steel inside her for just long enough. Her face contorting with loathing, she said, ‘You’re bad you are. I’ll tell them.’ Even as she said
it she knew it was hopeless.
Sidney stood back, giving an exaggerated shrug and laughing as if she was the village idiot. ‘Tell them? Tell ’em what? Eh? They’re not going to believe a little babby like
you, are they?’ He moved his face close again, the way he liked to bully her. ‘Dain’t believe yer last night, did they?’
Shrinking inside, she knew he was right. Mom hadn’t believed her. She made herself look back at him. She couldn’t think of anything else to say and Sidney stared her out until she
was forced to look down.
‘Huh.’ He made a contemptuous sound and she thought he was going to move away upstairs. But as she looked up again, he was up close, a mocking expression on his face. He reached out
and rubbed one hand across her chest, her flat, undeveloped breasts, then drew his hand back with a gesture of disgust.
‘Wasting my time there,’ he said scornfully. ‘Flat as cowing pancakes, yer little runt.’
He strode off then and she heard him whistling as he went along the landing.
Every night after that she moved the chest of drawers against the door. But he didn’t try to get in again.
Eight
November 1938
Whenever she could, Rachel escaped to the Davieses’. They lived in a small two-up two-down terrace and it was the loveliest house she had ever seen. The Davieses did
not have much money, but they knew how to make a home. Mr Davies had a job in a factory. Mrs Davies had lost one husband and had lived in a run-down house on a yard before. She knew when she was
well off.
‘This is my little piece of heaven,’ she’d say. ‘Me and Bill have been given another chance. Sometimes I can’t believe how lucky I am.’
Mrs Davies, slender and energetic, kept her newly acquired corner of heaven immaculately clean and was forever scrubbing, dusting and polishing the furniture and the little knick-knacks she
liked to collect. One day there might be a new china bird on the mantelpiece in the front room, some paper flowers or a picture of somewhere deep in the countryside, with streams, meadows or
bluebell woods. Bill, unlike the men who had gone to war in France and returned – if they returned, changed and ruined – had been in the factory throughout. He was small, birdlike and
jovial, who always came in with a chirpy greeting – ‘All right, wenches – noses still on yer faces, are they?’ – which never seemed to require any answer but a smile.
He would go and pick up little Bobby and fling him about as he gurgled. He was a man who had also been widowed young and like his new wife knew he was in luck.
Mrs Davies still cooked on a range in the back kitchen. She was not in favour of ‘those new-fangled gas contraptions’. The room was always very hot and usually smelt of something
cooking. When the girls came back there after school she would get out the toasting fork and hold wedges of white bread in front of the fire until they were amber coloured and crisp; then she
scraped butter onto them and held out a plateful. Rachel could always feel a pool of saliva collecting in her mouth as the smell drifted towards her from the fire. Occasionally Mrs Davies bought
crumpets and they were the most delicious of all.
Mrs Davies never asked Rachel anything directly about her home life but she seemed to sense that there were things amiss, that Rachel needed a bolt-hole, and she was happy to embrace this
sweet-looking, rather solemn child who was a friend of Lilian’s.
One day, looking at one of the newest of Mrs Davies’s ornaments – a china Alsatian dog, lying down with its tongue hanging out – Rachel asked her where she had bought it.
‘Off the market, of course,’ Mrs Davies enthused.
‘’Er likes a good bargain, that one,’ Mr Davies commented, passing through the back room where they were sitting, with his boots
it she knew it was hopeless.
Sidney stood back, giving an exaggerated shrug and laughing as if she was the village idiot. ‘Tell them? Tell ’em what? Eh? They’re not going to believe a little babby like
you, are they?’ He moved his face close again, the way he liked to bully her. ‘Dain’t believe yer last night, did they?’
Shrinking inside, she knew he was right. Mom hadn’t believed her. She made herself look back at him. She couldn’t think of anything else to say and Sidney stared her out until she
was forced to look down.
‘Huh.’ He made a contemptuous sound and she thought he was going to move away upstairs. But as she looked up again, he was up close, a mocking expression on his face. He reached out
and rubbed one hand across her chest, her flat, undeveloped breasts, then drew his hand back with a gesture of disgust.
‘Wasting my time there,’ he said scornfully. ‘Flat as cowing pancakes, yer little runt.’
He strode off then and she heard him whistling as he went along the landing.
Every night after that she moved the chest of drawers against the door. But he didn’t try to get in again.
Eight
November 1938
Whenever she could, Rachel escaped to the Davieses’. They lived in a small two-up two-down terrace and it was the loveliest house she had ever seen. The Davieses did
not have much money, but they knew how to make a home. Mr Davies had a job in a factory. Mrs Davies had lost one husband and had lived in a run-down house on a yard before. She knew when she was
well off.
‘This is my little piece of heaven,’ she’d say. ‘Me and Bill have been given another chance. Sometimes I can’t believe how lucky I am.’
Mrs Davies, slender and energetic, kept her newly acquired corner of heaven immaculately clean and was forever scrubbing, dusting and polishing the furniture and the little knick-knacks she
liked to collect. One day there might be a new china bird on the mantelpiece in the front room, some paper flowers or a picture of somewhere deep in the countryside, with streams, meadows or
bluebell woods. Bill, unlike the men who had gone to war in France and returned – if they returned, changed and ruined – had been in the factory throughout. He was small, birdlike and
jovial, who always came in with a chirpy greeting – ‘All right, wenches – noses still on yer faces, are they?’ – which never seemed to require any answer but a smile.
He would go and pick up little Bobby and fling him about as he gurgled. He was a man who had also been widowed young and like his new wife knew he was in luck.
Mrs Davies still cooked on a range in the back kitchen. She was not in favour of ‘those new-fangled gas contraptions’. The room was always very hot and usually smelt of something
cooking. When the girls came back there after school she would get out the toasting fork and hold wedges of white bread in front of the fire until they were amber coloured and crisp; then she
scraped butter onto them and held out a plateful. Rachel could always feel a pool of saliva collecting in her mouth as the smell drifted towards her from the fire. Occasionally Mrs Davies bought
crumpets and they were the most delicious of all.
Mrs Davies never asked Rachel anything directly about her home life but she seemed to sense that there were things amiss, that Rachel needed a bolt-hole, and she was happy to embrace this
sweet-looking, rather solemn child who was a friend of Lilian’s.
One day, looking at one of the newest of Mrs Davies’s ornaments – a china Alsatian dog, lying down with its tongue hanging out – Rachel asked her where she had bought it.
‘Off the market, of course,’ Mrs Davies enthused.
‘’Er likes a good bargain, that one,’ Mr Davies commented, passing through the back room where they were sitting, with his boots
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