Perseverance Street

by Ken McCoy

Genres: Sagas

Synopsis

When Lily Robinson sees the telegraph boy cycling down Perseverance Street, she knows that he's coming to deliver bad news. Clutching the telegram in her trembling hands, at eight months pregnant and mother to three-year-old Michael, Lily learns that she must now face life as a widow. Fortuitously, she is soon visited by acquaintances, Bernard and Edith Oldroyd, who, hearing of her plight, offer to take Michael home with them for the weekend and Lily gratefully accepts.

But to her horror, just days later, the Oldroyds disappear, along with her son. With the help of her redoubtable Auntie Dee and ex-Special Forces soldier, Charlie Cleghorn, Lily takes the investigation into their own hands, scouring the country and, ultimately, war-torn Europe in search of Michael, doing everything in her power to bring him home.

Release date: April 4, 2013

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 368

Sample

Leeds. Saturday 21st April 1945

‘Hey, cloth ears! I said ’ow old are yer? If yer don’t tell us, we’ll do yer.’

Michael looked up at the two boys towering over him. They were quite old, possibly as old as six. Everyone said how he looked older than his age, which was a problem right now. He screwed up his face in deep thought. What to say for the best? If he told them he was four they’d most probably think he was telling lies and do him, whatever that meant – it didn’t sound good. Then he thought of a great answer and looked down at his boots, which could do with a good polish.

‘Allus look at yer boots when yer tellin’ fibs,’ was what Tony Lafferty had once told him. ‘If yer look at yer boots they can’t tell if yer fibbin’.’

‘Five.’

One of them grabbed a handful of his jumper and snarled at him.

‘Yer little liar!’

Michael was a bit shocked that they knew he was fibbing. He’d been looking at his boots, so how did they know? He was now considering a second option – running away. He was a good runner, nearly as fast as Tony Lafferty who had something called rickets which gave him bow legs. ‘Poor lad wouldn’t stop a pig in a passage,’ Michael’s dad once said. ‘Never drank his milk, that’s his trouble. Drink your milk, son, or you’ll end up with bendy bones like Lafferty’s lad.’

If only this big kid would let go of his jumper. Michael was wishing he was five. But if he was five he’d most probably look six. If they didn’t believe he was five they’d never believe he was four, which was how old he was. Four and a quarter, according to his mam. What should he tell them?

He felt a cuff to the side of his head that sent him spinning to the ground. He grazed his knee but he wasn’t going to cry. If they thought they could make him cry they had another think coming. His dad was a soldier and he wouldn’t think much of his son if he started crying just because he’d grazed his knee. It was just one more scab to go with the others that decorated both of his knees. At least no one was holding on to his jumper now. They were both standing over him and laughing, which wasn’t fair. His dad had told him it was rude to laugh at people. It wasn’t the sort of laughing that might make him laugh along with them. This was bad laughing because they were bad boys.

Tears arrived, despite his determination not to cry. In a fit of petulance he lashed out with the heel of his right boot, which was reinforced with brand-new steel segs. Great for kicking up sparks. He caught one of the boys on his bare shin. The boy let out an agonised howl. Michael sprang to his feet and set off running. He’d gone no more than half a dozen steps when the other boy caught him up and grabbed his jumper again.

‘Right, yer little bugger! Yer’ve proper ’ad it now!’

Michael wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. ‘Leave us alone. I’ve done nowt!’ A low hum sounded in the distance, giving Michael a germ of an idea.

‘Yer’ve just broke me mate’s leg. That means yer’ll go ter jail.’

The low hum gradually built up to an echoing whine as the man winding the handle that worked the air-raid siren picked up speed. Michael knew there weren’t any German bombers coming because his mam had told him about them testing out the siren just before teatime, and he was due in for his tea any time now. He’d been standing at the end of Perseverance Street waiting for it to start when the two bullies arrived. He was wondering if they knew it was only a test. He pointed at the sky.

‘Look. There’s a load o’ German bombers over there.’

‘Where?’

‘Oh, they’ve just gone behind a cloud.’

It was a brilliant fib, one he was quite proud of. He’d tell Tony Lafferty about this. It’d make him laugh. The siren whined on. The bully looked up, uncertainly. His crony was staggering to his feet, hobbling on his injured shin.

‘This kid reckons he can see German bombers.’

‘I can,’ said Michael. ‘Up there, look. Oh heck! They’ve gone again.’

The siren’s whine grew to a crescendo as the man winding it got up to full speed. The siren was on the roof of Kershawe’s factory about a quarter of a mile away from the boys. A woman was hurrying down the road. The bigger boys looked around. Everyone seemed to be hurrying.

‘Me mam said I’ve got ter go home, when t’ siren starts,’ said Michael. ‘We’ve got a shelter in our cellar. Me dad made it.’ He was backing away as he said it. His finger was pointing upwards once again.

‘Look, it’s a Messyshit.’

It was the only German plane he knew. Tony Lafferty had taught him the name. Tony was five and knew all sorts of stuff. Michael’s mam didn’t like him playing with Tony because he was a rough lad but Michael thought he was great. He turned and ran, as did the bigger boys, only in opposite directions.

Michael arrived home just as the siren was winding down. He had a grazed knee and a big smile on his face. He’d tricked the big boys. He’d tell Tony all about it tomorrow, but he wouldn’t mention it to his mam. If she knew what had happened she wouldn’t let him play out on his own again. She’d only let him if she was watching and he wasn’t a baby any more.

The door to number 13 was open and Michael shot straight into his house. His mother was in the scullery boiling eggs. They’d have two eggs each followed by an Eccles cake, with bread and jam to fill up any empty spaces plus a glass of milk for Michael. Michael always managed to have an empty space and, not wanting to end up with bendy bones like Tony, he liked his milk. Lily Robinson preferred a nice cup of tea. She turned and revealed the bump that housed the next addition to their family. Michael knew it was a baby brother or a sister but he wasn’t sure how it had got in there, or how it would get out. He smiled up at his mam. She smiled down at him.

‘Hello, cheeky face. Hey, have you been crying?’

‘I fell on me knee.’

He showed her his injury.

‘That’s with running too fast. I’ve told you about that. Come in the scullery, I’ll have to get all that muck off before I stick a plaster on.’

‘What’s for tea?’

‘Boiled eggs and Eccles cakes.’

‘Ugh! Fly pie.’

‘I thought you liked Eccles cake.’

Tony Lafferty had told him that Eccles cake was really fly pie and Michael couldn’t understand why a pie made with flies should taste so good. He was a happy boy who knew no better than the circumstances in which he lived. Dad away at war; mam scraping to make ends meet; fly pie for tea.

Tuesday 24th April 1945

The telegraph boy wasn’t whistling as he pedalled his red bicycle over the cobbles of Perseverance Street. Far from it. His chain needed oiling, but he usually whistled, creaking chain or not, as telegraph boys did back then. It was their way of heralding their arrival, followed by a cheerful knock. Any telegraph boy who wasn’t whistling had nothing to whistle about. At times like this he thought his was the worst job of the war – apart from being a soldier and being shot at by Germans. His first delivery was a notification of death and he was not to hang around. His instructions were to deliver it with politeness, respect, and no whistling.

‘And clear off sharpish before she starts moaning.’

His dispatcher wasn’t a heartless man, just practical. When the residents of Perseverance Street heard the creaking bike they glanced through their windows to see where he was heading; praying that he wasn’t going to slow down and dismount outside their house. Him and his bad tidings. Well-off people living in the more northern suburbs wouldn’t have been quite so worried, as they used the telegram service to exchange urgent messages. Not so the people of Perseverance Street whose messages were never so urgent as to waste good money on their delivery. The telegraph boy would be a guaranteed messenger of doom at any of these doors.

Had it been a doctor at a Perseverance Street door it would have been a sure-fire way of knowing someone inside was on their last legs; the same went for a priest or a minister of any church. The watchers at the windows breathed sighs of relief that the boy had passed them by; relief that turned to morbid curiosity which took them to their doors where they stood with folded arms. He dismounted outside number 13 and propped his bike up by resting a pedal on the kerb.

‘Oh heck! It’s young Lily – it’ll be ’er Larry.’

‘And ’er over eight months gone an’ all.’

The watchers saw Lily standing at her window.

‘Oh, heck! She can see ’im!’

There were small bay windows in each house from where the occupant had a good sideways view of the street. Lily Robinson heard the creaking bike and glanced out of the window at the approaching boy. Her heart sank like a stone when she saw him swing his leg over the bike to dismount and cruise to a stop outside her house. He looked inside his bag, took out a brown envelope and double-checked the address against the house number. His knock was loud enough for anyone inside to hear but not so loud as to be disrespectful. Across the street the morbid watchers watched from beneath furrowed brows. Inside the house an icy dread rushed through Lily’s body, freezing all movement. On the doorstep the boy’s concentration was on the unpleasant job in hand. Glancing neither right or left, just at the door, waiting for it to open. Half hoping the lady wasn’t in.

Lily managed to move to the door and stood behind it, a hand on her mouth, paralysed with dread. It might well be that she was worrying for nothing, but deep down she knew she wasn’t.

Half a minute went by without the door opening. The boy was about to knock again. If no one answered after two knocks he’d leave it for someone else to deliver later in the day.

‘She is in, love,’ called out one of the watchers helpfully.

He knocked again and waited. The door opened, very slowly. The boy held out the envelope and announced, ‘Telegram for Mrs Lilian Robinson.’

‘W – what is it?’ Lily asked him, making no attempt to take it.

The fourteen-year-old-boy had met with many reactions, none of which he was ever prepared for.

‘Are you Mrs Lilian Robinson … Mrs?’

His arm was still outstretched, holding the envelope to which her eyes were glued with dread.

‘Er … yes, yes, I am.’

Her quivering hand went to her mouth. The neighbours were glancing at each other, not quite knowing what to do. Should they go across and give her their support? Eventually, with an effort, Lily took the envelope and disappeared inside the house.

The boy got on his bike and pedalled off to deliver a Missing In Action to a house on Perseverance Mount. He really hated this part of the job but his mam had told him the war would be over soon and he wouldn’t have too many more to deliver. The neighbours gathered round in a circle and discussed what to do for the best. Jobs were being assigned.

‘Give her five minutes then a couple of us go over – make her a cup o’ tea. That’s allus good fer shock.’

‘That’s her washin’ on t’ line. I’ll take it in – it looks like rain. Someone’ll need ter keep an eye on ’er Michael.’

‘I’ll do that. I’ll bring him over here fer ’is tea, poor little beggar.’

They were being good neighbours in a time of crisis. But good neighbours can be capricious creatures, as Lily would soon find out.

Friday 27th April 1945

The Austin 7 rattled over the cobbles with its wipers fighting a losing battle against the pouring rain. The street was deserted because the rain had washed all the residents indoors. The small car slowed down to walking pace and the large man inside peered out through the windscreen to try and identify Lily’s house from the numbers neatly painted on the bricks beside each door. The rain was washing chalk graffiti off the walls. One of them was a streaked and fading HITLER IS A TWERP, alongside a blurred drawing of the ubiquitous Chad saying WOT, NO BANANAS? Washing lines were strung out across the street, all empty except for two sparrows sitting side by side and taking it in turn to disappear inside a flurry of feathers and spray, then reappear, as calm as you like. Beside the large man sat his wife who had wiped a hole in the condensation on her side window with her gloved hand. Her eyes were scanning the doors.

‘The odd numbers are on my side,’ she was saying. ‘Nineteen … seventeen … fifteen … Here we are.’

She looked at the dark red door of number 13 which stood out from its drab, paint-peeling neighbours. Even through the rain she could tell that the front steps had been donkey-stoned, leaving a neat, rust-brown line around the edges. It was the doorway of someone who usually tried to make the best of things. The man stopped the car outside the house and turned off the engine, which shuddered to an eventual halt. He pulled on the handbrake and turned off the windscreen wipers. He glanced through the side window to where his wife was pointing, then from the back seat picked up a grey trilby which he jammed on his balding head and checked his appearance in the driver’s mirror. His wife took out a powder compact and gave her cheeks a liberal dusting. The man set his hat straight, tweaked his military moustache into place, stepped out of his car and stretched the cramp from his legs. Then he walked round to the passenger side to open the door for his wife who was quite diminutive and fitted the tiny car a lot better than he did.

‘Pity you didn’t think to bring an umbrella,’ she said brusquely.

High in the sky several barrage balloons swayed in the wind, anchored to the ground by steel cables; two of them disappeared into the rain clouds, up there to prevent German aircraft flying too low. Surplus to requirements really; as much use as party balloons, some people said, but the Home Guard needed something to do and guarding the barrage balloons was the only job available at this end of the war. The man glanced up at them, then winked at his wife.

‘Just what the doctor ordered,’ he said.

The street doorway offered little protection from the rain and they stood on the top step as close to the door as they could. Their knock was answered almost immediately and the man removed his hat, partly out of politeness and partly so that she might immediately identify him and invite them in out of the rain.

‘Mr and Mrs Oldroyd … I didn’t … Oh, please come in out of this awful weather.’

The couple stepped through the door, gratefully, and wiped their feet in turn on the door mat. At Lily’s behest Mr Oldroyd took a seat in the chair that he guessed had once been her husband’s and his wife sat down on a two-seater settee. A small boy was playing on the floor with a brightly painted wooden giraffe.

‘Hello, Michael. I wonder if you remember us?’ said Oldroyd.

‘Of course you remember Mr and Mrs Oldroyd, don’t you, Michael?’ said Lily. ‘You’ll remember feeding the horses in the field at the back of their lovely house in the country.’

Michael looked up at the man and nodded, slowly, to indicate that he did remember – if not Mr and Mrs Oldroyd, then at least the horses. Lily turned off the radio which had been tuned in to the Light Programme and playing Music While You Work. She was wearing a pinafore that hung down from her bump like a curtain in a bay window. She pushed away a loose strand of dark hair which she’d hurriedly tied back when she’d heard the knock at the door. She’d looked outside and seen the car, and recognised it as the Oldroyds’.

She wore no make-up and looked older then her twenty-five years. Her red-rimmed eyes were underlined by the dark shadows of sleepless nights. Her skin was pale and drawn and her mouth slightly turned down at the edges. Not for Lily the bloom of a pregnant mother; such a bloom tends to pale when your soldier husband is killed in action, but beneath it all lay the evidence of a good-looking young woman. That was the one thing Oldroyd remembered about her.

She looked to have been busy around the house. It was probably all she had to keep the pain of bereavement at bay.

Three days had passed since Lily had heard the news; ten days since Larry’s death. He would have most probably been buried by now, with whatever military honours were available, so she’d been told. That didn’t help. To lose her Larry and not have the chance to say a proper goodbye was hard.

He’d just been an ordinary man, a twenty-eight-year-old bank clerk who given the chance would probably have risen to bank manager after the war. Unremarkable but decent, Larry was never a fighting man but he’d been called up along with two million others and he’d had to go. Given the choice he’d have stayed at home with Lily and Michael and the new baby and let someone else do the fighting.

‘Keep your head down, Larry,’ she’d told him often enough.

‘No need to tell me that, love. Them Nazzies won’t get me in their sights. No two ways about that, love.’

The day after she received the telegram, a man from the War Office had called on her, offering his condolences and giving her details of the help she could receive, including her war widow’s pension. He told her that Larry had been killed in action, apparently by a German shell as he was helping a wounded comrade to safety under heavy fire. It sounded quite heroic. She’d tried to conjure up pictures of her Larry springing into action against the enemy, but her imagination wouldn’t stretch that far. The violent manner of his death had seemed so much at odds with the gentle manner of his pre-war life.

Oldroyd sat scrunching the brim of his trilby in both hands, his face in mourning. ‘We read about Larry in the Yorkshire Post this morning. Edith insisted that we come as soon as I could. We’re ever so sorry. We both are. Edith cried buckets when she heard, didn’t you, love?’

‘Heartbroken,’ confirmed Edith.

She glanced at Lily’s bump. ‘This should be such a happy time for you. What a cruel world we live in. Such awful people, them damned Germans. Why they should want to do this beats me. Bernard’d join up in a flash but he’s too old to go fighting wars.’

‘Well, I’m pushin’ fifty now,’ Bernard told her. ‘Mind you, I did me bit in the first lot. Lucky to come home unscathed.’

He smiled down at Michael then placed a contrite hand over his mouth and looked at his wife, wondering if they’d spoken out of turn about Larry’s death.

‘It’s all right, I’ve told him,’ said Lily, running a crook’d finger under her left eye to remove a tear – something she’d done so often in the last three days that she scarcely knew she was doing it. ‘He knows his daddy has gone to heaven where all the really brave soldiers go.’

There was a silence. Edith looked around the room which smelled of pine furniture polish and looked spotless, with pristine white lace curtains and a generous square of patterned Axminster over gleaming linoleum.

‘You keep a good house, Lily. A house to be proud of.’

‘I have to keep myself busy or I’ll go mad.’ Lily paused and added, ‘You always know it can happen, but nothing prepares you for it. It’s usually something that happens to other folk.’

‘I know,’ Bernard said. ‘I lost a brother in 1917.’

‘I didn’t know that. I’m ever so sorry.’

‘Don’t really know how he died. Missing presumed dead was all we were ever told.’ He looked out of the window. ‘Yer’ll have heard of Passchendaele, I suppose?’

‘I have,’ said Lily.

‘Foul weather – ten times worse than this. July and absolutely bucketing down. Heaviest rain in thirty years. Went on for weeks. Absolute quagmire. Mud so deep a man could drown in it, and a lot did. Horses as well. If our Stuart was killed outright it’ll have been a mercy. The odds were that he was probably wounded and drowned in the mud.’

Then he added, sadly, ‘I was in Flanders meself as matter of fact – different regiment. Didn’t find out about our Stuart for nearly two months and I can’t have been above five miles away from him when he died. The whole thing was a right bloody mess. A waste of good men’s lives. At the end of it all there was nowt left worth winning.’

‘My Larry was killed outright by a German shell.’

‘He won’t have suffered, then.’

‘No, I don’t imagine he did.’

‘I have to say, this is a war worth winning – not like the first bloody lot. What I’m trying to say is that your husband won’t have died for nowt like our Stuart – if that’s of any comfort.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t like to think he’d died for nothing, Mr Oldroyd.’

‘It’s Bernard and Edith. No need for us to be formal. We are old friends, after all.’

Lily wouldn’t have classed them as old friends, but it would have been impolite to point that out. They were sitting in a wine-coloured three-piece lounge suite in uncut moquette. Also in the room was a drop-leaf dining table with four chairs, an oak side board on which was a wedding photograph, a Bush radio and three vases of flowers representing, Mrs Oldroyd guessed, the condolences of well-wishers. The wedding photo showed Lily looking her best in a white wedding gown and Larry beaming. He was looking at her from the corner of his eyes, as if unable to believe his luck at having won himself such a beautiful bride.

One wall was dominated by a cast-iron range that was a fireplace, an oven and a water heater. Above it was a mantelpiece on which stood a grinning toby jug, an old tobacco tin containing money for the milkman and other sundry requirements, a slender glass vase full of multi-coloured wooden spills (to light the fire, a cigarette or the gas ring in the scullery) and a framed photo of Larry in his army uniform. He wore a beret set at a rakish angle and a moustache that he’d grown since he’d been called up. The beret was a bit too big and the moustache didn’t really suit him. It wasn’t Lily’s favourite photo of him but it was the most recent and it had been done in a studio so she’d given it pride of place.

It was a modest dwelling of which the most had been made. Larry had been buying the house on a bank mortgage which, since his call-up, was being paid by the army in exchange for Larry fighting for his country. It would now be paid off in full by the bank, something Lily hadn’t even thought about until a letter of condolence had arrived from the bank that morning. She was a property-owning war widow. It was little consolation.

‘Would er … would you like a cup of tea?’

Her voice was hesitant and devoid of all the life and charm he remembered in this young woman, but it was no more than he expected. An antique wallclock that looked to have come from a much grander house than this began to chime the hour, which was five p.m.

‘Tea would be lovely, thanks,’ said Bernard.

‘Edith?’

‘Please. Milk, one sugar.’

‘Just milk for me, please.’

Lily gave him a wan smile. ‘That’s right. I remember. You say you’re sweet enough, or something like that, don’t you.’

He returned her smile and said, ‘Something like that.’

She went into the scullery with Michael clinging on to her skirt, not really remembering these people who had come to see his mam. After a couple of minutes she came back with two cups of tea, rattling in their saucers; so much were her hands shaking.

‘Are you not having one?’ Bernard asked, taking the tea from her.

‘What? Oh, no. I’ve just had one. This is what was left in the pot. It should be all right.’

He took out a packet of Churchmans from his pocket and offered one to Lily, who declined.

‘No thanks very much. I’ve given up until the baby’s born. I’ve been told it’s harmful to the baby to smoke during pregnancy.’

‘Really? Well, I’ve never heard that. They blame cigs for most things nowadays, even cancer. Rubbish to that is what I say. Cigarette smoke purges the lungs – I’ve read that. That’s why footballers smoke.’

‘Pity it doesn’t purge the brain of foolishness,’ said Edith. ‘As far as I’m concerned you can’t be too careful as far as babies are concerned. We were never blessed, as you know.’

‘Do you mind if I –?’ asked Bernard, holding a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other.

‘Not at all. I’ll get you an ashtray.’

‘I don’t indulge,’ said Edith piously. ‘I don’t think smoking does anyone any good. His fags cost half a crown for twenty and he smokes forty a day. Every four days it’s a pound note gone up in smoke. Daylight robbery if you ask me.’

‘Nay, lass, it’s the only vice I’ve got,’ grinned Oldroyd. ‘I’m not a big drinker and I don’t gamble, apart from a few bob on t’ Grand National once a year.’ He lit his cigarette and looked down at Michael, giving the boy an avuncular smile. ‘Now then young feller, you look to me like a lad who likes Dinky Toys. Am I right, Michael?’

Michael, who didn’t know what a Dinky Toy was, stared up at him, saying nothing, just clutching his wooden giraffe. Bernard stuck his cigarette in the side of his mouth and patted either side of his coat with both hands before reaching inside the right-hand pocket. He brought out a model car, which he placed in the boy’s hand.

‘It an American Cadillac. I thought you might like it. All the Hollywood film stars have ’em so I thought you might as well have one.’

Michael’s eyes widened in wonder as he took the gift and examined it closely.

‘Say, “Thank You”,’ said Lily.

‘Thank you,’ Michael said, without taking his eyes off the car.

‘We’ve got a lot more of those at home,’ the man said. ‘If you ever come to visit me you can play with them as long as you like.’ He winked at Lily and added, ‘I never did grow up.’

‘Like a big kid sometimes,’ confirmed Edith, smiling. She reached out and placed a hand on Lily’s. ‘How’re you coping, love – honestly?’

Lily felt Bernard’s eyes on her as well. She ran her hands through her hair and began to cry.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, love,’ said Edith. ‘I didn’t mean to set you off.’

‘No, it’s not you – it’s just that … well, apart from neighbours I really haven’t got anybody.’

‘What about Larry’s family?’ asked Bernard.

Lily shook her head. ‘Them? I might as well be dead as well as far as they’re concerned. I was never good enough for their Larry. They probably blame me for him being killed, knowing them.’ There was unashamed bitterness in her voice.

‘Oh dear,’ said Edith. ‘I wish we lived nearer so we could help.’

‘Maybe we can,’ said Bernard.

Edith looked at him querulously.

‘I do have a car, Edith. We can pop over from time to time. Tell you what, here’s an idea. Why don’t we take Michael off your hands for a couple of days? Give him a bit of a treat and give you a bit of a breather.’

Edith answered for Lily. ‘No, Bernard. She’ll want the lad with her at a time like this. You men, you just don’t understand stuff.’

‘Sorry. It was just an idea.’

‘It was a very nice idea, Bernard,’ said Lily, ‘but Edith’s right. Michael’s a great comfort to me right now.’

‘Of course there’s all that stuff about the bombing,’ Edith said. ‘I couldn’t help but notice the barrage balloons are all up, so there must be some truth in it.’

‘What stuff about bombs?’ said Lily.

Bernard gave his wife a reproachful glance that Lily noticed. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘we don’t want to scare you, Lily, but . . .