King's Cross Kid Read Free Page A

As soon as we were alone John started to crawl all round the kitchen, upsetting Gran’s pots and pans which she kept under the shelf of what she called her Welsh dresser. We spent the next hour trying to put everything back in place but we didn’t succeed. When Gran got back she forgot about the thump and instead gave us both a big kiss and a hug. We thought our mum and gran were the best people in the whole world. We were both full of excitement about the promise of the new baby. ‘’As Jesus been yet, Gran?’ ‘No, Victor, probably tonight and we think you might be getting a little baby sister.’ I didn’t think much of the arrival of a sister: ‘Girls are always crying, Gran, carn’t I ’ave anuvver bruvver?’ ‘Don’t be wicked, Victor, you get what God gives you and don’t forget to say your prayers before you go to sleep tonight, ask God to look after your mummy.’ ‘Yes, Gran, I promise.’ ‘You’re both going to sleep on the floor upstairs, if you make any noise Granddad will come up and give you both a thump.’ With that ultimatum delivered she started to collect the things she thought she might need, then took us both up to the front room and, after reminding us about our prayers, left us to our thoughts and the darkness of a strange room. Brother John, who had been taught to learn his evening prayers by rote, put his hands together and started saying ‘Our Father’, but he had forgotten how it went and jumbled up the words.

5
    Little Emmy
    The arrival of sister Emily changed our lives completely. One morning, less than a month after she was born, Dad went to work and that was the last we ever set eyes on him. It was as quick and abrupt as that: he just jumped ship and vanished into thin air. Gran came round our house every day for weeks, comforting and consoling her daughter. Notices were put in the paper, Gran went to the Salvation Army who were reckoned to be good at finding errant fathers, but the weeks turned into months, and eventually Mum stemmed her tears. After Dad disappeared John and I hardly missed him, but we felt our mum’s pain and that made us sad. Mother, who had been trained as a milliner, managed to get some home work from a firm in Bridle Lane, up near Leicester Square. Granddad came up with a second-hand Singer treadle sewing machine and our front room was turned into a bedroom-cum-dining room-cum-nursery-cum-workshop all in one. John still had six months to go before he was due to start at the infants’ school, and little Emily just lay in the top drawer of a chest of drawers that served as a cot and burbled happily away. I knew Mum was hurt, and hurt very deeply, but she seemed happy enough singing away in time with the treadling whatever gospel song came to her mind.
    Every week Mother visited the relief centre, a council building that stood at the lower end of Great College Street. It was the distribution point where the women of the area gathered to plead for and collect their weekly ration of food coupons which could be exchanged at specially designated shops. We called it the ‘Poor House’. My memories of those humiliating visits will remain with me for ever, standing beside my mum, clutching on to her trembling hand while she faced the local council’s poor relief officials, three of them, a man and two unfriendly looking women. I have had problems with authority ever since.
    Once I was with my mum sitting down with all the other women when her name was called out. She grabbed my hand and we stood in front of these grown-ups who were going to give my mum her food tickets. The woman sitting behind the table said something to my mum that made her burst into tears, and as she let go of my hand to wipe her eyes I dashed up to the platform and kicked the woman who had made my mum cry. ‘You’re a witch, you made my mum cry, I know what a witch is, you’re a witch.’ I was told that I was