Christmas to Come: a heartbreaking coming of age saga set in London's East End by Carol Rivers (first e reader txt) 📕

'Yeah, but who takes any notice of a bit of paper slapped on a wall?' Micky yawned once more. 'Funny thing is, Jerry's never landed a bomb on Bow Street. Makes you laugh really, when it'd only take a breath to knock it over.'

Ronnie cursed lightly under his breath. This was the last thing he needed. Two kids and a bastard drunk wasn't his problem today. He had enough of his own to be going on with. But he also knew it was way too late to stop the anger that was already building inside him. If it was one thing he couldn't stand it was a bully. Granted, there were blokes who walloped their women and kids and got away with it. Bullying the weak and infirm was a way of life for some on the island, but not for his own kith and kin. Mum and Dad had brought them up to observe family values. The old ding-dong now and then was only natural. His folks had gone at it hammer and tongs sometimes like all cockneys did. But only a row to clear the air. When an injustice like this got shoved right in your mug, it was hard to ignore it.

'How did they know where you live?' he enquired suspiciously.

'Must've told them, mustn't I?'

Ronnie studied the girl again. Now that he looked she was blue with bruises. The clothes they wore were no more than rags hanging on bones. His Mum would have a fit when she saw them like that.

'You two hungry?' he asked.

The girl's eyes widened. They were troubling eyes, Ronnie noted a little uncomfortably; there was so much hidden in the depths of them.

Micky laughed scathingly. 'Don't mention grub. These two are like bloody gannets. You want to see them demolish the rubbish they find in the bricks. Thick with dust it is and tastes like shit. But it goes down their gobs like dripping.'

Ronnie stared incredulously at his brother. That he could talk so lightly of what in effect was starvation. He was seriously worried about Micky's state of mind. Nothing seemed to bother him these days. It was as if all he cared about was number one. Though if he was really honest, that had always been so, even before Dad died.

'Come on then,' Ronnie said over his shoulder as he led the way to the kitchen. 'But after you've got to clear off.' Now he'd taken a closer look at them he knew he couldn't let them stay. His Mum wouldn't like those bruises any more than he did, a fact that Micky seemed to have overlooked.

In the kitchen he took the loaf from the larder. Carving off four thick slices, he lay them on the oilcloth. There was butter under the china dish, but it was still rationed and if it was one thing his mum loved it was a good helping of her old cough and splutter. The jam though, not that she knew it, was well and truly off the back of a lorry and more where it had come from any day of the week.

The girl wolfed it down and swiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

'See what I mean?' Micky chuckled. 'They'd eat horse dung if you served it up hot.'

'And so would you,' Ronnie answered him shortly, 'if Mum didn't put food in your belly.'

'That's why I help 'em out,' Micky stated quickly. 'If it wasn't for me they'd be brown bread.'

Ronnie sneered. 'Yeah, I can believe that an' all.'

'No kidding, bruv. Nicking from the debris is what keeps 'em alive. If it wasn't for me giving them a good whack for what they find, they wouldn't be standing here today. As half dead as they look it's me what keeps them breathing. Their mum don't give a toss what happens to her kids and sure as hell the ugly bastard that belts 'em don't.'

Ronnie knew the only reason Micky had half of London's back street kids working for him was for his own gain. He worked them like stink, returning the poor sods a pittance. Ronnie had turned a blind eye so far but now he was thinking twice. As for the nutter who used two little kids for a punch bag…

'What is this bloke to them?' Ronnie asked heavily. 'He not family or nothing?'

Micky laughed as he stuffed his mouth with bread. 'He's Mary Doyle's pimp and that's a fact.'

Ronnie cut another slice and halved it. 'Here, put this away, you two.'

They were at it like vultures when someone knocked on the front door. 'Keep quiet,' Ronnie warned them all. 'Not a whisper.' He went to open it. A warden was standing there and his uniform was covered in dust.

'Yeah?' Ronnie asked irritably.

'Is this the home of Winifred Bryant?'

Ronnie nodded. 'She's out.'

'You'd better let me in, son.'

Ronnie put up his hand to stop him from entering. 'Why should I do that?'

He looked into Ronnie's eyes. 'The Luftwaffe hit Poplar bad last night … and your mum …'

Ronnie stared into the warden's face. He must have got it wrong. Somewhere along the line, there was a mix-up.

'We dug this out, well, what was left of it.' He lifted an identity card and his mum's black purse with a metal clasp. Ronnie saw a stain, a dark red one smeared across the felt. Then he knew she was never coming home again.

Chapter 3

Nine days later

Ronnie pushed his hand under his open shirt collar and squeezed the tense muscles of his neck. Mum would have made him wear a tie, but he hadn't worn one since he was at school and never a suit. Removing his jacket he placed it carefully over the back of his chair as Sean and Micky walked in the room.

Mum would have approved, Ronnie thought as he studied his two brothers who were dressed in identical dark suits. They were wearing what her idea of real class looked like. But