Free War Babies by Annie Murray Page A

folding a pale yellow blouse with expert fingers, seemingly trying to decide whether to say any more. Then she looked round at Rachel. ‘I was
trying to look out for him, and his sisters. But Wilf – Danny’s Dad – he’s taken the four of them and . . .’ She looked down for a moment, then up at Rachel again with
tears in her eyes. ‘Oh, I’m sorry to have to say this because it shames me, but I don’t know where they are – none of them, including
him
, their father.’
    Tears rose in Rachel’s eyes as well. She could see how upset Gladys Poulter was. Seeing Danny’s father had given her no confidence that whatever had happened to his children would be
kind or good.
    ‘I don’t know where to start even,’ Gladys went on in a desolate voice. ‘I don’t know if ’e’s gone off with ’em to Australia or summat or if
they’re still here in Birmingham.’ Rachel could see she was suffering over it every hour of the day. She reached out and patted Rachel’s head. ‘But one day I swear I’m
going to find out – somehow.’
    This news sat inside Rachel like lead, the memory of Danny and all his liveliness so fresh in her mind. But weeks passed, months, and still there was no sign of him. Now and then she asked
Gladys Poulter again, but all she got was a shaken head in reply and she stopped asking. She had stopped expecting ever to see him.
    The bus lumbered up Digbeth to the Bullring and they all streamed off to join the crowds already milling around the fruit and veg and flowers in Spiceal Street.
    ‘We’ll go to the Rag Market first,’ Mrs Davies said, to Rachel’s joy, as they struggled down past St Martin’s Church, towards Jamaica Row. ‘We’ll come
back to the Market Hall for veg – I don’t want to cart them around and we might get some bargains if we go later.’
    ‘Ooh look, it’s just the same!’ Rachel exclaimed as they passed through the tall gates into the Rag Market among the crowds. She breathed in the smells. Cigarette smoke made
her nostrils tingle. And she could not resist adding, ‘Mom and me used to work here!’
    ‘
Did
you?’ Mrs Davies’s head whipped round. ‘You never mentioned that before.’
    ‘You lucky thing,’ Lilian said. She coughed again. Now winter was back she had a bad chest, as usual. ‘I’d
love
to work here.’
    ‘Come on,’ Mrs Davies said gamely. ‘Let’s see what they’ve got for us. Hold hands, you two, and don’t get lost. I don’t want you running off –
specially you, Rachel. What would your mother say?’
    Rachel had a feeling her mother would not say much, that it often felt, in fact, as if Peggy rather wished she might disappear. But she smiled vaguely back into Mrs Davies’s kindly
face.
    They worked their way round all the pitches, the little tables or old prams with knick-knacks crammed on them, crocks and toys and shoes, the piles of old clothes and hats, the dresses and
men’s old jackets. There was a smell of musty cloth and mothballs tinged with sweat, all so familiar that Rachel lapped it up, happy with the memory of it all. And on the cold air, once again
she sniffed the smell of hot potatoes and chestnuts and her mouth started to water.
    ‘Smell that!’ Lilian said, poking her in the ribs. Lilian always seemed to be hungry. ‘Shall us get some? You’ve got some money.’
    ‘You’ve only just had yer dinner!’ Mrs Davies argued. ‘Wait for later and then we’ll see.’
    It didn’t take Rachel long to spot Gladys Poulter’s strong features across the market, standing tall and proud, inviting people with her eyes and every now and again with her deep,
carrying voice.
    ‘Best quality – get your bedding here, sheets and towels!’
    Gladys’s voice seemed to vibrate through Rachel. She moved towards her immediately, pulling Lilian along.
    ‘Let’s go here,’ she ordered.
    ‘But Mom said . . .’ Mrs Davies was drifting in the opposite direction. Lilian dragged reluctantly behind her.
    ‘Quick