Christmas Child: an absolutely heartbreaking and emotional Victorian romance by Carol Rivers (classic english novels txt) 📕

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 now she was gone and her sons being done up like a dog's dinner for the funeral was a sting in the tail if ever there was one. For years she had meticulously ironed their shirts and pressed their trousers, nagging them to smarten themselves up. Now she wasn't here to see the result of her efforts.

'How long is this going to take?' Micky peeled off his jacket. 'I've got things to do.'

'Such as?'

'Dunno, just stuff.'

Ronnie narrowed his eyes, the sense of foreboding that had beset him after Mum's death, growing inside him. 'Whatever it is Micky, forget it. There's family business to be taken care of this afternoon. Now shut up and sit down.' Ronnie nodded to the seat on his right. He had swallowed his irritation all week as Micky's attitude had gone from bad to worse. He accepted his brother was grieving, but he was well out of order today and Ronnie's patience was growing thin.

Micky dragged out a chair and slumped down on it. Sean was already seated; his elbows resting on the big oval dining table polished each day by their Mum for as long as Ronnie could remember. A pang of sadness went through him as he met Sean's red-rimmed eyes. He had wept openly, unafraid to show his sorrow. Of the three of them, Sean had been their mother's favourite and it wasn't surprising to Ronnie that he'd taken her loss as badly as he had Dad's.

When he'd returned home that day after identifying his mother and aunt in the makeshift mortuary, he'd gazed into his brothers' faces, unable to speak. He had felt as if all the life had drained out of him from that moment. Mum and Auntie Gwen had looked as if they were asleep, their faces unmarked by the hand of death.

'You're certain it's them?' the warden had pressed as he'd identified the