Kay Brellend - The Street

KAY BRELLEND

The Street

Dedication Dedication Getting Older: 1913 Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Getting Work: 1914–1917 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 Getting Out: 1917–1918 Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Epilogue - Summer 1922 Pictures of The Street Acknowledgements About the Author Author’s Note Copyright About the Publisher

For Mum, to finish what you started

For Dad, to keep a promise

For Nan, Granddad, Great Nan, Great Granddad, remembering you with love and pride

For everybody who ever spent time in Campbell Road, later Whadcoat Street, a.k.a. ‘The Bunk’

Contents

Title Page KAY BRELLEND The Street

Dedication Dedication Dedication Getting Older: 1913 Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Getting Work: 1914–1917 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 Getting Out: 1917–1918 Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Epilogue - Summer 1922 Pictures of The Street Acknowledgements About the Author Author’s Note Copyright About the Publisher For Mum, to finish what you started For Dad, to keep a promise For Nan, Granddad, Great Nan, Great Granddad, remembering you with love and pride For everybody who ever spent time in Campbell Road, later Whadcoat Street, a.k.a. ‘The Bunk’

Getting Older: 1913

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Getting Work: 1914–1917

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

Getting Out: 1917–1918

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Epilogue - Summer 1922

Pictures of The Street

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Author’s Note

Copyright

About the Publisher

Getting Older1913 Getting Older: 1913 Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Getting Work: 1914–1917 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 Getting Out: 1917–1918 Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Epilogue - Summer 1922 Pictures of The Street Acknowledgements About the Author Author’s Note Copyright About the Publisher

Chapter One Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Getting Work: 1914–1917 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 Getting Out: 1917–1918 Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Epilogue - Summer 1922 Pictures of The Street Acknowledgements About the Author Author’s Note Copyright About the Publisher

‘Shut that brat up or I will . . . fer good.’

‘You don’t mean that, Mum. Little ’un’s hungry. I’ve been waiting up for you to come home so’s you can feed her. Why do you say horrible things?’ The small girl’s expression was a mixture of contempt and sorrow as she challenged the woman swaying on her feet. In fact she knew very well why her mother turned mean and brutal: it was due to the amount of Irish whiskey she had tipped down her throat in the hours since she’d left this squalid hovel that was their home.

Tilly Keiver narrowed her glassy gaze on her daughter. ‘You got too much o’ what the cat licks its arse with, my gel.’ The words were slurred but menacing. Unsteadily she shoved herself away from the doorjamb. ‘If I weren’t dog tired you’d feel the back o’ me hand and no mistake about it.’ She raised a fist raised to emphasise it was no idle threat. Slowly she let the hand fall so it might aid the other in grappling with the buttons on her coat. Irritably she shrugged the garment off and left it where it fell on rag-covered floor-boards. Small, careful steps took Tilly on a meandering path towards the iron bedstead. It was the dominant piece of furniture in a room cluttered with odd, dilapidated pieces.

Alice Keiver watched her mother, listening to her swearing beneath her breath as she bumped into a stick-back chair and sent it over. Then her ample hip met the wardrobe. If Tilly felt the hefty contact there was no sign: the volume of cursing remained the same. She was soon within striking distance and Alice shrank back into the armchair. She’d been huddled within its scratchy old embrace for two long hours whilst awaiting her mother’s return. Her thin arms tightened about the fretful infant wriggling against her lap. To soothe the hungry baby and quieten her mewling she again stuck the tip of her little finger between tiny lips. Little Lucy pounced on the fruitless comfort and sucked insistently.

Alice knew that once her mother had reached the bed and sunk onto the edge she was unlikely to rouse herself to retaliate, whatever she heard in the way of complaints. Soon that moment arrived.

‘You’re not tired, you’re drunk as usual.’ Despite Alice’s frail figure her accusation was strong and she lithely sprang to her feet, clutching the precious bundle of her baby sister protectively against her ribs as she paced this way and that.

‘Get yerself in the back, ’fore I use this on yer,’ her mother slurred, showing her a wobbling fist. But Tilly’s chin was already drooping towards her bosom.

Alice made a tentative move forward, and then tottered quickly back as her mother snapped up her head but, as she had correctly assumed, Tilly made no move to rise from the bed once she’d settled into the comfort of its sagging edge.

‘You’re a bleeding nuisance, you are. Worse’n all the rest put together. Now git! Let me get meself to bed. Cor, I’m all in.’

Tilly Keiver was a big-boned woman with a florid face topped by reddish-blonde hair. Usually she kept her beautifully thick mane under control: plaited and coiled in a neat bun either side of her head. But a night of roistering with her cronies in the Duke pub, and a painful stumble on the way home, had resulted in her crowning glory resembling a fiery bird’s nest. She yanked out two pins from one side of her head and a thick plait uncoiled sinuously onto a shoulder. She left it at that. The other side was forgotten.