Perseverance Street (4 page)

But as she watched Tony
gallop off it suddenly hit her just how much she missed her Michael. He’d been gone for a less than a day and the house felt wrong without him. The absence of her darling son was too much to bear. Michael was the first, and maybe the only, person in the whole world who had shown her what real love was. From the instant he’d been placed in her arms she’d been completely besotted by him. Often in the middle of the night she’d creep into his room and sit by his bed just to watch him. The sheer magnificence of having given birth to this tiny but perfect creature had overwhelmed her. Losing Larry she would cope with, she knew that; she felt guilty about it but it was a fact.

She went back into the house to get Oldroyd’s phone number. All she wanted at that moment was to hold her boy. On her way to the public phone box she passed the lavvie yard which housed eight lavatories and as many dustbins. Mr Pilkington, who was in his sixties and worked on the buses, was just emerging, still adjusting his braces. He was carrying a
Yorkshire Evening News
and she guessed he’d spent a comfortable half hour perusing it away from Mrs Pilkington, who rarely gave him a minute’s peace. A thought struck her.

‘Hello, Albert.’

‘Hello, love. Ee, I er, I
were fair saddened to hear about your Larry. If there’s owt we can do. The missis would’ve been round, but yer never know what ter do for t’ best in these things. Never know when yer gonna be in t’ road, like.’

‘It’s all right, Albert.’

Lily looked down at his newspaper. She usually picked one up from the local newsagents, but not in the past week.

‘Is there anything in the paper about this bombing we’re supposed to be getting?’

‘What bombing’s that, love?’

‘I’m told there’s been a lot in the papers and on the news that the Germans are planning to bomb Leeds about now. Barnbow and Hunslet’s what I heard.’

He shook his head. ‘Well, I’ve never heard nowt about it. What I’ve heard is that Jerry’s air force is just about knackered. If there was any notion of an air raid we’d have had them ARP fellers comin’ round ter warn us. Who told yer, love?’

‘Just someone I know, that’s all.’

‘Well I never read nowt o’ the sort an’ I like ter keep abreast o’ things.’

‘If they’re not going to bomb us,’ said Lily, looking up at the sky, ‘why have we still got barrage balloons?’

He scratched what little hair he had. ‘Hey, yer’ve got me there, luv. It gives t’ Home Guard summat ter do, standin’ guard over ’em. They let one get loose last week. Word is they’d been sittin’ round drinkin’. Dozy beggars. I reckon it’ll be somewhere over Russia by now.’ He gave her a toothless smile and placed a hand on her shoulder. Anyroad, I wish yer the best o’ luck, an’ as I said, if there’s owt we can do …’

‘Thanks, Albert.’

She walked on, wondering
how the Oldroyds could have made such a mistake. There again, they lived out in the country and would have got a different newspaper. All Albert ever read was the
Yorkshire Evening News
– but if Leeds was going to be bombed surely the local paper would know about it. It made up her mind. She’d ask Mr Oldroyd to bring Michael back and if that wasn’t convenient she’d get the bus out there and bring him back herself. It wasn’t fair to rely too much on the man’s good nature. Because of this she decided not to reverse the charges.

‘Hello, could you put me through to Grassington three two eight, please?’

Pause.

‘Is that Grassington in Yorkshire?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure it’s Grassington? You see, there’s no exchange in Grassington. The nearest exchange is Skipton.’

‘Oh, maybe it’s Skipton three two eight, then.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not a valid number. There are four digits in the Skipton area numbers. Do you have a name and address? I can try and get it for you.’

‘Yes, of course. The name is Bernard Oldroyd and the address is er, Lark House, seventy-four High Bank Lane, Grassington.’

‘One moment please …’ There
was a long pause and a rustling of pages. ‘I’m sorry. We have no number against that name and address.’

‘Oh, I see … right.’

‘Thank you, caller.’

The line went back to dial tone. Lily looked at the receiver for a long moment. She realised that she’d have to go to Grassington herself, tomorrow. On her way home she called in to Scrimshaw’s fish and chip shop. Three women and a man were already queueing up. They all recognised Lily and stood to one side so she could be served first.

‘Too right,’ said Nelly Scrimshaw as she shovelled chips out of the fryer. ‘Heroes’ wives’ll never have ter queue in my shop.’

Lily was slightly embarrassed by this preferential treatment.

‘A fish and two pennyworth please.’

‘Would yer like some scraps fer your young lad?’

‘He’s er, he’s not at home at the moment. He’s visiting his uncle and aunt for the weekend. Thanks anyway.’ She was hoping Nelly wouldn’t enquire further. What would people think about her sending her son away with people she didn’t know all that well and who had given her a wrong telephone number? She might find herself at the back of the queue very quickly if they found out.

‘I’ve no doubt yer’ve enough ter cope with,’ said Nelly, wrapping up the fish and chips and waving away Lily’s offer of money.

‘Oh, thank you very much.’

‘Don’t mention
it, Lily – and if there’s owt we can do yer’ve only to ask—’

‘That’s goes fer me as well, Lily,’ said one of the woman customers. The others, not to be outdone, made the same offer.

Sunday 29th April

Lily had just about had enough
after the two-and-a-half-hour bus journey from Leeds. It had stopped a good dozen times before it got to Skipton where she had to get off and wait half an hour for a connection to Grassington. The last stretch had been an extremely bumpy journey and she was more than conscious of the small person inside her, due to make an appearance in a couple of weeks; it felt more like two minutes at times. When she and Michael had travelled there a few weeks ago it had been on a comfortable coach that had taken them straight there, without stopping, in an hour and twenty minutes.

She stepped off the bus and rubbed her back, looking around, not entirely sure which direction to take. She’d know the house when she saw it. An elderly man, who looked like a native of the village, was sitting on a wooden bench smoking a pipe.

‘Excuse me,’ she asked him, ‘could you point me towards High Bank Lane?’

The man jabbed over his shoulder with his pipe then looked at her stomach and gave her an ancient smile. He had teeth like a row of bombed houses but he looked friendly enough. ‘Down there, lass. When yer get ter t’ end o’ t’ lane turn right. Hey, it’s a fair old hike an’ yon babby looks as if he’s ready ter drop.’

‘I’ll manage.’ A thought
struck her. ‘Isn’t there a fair here today?’

The old man shook his head. ‘Fair? Not today, love. If there were a fair on I’d know about it.’

‘Right.’

She assumed the Oldroyds had made a mistake about the fair and set off walking, wondering how the old man knew she was having a boy. It was more than she knew. She recognised certain landmarks that told her it was a good mile to the Oldroyds’ house. Please God let them be in. The mile turned out to be nearer two and she breathed a sigh of relief when she recognised the hawthorn hedge that ran along the front boundary of the property, which was set back from the road. Her relief was short-lived – there was nobody home. Worse still, it looked uninhabited. She walked around the old, stone house and peered through the windows. The furniture was gone and the house had an air of neglect. She became suddenly very scared. What was this? She’d been speaking to the Oldroyds two days ago. Where was Michael? What had they done with him?

The house stood on its own, a couple of hundred yards from its nearest neighbour. Lily hurried up the road and knocked on the neighbour’s door. A middle-aged woman answered.

‘I was wondering if you knew where Mr and Mrs Oldroyd are. I’ve come up from Leeds to see them but they’re not in.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know
any Mr and Mrs Oldroyd. Where do they live?’

‘Just down there at number seventy-four.’

The woman shook her head, mystified. ‘I don’t think so, love. There’s been no one livin’ there since old Mrs Ramsden died four years back. Never heard of any Mr and Mrs Oldroyd.’

What blood there was in Lily’s face drained away. She stood there, shocked and scared by what she’d just heard. Not knowing what to do or to say. Her mouth opened and closed, causing the neighbour some consternation.

‘Look, love, yer best come inside. Have yer walked from the village?’

Lily nodded and began to cry. The woman led her inside and made her sit down. Lily looked up at her with horror in her eyes.

‘They’ve got my boy. They’ve got my Michael. I don’t know what to do!’

PC Edgar Pring, the village
policeman, had just cycled over from Threshfield where he’d been investigating a barn fire. His police-issue bicycle weighed a ton and he wasn’t as fit as he might have been. His exertions didn’t put him in a good mood.

‘Right, Maureen. What’s all this about a missing lad? I’ve had ter break off an important investigation ter trail across here.’

He sat down in a chair opposite Lily, breathing heavily, still with his cycle clips on his trousers and sweat running down his heavy jowls. He removed his helmet and wiped his face with a large, grimy handkerchief.

‘Any beer in t’ pantry, Maureen? I could murder a light ale.’

‘There’s a couple o’ bottles, but yer’ll have to make it up to Vernon in t’ Bell tonight – will yer be going in?’

‘Can a duck swim, Maureen? I need to be there to keep law and order.’

‘Edgar, the only time law and order needs keeping in that place is when you’ve had a few.’

Lily listened to this meaningless banter with tears in her eyes. It was as if her problem didn’t exist. She felt like screaming at them to shut up and find out where her Michael was.

‘My four-year-old son’s missing,
in case anyone’s interested. He’s been taken by some people called Oldroyd who were living at number seventy-four not four weeks ago. I know this because we stayed with them overnight. We came on a coach trip and we met them in a tea shop in Grassington. They seemed very nice people. I just don’t understand what’s happened.’ The words tumbled out, closely followed by tears.

PC Pring wasn’t best pleased at having his conversation interrupted. ‘Who’s we?’ he asked, gruffly.

‘Me and my son, Michael,’ sobbed Lily. She lifted her tearful eyes and looked directly at him. ‘My husband was killed in France two weeks ago and now these people have taken my boy. Could you find him for me, please?’

‘I’ll make us all a cup of tea,’ decided Maureen, going into the kitchen. Another dimension had been added to this poor woman’s troubles and it seemed to her that beer was an unsuitable drink for such an occasion. The policeman took a notebook from his breast pocket and a pencil from behind his ear.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’d best take some details.’

Lily’s waters broke before Maureen came back with the tea. The policeman heaved out a great sigh, which might have been exasperation or relief. He went off to the phone box to ring for an ambulance with barely a page of notes in his book. Six hours later Lily gave birth to another boy, by which time PC Pring was drinking his second pint in the Bell. His notebook, with its incomplete statement, was in his uniform pocket, hanging on a hook behind his kitchen door.

Monday 30th April

Baby Robinson, who was born in
the early hours, was being kept in a side ward, with him being jaundiced and slightly underweight at five pounds three ounces. Lily had been assured that this was a perfectly normal procedure and whenever the baby needed feeding he’d be brought to her. In the meantime she needed rest.

‘Do you have a name for him yet?’ the matron had asked her. ‘We do like to give them names as soon as possible.

‘What? No.’

Lily’s mind was in a turmoil. The labour of the previous evening had been long and excruciating, leaving her in need of a substantial blood transfusion. The only name running through her mind was that of her lost son, Michael. It had been there throughout all the pain and trauma of the birth. It was the name she constantly screamed as she pushed her baby out into this bloody awful world that took away husbands and children. She hated this world and everything in it. She hated the nurses and doctors and the police who kept asking questions about Michael, instead of being out there looking for the people who had taken him. She told them all she knew, but throughout the day different policemen kept coming back with more questions. This time it was a detective from Leeds, DS John Bannister.

‘I’m sorry to trouble you at a time like this but the first twenty-four hours is usually the most important in the case of a missing child and we seem to have lost a couple of days already.’

‘I didn’t realise
he was missing until …’ Her voice trailed off. She’d momentarily lost track of time. Bannister nodded understandingly.

‘These Oldroyd people,’ he said, ‘the ones who are supposed to have taken your son – could you tell us what you know about them?’

‘What do you mean
supposed
to have taken him? There’s no
supposed
about it. They came to my house in Leeds and took my boy away to a house in Grassington.’

‘What were they doing in your house, Mrs Robinson?’

‘They read about my husband being killed and came to offer their condolences – and their help. They offered to take Michael off for the weekend to give me a break.’

‘And how well did you say you knew these people?’

Lily was frowning with disapproval of her own stupidity. This was all her fault. Larry had often said she acted without thinking, but he also said it was one of the things he loved about her. He wouldn’t love her for this.

‘I only met them the once – a few weeks ago. They put me and Michael up overnight in their house. We’d gone on a coach trip out to Grassington and met them in a tea shop.’