Cathy Sharp - The Boy with the Latch Key

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

The News Building

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Harper 2017

Copyright © HarperCollins Publishers 2017

Cover layout design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2017

Cover photography © Henry Steadman (child characters posed by models); background street scene © Charles Hewitt / Hulton Archive / Getty Images

Cathy Sharp asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008211608

Ebook Edition © February 2017 ISBN: 9780008211615

Version: 2017-02-10

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Cathy Sharp

About the Publisher

‘Here’s the money for some bread, Archie,’ Sandra Miller said. ‘There are eggs and bacon in the pantry so you can get yourselves a meal when you come home.’

The old-fashioned wireless behind her was playing one of the biggest hits of the music charts the previous year – ‘Oh Mein Papa’ sung by Edie Calvert and one of Sandra’s favourites, but she snapped it off impatiently as her son fiddled with his football boots and pushed the ten-shilling note at him.

‘Yeah, all right.’ Archie shoved the money into his pocket and looked bored. He knew the routine: let yourselves in with the key that hung on a string through the letterbox, make a meal for himself and his younger sister June, and leave the washing-up in the sink for when she got back. It wasn’t ideal and Sandra hated the fact that her kids were one of a growing number of latchkey kids whose mothers worked and didn’t get home until later in the evening.

Sandra hadn’t planned this kind of life when she’d married Tim Miller. He’d been a soldier then and the war that had devastated Europe and much of the world had been raging fiercely. They’d anticipated their wedding night because Tim had been going back to the Front and Sandra had feared she might not see him again. However, they’d been some of the lucky ones. Tim had come through the war unscathed. He’d landed a good job as the manager of a grocery store and until one foggy night in January 1950, Sandra’s life had been perfect … until the ring at the door and a young constable’s stuttering announcement that her husband had been killed cycling home from work in thick fog.

She’d been carrying Archie when Tim got leave from the Army in November 1941 and came home to marry her, but Sandra’s parents had stood by her and she’d appreciated their loving kindness. Her throat caught with grief as she recalled the night when their house had been blown apart with them still inside. They’d had no warning, because it was one of those terrifying rockets they called the V2; it came out of the night and suddenly a home and the people in it were gone just like that, leaving a gaping hole in Sandra’s life and that of her kids.

If her parents had lived she would have had someone to look after her children when she was working late, but unfortunately Tim had been an orphan and the kids had only her to feed, clothe and teach them about life, and sometimes Sandra felt it was a heavy burden, even though Archie did all he could to help her.

‘What time will you be home then?’ Archie asked, a little resentful now. Sandra knew he didn’t mind doing little jobs down the Docks or even washing windows for elderly neighbours to bring in a few shillings, but he hated it that she was hardly ever home before it was time for cocoa and bed.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I’ll come straight home from the office, I promise. I’m not working at the pub tonight.’

Twice a week she did a few hours in the evening at the Dog & Gun in Bethnal Green, to earn extra money, because growing kids needed so much, and Sandra hated the idea that hers might have to go short.

‘I’m sorry, Archie,’ Sandra apologised, the reproach in his eyes pricking her. ‘I know I expect a lot of you, but I can’t help it …’

‘Yeah, I know, Mum,’ he said and grinned at her. When Archie smiled it was as if the sun had come out. With his dark-red hair and his green eyes, he was the image of his father and her heart turned over with love. ‘We’ll be all right.’

‘I know I can rely on you to take care of June …’

‘Yeah, I’ll look out for the brat.’ From the lofty position of his thirteen years, Archie saw his nine-year-old sister as a troublesome kid, but despite their constant bickering, Sandra knew that he would care for her as best he could. Yet he shouldn’t have so much responsibility and it hurt Sandra because she couldn’t provide the loving, stable home her children were entitled to.

Leaving the house, Sandra ran to the end of the dingy lane to catch her bus because she didn’t want to be late for the office; she was so used to the boarded-up houses on either side that she no longer noticed. This slum area was all she could afford since Tim died, although she was always looking for something better. She worked in a biscuit factory in the accounts department, keeping track of invoices and making up the wages. It was hard work but she didn’t mind that – in fact the only thing she disliked about her job was Reg Prentice. Reg was the office manager and a menace to anything in a skirt. None of the girls liked him, but most of them had the courage to stand up to him and tell him to get lost when he touched their bottoms and squeezed up against them in the corridor.

Sandra had asked him to leave her alone several times. In fact, he’d been such a nuisance that the previous evening, when he’d pushed her up against the wall, she’d slapped his face and told him that if he didn’t stop harassing her she was going to Mr Jenkins, the overall manager of the factory.

‘Do that and you’re out of a job,’ Reg hissed against her ear. ‘Besides, I’m your manager. He’s hardly going to believe a little scrubber like you. We all know what you widows are like; you can’t do without a man. I know you don’t say no to some others.’