LITMIR.BIZ

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aware that the pretty young woman had been staring at him while he’d been fondly reminiscing on his auntie’s method of dispersing unwanted do-gooders. He exhaled smoke, gazing right back, deepening the pink in her cold cheeks.

      ‘Who is it, Chris?’ Matilda yelled from the top of the stairs, bobbing to and fro for a glimpse of the callers. Her arthritis was playing her up and she didn’t fancy going down to find out.

      Invariably, when somebody came knocking on Matilda’s door, she’d shove up the front window and converse with visitors through it. Sometimes she even chucked down her rent money at Podge Peters if she didn’t feel inclined to make the effort to open up to him.

      A dawning realisation lifted Grace’s brow a moment after she heard Matilda bawl out the name. ‘You must be Christopher Wild,’ she garbled, wishing she hadn’t stared so obviously at him. She could tell he’d noticed her gawping. In common with her mother, as soon as he’d opened the door, she’d thought him a fine specimen of a man, with a wholesome appearance that seemed out of place in a slum. ‘You won’t remember me,’ she rushed on with a breathless smile. ‘Grace Coleman, and this is my mum, Shirley.’ She put a hand on her mother’s arm then abruptly stuck it out for him to shake.

      Christopher stopped lounging and dropped his cigarette butt on the floor. ‘That’s a coincidence; Matilda wasn’t long ago talking about you two. She met you in London weeks ago, the day the king died.’ He gave Grace’s hand a firm shake, then extended the same courtesy to Shirley.

      ‘Yeah … we were there,’ Shirley confirmed, as she suddenly noticed that Grace and Christopher had locked eyes and she was being overlooked. She could understand why her daughter was mesmerised, she thought sourly. Christopher Wild was a tall, dark handsome man … but, in Shirley’s opinion, he sounded a bit rough and ready, and looked a bit too similar to that nasty bastard who’d run off and left Grace in the lurch a few years ago.

      ‘We told Matilda we’d pop by at some time. So as we were in the area we thought we’d make it today. Go up, shall I?’ Shirley enquired on hearing Matilda’s raucous shout to close the bleedin’ door ’cos there was a draught.

      Christopher shifted aside to let Shirley pass. Grace would have followed, but he put a hand on the doorframe barring her way. ‘Not seen you in ages. Must be ten years or more …’

      ‘Eleven, I think,’ Grace calculated. ‘I wasn’t quite twelve when I got evacuated to a farm in Surrey with my brother.’

      ‘Stop here a minute with me?’ He shook the packet of Weights. ‘Me aunt ain’t keen on me smoking; reckons I’ll get ill if I keep on. If I have one here I’ll save meself an ear-bashing about coffin nails. Want one?’ he offered politely. ‘Catch up on old times for a minute or two, shall we?’

      ‘Yeah … thanks …’ Grace said and took a cigarette. After Christopher had lit it she turned to stand with her back against the brick wall of the house. ‘Cold out here,’ she burbled, aware he was studying her profile.

      ‘Ain’t much warmer inside,’ he answered dryly.

      ‘Did you get evacuated?’ She slid a sideways look up at him.

      ‘Sort of … for a couple of years. But I was lucky in that I got to choose where I went.’

      ‘How did you swing that?’ Grace asked interestedly.

      ‘Got relatives Southend way so after the heavy bombings on London I got sent off to stay with them. It was only for a couple of years. I was soon back in London working full-time.’

      ‘You were lucky.’

      ‘How did you get on in Surrey?’

      Grace shrugged. ‘I remember it was quiet, and boring, and a bit smelly. I liked the animals, especially the sheep. They were nice enough people … strict though and posh with it.’

      ‘Thought they must’ve been,’ Christopher said with a half-smile.

      ‘Why’s that?’ she asked sharply.

      ‘They’ve taught you to speak proper,’ he teased, chuckling when she blushed and turned away. ‘Sounds nice … I like it,’ he added.

      ‘Why’s Matilda still live round here?’ Grace swiftly changed the subject.

      ‘Memories, I suppose. She’s spent most of her life in The Bunk. Friends, enemies, two husbands, four kids – not counting me dad and uncle who she sort of adopted after their mum died – she’s had ’em all right here.’ He stared into the distance but it was a lengthy road and the kink at the Biggerstaff intersection robbed him of a complete view.

      ‘But even so …’ Grace began, a mystified look pinching her delicate features as she glanced about at the squalor.

      When she and her mother had arrived at the turning into Whadcoat Street they’d been unsure of which house was Matilda’s as Shirley had forgotten to ask for the number. So, before venturing into the bowels of The Bunk, they had stopped on the corner of Seven Sisters Road for a recce. Grace’s swift, encompassing glance had led her to conclude the road hadn’t improved. But it was different. She had been ready to turn around and head home, but her mother had been determined to visit Matilda.

      As a tramp-like individual had scuttled up Grace had bravely accosted him. He’d known Matilda, right enough, and had pointed at a door and given them a gap-toothed grin, before ambling away with a bag in each fist and a shilling for his trouble.

      When Grace had visited those few times over a decade ago, she’d stood gawping, transfixed, at the rotten houses, the majority of which had been people’s homes. But now, interspersed with roughly boarded up residences, business names were pinned to the front of some of the terraces indicating these were buildings in commercial use.

      ‘She ain’t the only one living down here now, y’know.’ Christopher was accustomed to seeing revolted interest animating the faces of people unused to the area. He pointed his cigarette at houses further along the terrace. ‘You’d be surprised how many people are kipping inside some of them.’ A sudden shriek of laughter from inside made Grace and Chris exchange a rueful smile.

      ‘Nice of you and yer mum to come and visit her, being as you lost touch for a long while.’

      ‘Didn’t want to come here, to be truthful.’ Grace pulled a little face. ‘It was mum’s idea. She’s not stopped talking about Matilda Keiver, and the old days, since we ran into your aunt by the palace gates.’ She shuffled her feet on the pavement to warm them and hunched her shoulders to her ears, tucking her long fair hair inside her collar. ‘She’d have come sooner to see her but I’ve managed to put her off.’

      As a light sleet started to fall, Christopher moved further inside the hallway. He took Grace’s elbow and pulled her in to shelter so they stood face to face in semi-darkness.

      ‘But I couldn’t get rid of her today,’ Grace continued. ‘She just said she was coming with me when I told her I was visiting Wendy.’ Seeing his puzzlement she explained, ‘I’ve got a friend who lives off Muswell Hill. I knew when I told mum I was seeing her today, she’d want to come too just so’s we could divert here.’ She drew daintily on her cigarette and blew smoke out of her mouth at once. ‘Me mum is here ’cos she’s nosy, you see, not being kind … sorry about that.’

      ‘No need to be,’ Christopher replied. ‘Matilda’s obviously glad of her company …’ As though to prove his point another rumble of laughter could be heard above.

      ‘Just because people live like this doesn’t mean it should be treated like a bloody freak show.’ Grace glanced about at her dismal surroundings. ‘They deserve some respect. I like your aunt. I did when I was younger too. I bet all the way home on the bus me mum’ll be going on about the state of her place. Worse it is, better she’ll like it.’

      ‘Don’t be so sensitive,’ Chris soothed with a tinge of mockery. ‘Matilda’s the last person to feel sorry for herself, or ashamed of herself.

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