LITMIR.BIZ

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the run of a place, unsupervised, Charlie would then proceed to fill it – helping himself to fabric remnants, knickers, sacks – whatever the factory produced, really – in quantities that were unlikely to be missed. He would then go on and kill just enough rats with his spade to ensure he had a sack full of dead vermin to show the bosses, before going on to sell his haul either in the pub or around the estate.

      For all that he was thriving, however – what with his fruit runs, his ratting and, his main love, his boxing – Charlie still felt like he was living on borrowed time. They’d had one big air raid since moving into the house and it had really brought it home to him how real it was all becoming. As they crammed into the Anderson shelter – the family, and as many of the neighbours as could squeeze in – he realised it was probably only a matter of time before he was called up to fight for his country.

      He wasn’t afraid – he was afraid of nothing – and he also knew he’d be able to box, but it was an irritation he could do without. He liked being his own man. Doing what he liked, when he liked, and what he didn’t like was the thought of being answerable to anyone else. His dad was the only fellow who had any say in what he did, and he didn’t even like that. Not at all.

      That late August night, as they’d taken cover from whatever the Germans were sending over, Reggie Snr – Big Reggie to his friends – had been drunk. Charlie could still visualise the scene – all the little ones scrabbling to get as close as possible to their mam, terrified by the sirens, terrified by the sound of shelling, terrified by the dark, terrified by the smell.

      The adults did their best to lighten the atmosphere and chase the fears away for the children, belting out songs they still remembered from back in the last war, taught them by their own parents, in an impromptu sing-along.

      Pack up your troubles in an old kit-bag,

      And smile, smile, smile,

      While you’ve a lucifer to light your fag,

      Smile, boys, that’s the style.

      And it had helped, Charlie remembered, once everyone began joining in. Then, in all likelihood innocently, one of their neighbours asked Big Reggie if he’d seen action in the last war himself.

      Reggie didn’t even seem to try and come up with an answer. He just staggered to his feet – no mean feat in such a confined space – and in response felled the poor man with a single punch. But not for long – he was immediately back on his feet, and the entire shelter erupted in shrieks and cries and sobs as the two men went at each other, seemingly oblivious and refusing to give ground.

      ‘He should mind his own bleeding business!’ Annie shouted, as everyone else wanted to know what the heck had got into him. ‘He couldn’t fight the war, could he? He got signed off by the doctor because of his TB!’

      Which was true, but not the whole truth, Charlie knew. Annie didn’t know, but his gran had told him the real reason years back; yes, he’d been signed off, but it was nothing to do with having sustained lung damage as a baby. It had been a question of cash changing hands, pure and simple. He hadn’t wanted to fight, so he’d paid the doctor to pronounce him unfit.

      Still, this was his dad, and though he still very much had the upper hand, this wasn’t fair on the nippers either, so he had a duty to step in. He stood up and stepped behind the hapless neighbour, placing an arm around his throat. He was called John Sheehan and lived a few doors away on the same street. A married man with two young kids, he’d always seemed all right to Charlie. Certainly didn’t deserve what he’d just got. Even so, family loyalty had to prevail.

      ‘Bleeding leave it, John,’ he growled quietly, ‘or you’re a dead man, you get me? Surely you know better than to take the old bugger on.’ He then dragged the man to the back of the shelter, sat him back down and then turned back to everyone else. There was a heavy silence, the children still clutching each other nervously and blinking in the gaslight.

      ‘Come on, then, you lot!’ roared Charlie, pointing upwards and laughing. ‘Bloody Hitler could be outside, so let’s sing him a lullaby, shall we? All together – It’s a long way to Tipperary, it’s a long way to gooooo!’ And, in a matter of half a minute, they were back in full swing.

      All except Reggie Snr, who was still too busy nursing his pride. Should have fought then, Charlie thought. Simple as that.

      The damage that night was the worst Bradford would suffer during the entire war. A bomb strike in the town centre had done extensive damage – including obliterating the huge Marks & Spencer building. Which was no accident, Charlie had told his mam a day or so later. It hadn’t been one of the ‘accidents’ the papers would have them believing. It was strategic; the shop had been closed for the duration, in order to act as a storage facility for the surrounding mills.

      ‘And the reason for that,’ Charlie explained, having had his ear to the ground as usual, ‘is because the mill storage facilities are being used for another purpose: to be made ready to house German prisoners of war. Mam, we have to face it,’ Charlie continued as Annie sat there sobbing, ‘I’m going to have to go and that’s the end of it.’

      ‘But do you have to?’ she said, wiping her tears away with the corner of her pinny. It was such a familiar gesture – one he’d known his whole childhood. But he wasn’t a child any longer. And neither did he want to be.

      ‘Everyone’s getting called up, Mam. Look, it won’t go on for ever. And I’ll send my wages home for you.’ He grinned. ‘That’ll cheer you up.’

      He got his papers and was gone before Christmas.

Chapter 6

      Annie made her way through the estate, arm in arm with her new neighbour. Alice Donovan and her husband had recently moved in next door, their two sons having both been called up.

      Annie liked Alice. She was as down to earth as they came, but quiet and unassuming. Her sons meant the world to her and Annie knew she was lost without them, and as a result Annie had sort of taken her under her wing.

      It was a sunny day in May but the mood on the estate was anything but. The shortages were getting worse, and many were really living hand to mouth, her new friend included. So she was taking Alice down to the pop-up food shelter with her, determined to help her get something to eat.

      ‘Are you sure I’m entitled?’ Alice asked anxiously. ‘Do I qualify, what with it just being me and Dennis?’

      ‘I’m not certain,’ Annie admitted. ‘But I tell you what, love, I’ll give ’em bloody hell if they knock you back. Your lads are off bleeding fighting, aren’t they? That’s left you as skint as the rest of us.’ She quickened her step, fuelled by righteous indignation. It wasn’t right to refuse Alice. It was her boys being gone that had left them struggling, wasn’t it?

      ‘Yes, but I don’t have a houseful of other kids to feed, do I?’ Alice answered. ‘My Dennis said it’s only for them that have big families. Just them and those that don’t have a roof over their heads.’

      ‘Well,’ said Annie firmly, ‘we’ll see about that, won’t we? It’s not right, your boys fighting and you starving.’

      And many more would have been starving if it hadn’t been for the shelters, the Hudson family included. They’d been set up by the government in the poorest areas, and staffed with volunteers, who’d make soups and stews to distribute free of charge for those most in need; those who could prove they had many mouths to feed and not enough money to do so. These families were also awarded bread units. BUs, as they were known, could be exchanged for a loaf. It was a blessing for those like Annie and Reggie who really struggled, having so many kids, but people like Alice and Dennis didn’t get them.

      Annie pondered as they approached the shelter on the end of Ringwood Road. Chances were that, whatever she said, they’d turn Alice away. There were just too many people with loads of nippers who needed feeding, and she

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