Hulse - Comrades of Deceit

Castleford, Yorkshire, 1944 .

Frankie Broderick gazed with downcast eyes at his family, who were huddled around the old, battered radio set. The mordant voice of Lord Haw Haw reverberated around the small , squalid room, and profess ed how close Germany was to ending the war.

The depressed teenager focused on his younger twelve-year-old brother, George, who pushed his toy fire engine across the threadbare carpet, seemingly unaffected by the rambling of the master of propaganda. Though Georges bruises were not visible, Frankie knew that they were there, hidden beneath the frayed grey shirt and green tank top.

Frankies father Tom was careful in the abuse of his youngest son, and always ensur ed his powerful punches were delivered to the body and not the face. Georges constant bed-wetting fuelled his fathers anger, which provided him another excuse to beat the youngster. To his friends, Tom Broderick was a kind, loving, family man, whose loyal service to the coalmines had prevented him from military service. Only, his family knew different.

The strapping, retired coalminer had developed a mysterious back injury, just days before the outbreak of the war. His guilt probably contributed to the beating of George, his mother would say to Frankie. Not that she approved of the cruelty, oh no; Mary Broderick had on more than one occasion stepped between father and son, only to receive a savage beating herself.

Frankie had begged his mother time and time again to leave, but the answer was always the same. But where would we go, Frankie? This heres our home.

Several times, Frankie had returned in the evening to witness his mother sobbing her heart out. At first, he had put it down to the hours his mother put in at the arms factory . H er excessive overtime worked was to cover for h er husband s bogus frailties. Frankie now suspected that the frequent beatings had inwardly scarred h is mother for life. Woe betide if she could not supply the animal with enough beer money to intoxicate him.

Mary often hid her wages from her husband, knowing that the alcohol would no doubt induce another beating for George. Besides, the extra money would supply the family with foodstuff such as meat, cheese, and butter, which was a luxury nowadays.

Frankie, in his desperation had turned to burglary; always handing over his ill-gotten gains to his mother. Of course, he never divulged to her how he had come across the money. On hearing the German aircraft overhead, the seventeen-year-old boy would often pray that one of the bombs would kill his father; such was the hatred for him.

Why his father had never laid a finger on him, Frankie was at a loss. It was not as though he smothered him with affection. On the contrary, Tom Broderick had a tongue in his mouth that would put Satan himself to shame, but his curses were as severe a punishment as Frankie ever received. Perhaps the fact that Frankie was now six feet tall contributed to his fathers leniency, but that would not explain the earlier years.

Anyone fancy some bread and dripping? asked Mary, who dared to interrupt the radio bulleting.

Aye lass, and a mug of tea would go down nice, said her husband, obviously in one of his milder moods.

Any Marmite, Mam? squeaked George.

For you my angel, anything... How about you, Frankie ? Lucy?

They shook their head in unison and Frankie sidled up to his sister, who was engrossed in a comic. Are you okay, sis?

She looked towards her father, and rolled her big saucer shaped eyes upwards. Im fine.

Frankie could sense the tension and the fear that his sister generated. As far as he could determine, his sister was also immune to his fathers wrath, so what ailed Lucy he was uncertain.

Lucy returned to her comic and Frankies eyes for the first time recognised that his fifteen-year-old sister was turning into a woman, her developing breasts testament to the fact.

Frankie had for the last four or five years assumed the mantle of protector and confessor in the Broderick household, such was their real fathers inaptitude . He had once more taken the role upon himself. He joined his mother in the kitchen and watch ed as she placed the frying pan onto the stove with trembling hands.

Whats going on, Mother? Have you been crying?

Frankie, Frankie. Youll make someone a fine husband one day. Mary brushed back the floppy brown hair from her sons eyes, before she stood on her tiptoes and kiss ed him on the head. Youre becoming more handsome by the day.

True, Frankie was a good-looking, young man. A crooked nose, compliments of a strapping fly half the only blemish to his rugged features. Though he had his female admirers, the teenager had managed to keep his virginity intact, but not for the want of trying.

Has he been hitting you again?

No, not me... Listen, Frankie; its just a phrase your fathers going through. He wasnt always like this, as well you know.

No! Dont make excuses for that beast. I swear, if he lays another finger on George, Ill...

Shhh! motioned his mother, who plac ed her slender finger to her lips. He may hear you.

Frankie thrust out his chest. Am I bothered? Whats the problem with Lucy? Ive never seen her so uptight.

Oh, shes going through a difficult time for a young girl.

Frankie could see in his mothers eyes that she hid something. What is it, Mother?

Mary held her sons hands. Frankie, this here war will be over someday, and then well consider our future. Be brave, Frankie be brave.

Im joining t he army, Mother.

What? No, dont you even joke about such things.

Im eighteen next Wednesday, and the age of enlisting has been lowered.

Please, Frankie dont.

And end up that like shit? Ill be called up regardless, so I volunteered instead Im joining t he Kings Own Yorkshire Light Infantry. I leave for Berwick next Wednesday.

Mary broke down and cried. Once a beautiful woman, the years she had liv ed with her cruel husband had taken its toll. Her once chestnut mane was now prematurely grey. At the age of forty, Mary was wilting before her familys eyes.

Frankie placed a consoling arm around her. Dont cry. You said yourself that t he war will soon be over Hitler wont know what hit him.

Mary feigned a smile. You can say that again.

There, thats better, said Frankie . He wip ed away the tears from his mothers eyes. Are you singing at t he Crown tonight?

Ive no choice if we want to eat.

Frankie dipped into his pocket and produced a wad of notes. Here, buy a nice joint of meat from Hadleys, eh?

Wherever did...

Dont ask... Perhaps Ill have a cup of tea after all.

Mary again kissed her son, before she stash ed away the wad of notes in a coffee jar.

The wails of the air raid siren were sudden, but not alarming. Over the years, they had grown accustomed to the intrusive din. Mary turned off the stove and the family calmly collected their coats before they ma de their way to the air raid shelter; all that is except Tom. As usual, the ex-miner refused to be intimidated by the bombing of the industrial town, and opt ed instead to remain in his bedraggled armchair by the fireside, smoking his Gold Flake cigarettes.