Our Street Read online

  Our Street

  Victor Pemberton

  Copyright © 1993 Victor Pemberton

  The right of Victor Pemberton to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2012

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN : 978 0 7553 9248 3

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Also by Victor Pemberton

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Victor Pemberton was born in Holloway, in the London Borough of Islington, in the early 1930s. His first job was as a Fleet Street postboy but after two years’ National Service he went to work in the travel industry and wrote his first radio play, ‘The Gold Watch’, which was broadcast by the BBC and has since been repeated five times. He went on to write radio and TV plays full time and in 1971 became script editor for the BBC’s ‘Dr Who’ series, later writing for the series himself. In recent years he has worked as a producer for Jim Henson and has set up his own production company, Saffron.

  His first novel, OUR FAMILY (‘a wonderful story’ – Nerys Hughes) was based on his highly successful trilogy of radio plays of the same name and is also available from Headline.

  Also by Victor Pemberton:

  Our Family

  Our Street

  Our Rose

  The Silent War

  Nellie’s War

  My Sister Sarah

  Goodnight Amy

  Leo’s Girl

  A Perfect Stranger

  Flying with the Angels

  The Chandler’s Daughter

  We’ll Sing at Dawn

  The Other Side of the Track

  A Long Way Home

  1944, North London. Fifteen-year-old Frankie Lewis feels as if the war will go on forever. But one night in the blackout, his life takes an extraordinary turn. Whilst playing a vindictive prank on the German-Jewish widow who lives nearby, Frankie finds himself hauled across her doorstep into a world of books and culture. Fascinated by Elsa’s stories of life before the war and her late husband – a British officer – young Frankie becomes good friends with Elsa, helping her out in her shop and confiding his troubles to her – from his crush to his sister’s unwanted pregnancy. So, when Elsa suddenly dies of a heart attack, Frankie is devastated. He is almost as shocked to discover that Elsa has left her shop to him – a legacy that her brother-in-law is determined to deny him…

  To

  Oliver J. the second.

  Welcome.

  Chapter One

  That evening, the back streets of Islington seemed to be filled with the grey November fog. Thick, choking palls swirled endlessly, obliterating almost everything in sight; it was a real pea-souper. Along the busy Seven Sisters Road, people made their way home from work in the dark, often bumping into each other despite the dim beams of light from their cherished hand-torches. Some shops closed early – there was obviously not going to be much custom while people could hardly see a hand in front of their face. Even Digby’s, the greengrocer’s, had had enough, and by five o’clock in the evening they had pulled down their long green window shutters. By seven o’clock, only Dorner, the butcher’s shop in Hornsey Road, remained open. It took more than fog or Hitler’s bombers to deprive Dorner’s customers of the best savaloys and hot pease-pudding in the district.

  Ever since the start of the war five years before, this small corner of north London had had its fair share of death and destruction. On too many mornings shopkeepers in the main Holloway Road had arrived to find their windows blown out and the pavements pitted with glass and, in the Seven Sisters Road, a high-explosive bomb had once torn through five shops, leaving a great smouldering gap in the long terrace. In nearby Hornsey Road, only quick action by the ARP had saved the Emmanuel Church when an incendiary fire bomb had landed on its roof. But although most of the inhabitants in the surrounding back streets were becoming worn out by the intensity of the nightly bombing raids, they were defiantly determined to put up with anything Hitler decided to throw at them. Some of those inhabitants, however, seemed to resent any of their neighbouring streets that had completely survived the nightly bomb damage.

  Despite the fog, the Merton Street gang were out in force that night. Hadleigh Villas was always their favourite rendezvous, for it was a quiet cul-de-sac just off the Seven Sisters Road, with large, grand houses that were absolutely perfect for the ritual game of ‘Knock Down Ginger’. Not that the Merton Street gang was really a ‘gang’. They were just a bunch of youngsters, most of whom lived in the same back street, which was sandwiched between Hornsey and Tollington Roads. The oldest, Jeff Murray, was sixteen. He was a well-built boy, with a reputation for being a first-class goalkeeper in the street football team, and he was, naturally, a constant hit with every girl in the neighbourhood. In contrast, at fifteen years of age, Frankie Lewis seemed a little backward for his age, for he was only just starting to experiment with life.

  That evening, there were only five of the gang huddled together in their usual hiding place in the doorway of Pascall’s, the bicycle shop on the corner.

  ‘Right then,’ whispered Jeff. ‘It’s my turn tonight.’ To the others he was nothing more than a ghostly shape in the fog, but they recognised his strong, firm voice. ‘I’ll take the old Kraut’s place.’

  ‘That’s not fair!’ snapped Alan Downs, who was just a couple of months younger than Jeff, and his rival in practically everything they did. ‘The Kraut’s place is dead easy on a night like this. She couldn’t see yer even if she tried.’

  ‘It’d give ’er a good fright, though.’ Patty was the only girl in the gang, and she loved it because it made her feel special, as though she had power. She also acted older than her fifteen years – and her snogging with Alan in the old shed behind the Emmanuel Church sometimes went further than even he had ever thought possible. But Patty really preferred Jeff, who kissed her the way her screen idol, John Payne, kissed Betty Grable. �
��I bet on a night like this the old Kraut’s in ’er cellar, tappin’ out morse code messages to ’er pals in Berlin,’ she said, excitedly.

  Frankie hadn’t thought about that. Of course, like everyone else he knew that the old sauerkraut in number 19 had to be a spy because she was a German, but it had never occurred to him that she was probably sending back secret information to the Nazis every night . . .

  ‘If she really is a spy, she won’t send messages ’erself,’ sniffed ‘the Prof’, who was also fifteen. He’d been given his nickname by his mates because he was a bit of a swot at school and knew practically everything there was to know about scientific things. His real name was Pete Moosey but he much preferred ‘the Prof’. Even though he couldn’t see a thing in the fog, Prof was busily cleaning his fragile, tortoiseshell spectacles on the now-tatty woollen scarf his Auntie Hilda had knitted him. ‘Spies always have someone else to pass the information on to,’ he said firmly, in his slightly la-de-da way which was frequently a source of jeering amusement to his gang mates.

  The truth was that these die-hard members of the Merton Street gang knew absolutely nothing about the inhabitant of 19 Hadleigh Villas. All they knew was that the woman who lived there was a German and, so, logically, she just had to be a Nazi. Which was why, a few weeks before, Jeff and Alan had made a perilous expedition to the house late one evening and painted a huge white swastika on the front wall at one side of the street door. None of them had actually seen the ‘spy’ in question, but in Frankie’s imagination she looked something like a female Adolf Hitler. Once or twice during the day they had seen someone moving about inside one of the upper-floor rooms of the house, but at night it was impossible to see anyone because the blackout curtains were always tightly drawn.

  ‘You lot can do what yer like!’ Jeff, the only one who wasn’t wearing a warm coat, stood up and defiantly pulled his knitted bobble-cap over his ears. ‘I’m gonna take the old Kraut’s place!’

  Whether it was the fog getting to his chest or an attack of the asthma that had plagued him since he was a small child, Frankie was suddenly convulsed with a coughing fit. The others tried hard to shut him up while Jeff stood up and emerged from their hiding place in the shop doorway. He disappeared into the swirling fog and after a moment, Frankie recovered, but his eyes were running and he was very breathless. From nearby came Jeff’s voice, calling back in a loud projected whisper. ‘As soon as yer ’ear me shout, get ready ter run!’

  The next few minutes were very tense. After Jeff had called back, there was absolute silence in the road, for apart from the Merton Street gang, nobody was out on such an evening. It seemed ages before anything happened. Frankie kept wondering why he’d ever got involved in a silly game that was meant for young kids, not blokes of their age. After all, what did it achieve? What fun did they really get out of bringing someone to their front door just so that they could shriek with laughter and rush off into the night like a bunch of lunatics. Now, the fog was getting thicker than ever, and what air there was smelt of burning coal-fires. But just as Frankie was pulling his scarf over his mouth and tucking his short brown hair up under his school cap, there was the distant sound of banging on the door-knocker of number 19, followed by Jeff’s hysterical yell: ‘Knock Down Ginger! Yahoo!’

  A second later, Alan, Patty, and the Prof were screeching out at the top of their voices: ‘Knock Down Ginger!’ Although he felt stupid, Frankie did likewise, but his voice was too hoarse to he heard above the others, and when they all rushed off into the fog he felt totally disoriented. From the distance, he could hear the whooping and yelling of the others, but he couldn’t see them. He had no idea which direction he was attempting to run in, stumbling along as though blindfolded. Suddenly, he tripped over the kerb and found himself sprawled out on the pavement. Soon he was coughing and spluttering in the stifling fog, his short trousers no protection against the cold paving-stones. Gradually, he pulled himself up and, for a moment, just stood there, rubbing his eyes, trying to get some sense of direction. But in the eerie silence that followed, he started to panic. He could sense something in the fog directly above him. It didn’t move, it didn’t talk, and it didn’t seem to breathe. ‘Jeff? Is that you?’ Frankie’s voice was almost a whisper, and very unsure. ‘Stop muckin’ about now, Jeff!’

  A small puff of wind suddenly arrived from nowhere, but it was just enough to scatter the swirling fog and give Frankie a chilling view of the ghostly image staring down at him from the top of some stone steps. Gripped with fear, he realised that he was standing by the front gate of number 19. ‘Was wunschen Sie?’ The deep-throated voice was that of a woman.

  Frankie was paralysed. It was the old Kraut herself, the Nazi spy! Through the grey evening fog she looked like a towering monster, just waiting to pounce and eat him. All he knew at that moment was that he had to get away from number 19 Hadleigh Villas.

  Most of the houses in Merton Street had been built in the last decade of the nineteenth century. Each of the three floors contained two small rooms, with a minute lavatory on the landing between the first and second floors. There was also an attic, usually only big enough to take either a small bed or to use for storage. None of the houses had bathrooms, so most families used a tin tub in their sculleries. But everyone had a small back yard, although since the start of the war most of these had been dug up to accommodate the arch-roofed galvanised-steel Anderson bomb shelters. During the worst part of the blitz, in the early years of the war, Merton Street had had its share of bomb damage. Chimney-stacks had tumbled down into the gardens below, slate tiles were ripped off roofs, windows were shattered, and plaster was brought down from the walls.

  The Lewis family lived in the corner house at number 1 and still spent most of their nights in the Anderson shelter, despite the fact that the air-raids these days were by the pilotless ‘doodle-bugs’ and more recently by the dreaded V-2 rockets, which gave no warning when and where they would strike. Frankie hated going down the shelter, for it was claustrophobic and the air was damp and stifling. But by the time he got home from his horrific encounter with the ghostly apparition in the fog, even the Anderson was a welcome sight.

  ‘’Ow many times do I ’ave to tell yer? I don’t want yer ’angin’ round the streets after dark!’ Frankie’s mother, Gracie Lewis, was half-way through a fish-paste sandwich when Frankie appeared through the blackout blanket that was draped across the shelter entrance. ‘What ’appens if there’s an air raid?’

  ‘There’s no air raid ternight, Mum. The siren ’asn’t even sounded.’

  ‘I doubt we’ll get a raid ternight, Grace. Not in this fog.’ Frankie’s father, Reg Lewis, was half-dozing in his easy chair, his face covered by the morning’s edition of the Daily Mirror, which he had read from cover to cover several times over.

  Gracie finished her sandwich and wiped her fingers on her apron. ‘Planes can fly above fog. Them devils don’t care where they drop their bombs.’

  Ever since the bomb had fallen in the nearby Seven Sisters Road, Gracie had been obsessed with the family going down into the shelter night after night, regardless of what was going on in the skies above. In fact, over the past year or so, she had turned the Anderson into a second living-room, despite its ridiculously small size – no more than six feet from wall to wall. But at least there was an electric light and it was, at most times, quite warm, thanks to the small paraffin stove. Nonetheless, Frankie hated the place, and always referred to it as ‘the Cell’. It was a killer for his asthma, and he spent many a night coughing into his pillow.

  ‘I ’ope you and your pals ’aven’t been playin’ that stupid game agin,’ Gracie said now. ‘You keep knockin’ on people’s front doors like that and yer’ll ’ave the law down on yer!’

  Frankie’s sister, Helen, who was squatting on the top bunk, flicked her eyes up briefly at her brother. She was nearly three years older than Frankie, and was very protective of him. Frankie caught her eye, and they exchanged a grin. Then she returned to the jig
saw puzzle which she had completed at least a dozen times before.

  Although it was only half-way through the evening, Gracie yawned. In fact she always yawned, for though she was only in her early forties, she had settled for doing work only when she had to. Her family were fed as well as the war-time rations would allow, and their clothes were washed and ironed. But that was the extent of Gracie’s energies.

  ‘Is there anythin’ to eat, Mum?’ Frankie knew the response he would get and, sure enough, it came.

  ‘If yer’d come ’ome for tea at the proper time, yer’d get a proper meal. D’yer think I wanna keep cookin’ all times of the day an’ night?’

  Frankie, who was still just peering through the blackout blanket lowered his eyes.

  ‘There’s some spam on the scullery table. And don’t cut the bread too ’fick. Yer farver wants some for ’is breakfast in the mornin’!’

  ‘Fanks, Mum!’ In a flash, Frankie was gone, leaving his father to chuckle to himself behind his newspaper.

  The fog was beginning to clear by the time Frankie had finished his spam sandwich. He shared it with Winston, the family’s black and white mongrel dog, who Gracie Lewis never allowed to join them in the shelter. The white-washed walls and stone floor of the scullery made the room very cold, so Frankie lit one ring of the gas stove. As he warmed his hands over the flame, his mind kept going back to that horrifying encounter with the old Kraut. What would have happened if she had caught him? She could have shot him down in cold blood, and nobody would have found him until the fog had cleared. His thoughts were interrupted by Winston, who was licking one of his knees. ‘Cut it out, Winnie. It’s not my barf night!’ When he looked however, he discovered that Winston was licking some dried blood from a small cut, a result of his fall on the pavement in the fog.

  ‘Better not let mum see those trousers. You’ve got a great big tear in yer seat.’

  Frankie looked up, to find Helen standing over him, looking exactly like her mother must have looked at her age. She had the same flashing brown eyes and auburn hair, small ears and a nose that seemed to undulate to its tip, and a long, thin neck. Only her mouth resembled her father and brother’s and she was very sensitive about her skin, which was covered in freckles.