Literary Fiction
Date Published: 11-01-2024
Publisher: Troubador
Being born into poverty and hardship in 1930s London, Matthew’s
life was one of relentless struggle. One inadvertent act in defence of his
mother would haunt his conscience forever.
Matthew’s journey takes him from the poverty of a cold stone granary to
the opulence of Mayfair and Kensington Palace Gardens, where he starts a
family of his own. Despite working his way to the top of the business world,
he remains an outsider to London’s elite. He then realises that same
elite has an ugly underbelly. High society was a hot bed of depravity.
Will he correct society’s wrongs? Will the man who never succumbed to
expectations be able to challenge his own destiny or will he simply accept the
futility of it all?
1930
Gail Stephens
Behold a filth hole of desolation! There was mud and blood
on slippery, damp floors as an open gutter’s stench mixed with the strong fumes
of ethanol and ammonia. Expectant mothers screamed and wretched in labour; the
stocky midwives, thinking nothing of it, delivered one baby after the next,
snipping at the umbilical cords before the placentas slopped out and splashed
on the floor.
Gail Stephens was far too strong a woman to suffer a mishap
in childbirth. She had earned this child even if it meant delivering him in a
shelter for unmarried women. As soon as he was placed on her breast, she
smiled. “You are my boy, Matthew. We will be each other’s strength from now on;
do not worry about anything. Mummy will always be there.”
Next, the shelter put them in a maternity ward in an
adjacent warehouse. There were two rows of beds on either side of the long
corridor. The babies were placed in cots alongside their mothers as the
midwives instructed the first-time mothers about nursing and feeding. Repeat
mothers needed no such assistance and happily instructed their new sisters.
Poverty may be a scourge, but motherhood ignored misery and united them all.
Gail was not alone in having opted to keep the baby of a deserter. The sisterhood
of bastard bearers did not believe in the stigma society callously applied to
them.
The rest at the maternity ward did her good. Gail was a
picture of health when she left the hospital and returned to her lodgings in
the old stone house granary. She scrubbed herself with soap and water and dried
her hair before the coal fire before choosing a clean dress with small floral
patterns, its pleats pressed by the coal-heated iron firmly until crisp. She
fed Matthew, cleaned him and put him back in a makeshift cot, where he quickly
drifted into slumber.
Gail’s occupation was in keeping with her social status but
was conducted in a parallel world. Gail cleaned the houses of wealthy London
families. Her encounters with mahogany, marble, velvets and silks did not
ignite envy; they only provided affirmation of her son’s destiny. “My son will
live this life one day. I need to work hard to give him a good start. He must
study so he can get an office job.” And work hard she did. The houses she
cleaned were immaculate and often received the admiration of guests: “Please
ask her if she has some free hours.”
She wore one of her two cardigans and grabbed her shawl
before heading to Mr Burroughs’ house with Matthew wrapped in a blanket. Mrs
Burroughs welcomed her, calling out to her husband. Mr Burroughs looked at
mother and son. “What a beautiful baby. Should you be working so soon, Gail?”
“Thank you, Sir. I had an easy delivery and am well rested.
I brought Matthew with me today, but from tomorrow, I will leave him at the
infirmary’s baby centre.”
Mrs Burroughs smiled. “Gail, this is the first baby we have
had in this house. Please bring him here as often as you can. If you cannot
come to work one day, please do not worry. Your wages will be paid.”
“Oh, Madam, Sir, that is very kind indeed. Thank you. But I
am a strong woman in good health.” Looking at Gail, one could hardly imagine
the modesty she left back home every day; there was a sense of purpose about
her, not the resignation of her peers.
The Burroughs had been a godsend after the tedious and
unpleasant households she had worked for previously. Work was not difficult to
find but was tricky to hold on to. A well-built, tall, handsome woman with an
unblemished complexion and fine face did not go amiss on men. The emergence of
a certain level of unease often made her leave the job herself. On other
occasions, the lady of the house would ask her to leave. These were times when
unmarried women with a child were presumed to be of questionable trait: prey
for men, an unnecessary risk for their wives.
The wages were low, though. Wealthy people would spend vast
amounts on indulgences but remained parsimonious regarding servants and
cleaners.
There was little money, but Gail had her son christened at
the local parish.
Matthew was moved to a charitable nursery at the age of
eight months. The nursery had been set up by one of her clients. It was like a
play school for children of working mothers until they were old enough to go to
school. Many children had been put there to receive a meal at least once daily.
They were laughing, smiling and crying, oblivious of their misery. A child
needs love, company and the occasional scuffle. They partook in the one
celebration the nursery could provide, a cake at birthdays, even though the
cake distribution would be chaotic. The children did not know any other way.
Good manners were not a natural trait amongst their lot. The child carers and
teachers would adopt a stern stance and did not shy away from mentioning the
dreaded punishment of no dinners. It had never been implemented, but the threat
was formidable in its impact on the young cohort.
Along with the nursery’s other charges, Matthew grew from a
baby to a toddler, from a toddler to a boy. Matthew stayed there until the age
of six. Finances remained grim, but Gail was determined that her son learn
manners and undergo full schooling, something she herself had been deprived of.
In the morass of their misery, the improbable education of
Matthew Stephens took root.
Gail registered him at the local primary school. Schooling
was not compulsory, certainly not for six-year-olds, but Gail believed
education was the only way out of destitution. Moreover, all children at school
were provided free school dinners, so there would be one less meal to worry
about, just like when he was at the nursery. Matthew spent the next three years
becoming a good student.
But then, war broke out. There was initially fear but
shortly after, Britain’s pugnacity took root and the public believed that they
would win, however difficult things got. The National Service Act
conscripted citizens between 18 and 41 years of age. This initially created
panic and hurt amongst families but soon a sense of truculent defiance to
Hitler and duty to Britain came into play. Although single women were not
exempt from conscription, women who had children living with them were exempted.
Gail nevertheless wanted to play her due role and registered with the local
makeshift hospital to offer cleaning services.
In anticipation of a concerted air attack, the government
evacuated children to rural areas in Operation Pied Piper. Matthew was
separated from his mother. Gail did not resist as she wanted her son to be in a
safer place. Matthew continued his schooling in the countryside and Gail
continued to work.
The authorities set up air raid shelters in London. Despite
the evacuations and the numerous blackouts, a sense of normality prevailed. The
people made it through the severe winter. There were no sirens as the air raid
had yet to materialise. The summer was as pleasant and active as one could get
during wartime. The British bulldog spirit remained unsubdued but it could not
prevent the vast number of injured soldiers that came back. The community
organised itself to provide support and assistance. There were soldiers from
all over and new relationships were forged. Somehow, life continued. People
would still go to their work and then gravitate in the evenings around pubs.
On September 7, 1940, came the Blitz. The City of London as
well as the broader London Civil Defence Area were attacked. The ground shook
and buildings crumbled. Fires broke out and the din of air raid warnings and
fire engine sirens settled wistfully in everyone’s ears. The government
enforced a blackout. Darkness only amplified the firing from the anti-aircraft
guns.
The Spitfires and Hurricanes engaged to defend their
motherland and roared into whatever the Luftwaffe could throw at them. The
German bombers dropped not only bombs but also incendiary devices. London was
alight and during almost three months of unrelenting bombing, the Docklands
were pulverised and Gail’s accommodation was destroyed. She was quickly
rehoused by the still functional social services. Despite immeasurable damage,
the unrelenting fortitude of Londoners kept the wheels of business and efficiency
turning. Many London landmarks survived although St. Paul’s cathedral suffered
considerable damage. The surviving symbols of Britain and London lifted the
spirits and fed the sentiment of invincibility. Unlike London, other cities
fared worse.
The Tube sheltered thousands until May 1941 by when the
Royal Air Force had won the battle of Britain.
After eight months away from each other, Matthew and Gail
were reunited.
Matthew’s schooling in a quickly constructed local school
was relaunched.
The war had brought forward latent generosity and support
for the less fortunate from across the social spectrum. Gail’s employers
provided the clothes, shoes and satchel. Although they had previously been
demanding in their expectations of her work and had been stingy when discussing
wages, they felt sorry for a woman trying to raise a child alone in such times.
She enjoyed the empathy of her clients as she was diligent in her work. As she
had to go to work every morning, Matthew would have to make his way to school
on his own. Some sacrifices had to be made in the upbringing of her son. The
street was narrow, and being shoved and pushed aside was routine for him. He
did not mind and took all this in his stride. He emitted a glow of quiet
confidence, a characteristic rare in his world. He had not felt the absence of
a father and was connected to his mother’s maxim: “Get a good education, work
hard and prosper.”
Before he set off each morning, Matthew washed his face with
a clean, wet rag and combed his hair back tight with a side parting. A
deceptively proud proponent, his poise and straight-backed confidence stood out
from the world around him. He was not treated like a street urchin but someone
better than his surroundings.
The years at school and at home in Gail’s company forged a
rounded youngster. By the time he was twelve, Gail no longer looked at him as a
child. He was a young man who would make his way in this world, fending for
himself a lot better than she had for herself. He would be educated, broaden
his horizons, and grab the opportunities encountered. And then one day, he
would meet a nice girl, marry her and set up their home.
Undoubtedly, there would be difficulties, but he would get
through them. He was her son!
Gail refused to identify Matthew’s father: “No one who
abandoned us can be called your father. I know it was thirteen years ago, but I
remember his departure as if it were yesterday. I do not want to be secretive.
I just do not want you to have any notion that you ever had a father.”
The stevedore who seduced Gail had left on a ship for
America a few days after he learnt she was with child. Gail had loved him and
was hoping that they would get married. There was hurt and bitterness, but Gail
decided to go ahead with what was hers. Stevedore or no stevedore, her son
would be hers. Domestic turmoil would be absent. But adversity would stay.
His birthday called for an extravagant meal of roast beef
and gravy and a glass of ale. A celebration at the Stephens household was
exceptional, but this was a special landmark for a proud mother and her young
man. The fact that she was running a fever could not detract from marking her
son’s day.
The following morning, Gail still felt weak and asked
Matthew to get some provisions from Mr Strike, the grocer. “Tell him that I am
not feeling well, and I will pay him later. And please put that hammer away. I
forgot it next to the cooker; it should be on the shelf next to the street door
so we can find it when needed.”
Matthew did her bidding. Mr Strike gave over the provisions
and gave him a small paper chit with the list of items shown with the total
price. Matthew returned, put the things in their place and cooked soup for his
mother.
“Thank you, Son. I am feeling a lot better than this
morning. So, I can clear up while you do your schoolwork.”
“No, Mother, it is all right. I did my work at school
yesterday.”
There was a knock on the door. Mother and son looked at each
other questioningly. “Who is it?”
“It’s the grocer.”
Matthew opened the door to Mr Strike and another man who
worked in his shop.
“Mr Strike?”
He moved towards Gail. “Your son said you were not well, so
I thought I would look you up. You are in bed; how convenient.”
“If it is about the money, I can pay you tomorrow. My wages
are due.”
Mr Strike’s companion stayed by the door behind Matthew, who
was facing his mother. But Alan Strike walked to the bed and stretched his hand
to Gail’s forehead. This was strange, but she was lying under a quilt. She felt
his palm on her forehead.
“You do not seem to have a fever anymore, so you will be
fine. You have such a beautiful complexion.” His hand moved down the side of
her face.
Gail snatched her face away, but Mr Strike’s hand kept
moving down her shoulder under the quilt till it reached her breast. Gail
kicked her quilt away and jumped up. Matthew tried to move towards her but was
restricted by the man behind him. He was stuck in a firm arm hold across his
shoulder, tightened around his throat.
Alan Strike put all his weight on Gail and, grabbing both of
her wrists, pinned her down on the bed while wedging his torso into position
between her legs. Gail screamed. Matthew stamped his heel onto the man’s foot,
who momentarily loosened his grip. Matthew bit his hand hard and was let loose.
He grabbed the hammer from the shelf and raced towards the bed. He swung the
hammer onto Mr Strike’s head. Blood spurted out immediately. He turned towards
the door, but the other man was gone.
Gail screamed again. The man who had collapsed on top of her
had moved. Matthew darted back and swung the hammer again and yet again. This
time, a wallop of blood-drenched brain appeared through the broken skull.
Seeing his crushed head and the pool of blood spread on the bedsheet, Gail
pushed him back and realised that her assailant was dead. Matthew was crying.
Gail took him in her arms and then moved to look at him. “Do not cry. You did
well, Son. You saved my honour. There is no greater act.”
Matthew could not speak and looked back at her in shock and
fear, the hammer still in his hand.
Gail got to work. She and her son wrapped the body in the
sheet, washed the hammer, and sat the body against the door. They then cleaned
themselves to remove the bloodstains and put on fresh clothes. As night fell,
Matthew went to the coal merchant and returned with an empty wheel cart with
empty gunny sacks. Once they ensured no one was within earshot, under the cover
of darkness, they heaped the body onto the cart, covering it with gunny sacks
and wheeled it to a maintenance hole covering the drain pit. They removed the
gunny bags, put them aside, opened the manhole cover, and, with considerable
effort, pushed the body through the opening and let it go, hearing a splash.
They put the sacks back in the cart and wheeled it back to their house.
Once back in their room, she said, “Son, this will never be
mentioned to anyone. We will both die with this. That man was a monster and
needed someone to finish him.”
“Did I not murder him, Mother?”
“No, Matthew, you do not murder monsters; you slay them.”
“But what about the other man?”
“He will not say anything. If the people around here learn
that he was part of an attack on a mother and her son, they will lynch him. We
may be poor here, but we value each other.”
Gail was right. The shop did not open the next morning or
any other morning. The other man disappeared as well. A few days later, the
sewage collectors found a body. When they identified the body, the
neighbourhood quickly assumed that the missing shop hand had had something to
do with this. They used to argue all the time. Someone had even seen the two
men in each other’s arms.
“Good riddance to filth. We do not like their sort over here
in any case.”
Life was cheap in this part of town, and the police were
extremely willing to accept a plausible motivation. The case was opened, shut,
and filed into the archives within the week.
About the Author
Arvind is French and British with roots in India. He lives and works in
Brussels.
Arvind has three adult children, who all live away from Belgium. He reads
literary fiction and was motivated to write after reading three key books: The
Portrait of Dorian Gray, Thérèse Raquin, 1984 and East of Eden.
He is fascinated by the co-existence of good and evil. In his first book,
Emma's Equilibrium, he relates the story of an Olympic winner who suffers hurt
along the way. Choppiness on High Seas charts the life of Matthew from his
ignominious birth to his passing away in peace after having become one of the
weathiest persons in the world.
Arvind loves languages and can speak French, Spanish, Dutch, German, Italian,
Hindi, Punjabi and Gujarati. He is a stroke survivor and rides, jogs and does
yoga.
He is a strong believer in the duality of fortune and misfortune. He is deeply
spiritual.
Arvind finds writing challenging and frustrating and editing particularly
painful. He, however, believes that writing can be therapeutic and gratifying.
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