She felt no anger at being poor, or at living in three small rooms with no bathroom – she knew of plenty of other families far worse off. What really hurt was knowing her father was responsible for shaming them.
Drinking, gambling, even thieving could be overlooked if he was loving and amiable when he was at home. But Bill MacDonald was slowly killing her mother and her brother Paul and there was nothing she could do to prevent it.
'You are a little love.' Amy ran one hand caressingly over her daughter's cold cheek as Anne unpacked the shopping on the table. 'I wish I didn't have to rely on you so much.'
'She was sick again with her cough!'
Anne turned at her brother's shrill voice. He was poised on the edge of a chair, like a rabbit keeping watch for predators. Just eight years old, but so small and thin he looked nearer five, with big, despairing dark eyes that made Anne's stomach churn with anxiety and love for him.
'You must go to the doctor again.' Anne ran a hand over her mother's straggly hair in comfort. 'Do you want some aspirin?'
'No, I've taken some more of that cough mixture.' Amy caught hold of her daughter's hand and pressed it to her bony cheek. 'It's nothing, love, don't worry so much.'
Anne knew there was a great deal to worry about. Her mother was only thirty, but she looked closer to fifty. On the mantelpiece was a photograph taken on her wedding day, showing a curvy, plump-cheeked beauty with shining hair and sparkling eyes. Now she was so thin her ribs stuck out through her worn blue jumper. To hug her was to feel a bag of bones.
Countless beatings had left her skin yellow with bruising, two teeth knocked out, and a permanent scar above her right eye which opened up with each successive punch. The racking cough she had now was weakening her every day. Anne knew she got up in the night for fear of waking her husband. Sometimes she could eat no more than a couple of mouthfuls without vomiting. But worst of all was hearing her cry in despair.
'It's cold in here.' Anne shivered as she hastily peeled potatoes, one eye on the clock anticipating her father's return.
A polite visitor to the flat would describe the room as cosy, but a room which had to serve four people as kitchen, dining and living room could only be cramped. Amy tried to compensate for the lack of space by tidying, cleaning and polishing constantly, and camouflaged the shabby furniture with her exquisite needlework.
The ugly utility table was hidden under a cloth embroidered with poppies and cornflowers. A brown three-piece suite sported lace chairbacks and ruched satin cushions that wouldn't have been out of place in a Mayfair shop window. Even the hideous mock marble fireplace was softened by a scalloped-edged red cloth running along the mantelpiece.
During the long winter evenings Amy taught Anne these crafts, too. A pale lemon blouse lay on the back of the settee, waiting for the time when they could do the buttonholes together.
But however much Amy worked at making their home cosy she could do nothing about the noise. From the front came the constant roar of traffic, at the back a rumble of Tube trains behind the house. Windows became encrusted with soot and grime within hours of cleaning them, black grit found its way in like an insidious disease.
'The fire won't seem to draw today.' Amy reached down for the poker, giving it a feeble riddle. 'It might be choked up with ashes, I hadn't the strength to rake it properly this morning.'
'I'll just get these spuds on and then I'll see to it.' Anne glanced round at her mother and brother. Anxiety crackled between them; Amy worrying what sort of mood her husband would be in, Paul picking up the message like a radio receiver, turning it to terror.
Anne had realised some time ago it was this very atmosphere which drove Bill MacDonald to violence, a circle that none of them could break. Bill escaped to the pub because he felt their fear. Later, with the beer in him and half his wages gone, he would lash out, often hurting them so badly he felt compelled to run out again.
She had some good memories of her father. A day at Southend, a picnic in Epping Forest and walks down by the docks when he held her hand and tried to explain what had gone wrong. Few people remembered now that he had been a hero during the War. His medals were as tarnished as his reputation, the press cuttings as ageing and yellow as Amy's skin.
All that remained were hideous images. Police rushing up the stairs, turning her and Paul out of their beds as they searched for stolen goods. Bill lying downstairs in the hall in a pool of his own vomit and pee, too drunk to even move to the lavatory just feet away. Paul stripped naked, tied to the banisters and Bill beating him with his belt just for wetting the bed. So many times he'd knocked her mother out cold – broken ribs, black eyes, bruises, cuts and even burns.
'Shall I lay the table?' Paul's shrill voice cut through Anne's reverie.
Everything about Paul was sharp. His small features, ears that stood out like wing nuts, even his voice was squeaky and high-pitched. He had inherited his father's dark eyes and hair, but none of his sturdy build and height. Paul MacDonald was a human mouse, constantly on the alert for trouble.
Had he liked football, swimming, cars or even just raking the streets with other kids, Bill might have left him alone. But Paul clung close to his mother and sister, preferred books to people. Right now his soft, dark eyes were asking for reassurance that he wasn't going to be hurt tonight, but no-one could give him that.
'We'll lay it together,' Anne suggested, giving him a quick hug. 'Don't look like that, Paul, if Dad's in a mood we'll go into the bedroom till he's gone out.'
Of all the things Anne hated about her father, his attitude to Paul was the one thing she could find no excuses for. To pick on one child, continually to deride and find fault until he stuttered, wet the bed and had nightmares, then beat him for that too – that was barbaric.
Anne had her own way of escape. She would cut out models' and actresses' faces from magazines, then draw clothes for them. A coloured pencil in hand, she could immerse herself in luxurious dreams that hid the ugliness of her world. Poor Paul had no such hiding place.
It had just turned six-thirty when they heard Bill's feet on the stairs. Paul ran for his seat at the table, Amy moved quickly to the stove to pour the gravy into a jug.
Anne added another lump of coal to the fire and, leaving the poker as a lever to bring more air from underneath, she stood up, wiping her sooty hands on her skirt.
'Hullo, Dad.' She took a step towards him to take his donkey jacket, mustering a false smile of welcome. 'Tea's just ready, you must be frozen.'
Bill MacDonald was described by most people as 'a handsome devil', though drink and a loss of self-respect had spoiled the face that had once been likened to Clark Gable's.
When Amy met him in '45 he'd been in uniform, just back from the Far East. His black hair gleamed like a raven's wing, a wide smile revealed perfect teeth, his eyes were meltingly brown and his body iron-hard.
Now there were gaps in his teeth, his belly hung over his belt and a scowl was more common than a smile. But despite all this he still had a certain something which men envied and women desired.
Anne saw nothing in his face tonight to be alarmed by. He wasn't scowling, he didn't smell of drink, in fact he just looked cold and a little tired.
Hanging up his coat on the landing, she willed her mother not to mention the mud on his boots. Once he used to leave them down by the front door and walk up in his socks, but then he used to wash and change before eating in those days, too.
'What's going on?' he said, frowning as he looked across the small room to see Paul's head bowed over the table and his wife seemingly engrossed in filling the salt cellar. 'Someone died?'
That current of anxiety crackled and Anne's heart sank.
'Mum's been bad again today.' She laid one hand on his big forearm. 'I think Paul's going down with something, too.'
'Oh, shit,' he exclaimed, rubbing his filthy hand over several days' worth of stubble. 'There's always summat wrong with 'em. What's for tea?'
Amy turned round to face h
im, struggling to produce a weak smile.
'Sausages,' she wheezed, and promptly broke into a spasm of coughing.
Bill sat down at the table as his wife tried to control her cough. Drinking water seemed to aggravate it still more. Finally, with streaming eyes, she ran out of the room clutching a handkerchief to her mouth.
He showed no concern, just flicked his braces down from his shoulders and unbuttoned the top button of his checked wool shirt. A smell of stale sweat wafted out as he reached for a slice of bread with unwashed hands.
Anne wanted to use the opportunity to insist he got help for her mother, but the grim set of his mouth deterred her. Instead she poured him a cup of tea, dished up his dinner and attempted to amuse him.
'There was a right to-do in the market this afternoon,' she giggled nervously. 'Some boy threw a tomato at Mr Singh and he chased him down the road. While he was gone Queenie nicked his bag of money from under the counter for a joke. When he got back and found it gone he nearly had a heart attack.'
The market was at the heart of Whitechapel. Characters like George in his Russian hat, Mr Singh in his turban and the voluptuous blonde Queenie on the fruit and veg stall were as dear to the locals as the smoky pubs and the Pearly King and Queen.
Anne embellished the story with actions of Mr Singh clutching at his heart, mimicking his Indian accent.
'Oh, goodness me. What am I to do? These are very bad boys.'
Bill smiled but it froze on his face as he saw his son staring at him.
'What are you gawping at? 'Ave I got a bogey hanging out me nose?'
Paul blinked furiously and bent over his plate. From the lavatory below they could hear Amy hacking away and then a violent retch.
'Just what a man needs when he's been out freezing his balls off all day,' Bill exploded, pushing his dinner away. 'This place is like a bleedin' zoo. A witless zombie staring at me and the wife throwin' up.'
Paul began to quiver with fear, and as he stuck a fork in his sausage it flicked off the plate on to the tablecloth, splattering gravy.
Anne dropped her knife and fork as her father leaped up, hand raised, but before she could intervene he had struck Paul across the head, knocking him so hard he fell sideways to the floor.
'You bloody animal,' he yelled and, picking up Paul's plate, threw the dinner down on top of him. 'Behave like a fuckin' animal and you can eat like one.'
The plate slithered off Paul's shoulder and smashed in pieces on the floor.
'Don't, Dad.' Anne reached out and caught her father's arm. 'He couldn't help it!'
Bill MacDonald's moods were mercurial. Sometimes he could be defused with as little as a cup of tea or a joke. But this time his brown eyes were full of spite and his lip curled back, showing his missing teeth.
'He can't 'elp nothin', that's 'is trouble.' Bill slapped away her hand. 'The boy's soft in the 'ead.'
Paul aggravated the situation by not getting up. He curled up among the food, whimpering, and to Anne's dismay she saw a spreading wet stain on his trousers. Before she could move round to hide this from her father, Bill was on to him. He yanked Paul up by the neck of his jumper, only to kick him across the room, smashing him into the stove.
'You filthy little bastard,' he yelled. 'I've got the perfect place for a fuckin' maggot like you!'
'No, Dad,' Anne screamed, shielding her brother with her body. Bill had often threatened to lock Paul in the coal shed out in the yard and tonight, somehow, she knew he meant to do it.
'Get out of my way.' He caught Anne by the shoulders and hurled her back against the couch.
'Don't you dare touch him!'
Both Anne and Bill turned at the small, firm voice. Amy stood in the doorway, white-faced and shaking.
'You lay one finger on him and that will be it!' Even in anger Amy didn't shriek or bellow, but her words were a clear enough warning.
'Whatcha goin' to do about it?' Bill's eyes narrowed.
The room was smoky from the sausages, thick with a smell of fried onions, but even so Anne could smell fear, from herself, Paul and her mother.
In that second, as Bill waited for his wife's answer, Anne noticed the glass lampshade quivering on its chains above her and she was reminded again just how fragile her mother was.
'I've taken as much as I'm prepared to. Hurt either of my children and I'll get the police.' Amy's maternal instinct was stronger than her own fear.
'Your children!' Bill moved nearer her. Anne could only stare in horror as she scrambled to her feet. 'I always knew that maggot wasn't mine, but are you trying to say Anne don't belong to me neither?'
'I wish I could say that.' Amy's chin stuck out defiantly. 'Because I'm ashamed of you.'
There'd been many times Anne had wished her mother would stand up to her father, but she knew with utter certainty this was the wrong one to pick.
Bill lowered his head and charged towards Amy like a bull, punching her first in the stomach with his right fist, the left thundering into her jaw. His assault was too fast to prevent one blow. Even before Anne could reach him he was laying into her mother in a frenzy.
'No, no!' Anne pulled at his braces from behind, but he was raining blows down on her mother as if she was a punchbag. For a moment Anne stood helplessly. Her father blocked the door, her fists alone would make no impact on his hard body. In desperation her eyes swept the room for a weapon. Her hand reached out for a brass candlestick on the mantelpiece, but as her fingers curled round it she saw the poker still stuck under the hot coals and heard her father punch her mother again.
'You slag!' he roared, hauling Amy up by one shoulder and driving his fist into her face. 'I've had it with your mealy-mouthed martyr bit. I know what you really are.'
Suddenly there was no alternative. Grasping the poker, Anne drew it out of the fire. The end glowed red, even the handle was so hot she could barely hold it.
'Leave her alone, you bully,' she screamed and lunged with the poker, thrusting it against her father's back.
His yelp made her jump back, but as he turned towards her she jabbed it forward again.
'I'll blind you,' she hissed/Get out!'
Amy slumped to the floor as Bill let go of her. He hopped from one foot to the other, grimacing with pain, his hands vainly trying to reach his burned flesh.
'You know how it feels now,' she screamed. 'Go on, try and stop me! I'll stick this in your eyes without thinking twice.'
'Put that down,' he yelled, but there was indecision in his eyes.
The hot poker felt good in her hands. Bill might be six feet tall and fourteen stone, but three feet of hot iron made them equal.
'I want you to try and take it,' she said through clenched teeth. 'I want to stick it in your face and mark you for life.'
It was quieter now, even Paul had stopped crying. Outside the traffic rumbled, car doors slammed, faint music drifted from the juke box in the café down the street, but in here there was nothing but her father's laboured breathing, and the dripping of the tap.
'Get out!' She jabbed at him again, just touching the front of his shirt, singeing a small hole. She hated his red, raw face, despised that sagging belly, and the smell of sweat made her want to retch. 'Get down the pub and drink yourself stupid. That's all you're good for.'
He backed away towards the door, past Amy lying like a rag doll. Anne knew she'd knocked the fight out of him, temporarily at least.
'Come on now, Anne, we've always been mates,' he said, his voice wheezy and uncertain. He had that imploring, cheeky look on his face that explained why women still found him attractive, his brown eyes soulful and questioning.
'Go.' She prodded with the poker again. 'Now.'
As he backed out on to the landing the sound of a train rattled the bedroom window. She kicked the door shut in his face and leaned her back against it.
'Go on, get going,' she shouted through it. 'Come back in here and I'll be ready for you.'
She waited, trembling so hard the poker twitched
up and down like a water diviner's rod. Amy was motionless at her feet, her blood trickling on to the worn carpet. Anne knew her father was just standing there, perhaps trying to weigh up his chances of charging back in. Then, just as her arms were tiring from holding the poker, she heard him lift his donkey jacket down from the peg and move towards the stairs.
'Paul, watch the window!' she ordered. 'Tell me if he comes out!'
She counted each of the thirteen steps, heard the front door open, then slam behind him.
'Has he come out yet?'
'I can't see him,' Paul whimpered.
Bill was cunning enough to pretend he'd left and Anne was taking no chances. Bracing herself, she opened the door of the living room and peered out.
The naked lightbulb was swinging in the breeze above the stairs, but that meant nothing. He could be hiding in the lavatory by the front door, or even in the back yard.
'I can see him now,' Paul called out. 'He's going down towards the Black Bull.'
Still holding the poker she ran down the stairs and bolted both the front door and the one to the yard. When she returned to the living room her legs nearly gave way.
Amy's face was a mass of raw flesh surrounded by blood-soaked blonde hair. She was out cold, a lifeless broken doll. Paul had a split lip, a swollen eye and a lump of mashed potato stuck in his hair.
'What will we do when he comes back tonight?' Paul's voice was a squeak of terror.
Anne knelt by her mother, trembling all over, for a moment afraid she was dead. This was no ordinary beating; Amy's jaw was twisted to one side as if it were broken or dislocated. Her right arm lay at an unnatural angle, but as she put her head close to her mother's chest she could hear the faint sound of her heart still beating.
'I have to get an ambulance.' She turned to Paul, trying to control her own rising panic. 'Get some dry trousers on while I phone for one. I won't be a minute.'
It struck her on the way downstairs that an ambulance would only take her mother to the hospital across the street and that would be the first place her father would look. He would come for them, take them home and continue what he'd started.