gave Mum the Spam we had for tea.

  ‘Tea’s a funny thing. We see it as the solution to all our problems.’ Lori turned on the tap and filled the kettle, calling over the sound of moaning pipes. ‘I know people say it was those Americans and of course, dear Mister Churchill who got us through the War. I believe it was the good old British cuppa that kept our spirits up and gave the nation the willpower to keep going.’

  I got up, moved from my place in front of the wireless to the sideboard, and began picking up photographs: sepia ones of stern looking men and women, and solemn boys in sailor suits posing next to girls in long dresses with starched pinafores. Men with watches draped across their waistcoats stood to attention beside women in huge hats decorated with feathers. Why was it women in old photos always sat, while men stood? Perhaps it was supposed to show that men were stronger, although some of the women looked as if they could have gone a few rounds in a boxing ring and come out winning; they were a bit like Angela.