Title: When Summer is Gone

Series: The Likes of Us, Book Two

Author: Chris Simon

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 11/26/2024

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: No Romance, Male/Male

Length: 101700

Genre: Historical, Genre/lit, historical, family-drama, bisexual, coming of age, docker, male prostitution

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Description

London’s East End, 1930s

Young docker Alfie Atwood was born into a poor but happy family and he was blessed with matinee-idol good looks which draw people to him like moths to a flame. His appearance and sunny disposition may be widely admired and even envied, but he isn’t as carefree as he seems and has bitter experience of a darker side to youth.

When his father Bill is killed in a dockside accident, Alfie is forced to become the main breadwinner. He and his mother Alice are horrified to find that Bill owed money to some bad people—the notorious brothers Mosh and Solly Alexander. They “own” the district and now they want the debt repaid.

A docker’s weekly wage and the few shillings that Alice can scrape together are not nearly enough…until Alfie’s friend Frank whispers a solution in his ear. Has the time come for the young man to use what Nature gave him to solve their problems? And if he does, won’t he be letting himself in for a whole host of new ones?

Excerpt

When Summer is Gone
Chris Simon © 2024
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
A Trip to the Moon in a Hot-air Balloon

Wednesday, 23 July 1913

Cubitt Town on the Isle of Dogs in the East End of London was never quiet, but what peace there was that afternoon was shattered by Alice Atwood’s anguished cries, echoing across the alleys and yards as she endured a long and painful labour. Alice’s neighbours, Elsie and Pearl, sat outside their front doors, their faces grim. They’d fetched clean towels, boiled water, made tea for the anxious father-to-be and for Mrs Charles, who served as midwife to all the local women. There was nothing more to be done.

“Oh, Elsie! It’s been nigh on five hours now,” said Pearl, as though her friend could end their neighbour’s suffering.

“I know, duck. I’ve been sitting here right next to you the whole time.”

Elsie Jarvis was a short, stout woman in a pink-and-blue floral apron that fitted snugly around her plump figure. In contrast, Pearl Rogers was tall and thin; her apron could easily have been wrapped twice around her skinny frame. She picked up the broom leaning against her windowsill and restlessly swept some dust from the pavement into the gutter. After a few desultory thrusts of the brush she paused, leaning on it.

“You never know, Else, maybe this time…”

Elsie shook her head gravely. “Oh, I wouldn’t have thought so, my duck. I pray so, but there’s no sense in us getting our hopes up. If three of ’em have died already, stands to reason there must be summink very wrong, mustn’t there?”

Pearl nodded sadly. “Yes. Well, whatever ’appens, I ’ope to Gawd it ’appens soon.”

“I know. My Bert will be home from work shortly and he’ll be banging on the wall with his slipper if she’s still making this racket. He’s got no compassion in him at all.” Elsie’s round face expressed contempt, for Bert and for all men.

They looked anxiously up at the Atwoods’ bedroom window as the screams reached a new peak and, after a short, tense silence, were replaced by the thin piercing cry of a newborn.

“Aw!” the friends cooed in unison. They couldn’t help themselves. The gloom was magically dispersed, as though the infant had come into the world waving a wand.

As the crying grew stronger, Pearl said, “Well, it don’t sound like this one’s gonna snuff it any time soon, Else,” and she threw her skinny arms about her plump neighbour in celebration.

The bedroom was flooded with sunlight, the nets dancing softly in the breeze. Bill Atwood wouldn’t tell his wife that she looked “radiant”—they were past that now. Her hair was matted with sweat, her face pinched with premature grief, and no trite compliment would lift her spirits.

The yellow wooden cradle he had fashioned with pride for their firstborn stood at the foot of the bed. He had come to hate the sight of it, as though it were an open grave. If this went like the other times, he vowed he would burn it. He approached tentatively, fearing that what he’d see would break his heart. In the cradle lay a tiny scrap of a baby, barely asleep, for although his eyes were closed his limbs were restless. Bill was glad because it meant he was alive. He lifted out the little body which began to scream in protest, using lungs so small that Horatio, the Jarvis’s cat, basking on the scullery roof, didn’t even cast a languid glance upwards to see what all the fuss was about.

In Bill’s strong arms the baby relaxed; his blue eyes looked up towards his father for the first time and Bill could not at first speak for love. His voice cracked as he spoke. “’Ello, mate. ’Ello. My little boy. My son.”

He kissed the infant’s forehead and moved over to the side of the bed where Alice had turned her face towards the wall and was crying bitterly.

“I don’t wanna see ’im, Bill. Take ’im away.”

“But Alice, he’s all right and he’s beautiful.”

“I can’t. If I look at ’im I’m gonna love ’im, and he’ll just be taken like the others. It’s no use. I can’t go through that again.”

“Alice. I understand, darlin’. But he’s perfectly healthy.”

“’Ow d’you know?” She was tortured by the suggestion of hope.

“Well, Mrs Charles said…”

“She said that about the others,” she howled.

“It might be different this time, love.”

“It won’t be! I know it won’t! It isn’t meant to be.”

“It might be.” His voice became less gentle. “And even if it ain’t, if this little boy only has one hour on this earth, don’t you think he deserves an hour’s love?”

Yes. Even if it broke her heart. If it was the only thing that she could ever do for him then she had no choice. She turned towards her husband who placed the tiny bundle tenderly in her arms. If this little boy’s heart were to stop beating, then so would hers.

Bill left her alone with the baby. He also was suspicious of the hope welling up inside, but it wasn’t to be suppressed. Tears stung his eyes, and he couldn’t help but smile as he joined his neighbours outside and lit up a Senior Service.

“Aw! Congratulations, Bill.” Pearl beamed. “What yer gonna call ’im, d’you know?”

He cleared his throat. “Alfred Lansbury Atwood—Alfie,” he declared with pride. Just speaking the boy’s name out loud made him feel that it was going to be all right.

“Lansbury?” said Pearl incredulously.

Bill shook his head. “You’d better ask the missus about that.”

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Meet the Author

Chris Simon is the youngest son of a headteacher and was born and brought up in North Wales. He attended college in Liverpool and Manchester studying Geography and English and returned to Wales to work at a holiday camp, doing everything from chalet allocations to scrubbing grill pans in the off season. He did this over three summers before moving to London to join the civil service, starting in North London benefit offices and ending with the Department for Transport in Westminster.

As well as football and music, Chris has a great love of social history, particularly that of London. After visiting the capital at the age of twelve his desire to live there became the first certainty of his life. He settled in Walthamstow in East London and is a keen supporter of Manchester City and, of course, Wales. It had always been his intention to write a novel whenever he found the time—and now he has.