Read Online Cockney Orphan by Carol Rivers - Free Book Online Page A

for shaving. Saturday had arrived, the day he had been looking
forward to all week. The day he had intended to make a good impression!
    Removing his greatcoat, he flipped his braces from his shoulders and unbuttoned his shirt. Pouring the freezing water into the enamel bowl, he bathed himself the best he could, then proceeded to
shave. The cutthroat razor, freshly honed against the pummy stone, sliced off the stubborn beard and at last a smile formed on his face. That was better. He felt human at last.
    After throwing the dirty water into the lavatory, he poured the remainder from the jug into the bowl. This time he washed his hair with the same tablet of soap, whistling as he did so. He was
relieved to complete another daunting night standing in as an unofficial ARP warden. The noise of the bombs and the Mudchute ack-ack still resounded in his ears. As did the cries of the unfortunate
victims he had worked to save from their ruined homes. Against his will, pictures flashed up in his mind. The distress, the blood and broken bones and, in some cases, the horror of a lingering
death. He had worked desperately to free one man and his wife in the ruin of their home. She was dead, but the man was still clinging to her hand. The doctor had arrived and had known at once his
lower limbs were crushed for ever. Even before the doctor had begun to amputate, the man was dead.
    Vic blinked his eyes at the memory. He was twenty, young and able, but he had seen enough in one week for a lifetime. Did he still feel the way he had on that day in May when Operation Dynamo
had begun? The whole island had turned out to salute the flotillas of small boats as they sailed down the Thames to France. Rescuing the Allied forces stranded at Dunkirk had been no mean feat. His
heart had been heavy with yearning to help as he’d made his way over the bridge and turned left before the donkey field opposite the Seaman’s Mission and the Dock House pub, to stand at
Pier Head. He had been filled with patriotic pride at the awesome sight. Our boys were being slaughtered on the beaches of France and every man who owned a vessel was turning out to help.
He’d felt the same way in July and August when the Spitfires had protected London and the coasts with such tenacity against the Luftwaffe. All he’d wanted to do was to be up there with
them, shooting the enemy down before they could create more carnage. But instead he’d been sitting safely behind an office desk in his reserved occupation at the Port of London Authority.
He’d told his boss he was determined to join up. He was still waiting for his papers, still hoping to prove that he was prepared to fight for king and country.
    But after this week, he felt sick to his stomach. So much death and destruction. And he hadn’t even set foot out of England! Did he really have the guts to be a warrior, to look a man in
the eye and shoot him? Did he have the courage to risk his life and, if necessary, sacrifice it?
    ‘Vic? Breakfast, son.’
    Gran’s voice rocketed out of the back door. Vic quickly dried his hair on the ancient towel full of darns. He fingered the wet locks across his scalp and plastered the weight flat with the
palm of his hand. He glanced in the mirror once more and saw someone he at last recognized.
    The kitchen was warm, filled with the smell of frying bacon. ‘Blimey, where did you find a porker?’ Vic asked his Gran, who stood at the stove.
    ‘Less said the better on that score,’ Gran muttered, tapping the side of her nose. Her beady eyes looked up at Vic with mirth. He grinned, stretching his muscular arms above his
head. ‘Never quiz a woman about her coupons, eh?’ he chuckled.
    She pushed him out of her way. ‘Now, you might look like Rudolph Valentino standing there half naked, but you can’t sit down undressed to breakfast in this house. Lower the rack and
put on a clean shirt. There’s one ironed already.’
    Vic did as he was told. ‘Where would I be