An Empty Vessel: The post-war British classic by Vaughan Mason

by JJ Marsh

Genres: Historical Fiction; Literary Fiction; Women's Fiction; Historical Mysteries; England; historical fiction; Beatrice Stubbs; JJ Marsh penname

Synopsis

★★★★★ "AN EMPTY VESSEL should win literary prizes" Helena Halme Author
★★★★★ "It blew me away" Vesuvio
★★★★★ "An entertaining, heartbreaking and unusual story - I loved it" Rosie Amber Review
★★★★★ "Well after you've finished it, you're still thinking about Nancy and wishing you could help" The Bagster


London 1950: A Crime of Passion?

In her time, she's been a wartime evacuee, land-girl, slaughterhouse worker, supermarket assistant and Master Butcher.

Now she's a prisoner condemned to death. A first time for everything.

The case has made all the front pages. Speculation dominates every conversation. Why did she do it? How did she do it? Did she actually do it at all?

Her physical appearance and demeanour in court has sparked the British public's imagination.

The story of a life and a death, of a post-war world which never had it so good, and of a woman with blood on her hands.

This is the story of Nancy Maidstone.


The novel features prominently in the Beatrice Stubbs Mystery SNOW ANGEL - as the bestseller written by murder victim Vaughan Mason.

Release date: March 7, 2019

Publisher: Prewett Bielmann Ltd.

Print pages: 178

Sample

Chapter OneNancy – 1959

 

        

They do like to lay it on a bit thick. That whole rigmarole. Black cap, which was more of a black cloth if you’re calling a spade a spade, the not-quite-silence of the courtroom and the deep, theatrical breath. He had to have his moment. And the language he used: ‘hanged by the neck until you are dead’. I would have got it first time if he’d just said ‘hanged’. Don’t think anybody would have had their doubts, would they? 

       “What’s he mean by that then? Hanged a bit, or the whole hog?”

       “Is she really going to swing?”

       Is she?

       Am I?

       Nancy Maidstone, I will not seek to add further hardship to yourself or others in this courtroom by repetition of the details of this most distressing murder. I will content myself now with passing the sentence of the law, which is, that you be taken hence to the jail of Holloway; to a place of execution and be there hanged by the neck until you are dead; and that your body be afterwards buried within the precincts of the prison in which you shall be last confined after your conviction; and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul! Amen.

        

It’s quiet now. I’m sitting on the cot, looking at my hands. Funny, how your hands show more about you than your face. These hands are all right. I couldn’t say they look like mine. They look older, harder, more capable than the rest of me. They look like my mother’s hands. 

       When Ma died, I remembered her hands. I can still picture the graceful scar right across the base of her thumb, a white arc like a crescent moon. That was from the biscuit tin when we had the bus crash. I can recall my mother’s hands far better than her face. 

       I got a scar like that, but not quite as graceful. Can’t remember where from. My fingernails are filthy. You could grow taters under there, my girl. Never used to let them get like that when I had my white coat on. Clean nails, tidy hair, it was all part of the job. What would be the point of a clean pair of hands now? I got what I expected. Got what I wanted and it won’t be long before I can bow out. Goodbye, then. And … thanks for … my life. What did I do? I killed. Mostly I killed kindly. It was what I wanted to do; it’s what I was trained to do. If killing is to be done, best ’tis done kindly. Now it’s my turn. I’m sure they’ll do the same for me. If you have to go, they’ll try to make it painless. 

       Nan, it’s almost done now. All you got to do is face it and take your medicine like a big girl. No bawling and snivelling, no dramatics or hysterics. Don’t let yourself down. Deep breath, can’t get dizzy again. 

       I hit my own head on the basin when I came over a bit woozy earlier. At least it cheered the warders up. If I was to go base over apex again, they’d be delighted with that, wouldn’t they just? Wonder if they’ll be worse or better now I’m getting my ‘just deserts’? Or will they just spit twice? Tell the truth, I’m past caring. This lot in here are different. You can tell they feel superior because they are in charge of the ‘condemned suite’. I’m in a suite now, don’t you know. It is, and all. Three rooms, if you count the visitors’ cell. The one who brought me in said they’ll be watching me all night. I was only under observation in the hospital wing, which meant they had a look in every now and then. Wonder why. Is it in case I do away with myself? We wouldn’t want that now, would we? That would be a sin.

       In my time, I’ve spent many hours with creatures breathing and bleeding their last. You have no idea how much they really suffer or if your presence is any help. Stroking and patting, trying to ease the pain. I heard once that fear is worse than pain for animals. That’s why I spoke soothing words to a condemned cow. Wonder who I was really helping? Poor old cow can’t tell me how she feels. Maybe the only one I helped feel better was myself. 

       I know about death, about the long old walk to the exit. But I don’t know about mine. 

       How do you prepare for something like that? 

       Something like this. 

       Who’s looking after this poor old cow?

       What happens? Is that it, lights out, thank you and goodnight? See, this is the trouble with religion. They go on at you for so long about heaven and hell and purgatory and afterlife and all, that even when you do give it a good hard look and realise that it don’t hold up, you can’t let go. 

       There’s got to be something, you say to yourself, even if I don’t go along with what the clergy tries to stuff down our throats. Good job I don’t believe in all the angels and harps business. Because think about it. If you believe in One, that means there’s the Other. Downstairs with Old Nick and all his merry games. After all they said about me, what have I got to hope for?

        

No idea what time it is but I just woke up with a right start. Might be gone midnight which means I’m due to die today. 

       I’m glad. I tell you, I am glad. Half of me wants to get up off this blanket and do a jig. Here and now in this bare and echoing cell. But what with my giddy head and all, I’d just as well give it a rest. I can’t help but smile, though. No more of it. No one can get at me anymore. No fellas in wigs, asking me over and over the same old story. No police, no doctors, no guards nor no relatives. No vicars, no priests. No more trying to remember. Nobody out there is allowed anywhere near me. 

       The prison officers did a funny stunt with the Black Marias and an army van, so that the people outside didn’t know it was me. We went out far too early and had to drive all over the shop, so the guard said. Not to me, of course. They won’t hardly talk to me no more. She told one of the courtroom girls while we were waiting. She said to Marlene (that was her name and they knew each other from way back) the army van was the decoy and the two paddy wagons were supposed to be full of coppers. That guard was proud as punch, she was. Fooled old Joe Public. I couldn’t hear what was going on, but apparently the crowd gave the army van a right battering. Because they thought I was in there. What they really wanted to do was to batter me.

       Can’t tell if this is the shivers or the shakes. The first is all right. Shivers is natural, because I am cold, haven’t slept properly in weeks and all I’ve got is this blanket, which smells sour and mouldy. Shivers I’m used to. But the shakes aren’t really to do with here and now. Shakes are to do with before, what happened before and what’s going to happen after. If this is the shakes, well, I have to say it’s a first. This is the only time I have had the shakes about after. 

       Before today, there wasn’t a future, just the next day. I could never have got through the court case if I’d thought about the future. All I could manage was the next twenty-four hours. Get up, try to clean up as best I could, eat up my rations such as they were and go to court. Listen, try to understand; try to care. 

       Trouble is, it was lovely and warm in the courtroom and all those voices went on and on. I had the hardest job staying awake. I could feel, even with my eyes forced wide open, my head lolling a bit. If I closed my eyes for a second, it would be all over. It happened, more than once. Usually, the lawyer lady spotted it and nudged me awake. Good Lord and Peggy Martin, but it was hard work. 

       See, with all the thoughts and worries to think and worry about, not to mention the trying to remember, I could hardly sleep nights. Leave alone those vindictive guards who loved to bang and clatter enough to scare the living daylights out of you, just when you’d dropped off. I wasn’t sleeping much. Splash, splash, thud, thud, thud.

       But the courtroom, and I know how daft this sounds, was a safe place. All I had to do was sit in the warm, listen, look at people and answer questions. No one could hurt me, they weren’t allowed. I saw the judge frown once, as my head jerked upright and my eyes flew open. Head lolling about.

       You will be hanged from the neck until you are dead.

       Can’t sleep tonight, although I ought to try. And why would that be, Miss Maidstone? Going somewhere, are we? Got plans for later in the week? Doesn’t matter whether I sleep or stare at the patch of reflected sodium light in the corner. This is no longer my room. I shall be checking out in the morning. Could you make up my bill, there’s a good chap? I am on my way out, and don’t bother yourself about my bags.

       and that your body be afterwards buried within the precincts of the prison in which you shall be last confined after your conviction; and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul! Amen.

       Amen.

       I wonder if they let anyone in at all. No, they wouldn’t, would they? That nasty woman said that in America, they let the family of the victim watch the execution. Sometimes the condemned person’s family comes along too. What a thought. What must they see in one another’s eyes in a situation like that? Still, we’re not in America, so I should be grateful for small mercies. Not that I’d have anyone from my side to watch. Not anymore. Frank wouldn’t come. He’s washed his hands of me. Changed his name, so they say. I can’t blame him. 

       When they first brought me in here, that must have been three or four months back, the first visitor I had was Frank. I was surprised to see him. I wasn’t expecting anyone at all. They only allow close family, and Frank was all I had left. Frank coming to a women’s nick. Poor beggar. What a thing for a man to deal with.

        

Frank was here. Funny to think of it now. He didn’t stay long at all. He didn’t have a clue what to say and I still wonder why he bothered. He never knew what to say to me on an ordinary day, never mind when I’d just been charged with murder. Just sitting there, shaking his head, looking at me again and back to the floor, shaking his head once more. 

       He hadn’t said a word when he first arrived.

       Well, just the one. 

       Nancy.

       “Nancy,” he said, as he walked in. All formal, with a nod, as if he was a neighbour and we happened to meet in the doctor’s surgery. Nancy. Same tone he would use with a distant nephew, one he didn’t like all that much.

       I think the silence and head-shaking was supposed to let me know that he couldn’t believe it. Not of me. Not his own flesh and blood. Not Nancy. But Frank was never one to let gestures speak louder than words.

       “I can’t believe this. I cannot believe I am here.”

       He looked at me, incredulous. I tried a weak smile and raised my eyebrows. 

       “Oh, that’s right, you grin away, girl. You have yourself a laugh. They ain’t mucking about, Nancy, this ain’t a bit of a slip-up what will get you a slap on the wrist. This is Holloway, girl. You’re in the nick!”

       I blinked. Frank was telling me that I was in prison. Perhaps he thought I hadn’t twigged yet.

       “Good God Almighty, Nance, what the hell is this?”

       His face got redder then, which was reassuring. He was quite pale when they let him in and I thought he looked proper peaky. Mind, I was used to seeing him near puce most of the time. 

       Always in a fury, is our Frank. They’re all out to get him. Everyone lies in wait to make our Frank’s life a misery. If you’re in the car with Frank and you pull up to a junction, a stream of cars comes round the bend and he has to wait for ages till he can pull out. He always says the same thing. ‘Those blighters were waiting for me, see! Just bloody marvellous, innit, as soon as I want to get out, they all bloody queue up to stop me getting where it is I want to go’. Poor old Frank. But he was off again. 

       “They tell me you ain’t said a word, Nancy. Well, I’ll tell you what, my girl, you’re going to say a word or two to me. We’ll get to the bottom of this and sort it all out. Right? Right, Nance?”

       I met his eyes, but I could not think for the life of me what expression I should have, so I just didn’t. No expression. I looked away.

       “I don’t know what went on over there and tell the truth, I don’t want to know. But I know it can’t be what they’re saying. That weren’t you. I know that much, I ain’t daft. Thing is, Nance, you got yourself mixed up in something very unpleasant. You got to come clean, so we can sort it out, innit?”

       I felt pressure behind my eyes. I rubbed my face with my hands. I wished he’d give over. But he was building up quite a head of steam. Thing with Frank is, he can’t half talk. Ooh, what? Our mother used to say he’d have the hind leg off a donkey. Charlie was quieter. He’d whisper to Frank and Frank would do the foghorn bit. Sitting there in the visiting cell, he shook his head and worked up a right muck sweat. I could see why. He was out of his depth. In the normal course of events, if I’d spilt a pan full of greens, or knocked over a basket of clean shirts or couldn’t open the coal house door, he’d barge me out the way and sort it out. All the while calling me a ‘daft cat’ or ‘great heifer’ or mostly ‘useless mare’. This time, he was stuck. I wanted to tell him not to bother himself, just to go on home. It ain’t going to work, Frank, and it don’t matter how many blood vessels you pop.

       “You shamed me, Nancy! And not just me, all of us! Do you realise, have you got the foggiest of how shamed I am? Not just me, all of us! Can’t look anyone in the eye. You know what, you have taken away my pride in my family name, that’s what you’ve gone and done. Taken away my pride, one of the worst things you can do to a man. Thank God our Ma and Dad ain’t here to see this. Thank God Charlie is dead and gone. Never thought I’d hear myself say them words but as God is my witness … ”

       He never thought he’d hear himself say them words. Thank God Charlie is dead and gone. Well, I’ve been saying them ever since he died. The real queer part is that I never thought I’d hear Frank say that. Not the bit about Charlie. The bit about wanting me to talk. All I can remember from when I was a nipper is being told to shut it.

       Quiet, girl, you’ll wake your father. Hush. Sssh. Will you put a sock in it? Can’t you shut her up, Ma? Hush now. Little girls should be seen and not heard. Shut up, Nancy. No one’s interested. Don’t tell. Sssh. You better not open your mouth. If you say anything about this, we’ll call you a liar. And who’re they going to believe? Keep your trap shut, girl, if you know what’s good for you. Sssh, not a whisper. There’s only one thing your mouth is good for and it ain’t talking. Hush, sweetheart, hush now. Nancy, just shut your bleeding cake-hole! 

       Seems Frank changed his mind. He wanted me to talk.

       “What the hell was it all about, eh? Why the hell Gerry Murray? That lad was only twenty-one. What the bloody hell was going on, Nan, what the firing bloody hell…? All right, all right. You don’t like the language. I know, I can see it on your face. Thing is, I’m in the dark, see? I don’t know what to think. You’re in shock, your brief told me, but ain’t we all? Ain’t we all smacked sideways by this one? Nan, you saw what happened. I can’t believe it were you, don’t ask me to get that into me skull. Tell the coppers who done it or we ain’t never gonna know, innit?”

       He looked old, did Frank. Funny how you add up all the little changes and it comes to one great big one. He’d gone old. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t thinking that was anything to do with me and all of this business. He did look a bit drained and tired, but there could be a lot of wherefores as to that why. His suit was shiny, like it had been ironed too often. Not shiny all over, like Mr Harmsworth. He has his done in a shop up West and they’re supposed to be like that. Frank’s was shiny in patches. I could feel that old itch. I wanted to take it off of him, give it a decent hand wash, then press it while still damp, covering the suit with an old cloth. It’d come up lovely then. But I didn’t. Come to that, I couldn’t.

       “Gawd, I don’t know if I’m talking to a brick wall or what. You can’t just keep schtum, girl. You don’t want to talk to the Old Bill, and nor don’t I, but you got to say something. Innit? I’ll tell you something for nothing. What’s it been? Two days, well three, if you’re counting the Monday. People are singing a song about you. Famous, that’s what you are, girl. Don’t you want to hear it? No, I don’t expect you do. Well, I have to hear this day in, day out, so it’s time you done too. 

       Who’s sorry now, who’s sorry now

       Who took a gun to shoot poor Gerry down

       She heard him groan, she watched him moan

       ‘Cos she’s got a heart made of stone.”

       I hope I die before hearing my brother sing again. I’ve never heard him sing before and going by the sound of it, he didn’t practise much. It was the worst thing I ever heard in my life. His voice was weak and creaky, like an old man’s, and his embarrassment contagious. He sat opposite me, in that cold light, with the warder watching expressionless, opened his mouth and sang. It was ugly, painful and raw as a grazed knee. I was mortified and my face burned as if I’d opened the door to a furnace. I looked away, up and down, like a cornered creature, but there was no way to escape. I was so horrified by Frank’s singing I don’t think I really paid all that much mind to the words. It lasted a few agonising, eternal seconds.

       Frank spoke. “See? Nice. Lovely. ‘Maid of Stone’. I just cannot wait to show my face in my place of work come next Monday. The reception will be royal. ROYAL! For crying out loud, you silly bitch, will you tell us what the hell happened?”

       I stared at my hands and waited till my face cooled.

       “I got sweet Fanny Adams to go on. The papers say it looks like you done it and you ain’t arguing. But it don’t add up, not to my mind, it don’t. What was he to you? Far as I know, you was just working with the bloke before, but he could have been your weekend fancy man for all that I know. I just don’t know.

       “He wasn’t, was he? Was he, Nan? Nah, nah, he weren’t. Give me strength. What I do know is that you will get yourself nowhere by keeping your gob shut. What did he do, Nan? If he tried to hurt you, well, that’s self-defence. Your brief will be banging on about that one, but only if you help. She says you are ‘uncooperative’. Know what that means? It means you are a stubborn little cow, that’s what it means. I don’t think she likes you. Who can blame the woman, eh? If you won’t help yourself, why should anyone else ….

       “RIGHT!” Frank jumped to his feet and loomed over me. “I am sick to the back teeth of this! You will tell me what the bloody hell went on in that place or I swear on my lights, I will do for you!”

       The warder took a step towards us. “Mr Maidstone, would you take your seat, sir?”

       “Yes, all right, I got the point. I’m sitting, see? It’s enough to drive you round the bend, though. It would try the patience of a saint. She’s gone simple on me. Can’t get a word out of the dozy mare. Thank you, miss, I’ll keep seated now. 

       “See? See what you are dragging me down to? Your level, that’s what. Have I ever had a brush with any area of the law before now? No, I have not. Not on my life. But no apology. No, sorry I am dragging you into all this, Frank. I am deeply ashamed of the disgrace I have brought on our entire family, Frank. No. Not a bleeding word. The silent treatment. Nancy, I don’t know if you thought this through or what, but I got to tell you, you could get the death penalty for this. They ain’t used it for a while, true, but that’s only ’cos the soft-soapers created such a three-ring circus over that last one. It’s still in place. You could face the noose, girl.”

       An electric shock charged through me. The second time Frank had shocked me, but this time with hope. They wouldn’t, would they? They wouldn’t actually let me go? That was the first time I dared to entertain the thought. Up to then, I’d been convinced that they’d punish me forever, by keeping me in that place, with those women, till I died of old age. Make me live with myself. I didn’t dare believe that they might let me leave early. I couldn’t think about it. If I did, it would never happen. Not once in my life did I get anything I wanted.

       “No, no. Don’t look like that. I’m only putting the wind up. Oi, Nance, it’s all right, I said. They ain’t going to do you in, girl. Honest to God, though, you got to talk. You can’t go all blank like that. Makes everyone a bit jumpy. Tell the truth and shame the devil, innit? If you can’t rely on your own family, who can you … are you yawning? Am I boring you? Oh, I do apologise. I shouldn’t keep you. After all, I am only trying to keep you from swinging from the bleeding gallows, you daft cow!”

       I blinked a few times, trying to concentrate. Frank got up, making a right show of biting his lip.

       “Goodbye, Nancy. I can’t wish you good luck because that would be stupid. About half as stupid as you are. All I can say is that from now on, I am an only child. I never had a sister and my name is not, at least no longer, Frank Maidstone. I’ll keep the Frank, but you have spoiled the rest of it. Who knows, I could always call myself Murray. Excuse me, miss? If you don’t mind, I’ll be leaving now. Ta-ra, Nance.”

       The warder opened the door. His last glance was a mixture of puzzled, angry and hurt. As if I was a well-trained dog which had just bitten him. I wouldn’t see our Frank again. My heart went out to him, it really did. Odd how personal it was. He took my silence as an insult. Funny, in a way. If I’d known what it would take to make him care.

        

Poor old Frank. I cared for him. He got in the firing line, did Frank, in a manner of speaking. Charlie, God rest his soul, started the fire, but Frank was the smoke. He was the one who got caught and copped it. Charlie would stand, wide-eyed and shocked, saying, ‘Oh, Frank!’, like he couldn’t believe it. His face was always pale, not like Frank, who used to flush beetroot when they got caught. No matter what the punishment, Frank never told on him. Never dobbed his brother in and just took the clip round the ear like a good ’un. No wonder Frank thinks the world’s out to get him. He took the blame for them both. Charlie never copped it, not once. Tell a lie, he’s copped it now. 

       How can you think things like that, eh? Your own brother, flesh and blood. God, just thinking about the funeral makes a lump in my throat. Mum’s face, cracked, wrecked, drained of all she had. Frank, white and lost without his navigator. Charlie’s girl, the glamorous Lana, powder, mascara, foundation, all gone to the dogs. 

       Dearly beloved …

       Dearly beloved, my foot. He wasn’t, not by me, leastways. He might have been beloved by the rest of them, and judging by the floods of tears at the crem, he probably was. The golden boy. Tall, fair and handsome, if you go for thin lips, a beaky nose and the cruellest mouth you can imagine. 

       Shakes are getting worse now. Calm yourself, girl, there’s no one who can hear you. All right to tell the truth when it’s just between you and your Maker. You what? You can’t have it both ways! All right then, just between you and the mattress. That’ll do.

       Charlie was hateful, cruel, and a master manipulator. There. Not just to me, mind, don’t get me wrong. This is not just a little sister’s old, cold resentment. He did it to Frank, too. The difference was Frank was grateful, just to be let in, to be talked to, included and overjoyed to do all Charlie’s dirty work. Don’t know how happy he was to take the rap for it all, but he never let out a whisper of complaint. Stupid bloody fool. Oh, good gracious, what is it with you today, Nan? May as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb? How to follow up getting charged with murder. Not content with bad-mouthing your poor dead brother? Why not finish off with a bit of foul language?

       Charlie makes me think of foul language. I don’t care how big a war hero he was. At home, he was a coward, a sneaky little weasel and a bully. I hated every hair on his golden head. Funny enough, I didn’t hate Frank quite as much. More like a bit sorry for him. He was one of Charlie’s victims, just didn’t realise it, the chump. 

       I knew I was his victim. They would plant the seeds for days, even weeks before, sometimes. They would whisper together, mouths and ears towards each other, but eyes trained on me. I knew. Message received. They were planning how to get me. I could not escape. I could try and tell Mum, but sobbing and crying and saying ‘They’re looking at me’ was never going to get me much sympathy. They always chose humiliation. Fear over pain. Showing me who was boss. There was never a serious mark, apart from the thing in the greenhouse and that was explained away in no time. My role was the victim, they were going to get me and it was only a matter of time. I spent all my life until they left home in a state of fear. Never a happy-go-lucky moment, never blithe or gay, always waiting and watching. That way, they could hurt me for one day, but make sure they blighted my life for weeks. 

       They were always threatening my hair. I had lovely hair. That was the only thing about me that you could call pretty. I had a very plain face, with a big jaw like both the boys. It suited them. My eyes were the palest blue-grey, like dishwater, my Mum used to say. And ever since I can remember, I was big. Big face, big head, broad shoulders, wide hands, as clumsy and awkward a child as you ever met. Dad would call me a blunderbuss when I came pounding down the stairs or knocked into the table and sent everything toppling. He used to smile and shake his head so I didn’t mind. I was a great oaf and he still loved me. I minded a bit when the other kids at school called me sausage-fingers or moon-face, but soon learned to ignore it. My brothers called me Desperate Dan, even in front of my mother. She chided them for that, but even she used to say I should try to be a bit more feminine. Act a bit more like a lady.

       My hair was feminine, ladylike and beautiful. Thick as you like, in long ringlets down my back. Mum used to put it in rags for me. The boys laughed themselves soft when they saw me with my hair in rags. Scared the dog, too. He came wandering in, took one look and shot back out again with his tail between his legs. I didn’t give a fig for them or the dog. I loved the way my hair came out. Shiny fat curls, looping down my back. Mum never said too much, as she said people who thought a lot of themselves were heading for a fall. Still, she’d comb it through for me, using her fingers very gently, and you could see she was proud. When we brushed it at night, one hundred strokes, no more, no less, we were peaceful. We were happy then. Charlie knew I loved my hair and that’s why he kept telling me he’d destroy it.

        

Cowboys and Indians. Tied up to a lamp-post, because trees were a bit thin on the ground. They showed me the matches, built a fire round my feet. Tipped a bottle of brown ale over the broken sticks and told me that pouring alcohol on the fire makes it burn all the wilder. Lit matches, held them to my face and behind my head. I could smell my hair singeing. My throat was hoarse for days after from the screaming.

       Scientists. Tied to the table in the greenhouse when Mum had gone on the bus to town. All kinds of chemicals in small jars. Planning to turn me into a peroxide blonde. Pouring liquids onto my skin with so much ceremony and glee that I shrieked fit to wake the dead whether I could feel anything or not. I still have scars on the back of my neck from some chemical or other and on my wrists from the twine holding me onto the rough wood.

       Barbarian tribes. Sharpening knives, talking about cutting, scarring, scalping and watching my face. I tried pleading, appealing to their sweet sides, threatening to tell, asking, and begging them to let me go. Screaming again. That was before they discovered gags.

       Then it was Doctors and Patients. Most children’s games include nurses, but I was only an ‘im-patient’. They found themselves very droll. I once saw Frank damp his shorts through laughing. They wanted to see what was different. They wanted to see how it all fitted together. Innocent enough, kids experimenting. Except I had no choice. They opened the door without knocking.

        

Of course, they were left to themselves mostly, that was part of the problem. Mum was either out at work or in at work. The boys were her pride and joy. When we went shopping ‘I need an extra pair of hands’, she would tell people about them. Both sharp as tacks, oh, she had high hopes for those boys. They were clever, they were running rings round her; they were into everything, especially trouble. She would laugh with the ladies in the shop and shake her head fondly. Charlie and Frank were good looking and badly behaved. Just as a lad ought to be. 

       I was neither. 

       She was more often than not exasperated with me. If I wasn’t under her feet, then I was where I shouldn’t be. So I tried making myself useful. When I got a bit bigger, I went with her to her cleaning jobs and did what I could to help. Never complained and I was a hard worker, so I think she was pleased with me. Although she never said much. Life was so much better when Mum was home. She would find something for me to do, which got me away from the boys, kept me in her sight. I liked being useful. She had a lot to do, what with Dad being the way he was. I was a good girl.

        

I was a good girl the day of the bus crash. We’d been round at the Timtons’ big old house in Blackheath. I liked the house and the heath with the kiddies flying kites, but not the long walk from the bus stop. That afternoon, Mrs Timton came out as Mum was putting on her coat. She had a small brown envelope in her hand and a biscuit tin under her arm. 

       “Mary, your wages, dear. One other thing, I’d like you to have these for Nancy. She’s a little trouper and she deserves to be paid.” She smiled a lovely smile and gave me a little wink. I smiled back, but at the same time hid my face behind Mum’s hand.

       She handed Mum the biscuit tin. My eyes widened and my mouth began watering.

       “Thank you very much, Mrs Timton. That’s very decent of you. Say thank you, Nancy.”

       “Thank you.”

       “Don’t mention it, my dear. You have earned it.”

       Mum was chuffed, I could tell. She clutched the tin to her chest on the walk to the stop and placed it on her lap as we settled in for the bus ride. I stared at the pictures on the lid, imagining how each biscuit would taste and deciding which one to eat first.

       We were on the top deck, as a treat for me, so we never saw the car coming. They told us later a driver took a chance at the lights in Deptford, rushing through as amber changed to red. A motorcyclist waiting for the change was quick off the mark and pulled away just a touch early. The car saw him, over-corrected and swung straight into the path of our double-decker. I heard the squeal of brakes a second before my mother’s forearm slammed across my chest. 

       I jerked with the impact, bottom sliding forward, knees smacking into the seat in front. I began to cry, more through frightened surprise than pain. Mum’s protective gesture towards me left her with one hand to brace herself. Her instinct was to throw her right arm across me and use her left elbow to prevent herself being thrown across the upper deck of the bus. Her left hand clutched the biscuit tin, which bent, parted and presented a knife-like edge to my mother’s thumb.

       That was the first time I saw real blood. My tears and snuffles dried instantly as I watched dark surges of my mother’s blood pour from her hand. Mum’s face was white as she too gazed at the phenomenon. Shouts of anger and outrage came through the windows, as other passengers began to cry or comfort one another. When we bled, Mum stopped it. Now it was my turn. I reached into her pocket for her handkerchief, the spit-and-polish for dirty faces handkerchief. I took her hand and wrapped the hanky around the base of the thumb, careful to hold it as tight as my small chubby fingers would allow. It must have hurt, because Mum flinched and her eyes sharpened.

       “Right, Nance, we may as well walk to the next stop, ’cos this old heap’s not going anywhere.”

       “What about your hand?”

       “I’ll see to that when I’m home. You’ve done a good job and it’ll hold for now. Up you get.”

        

It took us another hour to get home, by which time the hanky was soaked through. She went into the bathroom, telling me to make us all a cup of tea. I did as I was told, took Dad’s into the front room and waited for her to come downstairs. She was waxy pale as I passed her a cup of tea with half a sugar. Her hand was neatly bandaged and there was no more blood.

       “Well done, Nance. You kept your head. Just knuckled down and got on with it. You’re a good girl, Nancy. Let’s give the boys a shout and tell them we’ve got biscuits, shall we?”

       Mum was wrong. I wasn’t a good girl. Those biscuits were for me and I didn’t want to share them with my greedy selfish brothers. I wasn’t good at all. 

        

The front room was for Dad. We were quieter when walking past the door and respectful once inside. We never stayed long because we wore him out, he said. He didn’t seem to mind me so much, because I wasn’t one to talk. It was hard for Dad to talk on account of his lungs. Hearing him make conversation would hurt you, it sounded such a struggle. The boys, though, couldn’t stay quiet for long. Dad preferred to hear of their achievements and exploits through Mum. But when Mum was out and Dad shut up in the front room, the boys had the place to themselves. Sometimes they played on their own, generally something involving shouting and banging. The danger was they’d get bored. Boredom meant trouble. Usually for me. 

       Charlie was the mastermind and Frank did the dirty work. If ever there was a visible result of their ‘rough and tumble’, Frank was the one who copped it. Charlie always appeared distressed about it and would often comfort his trembling little sister. Who would have trembled far less with some distance between me and that sly rotter. As time passed, Frank grew out of it, found other people to bully. Charlie never stopped. 

       When they grew older, my big, brave brothers both volunteered to join the Forces. Frank went into the army, like our dad, but Charlie was in the RAF. I was happy as a sand-boy, gay all day, singing around the house, as long as Mum was out of earshot. For the first time in my life, I was not terrified and I will always remember those times as pure, perfect happiness. 

       They came home on leave, throwing my Mother into an enormous panic, using up the whole of our rations in preparation for a banquet. They both behaved like returning heroes, even though neither of them had seen a stroke of action. Frank ignored me, apart from to comment on my beefy arms. Only way she’ll get a decent fella is with an arm-wrestle! Ha ha ha. The rest of the time, I was barely visible, apart from my maid duties. Tea. Ironing. Dinner. Sandwich. Wireless on. Tea. Wireless off. Bottle of beer. And another. Bag to be packed. 

       Frank sometimes wrote to Mum and Dad. I never got a mention. The dog did, once or twice, but not me.

       Charlie though. Charlie used to do what he did with Frank. With the eyes. Except he wasn’t whispering to Frank anymore, he’d be talking to our neighbours, telling them about his training routine. Or with Uncle Brian, talking about tactics. Didn’t matter who it was, he’d be watching me, with those eyes. I knew. He knew I knew. I tried asking Mum if I could sleep in with her as I was feeling poorly, but she told me not to be so daft. If you’re going to be sick, you can do it on your own sheets. I just had to wait there, in my own bed, till it was all quiet. Waiting, as I always had, in fear.

       He never touched me again. Always threatened to, but never did. I don’t know if he was because he was too scared, drunk or cowardly without Frank. I hated him anyway. For the fear. For the shame. For the knowledge that he could, he might, one day.

       I did cry when we got the telegram. Mum’s face changed as she read it. She went white, almost transparent, like gauze. I thought it was Frank. Not for one second did I think it could be Charlie, the golden boy. Mum sat down heavily on the arm of the good settee, her eyes closed. As gently as I could, I took the telegram and read it slowly. That’s when I started to sob. I slid down to the floor, put my arms round my knees and sobbed. I cried huge, hot tears and said, ‘Oh God, oh God’ over and over again in a cracked, clogged voice. What I meant was, ‘Thank God, thank God’.

       Not till a lot later did I realise how badly Charlie’s death affected my mother and father. At the age of about twelve, I was listening to the wireless with Dad and half-watching Mum doing the ironing in the kitchen. Dad started to cough, those creaky heaving coughs which were so painful to hear. I stood to pat him on the back and noticed Mum, head tilted to the ironing board, hands rhythmically removing the creases, tears rolling silently down her face. She hid her sniffs and reached up her sleeve for a hanky. That was when I realised that some people had really loved Charlie.

       Not me. I hated him and I am glad he’s dead and buried. Selfish. I know I’m a bad person. No joke, the world will be better off without me.

        

The sky’s getting lighter. It’s today. My last day. Looks like we’ll have nice weather for it.