the face as he added, ‘And you know how she likes to see Gran Shawe and Gran likes to see Amy.’
‘Oh, I see. I’m to blame then, am I?’ May glared at her son. ‘Nice Saturday this is.’ She stalked out of the room, her footsteps going up the stairs. Bruce stared helplessly at his father who shrugged his shoulders in irritation at his wife before going after her, muttering under his breath as he did so.
Bruce rubbed his hand across his face before glancing at his cousin. She was standing still and looked very white, her lips trembling, and the feeling of pity intensified. She was just a bairn and yet his grandas talked to her as though she was muck under their boots most of the time. It wasn’t right and it had gone on long enough. No doubt he and his da would get it in the neck from his mam but that didn’t matter. He put his arm round Amy’s shoulders. ‘I meant what I said, lass. This wasn’t your fault. They always have to start over something, that’s the way they are.’ His voice gruff, he added, ‘Don’t let the old miseries get to you, lass. That’s what they want. I know I shouldn’t say it but they’re bullies, the pair of them. Come on, Amy, dry your eyes and forget about them. They’re not worth it.’
As Bruce handed her his handkerchief Amy raised her head and pulled away a little to dab her face. She happened to glance at Perce who was still standing on the other side of the kitchen table and who hadn’t said a word throughout. The look in his eyes froze her for a moment, but then she dragged her gaze away from the fixed stare and handed the handkerchief back to Bruce. ‘Thank you,’ she said shakily, taking a step backwards. ‘I’m all right now.’ She waved her hand at the laden table. ‘I’ll clear the dinner things and wash up.’
‘There’s no rush. Why don’t you sit down a minute and I’ll pour you a cup of tea? Mam had only just made a fresh pot when you walked in,’ Bruce said gently.
‘No, no.’ She backed away still further from the kindness in his face and the tender quality to his voice, even as she silently upbraided herself. She was doing exactly what Perce wanted by reacting like this. She ought to let him see he couldn’t frighten her or make her behave differently with Bruce. But the dark fury in his eyes had frightened her. Somehow he didn’t seem like a lad of sixteen; in some ways he was more a full-grown man.
Just three weeks later Bruce was set upon when he was returning from a night out with some pals. It wasn’t late, only half past ten, and the last of his friends lived a couple of streets before theirs which meant he’d only had a five-minute walk alone. He had come by their back lane, which was dark and unlit. It was something all the householders did without thinking twice about it.
The two neighbours who carried a bleeding and semi-conscious Bruce into the kitchen were full of indignation at the attack. Bunch of ne’er-do-wells by all accounts, they told a stricken May and Ronald. Being a Friday night they likely thought the lad had still got his wage packet on him. If it hadn’t been for old Mr Newton coming into his backyard to check his racing pigeons - a fox had been skulking about - they might have done for him, the way Mr Newton said they were hammering the lad. The old man had yelled his head off and the gang had scarpered when they and others had come running out, but it was a fine state of affairs if folk couldn’t use their back ways come nightfall without this sort of thing happening. Course, the Depression was a lot to blame. What with riots in the streets and the unemployed getting more and more desperate, law and order were breaking down.
May insisted on the local constable being called, but although he was appropriately grave-faced and concerned, he admitted there was little chance of finding the culprits. The lad had been hit from behind at the beginning of the attack by his own
‘Oh, I see. I’m to blame then, am I?’ May glared at her son. ‘Nice Saturday this is.’ She stalked out of the room, her footsteps going up the stairs. Bruce stared helplessly at his father who shrugged his shoulders in irritation at his wife before going after her, muttering under his breath as he did so.
Bruce rubbed his hand across his face before glancing at his cousin. She was standing still and looked very white, her lips trembling, and the feeling of pity intensified. She was just a bairn and yet his grandas talked to her as though she was muck under their boots most of the time. It wasn’t right and it had gone on long enough. No doubt he and his da would get it in the neck from his mam but that didn’t matter. He put his arm round Amy’s shoulders. ‘I meant what I said, lass. This wasn’t your fault. They always have to start over something, that’s the way they are.’ His voice gruff, he added, ‘Don’t let the old miseries get to you, lass. That’s what they want. I know I shouldn’t say it but they’re bullies, the pair of them. Come on, Amy, dry your eyes and forget about them. They’re not worth it.’
As Bruce handed her his handkerchief Amy raised her head and pulled away a little to dab her face. She happened to glance at Perce who was still standing on the other side of the kitchen table and who hadn’t said a word throughout. The look in his eyes froze her for a moment, but then she dragged her gaze away from the fixed stare and handed the handkerchief back to Bruce. ‘Thank you,’ she said shakily, taking a step backwards. ‘I’m all right now.’ She waved her hand at the laden table. ‘I’ll clear the dinner things and wash up.’
‘There’s no rush. Why don’t you sit down a minute and I’ll pour you a cup of tea? Mam had only just made a fresh pot when you walked in,’ Bruce said gently.
‘No, no.’ She backed away still further from the kindness in his face and the tender quality to his voice, even as she silently upbraided herself. She was doing exactly what Perce wanted by reacting like this. She ought to let him see he couldn’t frighten her or make her behave differently with Bruce. But the dark fury in his eyes had frightened her. Somehow he didn’t seem like a lad of sixteen; in some ways he was more a full-grown man.
Just three weeks later Bruce was set upon when he was returning from a night out with some pals. It wasn’t late, only half past ten, and the last of his friends lived a couple of streets before theirs which meant he’d only had a five-minute walk alone. He had come by their back lane, which was dark and unlit. It was something all the householders did without thinking twice about it.
The two neighbours who carried a bleeding and semi-conscious Bruce into the kitchen were full of indignation at the attack. Bunch of ne’er-do-wells by all accounts, they told a stricken May and Ronald. Being a Friday night they likely thought the lad had still got his wage packet on him. If it hadn’t been for old Mr Newton coming into his backyard to check his racing pigeons - a fox had been skulking about - they might have done for him, the way Mr Newton said they were hammering the lad. The old man had yelled his head off and the gang had scarpered when they and others had come running out, but it was a fine state of affairs if folk couldn’t use their back ways come nightfall without this sort of thing happening. Course, the Depression was a lot to blame. What with riots in the streets and the unemployed getting more and more desperate, law and order were breaking down.
May insisted on the local constable being called, but although he was appropriately grave-faced and concerned, he admitted there was little chance of finding the culprits. The lad had been hit from behind at the beginning of the attack by his own
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