Jake’S Boy: Part Ii of a Place to Call Home?

By Lynda Smith

Jakes Boy continues the story from 1936 to 1945 in post-war Britain and follows the trials and tribulation of Jacobs son, Patrick, who has returned from the war a decorated RAF airman who took part in the famous Dam Busters Raid (aka Operation Chastise).

With Jakes demise, the story picks up with Patrick, following his trials and tribulations in a much-changed post-war world. Patrick meets by chance Jakes daughter, Ruth, who unbeknownst to them is his half-sister. The two form a purely platonic long-distance alliance, but each can feel the pull of something stronger despite their widely differing social backgrounds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jul 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524637811

Lynda Smith

Lynda Smith was born in 1946 in Manchester, England, and was raised in a typical working-class childhood. She married at the age of twenty but is now divorced. Lynda has three adult children aged 45, 43, and 26. Ms. Smith took early retirement due to poor health and so decided to renew her interest in writing, completing the sequel to A Place to Call Home?, which was published in 2013.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Goodbye, Curry Street 1945

As Patrick turned into Curry Street, he thought his heart had stopped as he surveyed the shocking scene before him. The left side, including number ten, had been completely flattened!

Demolition workers operated huge cranes and bulldozers to remove the rubble and the remains of those homes barely standing. They looked like pitiful doll’s houses sliced in half as the workers operating the wrecking ball bashed away at the adjoining walls of the terraced row, leaving the interiors exposed to the elements.

He stared in amazement when he looked up at number ten and saw his mother’s forlorn flowered wallpaper flapping in the slight breeze.

He could not believe his eyes when he saw Kathleen’s large wooden crucifix holding steadfastly to the wall where her bed had been. What happened here? he asked one of the workmen.

Just stand back, mate, for your own safety. Another lot’s coming down, he answered gruffly. Bloody Jerries! aiming for the docks and missed, the man continued almost jovially. Hitler should have given his Luftwaffe stronger glasses, eh?

Patrick was not in the mood for idle conversation. What about the people? Are they all right? What a bloody silly question, he rebuked himself.

Being re-housed – don’t ask me where though. I haven’t got a clue! Just ask in the pub. They should know.

Patrick crossed the road to the King’s Arms, which remained untouched and sturdy as all the houses did on this side, the pub where all the local weddings, christenings, and no doubt the VE celebrations had taken place.

He walked into the crowded, smoky atmosphere of the lounge bar, and his former neighbour Burt Jackson shouted in his boisterous voice, Well! Look what the cat dragged in – young Pat Dolan! Smashing to see you, lad, home safe and well! Let me get you a drink; everyone’s is here. The Jackson family were the only people allowed to call Patrick Pat. Kathleen had insisted his name was Patrick and was not to be shortened.

After a lot of backslapping and welcome homes, someone shouted, Get this man a drink – he won the war for us all!

Patrick smiled sheepishly, looking at the familiar faces all beaming at him. Well, I didn’t do it on my own. Errol Flynn helped me out now and then!

The friendly banter in the room continued. Someone shouted, He deserves a drink for wearing that bloody demob suit. Couldn’t they find one to fit you, you long lanky bugger!

Patrick laughed good-naturedly. He knew he looked comical in the too-small suit, which revealed his wrists and ankles.

One of the women neighbours grasped Patrick’s hand. Your mam’s kept us up to date with your exploits, Patrick. If it wasn’t for you and your lot, we’d all be speaking German by now.

Then Bert Jackson said, Oh, here’s Annie and our Maureen. Come over here, you two, and look what the wind has blown in.

Oh no, Patrick thought, not Maureen Jackson! Maureen had taken a shine to Patrick when they were youngsters, and he had not reciprocated her feelings. He had found her forceful, pushy and almost terrifying at times.

She saw him and sauntered over. Provocative, flirty, and blatant as ever, she batted her eyelashes, which seemed to Patrick to be weighed down with a truckload of mascara. She was wearing a low-cut red satin blouse, her over-ample bosom looking in imminent danger of escaping the confines of the flimsy material.

Patrick felt his boyhood anxiety return as she flung both arms around his neck, hugging him so tightly he could barely breathe. Ensnared in the vice-like grip, he was helpless to escape the oncoming onslaught of her red lips as she kissed him full on the mouth. Maureen pinched his cheeks none-too–gently, almost taking out his eye in the process with her long red talons.

So, flyboy, when are you taking me out to the pictures? she simpered girlishly.

He ignored her while trying to avert his eyes from her billowing cleavage, which seem to possess a life of its own. Blimey! he thought. He had seen a more subtle approach from the streetwalkers in Paris. Maureen seemed to be enjoying his discomfort – but then she always had, he thought, remembering his teenage years.

Vulgar, tasteless, with no class, unlike Betty Grable (the number-one pinup girl of the RAF), whom she was obviously trying to emulate. He managed to hold her at arm’s length to ask forcefully. Maureen, where is my mother?

She tossed her peroxide-dipped curls before answering, They have all been re-housed in prefabs somewhere down Donnington way. My mam has the address. She’ll give it to you before we go.

Patrick heaved a sigh of relief when the Jackson family left the pub, leaving him alone to take in the room.

The people at the tables were laughing and swapping amusing stories about food rationing and the blackout during the war, some of the women rocking back and forth and wiping away tears of mirth as they recalled what must have been one of the hardest times in their lives and finding humour in the hardship.

Patrick watched them in amazement and admiration. Talk about the Dunkirk spirit, he thought. These people were the salt of the earth, and he felt privileged to have known each and every one of them!

Good old