Christmas is for Children - blog tour

Christmas is for Children  - Rosie Clarke

About the author

 

Rosie is happily married and lives in a quiet village in East Anglia. Writing books is a passion for Rosie, she also likes to read, watch good films and enjoys holidays in the sunshine. She loves shoes and adores animals, especially squirrels and dogs.

 

Follow

 

Facebook: @Rosieclarke

BookBub: @RosieClarke

 

About the book

 

December 1930.

 

Christmas should be for the children, but with the Depression biting deeper, money and food in short supply and factories, ship yards and businesses closing down, the outlook is pretty bleak. It looks like many East End kids will wake up on Christmas morning to nothing. Robbie Graham is out of luck and work. Can he earn enough to put food on his table for his motherless children, Ben and Ruthie? Never mind something for their Christmas stockings?

 

Meanwhile single mother and local shop owner, Flo Hawkins cannot bear the thought of some children having nothing for Christmas. Alongside her daughter, Honour, they decide to make their own gifts and the community unites to throw a Christmas party at the Salvation Army for those less fortunate. But will it be Flo who gets the best gift ever?

 

Buy links:

 

Kobo: http://bit.ly/2zMvkNS

iBooks: https://apple.co/2MUqpA1

Google play: http://bit.ly/2o7G7tg

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2Ljz3qP

 

 

Follow Aria

 

Website: www.ariafiction.com

Twitter: @aria_fiction

Facebook: @ariafiction

Instagram: @ariafiction

EXTRACT

‘Are yer comin’ down the Rec?’ a lanky boy called to Ben Graham as they left the junior boys’ school that afternoon. Ben was a miniature version of his father, tall for his almost ten years and full of energy. It was a late November evening and the mist was coming down, making it feel cold and damp.

‘Nah, I’ve got to fetch me sister,’ Ben replied and watched the boy run off to join a crowd of five others intending to play football on an open piece of ground near the docks. He would have liked to join in their game, but Ruthie would be waiting for him to fetch her. If he wasn’t there on time, she would cry and sniffle all the way home.

‘They ain’t worfth the bother them lot…’ another boy sidled up to Ben as he turned towards the girls’ school, which was just around the corner. ‘I’ll walk wiv yer…’

‘All right, if yer want,’ Ben agreed. Mick was thinner and shorter than Ben; half-Irish, he sounded more like a Londoner. He and his father had moved here some six months or so earlier and Mick had enrolled at the school, but he’d spent more time away than in class. Mick’s father was Irish and the only time Ben had seen him had been when he fetched Mick back from school once; he’d been drunk, lurching about and swearing. The headmaster had gone after him, but Mick’s father had raised a fist to him and he’d paled and backed away. ‘You ain’t been to school for a while?’

‘Nah, me dad was sick and I ’ad ter look after ’im,’ Mick said. ‘I fought he might croak it, but he never. He’s back on the booze again now.’

‘My dad likes a drink, but he grins all the time and gets daft if he has one too many – yours swears and gets violent.’

‘Dad ain’t bad when he’s got work.’ Mick grimaced ‘He’s a labourer and there ain’t much goin’ fer ’im at the moment. He says the bloody government ought ter make jobs fer men like ’im – roads and stuff – but they ain’t got no sense…’

Ben frowned, because he could just recall a time when things had been better. His dad had been working full-time on the building sites and his mum had set the table for tea with a spotless cloth and glass jam dishes with a silver spoon, but things were different now.

‘We was learnin’ about the recession in class this mornin’ and the teacher says it all started in America…’ Ben looked at the other boy. ‘You should come ter school, Mick. My teacher said us kids need a better education so that we’re not all in the same boat when we get older. He said the workin’ man relies too much on heavy labourin’ and not enough on his brains… He reckons that’s why the Labour party got defeated in the election last year.’

‘School is a waste of time,’ Mick replied because Ben was just repeating what his teacher had told him and it went straight over his head. ‘’Sides, they told me I had ter wash and get me clothes washed and all – and there ain’t nowhere to wash ’em where we live.’

Ben was aware of the ruined tenement buildings not far from the East India Docks, where his friend and his father lived in squalor. They had been merchant seamen’s houses once, but for many years they’d been subdivided into rooms and allowed to fall into disrepair as too many families squeezed into the row of semi-detached houses. Years ago, the authorities had evicted the tenants, condemned the buildings and boarded up the windows and doors. Left to fall to ruin, the tramps and homeless had started to squat there and no one bothered to turn them out.

They passed a small factory that had finally closed its doors in the summer after trying to limp along on half-time for months. The blackened chimney stack had no smoke issuing from it and posters advertising cinema films were plastered all over the walls and boarded up windows. There was a film showing called Tell England and another with Laurel & Hardy – and at the Odeon up west there was a film on with Norma Shearer starring.

‘I ain’t never bin to the flicks,’ Mick said, looking at the posters with a kind of hunger. ‘Have you?’

‘Mum took us once to a Charlie Chaplin film for my birthday,’ Ben said. ‘I remember it was funny but it was a long time ago… and I liked the cartoons best…’

Ben and Mick were approaching Ruthie’s school now. She was only six and Ben was nine, ten next January. She looked to her big brother to look after her, because Dad was hardly ever home until late and Mum was dead… Ben frowned as he saw Ruthie was standing by herself and looking miserable. Her ribbon had come off and her fine fair hair had tangled in the wind, and her blue eyes were drenched with tears. Some of the other girls were pointing at her and laughing.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked when she ran to him in distress.

‘Me dress split under the arms again ’cos it’s too small. The teacher said I had ter get it mended or stay home. She caned me ’ands and stood me in the corner and the kids all laughed at me…’

‘Bloody teachers; they cane yer fer anythin’. I think they enjoy it,’ Mick growled. ‘You take no notice of ’em, Ruthie. They’re all rotten…’

‘I like goin’ ter school. We’re makin’ cards fer our friends in class,’ Ruthie muttered and sniffed. ‘I’m ’ungry…’

‘So am I,’ Ben said. Mick nodded his head. They all knew what it was like to have that familiar ache in the pit of their tummy. ‘I’ve got three pennies – we could buy some chips with that and share ’em…’

‘I’ve got tuppence,’ Mick offered. ‘They’ll give us some crispies for that and we can put salt and vinegar on ’em…’

The three of them traipsed into the fish and chip shop on the corner and Ben pushed their five slightly sticky pennies over the counter.

‘Can we have chips and some crispies please, Mr Fred?’

Fred Giles nodded, picked up a sheet of newspaper and scooped two large portions of chips into it, adding a full scoop of bits of batter off the fish. All the kids and some of the adults asked for them, but Fred gave them to the ones he liked most – and Ben cleaned his windows for him every Saturday morning. He did it better than most window cleaners and he was always polite. So Fred sprinkled salt and vinegar over the chips and gave Ben the package, and then he took a buttered roll and popped it on top.

‘See you on Saturday mornin’, Ben?’

‘Yeah, thanks, Mr Fred…’

Ruthie and Mick followed Ben out. He broke the roll into three pieces, but Ruthie was only interested in the chips, so he gave Mick two shares of the roll and they all dipped into the chips and crispies. Ben felt sorry for his friend, because he knew there was a warm bed waiting for him at the end of the day and his dad would have food for him when he got home. Ben and Ruthie had a free school dinner, because Mum had applied for it when Dad was sick – but Mick often went without food all day. His father wasn’t registered in London as unemployed so he didn’t qualify; what work he did was cash in his pocket and no one was any the wiser, because he spent his money at the pub as soon as he got it.

When they reached the end of the road leading up from the docks, Ben saw his father approaching their cottage from the opposite direction. The houses where they lived were once all seamen’s homes, hundreds of years old and most were in bad repair. They could smell the river from the back garden and in the summer, it stank.

Ben looked at Mick and, knowing he had only the dark and cold waiting, because his dad wouldn’t be there, asked if he wanted to come in for a while.

‘Dad will make a cup of tea,’ he said. ‘He won’t mind if you stop for a warm by the fire, Mick. I ain’t sayin’ there’ll be much ter eat – but you can have a hot drink…’