What Child Is This (Kindle Single) Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Janet Quin-Harkin, writing as Rhys Bowen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Amazon Original Stories, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Original Stories are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  eISBN: 9781542003773

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  London, 1940

  It won’t even seem like Christmas this year.” Maggie Harris’s voice cracked as she swallowed back the tears. She had resolved to be strong and brave for Jack’s sake, but it was hard. “No pudding. No mince pies. And no tree. Nothing.” She turned away, staring at the blackout curtains that covered the kitchen window. An image flashed into her mind of another Christmas, not so long ago. There was a turkey on the table, and a Christmas tree sparkling with lights, and a little girl, her face alight with joy . . . Then Maggie spun back again and dug an angry finger into the parcel wrapped in white paper that lay on the oilcloth-covered kitchen table. “It’s bad enough having no turkey, no chicken, no goose . . . not even a bloody pigeon, but this—liver! Expecting me to have liver for my Christmas dinner and be grateful for it!”

  “You’ve often said that liver and onions go down a treat!” Her husband, Jack, stood with the table between them, trying to sound bright and encouraging.

  “I’ve said liver and bacon,” she corrected. “Maybe it goes down a treat on a Thursday evening, but not on Christmas Day. And I don’t want the whole house smelling of onions at Christmas.” She paused, fighting back her emotions. “I can understand that we couldn’t have a turkey with only two mouths to feed, but there was that skinny little chicken in Morris’s butchers. I saw it myself.”

  “We didn’t have the coupons, love. All he could give us was liver. That or heart, and I didn’t think you’d want to boil a heart for Christmas.”

  “No heart. That just about sums it up, doesn’t it?” she said bleakly.

  Jack came around the table and put a tentative hand on her shoulder. “I did my best, Maggie.” He gave her shoulder a little squeeze. “I got you that extra sugar, didn’t I?”

  “I didn’t like to use it,” she said angrily. “Stolen, that’s what it was. Not ours to use.”

  “It fell off a pallet at the docks, I told you. It would only have gone to waste.”

  “It didn’t fall off no pallet. You and your mates helped yourselves to it. Don’t think I don’t know what goes on down at them docks.” She turned away from him again.

  “Everyone’s doing it, Maggie . . . helping themselves to a little bit here and there. It’s only natural when we’ve got nothing, isn’t it? The blokes at the top, the bigwigs—don’t think they aren’t helping themselves to what they want. They get plenty of everything, and you and me have nothing this Christmas and you’re getting upset because I bring you home half a pound of sugar.”

  “Just because everyone’s doing it doesn’t make it right. Wrong’s wrong, even in a ruddy war.” She walked across the room to the window and pulled back the blackout curtain for just a second before letting it fall again. The narrow backstreet outside was wrapped in darkness, no one moving, even at this early hour. And again for a second she saw a little girl, pulling back the curtains, asking excitedly, “Is it time for Father Christmas yet?” She squeezed her eyes shut as if this would make the image and the pain go away.

  Jack came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Cheer up, love. We’ve got each other. At least I’m not off fighting in Africa like other poor sods, am I? I’m in a protected occupation—a dangerous occupation, mind you, but if a bag of sugar happens to fall off a pallet now and then, well, I’m going to take advantage of it. You make us a little cake tomorrow and it will seem more like Christmas. You can even make a bit of icing for the top with that sugar and do one of them snow scenes like you used to.” He gave her a little kiss on the back of her neck.

  “You need icing sugar for that, you silly sod,” she said, but she didn’t sound quite so angry now. “And eggs. I was saving the two eggs so we could at least have a decent breakfast for once.”

  “We’ll share an egg for breakfast and you use the other one for your cake.”

  “It will have to be a small cake with only one egg.”

  “Don’t matter. You’ll make it taste good, I know you will. And we’ll have a drop of port to wish good health to the king and queen when he gives his speech.”

  “Humph.” Maggie shook herself free, tossing her head defiantly.

  “Don’t be like that. He’s a good bloke. Stayed on in London, didn’t he? Didn’t run off to the country or to America.”

  “I’m not saying he’s not a good bloke,” she replied. “But I bet he’s got a chicken or a turkey for Christmas.”

  “Well, they’ve got land, haven’t they? A farm at Sandringham. Lots of turkeys, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “Land. Just like my sister has,” Maggie said bitterly. “You can bet she’s having a proper Christmas dinner. We could have had one, too, if only.”

  “Maggie.” His voice was softer now, as if he were talking to a child. “I know you find it hard being cooped up in the city, what with the bombing and everything, and you’d rather be in the country with your sister. But I can’t leave my job, can I? Even for a couple of days. It’s good steady work at the docks. Men would give their eye teeth to get this job. And we have to live nearby in case I’m called in sudden like.” He gave her an encouraging smile and slipped an arm around her shoulder. “Come on. Let’s put up some paper chains, make it a bit more festive, and listen to the carol service on the radio later, all right?”

  When her face was still a mask of misery, he went on. “I told you, it wasn’t my fault that we didn’t get that chicken at the butchers. You can’t go on blaming me for that. Old man Morris said it had to go to a family with more coupons, and it’s just you and me, isn’t it?”

  “So the Johnsons get rewarded for having five children. They have their children and they get the chicken, too. It’s just not fair.”

  “Only four children now,” Jack reminded her. “Their Reggie went down with his ship, didn’t he?” There was a long silence between them. Somewhere in the houses in the row behind their minute back garden, a radio was playing big-band dance music, and a train rattled as it went over the railway bridge at the end of the block. Jack sighed. “Look, love. You’re always upset at this time of year. I am, too. Our Joanie was a lovely little kid. There isn’t a day goes by that I don’t think about her and what a joy she was—always happy, always dancing around . . .” He broke off as the emotion threatened to overwhelm him for a moment, then he went on. “And I know it wasn’t fair that she came down with diphtheria and we lost her. And it’s not fair that we haven’t had another one—not for want of trying, eh?” And he gave her a little nudge. “But life isn’t fair, as all those poor buggers know who’ve been bombed out of their homes or on ships that sank in the Atlantic, like Reggie Johnson. We just have to make the best of things and be happy with what we�
��ve got.”

  “I suppose you’re right . . .” She blinked back tears. “It just always hits me extra hard at Christmas. And this year—well, it starts to get to you, never knowing when the next raid is coming over, always half listening for planes and the air-raid warning. It’s easier for you. You’ve got a job to do and mates working beside you. I do my volunteer work with the Townswomen’s Guild, but I’ve too much time on my hands to think. The other women are all working at the factory, so it’s lonely here.”

  “I’ve told you, Maggie.” His voice was forceful now. “I don’t want you working down no munitions factory. It’s too dangerous. They had girls blown to pieces last year.”

  Maggie stared back defiantly. “I don’t see what the difference is, being blown to pieces at the factory or by a bomb here in my own house.”

  Jack grinned suddenly. “At least that’s one thing you can be thankful for. The buggers aren’t likely to come on a bombing raid on Christmas Eve, are they? Even the Jerries celebrate Christmas.”

  “I don’t know why. They can’t think that God is on their side,” she said. “Acting the way they do.”

  “It’s hard to imagine there is a God at the moment, isn’t it?” he said. “If I was watching this from up in heaven, I’d want to step in and put a stop to it.” Then he forced a smile again. “You know what? We’ll have a little swig of that port right now and put on a record while we put up those paper chains.” He led her through to the front parlour, humming a little tune to himself. Like most front parlours, the room was only used for guests, on special occasions. These days with coal on ration and in short supply, most of their time was spent in the kitchen, where the boiler did the double duty of heating the water and the room. The front parlour always felt a little too grand for the rest of the house. There were two china dogs on the mantelpiece, an ornate clock that came from Maggie’s grandmother and a reproduction of Monarch of the Glen on the wall from Jack’s mother’s house. The three-piece suite looked as pristine as when they had bought it twelve years previously. A fire was laid ready in the grate. The heavy green velvet curtains were drawn over the blackout blinds, and walking into the room felt like entering a mausoleum.

  “The fire’s not even lit in here, Jack,” she said as he went over to the gramophone and sorted through a stack of records beside it. “And it’s not worth lighting it this evening and using up our supply of coal.”

  “Then we’ll dance to get warm.” He selected a record and took it from its sleeve. “How about this, ‘In the Mood’?” He wound up the gramophone, put the record on, and Glenn Miller blared out. He grabbed Maggie, swept her into his arms and started to swing her around. She found herself caught up in the moment. Jack always had been a lovely dancer, light on his feet. He held her close and she was conscious of his heart beating against hers, his warm breath on her cheek. She remembered the day she had first set eyes on him: His lorry had broken down outside her parents’ farm. She thought she had never seen anybody so handsome, and when he had winked at her with that cocky assuredness of a Londoner, she was smitten. She’d known from the start that he was a bit of a bad boy—that was part of the attraction after the lumbering farm labourers she’d grown up with. They had run away together and her suspicion had proved right. Jack wasn’t a real bad boy but a typical Cockney, ready to take advantage of anything that might come his way, like that sugar falling off a pallet.

  She closed her eyes, smiling now. Trumpets competed with the staccato of the drums, filling the room with sound, which was why they weren’t immediately aware of the air-raid siren. It wasn’t until the record ended that Maggie looked up, frowning. “Wait a minute. What’s that? Is it the siren? It can’t be. Not tonight?”

  “It bloody well is,” Jack said. He left the room and opened the front door.

  “Jack, close that door! You’ll have the ARP warden after us,” Maggie shouted after him.

  Jack stood for a moment, looking up at the sky. Searchlights criss-crossed the sky in great arcs, bouncing back from the pall created by many thousands of coal fires. As they swung they picked up the ghostly shapes of the barrage balloons moored over the Thames. He turned to Maggie, who was hovering in the doorway to the front room. On the gramophone the record had ended and was still turning to a rhythmic click, click.

  “Grab your gas mask, love. We’d better go down the shelter.”

  “I hate that shelter,” she said, shaking her head. “There is no way I’m going down there again. I feel like I’m trapped and I can’t breathe. I’m getting under the table in the back parlour. You can go down the shelter if you like.”

  The drone of aeroplanes was already distinguishable over the wail of the siren. “If you’re going under the table, you’d better be quick about it.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her into the back parlour, and they squeezed in together under the heavy oak dining table. There was a distant muffled boom, then another.

  “Sounds like they’re bombing the docks, the bastards,” Jack said.

  “They’ve no right to do this.” Maggie was close to tears. “Not on Christmas Eve. There ought to be a law!”

  Jack laughed. “A law? About when it’s all right to bomb? Yeah, I’d like to see—” He broke off as the next thump was louder. Jack went to say something but obviously thought better of it. Then came an explosion so loud that the house shook. Then a second boom. “Bloody ’ell,” he muttered. “That was too close for comfort.” He extricated himself from under the table.

  “Jack. Don’t you go out there!” Maggie shouted.

  “It’s all right. They’ve passed over by now,” he said, heading for the front door. As he opened it, dust and flying debris swirled into the house along with the smell of burning. Jack took an involuntary step back as heat hit him in the face. “It’s a bloody incendiary,” he shouted back to Maggie. “It’s hit the Joneses’. And the Lucases’ by the look of it. Grab your coat, Maggie, love. We’ve got fire on either side. We have to get out while we can.”

  The front hall had already filled with acrid smoke as Jack fumbled to remove their coats from the hooks on the hall stand.

  “Wait, I’ve only got my house shoes on,” she said.

  “We don’t have time to go upstairs to look for your outdoor shoes,” he shouted, breaking off to cough as another wave of smoke poured in.

  “The firemen will be here any minute, won’t they?” Still Maggie hesitated. “They’ll be able to save our house.”

  Jack stood in the front doorway, feeling the strong east wind from the river. He could see the glow of another fire down towards the docks. It was quite likely that the fire engines’ approach would be cut off there. And there was only a pedestrian passage under the railway bridge, so they had to face the fact that the fire engines might not come for a while, if at all. But he didn’t express these thoughts to Maggie.

  “Best to get out now, love. While we still can,” he said. “Here, put on your coat.” He held it up for her and she slipped her arms into the sleeves as if he were dressing a child.

  “I’ll just get my handbag,” she said.

  “Maggie, come back here. We have to get out now.” Jack tried to grab her as she darted back into the kitchen then snatched her purse from the kitchen dresser.

  The previously deserted street had now erupted into chaos. There were shouts and screams. A child wailing. Running footsteps echoed over the roar and crackle of the fires. The flames were being aided by the wind, roaring as they devoured the house next door. Then came the thump of a wall collapsing.

  “Get out now, while you can,” a fire warden shouted, rushing towards them with a bucket of sand in his hands.

  “You want me to join a bucket brigade?” Jack shouted back.

  “Too late for that, mate,” came the reply. “The whole bloody street’s going up. Go on. Move it.”

  Jack took Maggie’s hand. Maggie’s house shoes flapped up and down as she tried to run. They turned into the Mile End Road and into darkness. The windows of the bu
tchers and the newsagents on the corner reflected the glow of fire. Otherwise it was impossible to make out shapes.

  “Where are we going?” Maggie gasped, already fighting for breath at the speed Jack was dragging her.

  “Down the Tube shelter with everyone else.”

  “Come on, mate. Down here,” a friendly voice called, the air-raid warden shining a torch with a blacked-out grid over it. It was just enough light to let them see the opening to the Tube station. They went in through the open turnstiles, and another warden shone his torch down the wooden steps of the escalator, which was no longer working. A steady stream of people was picking its way down ahead of them, one step at a time. They followed it down a dark tunnel and on to the platform. Crude bunk beds already lined the walls, and there were occasional lamps, this far from the street above. The bunks they could see were already occupied by sleeping people, and snores punctuated the sounds of crying children and low conversation, along with the occasional crude laugh. There were smells, too—someone had brought down fish and chips, and someone else had spilled beer. These competed with the less pleasant odours of unwashed humanity, of babies whose nappies needed changing.

  Maggie recoiled, putting her hand up to her face to cover her nose and mouth. “I can’t stay down here, love. I really can’t. It’s awful. All these people, crammed like sardines. And the smells. It fair turns my stomach. It’s like my vision of hell.”

  “We have to right now. There’s nowhere else to go.” Jack put a hand on her shoulder to reassure her. “In the morning they’ll find somewhere to billet us, but it’s not safe up on the street. Chin up. We’ll get through the night.”

  “How can we, knowing that our house is probably burning by now? Everything we own, Jack. All gone.”

  “We’ll just hope for the best, shall we? You never know, those firemen are plucky blokes. They may have it out in no time at all.”

  “Not incendiary bombs, Jack. You know that. They have phosphorous in them so that you can’t put them out. No, we just have to face the fact that we have nothing and nowhere to go. Might as well throw ourselves under the next train right now.”