fit perfect, Jack. Better than anything I’ve ever had.’
‘Make you stand out at the gym, won’t it? Put it on – you’ll get a chill in that old rag you’ve got on. I got you one too.’ Jack dropped another sweater into Pearl’s arms. ‘Man down the market was selling off his old winter stock cheap. I got a better price for two.’
‘Thanks, Jack.’ She smiled and came towards him. ‘Yellow’s my favourite.’
‘Enough fuss. Let’s get going.’ He sidestepped her, rapped his knuckle against the door to speed Frank up.
It was warmer outside than in the house; a buttery daylight covered the pavements and buildings. They headed up Lomond Grove past Mrs Bell’s, smell of mangy cat and flyblown bread; the hardware shop on the corner, sticky tar and chalky carbolic. Jack could find his way around by his nose alone. Bombs had stomped out the northeast corner of Addington Square, the top end of Medlar Street, and most of Hillingdon Street was flattened. But when Jack turned down Cowan Street flashes of light from broken glass and weathered rubble made it seem as though the old Watkins Bible Factory had risen again; hot ink and a dampened paper smell hung in the dusty air.
Wot no bibles
daubed with red paint on a heap of bleached bricks. The past always found a way of squirming back into your life like that, smacking you in the face. But there was Frank now, trotting beside him: something to work for.
‘Hey, Frank,’ someone called from the other side of the street.
‘Keep walking, Frank.’ Jack gave his shoulder a prod.
‘We not good enough for you, that it?’ Spider crossed the road.
‘Course you are. We’re late, that’s all.’
Frank shook hands with him. Spider was followed over by others, all dressed in slick suits, greased, sprouting hair at the sides of their faces – cosh boys. Too young for the war to have knocked any sense into them; too busy humping and snarling like a pack of dogs. They sprang from foot to foot, jostling each other; now seeming like four, then, with a shuffle and punching of arms, like six. He couldn’t keep track of them all. But the mouthy one was Spider and Jack thought he recognised the others, except the two girls hanging from Spider’s thick arms.
‘Good – thought what with your big win we heard about, you might have got yourself airs and graces. Looking after him, are you, Jack?’
‘Like he said, we’re late.’
Jack coughed and spat on to the street as he lit a cigarette.
A web of fine scars was etched on to Spider’s square face, the kinds of markings a boy got from having his head smashed through a window. Jack had heard talk about the kid, but most of it probably got spread around by Spider himself; he thought he was something big but the little rat didn’t have connections, didn’t even have a family. He always stuck his chin out as if he was proud of his face somehow. Jack just thought it was ugly.
Spider draped his arm around Frank. ‘Come on now, Frank. You forgot to tell us where you were moving to. How we supposed to keep tight if we don’t know where you’re at?’
‘I was going to tell you. I’ve been busy.’ Frank rubbed his head.
They carried on talking but Jack watched the two thin girls, arms tightly linked through Spider’s. They puckered their lips, pointed their hips towards him and then at Frank. But Frank smiled and his eyes slid on without even noticing the push of their breasts under tight woollen cardigans. Jack blew smoke at the one with narrow ankles and red knees; she didn’t even have the decency to blush. One of the other boys stepped up.
‘We got you something, Frank.’
He handed Frank a large heavy rectangle wrapped in a dust-sheet. The boy wiped his hand through his nest of brown hair, and the sheet was covered in greasy fingerprints. Frank lifted a corner and peeked at the package. ‘Chocolate!’
‘We done a delivery lorry at Blackfriars. Can get you stockings and smokes too if you need
‘Make you stand out at the gym, won’t it? Put it on – you’ll get a chill in that old rag you’ve got on. I got you one too.’ Jack dropped another sweater into Pearl’s arms. ‘Man down the market was selling off his old winter stock cheap. I got a better price for two.’
‘Thanks, Jack.’ She smiled and came towards him. ‘Yellow’s my favourite.’
‘Enough fuss. Let’s get going.’ He sidestepped her, rapped his knuckle against the door to speed Frank up.
It was warmer outside than in the house; a buttery daylight covered the pavements and buildings. They headed up Lomond Grove past Mrs Bell’s, smell of mangy cat and flyblown bread; the hardware shop on the corner, sticky tar and chalky carbolic. Jack could find his way around by his nose alone. Bombs had stomped out the northeast corner of Addington Square, the top end of Medlar Street, and most of Hillingdon Street was flattened. But when Jack turned down Cowan Street flashes of light from broken glass and weathered rubble made it seem as though the old Watkins Bible Factory had risen again; hot ink and a dampened paper smell hung in the dusty air.
Wot no bibles
daubed with red paint on a heap of bleached bricks. The past always found a way of squirming back into your life like that, smacking you in the face. But there was Frank now, trotting beside him: something to work for.
‘Hey, Frank,’ someone called from the other side of the street.
‘Keep walking, Frank.’ Jack gave his shoulder a prod.
‘We not good enough for you, that it?’ Spider crossed the road.
‘Course you are. We’re late, that’s all.’
Frank shook hands with him. Spider was followed over by others, all dressed in slick suits, greased, sprouting hair at the sides of their faces – cosh boys. Too young for the war to have knocked any sense into them; too busy humping and snarling like a pack of dogs. They sprang from foot to foot, jostling each other; now seeming like four, then, with a shuffle and punching of arms, like six. He couldn’t keep track of them all. But the mouthy one was Spider and Jack thought he recognised the others, except the two girls hanging from Spider’s thick arms.
‘Good – thought what with your big win we heard about, you might have got yourself airs and graces. Looking after him, are you, Jack?’
‘Like he said, we’re late.’
Jack coughed and spat on to the street as he lit a cigarette.
A web of fine scars was etched on to Spider’s square face, the kinds of markings a boy got from having his head smashed through a window. Jack had heard talk about the kid, but most of it probably got spread around by Spider himself; he thought he was something big but the little rat didn’t have connections, didn’t even have a family. He always stuck his chin out as if he was proud of his face somehow. Jack just thought it was ugly.
Spider draped his arm around Frank. ‘Come on now, Frank. You forgot to tell us where you were moving to. How we supposed to keep tight if we don’t know where you’re at?’
‘I was going to tell you. I’ve been busy.’ Frank rubbed his head.
They carried on talking but Jack watched the two thin girls, arms tightly linked through Spider’s. They puckered their lips, pointed their hips towards him and then at Frank. But Frank smiled and his eyes slid on without even noticing the push of their breasts under tight woollen cardigans. Jack blew smoke at the one with narrow ankles and red knees; she didn’t even have the decency to blush. One of the other boys stepped up.
‘We got you something, Frank.’
He handed Frank a large heavy rectangle wrapped in a dust-sheet. The boy wiped his hand through his nest of brown hair, and the sheet was covered in greasy fingerprints. Frank lifted a corner and peeked at the package. ‘Chocolate!’
‘We done a delivery lorry at Blackfriars. Can get you stockings and smokes too if you need
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