some new warm clothes.
Folding them into a small bundle, she put them away in the teacher’s high desk as the children came in chattering from their dinner break.
‘Quiet now!’ she commanded. ‘Time for register.’
Down the list of names she went again, to the mumbles and whispers of ‘Here, Miss.’
‘Speak up a bit, do,’ she urged them. ‘Joseph Phillips?’
There was silence. His place was empty.
‘Does anyone know where Joey is?’
She saw a couple of the boys exchange glances.
‘Jack? Eric?’
‘No, Miss. Dunno where he is.’
Gwen frowned and continued calling out the names. It wasn’t the first time Joey Phillips had gone missing from afternoon school. In fact it was happening with increasing frequency. She found herself feeling disappointed at not being able to give him the clothes. But where was he? Why had he not returned to school?
His hands were warm and sticky from the gravy seeping through the rag. Joey had tipped his school dinner into it in his lap, and the moment he was free to go outside he tore home along the street, cradling it in his hands.
Dora was hunched up close to the dying coals of the fire Joey had built that morning, hugging the blanket round her with her thin arms. Joey had replaced the soggy cardboard over the broken window with a piece of orange box, propped up inside.
‘Here y’are, Mom. Brought you some dinner!’
He tipped the cooling stew and potatoes onto a plate. His mother struggled for breath. Her cheeks were red and she was obviously feverish.
‘What’ve you got there?’ she whispered once she could speak. ‘Oh, Joey – that’s not your dinner, is it?’
‘Eat it, Mom,’ he ordered, feverish himself in his feelings. He handed her the plate and a fork. ‘It’ll make you better.’
Dora’s features twisted. ‘No, Joey. It’s for you.’ It won’t make me better , she could have said. Nothing will now. The sickness and the baby inside her were taking every last ounce of her energy. How would she ever find the strength to bring the child into the world? She had nothing left, no courage, no feeling, only instinct seemed to keep her alive. A force which drove her to survive for this unborn child, no matter how hopeless it was. She’d given up her two babies to the home. Loss and shame were eating away at her from the inside. Shame had been her life’s companion, but now it was worse than ever. Joey and Lena would have to go to Barnardo’s too when her time came, and it couldn’t be long now. When she was alone, she slipped down into complete despair, lying for hours with her eyes closed or rocking back and forth in distress. But now Joey stood mute before her, holding out the plate. She sighed, ashamed, and took it, picking at the tepid stew.
‘That fire needs seeing to,’ he said gruffly.
No, don’t go , she wanted to beg him. Don’t leave me .
But he’d gone, ignoring the harsh comments of the women he passed in the yard, along towards the coal wharf to stuff his pockets. Once he’d built the fire, he was off again to beg some orange boxes. He walked tall, swaggering. School be damned. That was for babies. He was a man. And he had work to do.
Five
The School Board man turned down the entry off Canal Street. There were two women in the yard, busy with a maiding tub full of washing and a mangle. They looked up and stopped work, arms self-righteously akimbo, and as he went to number three and knocked, they rolled their eyes at each other.
‘Huh. Might’ve known it’d be that whore’s lad.’
‘You don’t want to go near ’er,’ the other one called to him raucously. ‘You never know what you might catch!’
The man waited, tapping his pencil on his notebook, taking in the state of the house. The door looked about to fall off its hinges, the window frames were all rotten and half the downstairs window was smashed and blocked off with a flimsy bit of wood. What a bloody awful state to live in , he thought. And why was
Folding them into a small bundle, she put them away in the teacher’s high desk as the children came in chattering from their dinner break.
‘Quiet now!’ she commanded. ‘Time for register.’
Down the list of names she went again, to the mumbles and whispers of ‘Here, Miss.’
‘Speak up a bit, do,’ she urged them. ‘Joseph Phillips?’
There was silence. His place was empty.
‘Does anyone know where Joey is?’
She saw a couple of the boys exchange glances.
‘Jack? Eric?’
‘No, Miss. Dunno where he is.’
Gwen frowned and continued calling out the names. It wasn’t the first time Joey Phillips had gone missing from afternoon school. In fact it was happening with increasing frequency. She found herself feeling disappointed at not being able to give him the clothes. But where was he? Why had he not returned to school?
His hands were warm and sticky from the gravy seeping through the rag. Joey had tipped his school dinner into it in his lap, and the moment he was free to go outside he tore home along the street, cradling it in his hands.
Dora was hunched up close to the dying coals of the fire Joey had built that morning, hugging the blanket round her with her thin arms. Joey had replaced the soggy cardboard over the broken window with a piece of orange box, propped up inside.
‘Here y’are, Mom. Brought you some dinner!’
He tipped the cooling stew and potatoes onto a plate. His mother struggled for breath. Her cheeks were red and she was obviously feverish.
‘What’ve you got there?’ she whispered once she could speak. ‘Oh, Joey – that’s not your dinner, is it?’
‘Eat it, Mom,’ he ordered, feverish himself in his feelings. He handed her the plate and a fork. ‘It’ll make you better.’
Dora’s features twisted. ‘No, Joey. It’s for you.’ It won’t make me better , she could have said. Nothing will now. The sickness and the baby inside her were taking every last ounce of her energy. How would she ever find the strength to bring the child into the world? She had nothing left, no courage, no feeling, only instinct seemed to keep her alive. A force which drove her to survive for this unborn child, no matter how hopeless it was. She’d given up her two babies to the home. Loss and shame were eating away at her from the inside. Shame had been her life’s companion, but now it was worse than ever. Joey and Lena would have to go to Barnardo’s too when her time came, and it couldn’t be long now. When she was alone, she slipped down into complete despair, lying for hours with her eyes closed or rocking back and forth in distress. But now Joey stood mute before her, holding out the plate. She sighed, ashamed, and took it, picking at the tepid stew.
‘That fire needs seeing to,’ he said gruffly.
No, don’t go , she wanted to beg him. Don’t leave me .
But he’d gone, ignoring the harsh comments of the women he passed in the yard, along towards the coal wharf to stuff his pockets. Once he’d built the fire, he was off again to beg some orange boxes. He walked tall, swaggering. School be damned. That was for babies. He was a man. And he had work to do.
Five
The School Board man turned down the entry off Canal Street. There were two women in the yard, busy with a maiding tub full of washing and a mangle. They looked up and stopped work, arms self-righteously akimbo, and as he went to number three and knocked, they rolled their eyes at each other.
‘Huh. Might’ve known it’d be that whore’s lad.’
‘You don’t want to go near ’er,’ the other one called to him raucously. ‘You never know what you might catch!’
The man waited, tapping his pencil on his notebook, taking in the state of the house. The door looked about to fall off its hinges, the window frames were all rotten and half the downstairs window was smashed and blocked off with a flimsy bit of wood. What a bloody awful state to live in , he thought. And why was
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