Kitty Neale - Sins of the Father

‘All right, there’s no need to shout.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just that I want to put something to you and I’m all of a dither.’

His head tipped to one side, brow creased. ‘Well, you’d best spit it out.’

‘It’s like this. You see, I’ve been thinking…’ She hesitated, trying to find the words.

‘Go on.’

With a spurt, Alice said, ‘You know I love kids, Cyril, but we ain’t been lucky, have we? We’ve tried and tried, and though the doctor said there’s no reason why I can’t fall, well, it hasn’t happened.’

‘We needn’t give up, and anyway, it’s fun trying,’ he said, winking lewdly.

Alice had to smile, but then her face straightened. ‘Cyril, fun or not, we’ve been married fifteen years and it’s time we faced the facts. We’re never going to have kids of our own.’

His lips pursed. ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right, but never mind, love. We’ve still got each other.’

‘I know we have, but as I said, I’ve been looking after little Archie and James, and I’ve grown very fond of them. I…I was wondering if we could take them on.’

‘Take them on! What do you mean? Surely you’re not talking about adoption?’

‘Well, not right away, but maybe later, if they settle with us.’

‘No!’ he said emphatically. ‘I don’t fancy taking on another bloke’s kids.’

‘Please, Cyril.’

‘No, and that’s final!’

At his tone, her expression became a contrived one of despair.

‘Alice, don’t look at me like that. Surely you don’t seriously expect me to take on Tom’s little brats?’

‘They aren’t brats!’ Alice cried, jumping to her feet. ‘They’re lovely little boys who need love, attention, and a stable home. We can give them that!’

Cyril voice hardened. ‘Pack it in, Alice. Doing your nut ain’t gonna make any difference. I said no, and that’s that.’

Alice flopped back onto her chair and, throwing up her apron to cover her face, she began to cry, sobs shaking her shoulders. She should have known he wouldn’t agree, but as minutes passed, a hand touched her shoulder.

‘Come on, don’t take on so. Surely it doesn’t mean that much to you?’

‘Oh, Cyril, you have no idea how much I’ve longed for a baby, ached to hold our son or daughter in my arms. It’s never going to be, but whilst looking after the boys I really have come to love them. Archie is like a little monkey, and likes nothing better than to be cuddled. He used to latch on to Dick, but now that the boy’s working, he’s turned to me. James is cheeky, but not in a bad way, and he’s gorgeous, with his blond hair and grey eyes.’

‘Dick! Working? This is the first I’ve heard of it.’

Alice mopped her eyes. ‘He was fifteen in March and has got himself a job on the market, working on Charlie Roper’s stall.’

‘Has he now? Well, he’ll do all right with Charlie, but the lad would have been better off learning a trade.’

‘Yes, maybe, but as an apprentice he’d only be paid peanuts, and though he doesn’t earn a great deal on the stall, it’s been a godsend. They couldn’t cope without it.’

Cyril returned to his chair, his expression thoughtful, and Alice knew to keep her mouth shut. She sat quietly, her breath held and fingers secretly crossed as she watched his face.

At last he sighed and their eyes met. ‘All right, Alice. If it means that much to you, we’ll give it a go with the kids. Mind you, don’t count your chickens yet. I can’t see Tom wanting to give them up just like that.’

Once again she jumped to her feet, kissing Cyril on the cheek. ‘The pub isn’t open yet, so he’s sure to be in. I’ll go and have a word with him now.’

‘You do that, but as I said, don’t count your…’

But the door had already slammed shut, Alice not hearing the rest of her husband’s warning as she hurried upstairs.

Tom couldn’t stand the noise and had chucked the kids out. At last the room was quiet. Only Emma remained, perched on a low wooden stool, her face set in concentration as she endeavoured to sew a patch onto a pair of trousers. He glanced at her and the pain of his loss was like a blow to his stomach. Christ, she was so like her mother, with the same golden blonde hair and vivid blue eyes. As if sensing his scrutiny, Emma raised her head, lips curling in distaste as her cold gaze met his. He seethed. She should show him some bloody respect, but instead she hardly spoke to him, her hatred like a living thing, that filled the room and tainted the air.

Tom looked away from Emma, tempted to give her a good hiding, but he knew it would only make things worse. She wasn’t a child now, she was seventeen, and if the girl took it into her head to walk out, he’d be in a right old fix. Christ, he needed to get out of there–he needed a drink, but with little money left this week he could afford only a pint. He sank back in the chair, berating his life, thoughts drifting.

They’d been happy once, him and Myra, but then the war had started and he’d been called up. As his mind took him to the front, Tom shook his head, not wanting to think about it, yet still the memories invaded. He didn’t want to remember the sickening things he’d seen and done. Yet as always, even as he struggled to forget, the first horror returned to haunt him. He was in a landing craft, nerves taut as they waited to beach. The young chap next to him was in the same state, shaking, his eyes wide with fear, and they’d started to talk, inane chatter just to break the tension.

When they’d hit the beach, the shout went up to disembark and, lugging their packs, they surged forward. Tom didn’t know how far he had run when the bloke next to him suddenly spun, a look of shock on his face before he fell. Until that moment he hadn’t realised how frail the human body was, but as the soldier clutched at his stomach, guts spilling out, his screams combined with the sound of explosions and gunfire. Tom shuddered at the memory, recalling how he’d been paralysed with shock, unable to move, horrified to see the soldier’s dying moments.

Bullets raked only inches away and at last he moved, diving to the ground, terrified as he used the young man’s body as shelter. It was like a living hell; the thunder of mortars, machine-gun fire, the stench of cordite, shouts, yells, cries as more bodies fell to the ground. He had no idea how long he had lain prone behind the soldier’s body, hands over his ears as shell after shell exploded, but then a corporal hauled him to his feet. Tom had seen the look of disgust on his face, and then he’d been shoved forward.

‘Get moving,’ the corporal had shouted and, feeling like a coward, Tom had followed the command, bent double as he raced up the beach, more and more soldiers falling beside him. He’d lost it then, firing his weapon without thought, determined to kill or be killed.

That moment had changed him, and as the weeks went by he had hardened. He would kill, feeling nothing, becoming an animal with only one thought–survival. One enemy soldier had actually begged for mercy, but, grim-faced, Tom had shot him, uncaring of the blood that spilled from his body.

When the war ended, he no longer felt human, returning home to find that many streets and buildings he’d known were gone, bombed to oblivion. He’d tried–oh, how he had tried–but soon after his return the memories began to haunt him until, day and night, he relived the horrors of war. It had been years now, but still they plagued him. When would they stop? When would he find peace…?

There was a tap on the door. Alice Moon poked her head inside and Tom welcomed the interruption.

‘Can I have a word?’ she said.

‘Yes, come on in.’

‘Hello, Emma,’ Alice greeted as she crossed the room. ‘Doing a bit of sewing, are you?’