Ken McCoy was born in wartime Leeds and has lived in Yorkshire all his life. For twenty-five years he ran his own building and civil engineering company. During this time he also worked as a freelance artist, greeting card designer and after-dinner entertainer. He has appeared on television, radio and as a comedian on the Leeds City Varieties’ Good Old Days.

Writing is now Ken’s first love – not counting of course his wife Valerie, to whom he has been married since 1973. He has five children and twelve grandchildren.

www.kenmccoy.co.uk

Also by Ken McCoy:

Jacky Boy

Catch a Falling Star

Cobblestone Heroes

Two Rings for Rosie

Change for a Farthing

Cleopatra Kelly

Hope Street

COPYRIGHT

Published by Hachette Digital

ISBN: 9780748130153

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public
domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely
coincidental.

Copyright © 2001 Ken Myers

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior
permission in writing of the publisher.

Hachette Digital

Little, Brown Book Group

100 Victoria Embankment

London, EC4Y 0DY

www.hachette.co.uk

To Dean, Jane, Matthew, Angela and Thomas. With fond
memories of all the grief you lot have caused me over the
years. But I wouldn’t change any of you.

Thanks to Val, for all her bright ideas; and to Judith
Murdoch for once again pointing out the error of my ways.

Part One

Chapter One

August 1953

‘Sixpenny, please.’

The girl held out a threepenny bit and three pennies and relinquished them to the conductor as though it was all she had left in the world. The bundle in her arms moved and whimpered, causing her to glance up guiltily at the man, who smiled good-naturedly.

‘It’s all right, love. We don’t charge for babes-in-arms, especially when they’re not the size o’ two penn’orth o’ copper. Yer first, is he?’

He took a sideways glance at the girl’s face and realised from her age that it perhaps wasn’t the most intelligent of questions. She gave a faint nod as he clicked off a blue ticket.

‘First – and last,’ she said suddenly, as much to herself as to him.

He handed her the ticket, then leaned over to take a look at the child. A tiny pink face peeped out from behind a knitted blue matinée jacket. Dark, liquid eyes looked back at him, seeing him but having little memory of him once its gaze had returned to its mother.

‘Blimey! He’s fresh outa the oven.’

The girl looked away, sharply.

‘Sorry, love, didn’t mean to offend. How old is he?’

‘It’s a she.’

There was no emotion in her small voice. She looked down and crooked her little finger in the baby’s mouth. It sucked at her, hungrily.

‘She’s ready for a bit o’ breakfast,’ grinned the conductor. ‘Mind you, me and her both.’

His top middle tooth was missing which added comedy to his genial face but it didn’t impress the girl who looked away, not wanting this conversation. She wished she wasn’t the only passenger on the bus so the conductor could bother someone else. Thankfully he took the hint and sat on a seat near the door to count his meagre takings. The journey continued in silence. He was probably okay, she thought. But then again her life had been destroyed by a man who looked okay. Best not to trust any of them.

The conductor glanced up at her, his eyes quickly returning to the job in hand as she somehow seemed conscious of his stare. What was the mother of a newborn baby doing on the early bus? Pound to a pinch she wasn’t married. Not at her age. She didn’t look any older than his daughter who had only just left school. Fourteen – fifteen at the most, her face was pale and drawn as though she’d been poorly. He stole another glance – no, as though she’d been crying. Bit of both perhaps.

A fragile beauty crouched behind her wan features. Her lifeless blonde hair was clipped back by assorted hair slides. Frightened blue eyes, guarded by wire-rimmed NHS glasses, searched the world rushing past the bus window, as though scared of what was out there. She was not very tall, maybe five foot two, slightly built and wearing a cheap, floral-print dress that fitted where it touched and a dark green knitted cardigan with a large white envelope poking out of one of the pockets. There was a plaster on her bare left leg that wasn’t quite big enough to cover the livid graze it was meant to protect and on her feet were a pair of well-worn plimsolls, recently whitened with the dye running over the rubber welt. The baby was wrapped in a yellow woollen blanket with BRMH DO NOT REMOVE printed on it.

They were out in the country now, with stops few and far between. No one was waiting at these, which was only to be expected at this time on a Sunday morning. Through the window she saw the spire of a distant church rising above the heavy summer foliage as the bus snored slowly up a long hill. Its appearance seemed to create a conflict of decisions within her. She hadn’t worked out her plan in any great detail, she just had an ultimate goal. The method of arriving at this goal was now down to providence. The church steeple looked providential to her. Divine providence. God had got her into this mess by allowing her to be born – He could get her out of it.

‘Excuse me, what church is that?’ she asked suddenly, half turning in her seat to look at the conductor, and pointing out of the window at the same time. Her voice was as frail as her body; it had the resigned note of someone who just didn’t care what the world did to them any more.

He followed her pointing finger. ‘Er – Beckhall Church, love.’

‘Oh,’ she said, disappointed. Then another thought occurred to her. She turned round again. ‘I mean, has it got a proper name?’

The man shrugged, not understanding the question at first. Then it came to him. He stroked his chin, making an audible rasping sound. Shaving for the early shift on a Sunday was a bit of a waste of time.

‘I went to a wedding there once,’ he remembered. ‘I think they call it Saint Catherine’s. In fact, they definitely do. I remember now ’cos me wife’s called Catherine only she’s not a saint – but don’t tell her I told yer.’

She didn’t return his grin, which faded quickly when he realised his humour had fallen on stony ground.

Catherine. She ran the name across her thoughts and smiled thinly, nodding to herself. Approving.

‘Can I get off here, please?’ Her manner now was that of a timid schoolgirl asking leave to go to the toilet.

‘’Course yer can, love.’ The conductor rang the bell, causing the driver to look into his mirror. People rarely got off here at this time on a morning. He nodded at his mate and drew the bus to a halt. The girl carefully placed her ticket into the used-ticket slot, as though not wishing to contravene any rules, and stepped off, stumbling slightly as her leading foot landed on a large stone. The conductor reached out a steadying hand. ‘Careful, love!’

But she had already regained her balance and looked embarrassed at her own clumsiness.

‘Mind how yer go.’

She didn’t seem to hear and walked on. The conductor stood on the platform and stared back at her dwindling form until the bus turned a corner and she was out of sight, but for some reason not out of his mind. Shaking his head he sat down, oddly uncomfortable, feeling she needed help and that he should have known what sort. His wife would have known.

The church spire was obscured from view now and she tried to remember exactly where it was. There must be a turn off leading to it. The quiet country road was bounded by high, unkempt hedgerows of beech and privet and hawthorn, twittering with early birds. Leaning drunkenly into the hedge was a sign which presumably had once said BECKHALL 1 ml, only some wag had replaced the BE with FU. It confused the girl as she couldn’t remember what the conductor had said the village was called, but she knew this road must surely lead to the church.

A skylark hovered above her in the pale blue, early-morning sky, seemingly matching her pace, but she didn’t hear its song so it flew off to seek a more appreciative audience. The church clock began to strike and she knew she was heading in the right direction. She counted the bongs until they stopped at six. Every step was increasingly painful. Her eyes searched the road ahead for somewhere to sit and rest. A mile was a long way in her condition.

The road crossed a narrow river by means of a humpbacked stone bridge. The copings on the parapet wall were missing here and there, the reduced height providing a welcome seat for the girl. Hugging her infant to her, she gazed over her shoulder into the running water. She liked running water, there was something comforting and pure and honest about it. Words that didn’t sit easily with the life she’d had so far. For a brief moment she sat and enjoyed the happy sound of the river.

There was also something dangerous about water. She shuddered and looked away. Drowning was the most horrible of deaths. Struggling for air that wasn’t there, lungs bursting – and then what? No one had ever come back to tell. Someone was whistling and being told to shut up and not scare the fish. She chanced another look and saw a line of fishermen spaced all the way up one bank, their lines curling downstream with the flow. Coloured floats were bobbing cheerfully, one almost beneath her. Natural politeness forced a smile from her in response to a wave from the nearest of the fishermen, a young man of about her own age.

Encouraged by her smile he shouted up to her, ‘Nice day for it.’

He was chastised once again for disturbing the fish and turned to the man standing one place up river, saying something inaudible but obviously uncomplimentary. For a brief second the girl wondered why shouting should scare fish. Did fish have ears? She’d never seen a fish’s ears. Then the thought had gone. Not enough of a diversion to cheer her – to distract her from what had to be done.

The young fisherman wondered if she was from the village. If so he’d make it his business to enquire as to her identity before much longer. From where he was standing she looked a bit of all right. A bit on the skinny side maybe, and a couple of years younger than him, but there was definitely something special about her. He was thirty yards away but he felt an attraction. The baby must be her brother or sister, or some child she was minding for a neighbour. He considered risking the wrath of his companions once again by giving her another shout, maybe to ask for a date. You got nowhere in this world without a bit of cheek.

‘Keep yer eyes on the job, lad. Look at yer float.’

The warning came from the man he’d just had words with. The girl glanced down at his float which was being pulled beneath the surface by a captured fish. The young man dragged his attention away from her and transferred it to the job in hand and proceeded to reel in his catch, his first of the day. By the time the fish was wriggling into his keep-net, the girl had gone. He looked up at the bridge and shrugged away his disappointment. His neighbour grinned and made a disparaging remark about the young Lothario to the man next up the line.

The girl’s eyes were now fixed on the rutted road as she took care not to stumble. She had little thought for her own well-being but she had to protect her precious burden.

The rest had been welcome, she’d have stayed longer had she not become the centre of attention. The strength was ebbing from her limbs once again, then the first sight of the spire fired new life into her. Not much further to go. She could see the church now. Built in pale, weathered limestone, solid and old and reliable. Reassuring. Rich people would go to a church like this. Decent people, nice people. Her brow was damp with perspiration despite the early-morning nip in the air. She looked down at the baby sucking frantically at her finger.

‘Not just yet, my darling, not just yet.’

Her failing strength just carried her to the wooden bench opposite the church. In Memory of Wilfred Eames was carved on the back. It was rustic and unsafe-looking, but it would have to be on the verge of collapse not to take her weight. She sat down, her breath coming in short bursts which slowed as her resting lungs required less oxygen. The same skylark seemed to spot her and renewed its serenade, hoping for more appreciation this time. But the songbird’s performance was curtailed by a kestrel which moved into its air space to hover menacingly as the frightened lark flew off. She squinted up at the hovering falcon, but she was a town girl and wouldn’t know a kestrel from a cuckoo. The bird, having spotted its breakfast, dropped like a stone from the sky, taking the girl’s gaze with it until it passed behind the church, transferring her focus to the clock. Twenty past six. No people disturbed the tranquillity. Putting the baby to her breast, she felt more contented than she’d ever been in her short life. But it was a contentment tempered by what she had to do. There was no other way, she knew that. God knows she’d tried to think of a better way out. But when there’s no one in the world who believes in you, no one you can trust or rely on, nowhere to go to get away from the horror of it all, what alternative do you have? She’d needed protection and she’d been offered scorn and derision. Not even Miss Bulmer had believed her. He’d got to her already, primed her for what to expect, and he was a very plausible man so Miss Bulmer really wasn’t to blame. She shouldn’t have threatened him that she was going to tell her favourite teacher, that was a stupid thing to do. Jimmy Johnstone might have made a difference to her life, but providence had seen fit to dictate otherwise. Jimmy had been her last hope. Her only hope.

The weathered sign outside the church read:

Saint Catherine’s RC Church, Beckhall
Sunday Mass 9 a.m.; 11 a.m.
Parish Priest: Fr John Barrett, DD

She nodded her approval of the church’s being Catholic. With any luck the priest would be a person of integrity. Surely he wouldn’t let her down like all the others? Catholic priests didn’t let people down. She wasn’t a Catholic herself but she knew that much. She looked down at her daughter, sucking away contentedly.

‘What d’you think about becoming a Catholic, my darling?’

They’d probably call her Catherine, after the church. Why not? It was as good a name as any. She’d been calling her Doris, after Doris Day in Calamity Jane, her favourite film of all time. Catherine was a much more fitting name for a Catholic girl. She’d certainly never heard of a Saint Doris. A rare, amusing thought came to her mind, but failed to make her smile: Saint Doris of Deadwood.

The whole parish would take an interest in her daughter’s welfare. That would keep the authorities on their toes. Oh, yes, there was nothing better for keeping the authorities on their toes than people who lived in places like this.

With her free hand she extracted a pencil and a small writing pad from her cardigan pocket. Pity about the pencil, but the other letter was written in proper ink from a Parker fountain pen. There was an irony here. It was the pen he’d given her; imagine his face if he knew what she had written with it! The first letter was written in her best handwriting, which was a lot better than most – as was her grammar. Whoever read it would know it had been written by an educated person which would, of course, add further weight to its contents.

It was a struggle to write with her daughter at her breast, but she took her time. It had to be legible. Then she took the large envelope from her pocket; inside was another smaller, sealed envelope, alongside which she placed her note. She then sealed the large envelope and wrote Fr John Barrett, DD on the front. Putting it back in her pocket, she nodded off and was woken by the ringing of the seven o’clock bell. Her baby was fast asleep at her breast. She drew the infant gently away from her nipple, smiling as the child’s mouth continued to open and shut, reluctant to be taken from such a comfy place. Buttoning up her dress, she focused her eyes on the Mass times. First service nine o’clock. Two hours. Would her daughter be okay for two hours? It’d probably be less. People would start arriving well before then. They’d no doubt open the church at eight o’clock – just an hour away.

She looked down at her sleeping daughter and felt her resolve weakening. No – she’d weighed up all the pros and cons and this was by far the best thing to do. The first part of her plan had begun to form in her mind even before the child was born, the minute she’d walked through the door of Barrack Road Maternity Hostel where she’d been packed off to give birth to her bastard child. Their words, not hers. The maternity hostel for unmarried mothers was an environment bordering on hostile, manned by so-called care assistants ill-suited for work in any NHS maternity hospital because of incompetence or bad attitude or both. But for all the lack of compassion, there was a rough honesty about the place. No false smiles and lies. No dreading being alone in bed and waiting for the door opening. She’d swap that for a foul-mouthed nurse any day of the week.

She had anticipated the immense love she’d feel for her child and had told herself that such feelings were to be ignored at all costs. Her baby would have no chance of a happy life with her as a mother. Keeping the child just to satisfy her own maternal instincts would be the ultimate self-indulgence. Anyway, if they caught her and took her back to the home they wouldn’t let her keep her baby.

This and other reasons had determined the second part of her plan. Her ultimate goal.

Fingering the envelope in her pocket, she wondered if she might be burdening her daughter too much. Was she being unfair? To hell with unfair! Life had been unfair to her. This is how it had to be. Switching off her confused thoughts she stood up and almost ran across the road, under the lych-gate and up the worn flagged path to the church door. Finding it open surprised and alarmed her. Someone must be inside. Her plan had been to leave her child in the doorway, but if possible it would be so much better and safer to leave her inside.

She stole a glance through the door. Empty. That was right, she remembered, vaguely. Catholic churches never locked their doors. Holding her child up to her cheek, she entered warily, creeping past the church notices and the empty collection trays. Her lips pecked softly at the baby’s face as she moved quietly down the central aisle towards the altar, glancing nervously up at the Stations of the Cross carved on the walls to either side of her. A blue-and-white Virgin Mary smiled benignly down upon her with one hand raised as though saying, ‘Hello, Annie, thanks for dropping in.’ The lady on flower duty had been in the night before and left a vase of carnations and roses beside the unlit candles on the Lady Altar. Those on the cleaning roster had left the church dust-free and smelling of lavender furniture polish, but one of them had inadvertently left a cigarette-end on the stone baptismal font. This would ordinarily earn the woman a chastening rebuke, but the priest would have other things to think about this morning. High above, in the vaulted roof, a trapped sparrow fluttered about among the oak timbers, looking for a way out. Something Annie Jackson had been seeking for some time now.

Beneath her quiet feet the wooden block floor was worn concave from a hundred and thirty years of shuffling shoes. She arrived at the low wooden communion rail and wondered if she dare step over it and approach the altar. Why not? In for a penny, as they say. Her heart was pounding, partly from fear of being discovered and partly from dread of her imminent loss. Kneeling down in front of the altar, she laid her sleeping daughter gently on the floor and placed the envelope beside her. Then, with hands clasped and eyes dripping tears, she looked up at the huge crucifix behind the altar and whispered, ‘Please – I hope I’m doing the right thing.’

With an effort of will she didn’t know she had in her, Annie turned and ran back up the aisle, stopping at the end and wanting to look back. But she knew she mustn’t.

The second part of her plan would be nowhere near as difficult as this.

Chapter Two

March 1945

‘Hip-hooray, we are free,

Free from the gates of mizzeree

No more school, no more stick,

No more flippin’ arithmetic …’

Annie began the song and it was taken up lustily by her two companions.

‘No more English, no more French,

No more sitting at a wooden bench …’

The inclusion of French was a bit ambitious as the singers were only seven years old. It was a school-holiday song passed down by older kids. The three of them skipped along in time to their singing. Spring was only a fortnight away and the end of the war wasn’t much further off. Brian Gibbons’ gas mask banged against his hip in the cardboard case bearing his name and address. His two companions had discarded theirs as the urgency wasn’t being impressed upon them quite so much nowadays. Now that Adolf was on the run.

They skipped down the centre of Lowtoft Road as this bit had been recently surfaced with tarmac and was easier on their Wellington-booted feet than the wide cobbled channels to either side. Few cars hampered their progress. A council dustcart lumbered past with no one on its rear platform. All three of them jumped on for the free ride, jumping off as it swung into Ashley Avenue and laughing at the dusty fist shaking from the driver’s window. Two days of rain had eased off in time for their exit from Lowtoft Junior School. A week’s half-term holiday lay ahead, better known as ‘Teacher’s Rest’.

‘Teacher’s Rest, Mother’s Pest,’ Annie’s mam had said when told of the impending holiday. She said that every half term, as did every other mother.

Annie’s boots had been chafing at her legs. She stopped to turn down the tops, rubbing at the sore, pink circumference just below her knees.

‘I’m gonna put some Grasshopper Green on this when I get home,’ she announced.

‘What’s that?’ enquired Movita Lunn, Annie’s best friend.

‘Ointment – cures everything in the world.’

‘Our Maureen’s got nits. Does it cure nits?’ asked Brian.

‘Prob’ly. Cured me mam’s elbow.’

The boy nodded, impressed. The skipping and singing resumed until they arrived at an iron lamp-post where a man had leaned a short ladder against the projecting arm.

‘Watcher doin’, mister?’ inquired Annie, chirpily.

‘That’s fer me ter know and you ter find out,’ grinned the man, lighting the gas mantle.

‘It’s not dark yet,’ pointed out Brian. ‘Yer not s’pposed ter light ’em till it’s dark.’

The man closed the glass window and came back down his ladder.

‘Nay, I’m not Captain Marvel. I can’t light ’em all up at once.’

Annie understood the logic behind his answer; she was the only one who did. Brian cupped his left hand inside his right armpit and squeezed with his right arm, producing a farting sound. The man hadn’t seen how he did it.

‘Watch it! Yer’ll blow me blinkin’ cap off doin’ that.’

This produced screams of laughter from the three children who skipped on down the road, all of them trying to emulate Brian’s brilliant trick but only Annie meeting with any success. She’d try it on her mam when she got home. Her mam could do with a laugh.

Brenda Bacup spotted the happy trio as she came out of Mrs Holmes’ shop with a twist of lemonade powder in her hand and a packet of stolen cigarettes in her cardigan pocket, as ordered by her older brother. Brenda didn’t understand camaraderie of the sort enjoyed by Annie and her pals. She had no friends to speak of, only kids who hung around with her because she was big and aggressive. She wetted a fat finger between her lips, stuck it into the paper cone and brought out a fingerful of yellow crystals which she stuck in her mouth. Her quick brain tried to think of a reason to chastise Annie, whom she hated. Mainly because she was quite pretty and very popular, qualities Brenda would never enjoy.

Annie and her friends stopped at a chalked set of hopscotch squares on the flagged footpath. She bent down to pick up the stone with which she intended to start the game when a blow from behind sent her sprawling to the floor, tearing a hole in the elbow of her gaberdine coat and grazing her forehead. She lay there for a few seconds trying to gather her thoughts. At seven years old she was entitled to burst into tears, but she fought them back. Only softies cried for nothing – and crying didn’t mend a torn raincoat. Instead she got to her knees and looked up at Brenda.

The girls were the same age but there any similarity ended. Annie was small and slender whereas Brenda was twenty pounds heavier and several inches taller. Masses of tight ginger curls spiralled away from her freckled face, unbrushed and unwashed. Mean eyes, one green one brown, were buried deep beyond freckled cheeks puffing out either side of a broad, snub nose, below which her top teeth projected beyond rubbery lips like a row of unloved gravestones. In many ways Brenda Bacup was a girl who deserved such a face. She stood over Annie and gave a scowl which would have frightened most people, young or old.

‘I warned yer I’d get yer, Jackson. Next time, yer do as yer told.’

‘Warned me what?’ enquired a bemused Annie, examining the tear in her coat. ‘Look what yer’ve done – me mam’ll go mad.’

‘I warned yer not ter go showin’ off in t’ test,’ snarled Brenda.

It was the first Annie had heard of this warning. Not that she’d have heeded it anyway. ‘It’s not my fault yer a bit thick,’ she retorted, tenderly touching her grazed head.

The hand that had sent her to the floor knocked her over again, stinging Annie’s ear.

‘Ow!’ she yelled. ‘Leave us alone. I haven’t done nowt.’

Movita Lunn stood uncomfortably by, watching but not daring to help. Brenda Bacup was not someone you messed with, unless you were Brian Gibbons. He flung himself at Brenda, only to be swatted away like a fly. She returned her attention to Annie.

‘I warned yer last week – it’s yer own fault fer takin’ no notice.’

‘I never heard yer.’

‘Are you callin’ me a liar?’ Brenda grabbed Annie by her long blonde hair and tried to pull her off the ground.

‘Ow! Give over. Anyroad Jacky Naylor beat yer as well, why don’t yer pick on him?’

Brenda had no answer other than to draw her fist back in readiness to thump Annie again. Brian was on the ground rubbing his sore head. Movita stood quietly, too scared to intervene.

‘Hey! What’s goin’ on?’

The lamplighter had seen the disturbance and now pushed Brenda to one side. Seeing Annie on the floor, he turned and glared down into the bigger girl’s face, flinching slightly as Brenda returned the glare with fifty per cent interest.

‘Why don’t yer pick on someone yer own size, yer flamin’ bully!’

Brenda ignored him. She looked down at Annie and sneered, ‘I’ll get yer next time, Jackson.’

‘Go on, clear off afore I rattle yer flamin’ ear ’ole for yer,’ threatened the lamplighter, sincerely hoping he wouldn’t be taken up on his threat. Brenda’s ear ’ole wasn’t something he relished rattling.

Brenda strolled off, sticking two fingers up over her shoulder and kicking Brian in the ribs as she passed him. The man pulled Annie to her feet.

‘She’ll come ter no good will that one,’ he said. ‘You mark my words. Are yer all right, love?’

Tears weren’t far away but Annie didn’t want her friends to see her crying. She set her mouth and blinked her eyes dry.

‘Me coat’s torn,’ she announced, examining the tear. ‘Me mam’ll go spare.’

‘Do yer want me ter come back wi’ yer and tell ’er what ’appened?’ offered the man.

Annie shrugged, her eyes on the ground, reluctant to display any sign of weakness. She took a deep breath before replying, ‘No, thanks, mister,’ then turned to go, her two friends joining her. Movita nodded her thanks to Annie’s saviour.

‘Yer ought ter tell on that Brenda,’ said Brian. ‘She’s allus pickin’ on yer. I were gonna bray her meself, but she caught me off balance.’

‘Give over,’ scoffed Movita. ‘Yer couldn’t fight yer way out of a paper bag.’

‘I didn’t see you steppin’ in,’ he muttered.

‘Are you kidding?’ Movita’s auburn ringlets swirled about her head as she turned to face Brian. ‘I’d sooner fight Joe Louis.’

‘I’ll get her back meself,’ said Annie, her voice trembling. ‘You just wait and see.’

They arrived at the junction with Carrcroft Road where Brian went his own way with a brief ‘See yer’ to the two girls, who waved and walked on. Movita put a comforting arm around her friend’s shoulder and told her not to worry about Brenda who was a big fat ginger turd. Annie decided to change the subject, think about something else to take her mind off unpleasant things. She’d do that a lot in the coming years.

‘Shall I ask me mam if yer can come round for yer tea?’ she enquired. ‘If I ’ang me coat up quick, she’ll not see I’ve torn it.’

‘What yer having?’ asked Movita.

‘Bread an’ slap,’ said Annie, her smile returning. Slowly at first, curving her lips, then lighting up her eyes before spreading all over her face. ‘But if yer come round she’ll make us summat nice so yer won’t go telling yer mam we never have nowt proper to eat.’

‘Awright – shall I come in with yer, then she won’t be able ter say no?’ suggested Movita.

‘Yeah,’ agreed Annie. ‘I’ll tell her yer’d only be havin’ bread an’ slap at your house, then she’ll definitely make us summat nice.’

‘Has she got any eggs?’

‘I think so. We had three left this morning an’ she cleans for Mrs Ramsgill on a Friday so she’ll have had her dinner there – unless Mrs Poot’s been round and borrowed ’em for her Yorkshires. She’s allus doin’ that and she never brings us any back. Me mam says we’ve ter make allowances ’cos Mr Poot’s not all there.’

Brenda Bacup was almost forgotten as they joined hands and skipped in unison towards Annie’s house in Fogerty Row. There were four Fogertys – Street, Terrace, Avenue and Row – all with back streets and all built around the turn of the century. Their red-brick walls were now dulled by fifty years of soot, deposited by the many tall chimneys projecting from the foundries and factories, fracturing the Leeds skyline. The idea was to send the smoke so far up that it wouldn’t want to come back down in a hurry. But the law of gravity is not a law to be ignored with impunity. What goes up must come down, and down it had come, on to the houses and into the lungs of the very workers who’d sent the smoke up the chimneys in the first place.

Annie’s hair was clipped back behind her ears with yellow and red hair slides and bounced on her shoulders as she skipped, her blue eyes sparkling with fun once again. It took a lot to get her down. A lot more than Brenda Bacup anyway. She was the apple of her dad’s eye. He’d last been heard of just after Christmas, somewhere in Belgium, where he was ‘well’ according to the latest cryptic missive his wife Olga had received from the War Office. Olga had been having a bad war. Not hearing from her husband for five months hadn’t helped, but there were plenty in the same boat as her so there was much mutual sympathy to be had. Movita’s dad had been classed as unfit for military service due to his being epileptic, although there was some scepticism locally as to the truth of this. ‘I’ve many a time seen him paralytic outside the Plasterer’s Arms,’ Olga Jackson once grumbled over the railings which separated the Jacksons’ back yard from old Mrs Poot’s next door. Mrs Poot had nodded her agreement. She thought all the men should do their bit, like her Horace who’d been bayoneted by the Boers and returned home a shadow of the man she’d married.

The girls skipped past the street signed Fogerty Row without sparing it a glance and turned down the next street, Back Fogerty Row. Front streets weren’t for kids coming home from school. They were for visitors and for having your photo taken on the front step. The back street was for everyday use. They were lucky to have a back street; many of their pals lived in back-to-back houses with the lavvies six doors away in the communal yard.

A bicycle was propped up on one pedal against the stone kerb outside Annie’s house. From her back yard emerged a uniformed, nose-picking telegram boy with a bag slung over his shoulder. He paused to finish ransacking a nostril, examined his findings, rolled it into a ball and flicked it at a passing dog before mounting his bike and riding off, whistling, unaware of the misery he’d just delivered.

‘What’s he doin’ at your house?’ wondered Movita.

Annie said nothing. Charlie Fricker’s mam had been given bad news about her husband by a telegram. Annie’s pace quickened and Movita allowed her to walk into the house first. She didn’t follow as arranged but instead hung around in the yard, smiling over the low dividing wall at Mrs Poot who’d also seen the telegram boy and was waiting at her own door to see what it had been about.

‘It’s probably nowt nor thummat,’ reassured Mrs Poot, her diction distorted due to her teeth being left on the scullery shelf. ‘I onth had one wishing me Happy Birthday.’

The grey-faced old woman uncrossed her arms, hitched up one of her pendulous bosoms and ran a tidying hand through her sparse white hair, a habit she’d acquired when it was worth the trouble.

Movita nodded and waited for her friend to emerge with an invitation to tea. Five minutes went by with no sign of Annie.

‘Give ’er a knock – ’appen she’s forgotten yer there,’ urged Mrs Poot, who knew by now that bad news had befallen her neighbour and wanted to know the extent of it so that she could pass it on.

Movita walked to the half-open door and gave it a tentative knock. A kettle steamed unheeded on the scullery hob, the noise not quite drowning the sobbing coming from the room beyond. Annie came back to the door. The sparkle had gone from her face, replaced by confusion.

‘Yer won’t be able ter come for tea,’ she said. ‘Me dad’s been killed.’

Annie closed the door and Movita turned to go. She looked across at the woman next door who was already hurrying out into the street to do her duty and pass the bad news on. At least her Horace had come home so she was better off than some.