CHAPTER ONE - Hard times.

The light from the gas lamps made crazy diamond patterns through the tears that were squeezing out of Jons eyes as he peered down the darkening street for his mother. The small red-headed three year old sat on the front step of the terraced house which he knew and loved. The lights from the upstairs rooms of the rows of houses lining the steep hill flickered out one by one. Thin cats prowled looking for scraps. Jon and his half-witted elder sister Amy should have been in charge of Grandma, but Grandma sat in the dark kitchen in her rocking chair. Grandma, kindly but deaf, was lost in her own world of old age and memories. In spite of the deafness, young Jon loved Grandma, better than five-year old Amy, better than Mam, his mother Maisie. The shawl covered Grandma was a symbol of safety and security, Jon never saw her move out of her chair for she never went to bed, just slept where she was. A wrinkled hand would ease itself out of the black clothing to grasp a cup of tea or find a tiny handkerchief which she kept in a small purse. Maisie was out of the house so much and Amy was only a girl, a scraggy girl who whined and cried.

The Newcastle long summer evening had faded away. The tired smoke from the miners cottages drifted unenthusiastically as the fires were dampened for the night. Cold and hungry Jon drew patterns in the dust with his bare toes. He lifted his head brushing away the tears for he heard laughter and familiar voices. He saw figures at the bottom of the hill, Maisie, her friend Gertie who was dragging Amy by the hand, and a man, another 'Daddo'. Jon stood up, and soon his skinny legs moved like pistons down the cobbled hill.

Maisie chided him in an angry voice, pinching his ear, shouting that both he and Amy should be in bed. Frightened at Maisies re-action Jon explained that Grandma was asleep.

"Shut up, " Maisie turned to Daddo, "Take the blighter." 'Daddo', for that is the name that Jon gave all the men who came with his mother, swung Jons light frame on his shoulders.

"Better luck next time" quipped Gertie with a wink. "Try with the fur coat on - sames me. Maybe more money in a fur coat." Gertie turned into her house and let herself in. Gertie and Maisie worked part time at the local brewery, but that did not - bring enough money for a family. In the evenings, dressed to kill, they combed the streets and sold their bodies. Gertie was loud-voiced and wore gaudy colours and always an old fur coat. Maisie, widow of an officer who had fathered two older children, still held a serene beauty. Her red gold hair flowed down to her shoulders, her big grey blue eyes set in a pale skinned face gave her a look of fragility. She wore pale colours, good clothes which she had saved from her previous well-to-do life. She too had a fur coat. She was fond of Maisie, but it was a friendship based on necessity. It was easier and safer to walk the streets in pairs looking for customers. Maisie could play the piano and talk about the arts. But now it was different. With little money and harsh surroundings she had put a veneer around herself and talked and behaved like her neighbours.

"Good riddance," muttered 'Daddo' as he saw Maisie shut her door. "Now, lets get on with things." The front door to their little house led to a narrow passage, which was cluttered with coal buckets, water buckets, and rubbish. On the right was a closed door. This led to a small front room, dark and foreboding and which smelt of death, dust and decay. The only time Jon had been in this room was to look at a small white box, he was too short to see inside. Maisie had wept as she peered at the cold silent baby that was waiting to be taken away. The smell of death lingered on. At the end of the passage was the kitchen, where all the activities of the house took place. Grandma was indeed asleep in her rocking chair in front of the large black leaded range.

"Up stairs, go on.. Mighty quick." Maisie shoved the two children towards the stairs.

"But Mam,.. I'm 'ungry'. I want brea un buer me tea." Jons small undisciplined voice was swamped by 'Daddo's bawl. "Up em stairs. Up - quick." He lifted his fist.

Jon and Amy scuttled quick up the stairs and flung themselves at the far side of the very large double bed, which filled most of the room. There was only one bedroom in the house, and in this room there was only space for the bed, a chest of drawers and two straight backed chairs. Behind the door was the bucket, for communal use at night times. The toilet was outside and at the bottom of the garden. On a hook by the window was Maisies fur coat, a legacy of previous years, a symbol of her other life. This fur coat was her passport to further customers who were after her sexual offerings.

Amy and Jon, head to toe, lay rigid as near to the edge of the bed as possible. Both pretended to sleep when they heard giggles and stumping up the stairs. Then the two bodies came bounding on the bed, there were heaves, grunts and bumps, and when Jon peeped through his eyelids all he could see was Daddo's flushed and dribbling face just inches from his own. Maisie seemed to have disappeared beneath him. Hungry and cold Jon fell into an uneasy sleep, Amy snored gently. The sound of jets of fluid cascading into the tin bucket woke him up. It was Daddo using the bucket. He peeped through his lids only to glimpse his mothers blackness between her legs as she took her turn. Immediately there was more heaving, grunting and bumping and a huge sigh. Unconcerned Jon slipped into dreamland once more.

The sounds of the heavy iron porridge pot scraping across the range woke Jon. He was alone in the room. He used the bucket, then sidled downstairs glad to see that Daddo had left. Amy scraped her plate with her fingers while Jon sat along side her on the wooden bench. Grandma was rocking away furiously. She looked upset.

"Done it again, 'ave you?," she croaked, her voice harsh with age. "I did warn yer. Too often. These men. What about young Jon?"

"Lay off it, Ma," Maisie beseeched. Jon stuck into the porridge that Maisie had put in front of him. Gorgeous steamy hot porridge. He didnt understand what was upsetting Grandma, but he could sense she was unhappy. Maisie, more dishevelled than usual, her porridge uneaten, had a yellowish tinge round nose and cheeks, and her eyes were shadowed with dark rings. How different she was from the cool green-eyed beauty dressed in silk that peered down from the gold framed picture hung at the top of the stairs. Maisie, with her deep auburn hair and milky skin, had lived in gentler circumstances while she was married to her officer husband, James. Her two older children, now thirteen and fourteen had had a sophisticated childhood. When James was killed, his mother refused to recognise Maisie for Maisie was Catholic and from a different social strata. So Maisie, penniless, had to fend for the family. The boy was sent to work in stables, and the daughter was in service at the big house next to the church. Sometimes they came home bringing a few pennies that they had saved, but most often they stayed away. There were just too many people for the large double bed.

"Some ones got to get money," Maisie defended herself. "Part time at brewery doesnt bring enough. Men in evening is better than starving. Bloody Government dont 'elp like of us. Our men shot like flies, then us left with nuffing. If another baby comes, it comes. Nothing I can do."

Jon, porridge finished, stood by his Grandma looking puzzled. He adored his mother, but Maisie was short of the ability to show affection. She was too busy, too worried, too tired. Amy was no use as a friend either. She would sit for long hours fiddling with her fingers. Jon heard someone say she was simple, whatever that meant. The furthest she went from the house was to the bottom of the road, and although she was five she was not yet accepted at the school. Jon, on the other hand, wandered far and wide through the streets, into the markets, on to the Moor. His bare feet were hardened to the roads, dirty they were, but never bleeding. The shining light in Jons life was at the house on the corner. Here fat and laughing Mrs Gummer made him welcome, made him warm and fed him with bits of cake and biscuits. Mrs Gummer had no children of her own, and her kindnesses were part of a genuine need.

All that winter there were fewer 'Daddo's and Maisie got large and cumbersome. Anxiously Jon, now just four years, would scan the market square for fruit or vegetables that had been dropped. He was not adverse to taking an apple from the fruit store. He learnt by experience to take from the top of the pile if he could reach, for one day he had taken the nearest, the one at the bottom corner, and the whole castle had crumbled. There was a mad chase down the street, Jons feet barely touching the ground. The stall holder in his heavy boots could not duck and weave, and Jon reached safety without surrendering his apple. With his red hair, his bright eyes and winning childish ways he made more friends than enemies. A new baby arrived, squalling and smelly, and then a queue of Daddo's, till once again Maisie got fat. Jon spent more and more time roaming. He enjoyed his freedom, and held no fear of the outside world.

"Come on , Jonnie red-head," the friendly police would call out when they saw Jon eyeing possible acquisitions. ""Off 'ome you go. Your Mama sure be worried." With a grin and a pat on the head they would steer the boy in the direction of his home. His best friend in the first part of his life was Charlie, the roan gelding that pulled the bakers cart.

Whenever Jon heard Charlies clip-clop he would run down the hill and either walk with the horse or talk with the horse. They both had a lot to say to each other, Charlies contribution being snuffles and nods of his great head. Jon told Charlie even more than he told Mrs Gummer, and Charlie understood. The look is his brown tired eyes passed all the necessary messages to the small boy. But Charlie was getting thin and was covered in sores, and however many carrots or apples Jon managed to find to give to him he never seem to get any better.

One cold windy day at the end of Jons fourth year he heard shouting. He ran to see what was happening. Charlie had fallen, and the baker was pulling at the reins trying to make the horse find his front legs and heave himself up.

"Mister, mister, dont it Charlie. e can't 'elp it. 'es sick." Jons matchstick arms beat at the bakers legs.

"Beat it, nipper, or I'll fetch coppers," threatened the baker. Charlie by now was still lying in the street, flecks of red foam coming from his nostrils.

Jon knelt beside him and tried to lift the big head into his lap. It was too heavy, so he stroked the long nose and whispered into a furry ear. "Get well, Charlie. Get better. I'll try to 'elp. Charlie, dont puff so. Charlie, Charlie." He looked into the round brown eye, and was somehow comforted by signs of recognition. The eye clouded over and the horse was still. With a plaintiff wail Jon ran straight to Mrs Gummer. He hid his head in her ample bosom. "Charlie dead. Charlies gone. My Charlie. No more Charlie." Sensibly Mrs Gummer let him cry till he was exhausted. Only then did she produce some apple pie and a glass of milk.

"All for me?" Jon asked, a small smile crossing his face.

The arrival of a new baby made no difference to Jons life. Maisie was home more, but still had no time to give to Jons needs. Grandma was there, and she told stories and was patient, but she was unable to go out walking like the other mothers did with their children. Grandma also gave Amy a penny every week from the bag that hung from her rocking chair, but she gave nothing to Jon. When the house was empty and Grandma asleep, Jon took from the purse what he thought was his due and then spent hours in the sweet shop deciding what to buy. He was often so slow that the shopkeeper would turn his back to attend to something else. Jon saw his opportunity and quickly filled his pockets with anything that was at pocket level, then looking like an angel with a grubby face, spend his one brown penny with great decorum.

When the baby was about six weeks old, more 'Daddo's appeared. With the baby in the big bed needing room to prevent it being smothered, and the squirming youngster wriggling all over the bed, Jon and Amy had to lie on their sides. In the daytime he travelled further and further afield. On Sundays he was supposed to stay indoors as he had no Sunday clothes and Maisie thought people would comment on their financial situation. But he had been given a pair of boots, much too big for him and with no laces. He would clomp around locally in these heavy noisy boots, but they made him tired. Often he would sneak into Mrs Gummers garden and leave them hidden. He felt free with his bare feet.

Whenever he could Jon crept out of his house and home. He longed to go to school, but was told he was too young. He had no one to play with so he explored the neighbourhood on his own. Wearing his thin shirt and tattered shorts he watched the well dressed girls of his own age flounce by in their velvet skirts and bonnets. Babies in huge prams peered out of their comfort, rosy cheeked and warm. My babys only gotta drawer for a bed, he thought. My baby never gets out. Once a baby dropped a rattle from the heights of his pram, and no one noticed. Jon picked it up and ran on after the small party, holding the rattle in the air.

"What do you want, little boy,?" an imperious voice asked from under a deep crowned hat. Jon looked up at the painted face.

"Baby dropped rattle, Miss. ere it is." Jon held the offending rattle up to give it to the woman.

"Ugh," grunted the woman. "We dont want it now. You've put germs on it. Look at your dirty hands. Look at your nose. Needs a wipe. Run off, boy, run off. Dont want the likes of you around." The woman with her small group moved on quickly. Funny one that.. I was only being kind. Dont want bleeding rattle. Ruffled, but not comprehending, Jon threw the rattle into the gutter. It lay gleaming amongst the filth and rubbish. Jon walked on slowly. There was many a time he could have stolen from a dangling purse, but some feeling restrained his itching fingers.

One summer Sunday he again disobeyed Maisies instructions to stay indoors. He walked right into Newcastle itself, and sat on the wall of a grim dark stoned church watching people in their refinery parading up and down. Nobody took any notice of him, in fact they rather looked away. Soon a group of black clothed people passed him walking steadfastly, heads down, into the church. Their clothes reached the ground, big black coal scuttle like shapes covered their heads which were gripped in white bands exposing their faces. Wonder if theyve hair and ears, thought Jon. And why do they say "after you, Sister". Intrigued Jon followed them through the big wooden door and stood starry eyed as these "sisters" splashed their fingers into a stone trough and then fiddled with their foreheads. Amused, Jon stood on tiptoe and copied them. No one noticed. Then he watched them dropping or picking up, he couldnt see which, something from a large flat plate. Pulling himself up to the top of the wooden table he saw a vast dish full of money. Funny putting all that for us to take. A ten-pound shilling note! Mam ll tell me I'm good boy. Unconcerned he reached for a note and stuffed it in his trouser pocket. Still no one saw him. He sat in the corner of a long wooden bench. Funny smells. Funny music, he mused. The warmth sent waves of tiredness over his small frame so with his feet tucked well under him, and his copper nob on his knees he went fast asleep. He woke with a start.

"You get out of here. This isnt for the likes of you. Hop it, double quick." Another black coated figure leaned over him, but he did not have a coal scuttle on his head. His voice was deep and gruff.

Jon beat it double quick, letting the heavy door shut with a bang. With a light heart he ran all the way home, happy with the treasure in his pocket. He planned what he would do with the few pennies that he thought Maisie would let him have. He even planned to buy Mrs Gummer some pansies that he had seen in a shop window.

When he arrived home his heart sank. Grandma was rocking violently, the baby cried, the youngster, now about eighteen months climbed over Maisies feet and demanded attention. Amy hid behind the door. Grandma held her hand out to Jon and said "There, there. But I can't help you, laddie." He stood quietly by Grandma, and watched his mothers lips. She breathed heavily.

"Damn you all," she shouted. "ows I supposed to cope. Look at it. Babies everywhere. You," she pointed to Grandma, "stuck in that damned chair. Cooking, cleaning, all not enough - I'm fed to back teeth." Jon smelt a strong smell on her breath. Maisies pretty hair was unbrushed, her clothes ruffled and dirty.

"Shut up, Maisie," Grandma tried to intervene. "Its that bloody booze that gets yer going. Jons getting all unappy. Dont know where the booze money comes from. Buy laddie clothes, thats wot I say."

Jon was indeed trying to pull himself to his full height. He wanted to make a flourish with his new note.

"Look, Mam. Look whats ere. Ten pound shilling note. Am going buy Mrs Gummer some pansies. Rests for us."

Maisie went a deeper red. "Yer snivelling little thief. An who saw you nicking this? Coppers came this morning. Wanting you, they are."

"But Mam... Everybody took summat. Moneys on a big dish. Followed Sisters in. Copied Sisters."

"Bleeding little liar." Maisie snatched the note and tucked it into her apron. "Upstairs you go. Go on, hurry. . Amys no bother. You're jest a nuisance."

Grandma took Jons arms and pulled him towards her. She gave him a lingering kiss on his forehead. "Be brave, son, be brave." She looked him in the eyes. Bewildered Jon tried to read the silent messages. He turned and left the room, dragging his feet in the large loose boots slowly up the stairs. Another night without supper was no great punishment, but the tension and Grandmas kiss made him uneasy. There was so much he wanted to know, so much he wanted to ask.

Next morning after breakfast Maisie hung out the washing which she had boiled in a big pan over the range. Jon slipped out of the house and went to Mrs Gummer. He told her all about the rattle and the cross voice of the grownup pushing the pram. He explained the strange happenings of the previous day in his own house. Mrs Gummer went very quiet and took him on her knee.

"Jon, luv," she began. Her voice was soft and clear and her diction was good. "Youre getting a big boy now. Your Mum is a wonderful woman really, but life is just too hard for her. What ever happens you must always remember your Mum as a happy person. Forget all the tempers and tantrums. Forget about the smelly breath."

"But what about ten pound shilling note. Want some pennies. Want buy present. Mams beastly. Grandmas O.K"

Bewildered by the seriousness of his beloved neighbour Jon stuffed his fist into his mouth.

"Whatever happens, Jon, I want you to know I'll always be here. You can always come to me, any, any time." Mrs Gummer started to cry. This was all too much for Jon. He ran off shouting, "Am going to find a present. Going to find a present."

John spent a long while roaming the streets, looking for just what he wanted, but could find no pansies that he could manage to nick. He had no money, but he saw no reason why he shouldnt pick a bunch from one of the borders in the park. Quite openly he started to pick from one of the beds near the big entrance gates. Cor, he thought. So many. What a lovely pressy. The bunch was getting so fat that his small fingers could scarcely reach round to stop them from spilling to the ground.

"Cum on, youngster, best come with me." There was a policeman looking down on him. He was not his usual friend on his home beat who knew Jons roaming ways and innocent nature. "Cant steal flowers from a public place." With his hand firmly held by the policeman he was marched to the police station, and from there he was taken home by his friend.

"Wan give these Mrs Gummer," Jon informed the policeman.

"O.K," said the understanding man. "Jest leave them on doorstep."

The policeman took Jon back to his home where a strange man in a black suit was waiting. He was not like the usual 'Daddo' and he sent a strange sense of apprehension over the boy as he hid behind the policeman.

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