Christmas to Come: a heartbreaking coming of age saga set in London's East End

across the kitchen to his brother dozing in Dad's old armchair by the range. Micky's curly dark hair flopped over his thin face and his size ten boots were filthy from the mud that had congealed on their soles. The lino in the hall needed cleaning before Mum arrived back from Auntie Gwen's. Another bonus that, Auntie Gwen asking her to stay the night. Luckily it was a good bus ride to Poplar from Cubitt Town. The two widowed sisters liked to chinwag and they wouldn't stir once the fire was made up.

Ronnie sighed heavily as thoughts tumbled in his brain. Him and Micky hadn't had a wink all night and hadn't expected to what with dodging the raids and bringing the haul up from the docks in the old van Dad parked under the railway arches. It was a real rust bucket and on its last legs but it had done the job. What a night it had been! They'd worked like stink digging up the Anderson floor and battening down the boards again. When they sold this lot off he was going to give her and Auntie Gwen a good holiday. Send them to the seaside. That's what Dad would have wanted …

Ronnie felt a moment's deep miss of the father he'd worshipped and the gap in their lives that had never been filled since his death three years ago. His loss hadn't been easy for Mum or indeed for any of them. But Sean had only been eleven when Dad went and taken it the worst. Odd that, as him and Dad had been opposites. Dad was a real man's man, and Sean all curls and a mummy's boy. Still was, in fact. Yet Dad's death had knocked him sideways. Micky on the other hand, had been down the market the very next week, trading junk up the Caledonian or Cox Street. Where there was a gap in the market it was up to a Bryant to fill it, Dad said. Mum didn't know the half of his escapades and never would. And when the Blitz had started last September, well, who wouldn't have made the most of what was on offer? The black market had come into its own and you were an idiot to ignore it.

Ronnie was well aware that 1940 had seen the island at its best and worst. Not a night passing without catastrophe, destruction and death in some poor sod's case. But out of the turmoil came the best living they had ever made. Dad would have been in his element. And whichever way the war went, opportunities like last night were priceless.

There was a loud knock and Ronnie started. But quickly he pulled himself together and went to the front door.

There were two children on the doorstep. The girl, taller than the boy, had hair full of knots and the colour of brass, with eyes as round as pennies. Her coat had more holes in it than his mum's crocheting. The boy's hung down to his ankles. At first he had them down as beggars, but then she asked for Micky by name.

'Who wants to know?'

'Bella Doyle.'

'Well, Bella Doyle, you're out of luck. Micky's not home. Come back some other time, kid.' He was about to close the door, when she stuck her foot inside.

'I'm not a kid. I'm eight.'

Ronnie was impressed. She had a mouth on her all right. 'Yeah, well, the answer's still the same. Micky's out.'

The girl pointed behind him. 'What's he doing there then, if he's not home?'

Ronnie swung round to find his brother propped against the wall. Micky Bryant yawned and narrowed his bright blue gaze. 'What's up then, Bells?'

'Got something to tell you.'

'Yeah? Such as?'

Her eyes darted back to Ronnie. 'Can't say standing 'ere, can I?'

Ronnie looked hard at his brother. 'Not now, bruv. Get rid of them.' He was about to walk away when Micky grabbed his arm.

'Hang on a bit, Ron. These two turn up a few tasty bits now and then. They're as regular as clockwork on the debris come rain or shine. Don't look a gift horse, as they say.'

Ronnie frowned. 'It's not a good time, Micky. And anyway Mum'll be back soon.'

'Well why don't we let 'em stay till she gets back?' His thick, dark eyebrows lifted persuasively. 'She loves kids, probably call them dirty faced angels, feed 'em up and sort 'em out. Take her mind off what we've been up to whilst she's been away.'

Micky had a point, Ronnie decided as he gave the suggestion due consideration. Anything to divert the numerous questions that would come flying at them the minute she walked in. And, with Sean kipping upstairs like Sleeping Beauty, she wouldn't have time to wonder why he was so dead to the world.

He nodded grudgingly. 'Have it your way, but I don't like it.'

'All right, you two can stay for a bit,' Micky said, grinning. 'But no nicking and no pissing on the floor, pal. OK?'

'What's up with the boy?' Ronnie frowned as the children stepped in.

Micky shrugged. 'Got bashed in the head once too often I reckon. You gotta wind him up and push him in the right direction. Their mum's one of them dock dollies that works the Rose. Don't suppose she ever gave it a thought as to why he's a screw loose.'

Ronnie noticed the boy did look a bit vacant under all the dirt. He went down on his haunches. 'Here kid, what's your name?'

'Terry,' his sister said.

'Can't he speak for himself?'

'Depends what you ask him.'

Ronnie smiled. She was a card all right. 'Where'd he get all them bruises?'

'It's the joker they live with,' Micky offered with a dismissive shrug. 'A big geezer who kips at their mum's gaff over Bow Street. If he's not on a bender he's knocking off any old skirt. Gives the kids a belting every day if they don't make themselves scarce.'

'Thought no one was living over them places any more,' Ronnie said thoughtfully. 'Condemned by