Kitty Neale - Sins of the Father

Still uncomfortable, Emma shifted on the mattress. Some people had profited by the war, their landlord amongst them. He’d been clever, buying up property when it was cheap, willing to take the risk that the building would remain standing. This house, and others in the street, had originally been divided into two flats, but the landlord had converted the attics to shoehorn in as many families as he could, raking in extra rent.

She knew her mother had expected to live here only as a stopgap and planned to move as soon as something better became available, but then the war ended, her father’s army pay ending with it when he was demobbed. If he’d returned the same man, they would have been all right, but now he drank heavily, lost job after job, and here they remained, the rent sometimes unpaid and on catch-up, her mother’s dream of a nicer home unfulfilled.

Emma’s stomach growled with hunger again. Huh, they’d been better off when her father was away. At least his army pay had been regular, but now…

There was a loud groan, a familiar one. Sighing with relief, Emma knew that her father had finished. She yanked on the blanket again, snuggled closer to her sister for warmth and, knowing that her mother was now safe, she finally fell asleep.

Emma found herself the first awake. As quietly as possible, she crawled from the mattress, but as soon as she left the warmth of her sisters’ bodies her teeth began to chatter. God, it was freezing! She moved to the ladder, climbed down to the room below and, after lighting a candle, she cupped the flame as she hurried downstairs to the middle landing. There was only one toilet, shared by all three tenants in the tall, dilapidated house. Alice Moon and her husband lived on this floor, but there was no sound from their rooms. Pleased to find the smelly toilet free, Emma was soon hurrying back to the top-floor flat.

She kneeled in front of the hearth, lighting what little kindling they had, soon holding out her hands greedily to the tongues of flame that licked merrily up the chimney. For a moment she was mesmerised by the sight, but then, with an impatient shake of her head, she covered the flames with a few lumps of wood that Dick, her eldest brother, had procured from somewhere. There were nuggets of coke left, again obtained by Dick and, fearing they were stolen, Emma hastily shovelled them on top of the smouldering wood as if this small act could protect her brother. She frowned, knowing that though she shouldn’t encourage him, unless Dick was again lucky in his gatherings there was little chance of getting more fuel.

What sort of man had their father become? What sort of man let his wife and children go hungry and cold whilst he poured ale down his throat?

When the fire was a manageable glow, Emma hung the kettle over it to boil, her mouth drooping despondently. Her mother loved a cup of tea, saying there was nothing like it to perk her up, but there was none left. As though it were her own, Emma felt her mum’s disappointment.

Stretching her arm up to the rafters, Emma took down a bundle of dried nettles and, as the kettle boiled, she made the infusion, just in time to see her mother’s swollen legs coming down the ladder.

Myra smiled as Emma gave her the tin mug, her hands wrapping round it in pleasure. ‘You’re a good girl.’

As her mother lowered herself onto a stool, her stomach looked huge and cumbersome. Yet the rest of her was thin, too thin, her arms and legs like sticks. She was only in her mid-thirties, yet she appeared old and worn beyond her years.

In the flickering candlelight, Emma saw her grimace of pain. ‘Are you all right, Mum?’

‘Stop fretting, I’m fine,’ she said, taking a sip of the nettle tea.

‘Do you think there’s any money left?’

‘I looked in his pockets before coming down and found none.’

‘How could he?’

‘That’s enough! It isn’t your place to question what your father does. You know as well as I do that he hasn’t been the same since coming home from the war. He had a terrible time and it changed him.’

‘Mum, you can’t keep using that as an excuse! It’s been three years and he rarely has nightmares now. If you ask me, he should count himself lucky. At least he’s in one piece, which is more than you can say for Mr Munnings next door.’

‘Enough, Emma! I know you’ll soon be seventeen, but you’re getting too big for your boots lately and talking about things you don’t understand.’

Emma hung her head, her face hidden by her long, wavy blonde hair as she mumbled, ‘If he’s blown his money on booze again, what are we supposed to do for food? The rent is overdue too, and I can’t see the landlord being fobbed off anymore.’

‘You always worry too much. We’ve managed before and we’ll manage again. We’ve still got some potatoes, and perhaps Dick will earn a few bob on the market today.’

‘Without flour there’ll be no bread.’

‘Then we’ll do without. Now come on, buck up. And talking of potatoes, you can peel some spuds and I’ll fry them for breakfast.’

Emma did as she was told, finding as she dug in the nearly empty sack that most were sprouting roots and had turned spongy with age. She sorted out the best of them and, with her hands in the sink turning blue in the ice-cold water, she surreptitiously watched her mother.

There was another small grimace of pain that she tried to hide, but Emma saw it and suspected the baby was coming. This would be her mother’s ninth child, and it had been a difficult pregnancy, one that seemed to drain her of energy.

The racket overhead started then, the sound of her siblings waking, squabbling, and then her father’s voice rang out.

‘Shut that fucking noise!’

There was instant quiet for a moment, but then one by one they came down the ladder. First to emerge was Dick, the eldest boy at fourteen years old. In his arms and clinging to his neck like a little monkey, he held the youngest boy, Archie, who at two hero-worshipped his big brother. Next came thirteen-year-old Luke, the quietest of them, a thoughtful, introverted boy, always the odd one out. He was handsome, almost beautiful, and his pale, blue eyes seemed to hold a strange, deep knowledge. There had been odd occasions when Luke had unnerved them, once predicting that their mother was carrying a boy, and as though he had the ability to see into the future, he had told them in advance when their father was arriving home from the war. Emma loved Luke dearly and he was her favourite brother.

He was followed down the ladder by eleven-year-old Susan, and then there was a lull.

‘Where are the others?’ Myra asked.

‘Still asleep,’ said nine-year-old Bella, the last to appear, clutching her peg doll and pretty as a picture with blonde hair and wide blue eyes.

Ann, at six years, along with three-year-old James, had arrived after their father had been given leave during the war. They were always the last up every morning, but they’d show their faces as soon as the smell of food wafted into the attic.

All the children made for the fire, pushing and shoving each other to get close, whilst Myra smiled serenely at her brood. She had a look about her; one that Emma was familiar with, a look that always preceded labour.

‘Come on, Em, get a move on with those potatoes,’ her mother said.

‘They’re ready.’ After carefully slicing them, Emma got between her siblings to place the frying pan on the fire, adding, ‘Get dressed, you lot, or you’ll get no breakfast.’

There was grumbling, but all except Dick did her bidding. As the eldest boy, Dick thought himself too old to be given orders, but now, seeing how pale his mother looked, he lifted up Archie, saying with a frown, ‘I’ll see to this one.’