Hope on the Waterways

by Milly Adams

  Timmo said nothing, just placed his hand on her shoulder for a second before moving on again.

  It was then that she realised that gliding on the cut was also a sort of devotion, creating a similar peace and stillness. Was this why she had found she loved it? Was her ‘deal’ in fact something that she wanted, and not just something she had to do to save the lives of so many from loss? Would a deal work with Him anyway? It had to, or … But what about Steve? It wouldn’t just be her loss. The pain was suddenly sharp. The girls? The pain grew …

  She saw the bushes move, then they were still. At the same time Granfer called from the front bedroom, ‘They’s movin’ in on this side.’

  Sylvia watched the back closely; the bushes moved again. She called, ‘And from the back, or I think––’

  Timmo flew into the room, to stand with her. ‘All that kingfisher watchin’s made yer eyes keen. I knows yer saw it, and never fear, we’re ready.’ He made the pigeon call they’d all agreed on.

  ‘There,’ breathed Sylvia, slopping her mug of tea as she slammed it on the windowsill. ‘Amongst the silver birches.’

  ‘Got ’em.’ Timmo made the call three times. Steerer Wise opened the shed door a crack. Timmo was gone, down the stairs two at a time, checking the boaters in the hall and those in the kitchen. Steerer Ambrose was in charge of those placed ‘who knew where’ outside, and the boaters would have picked off some of the marauders as they approached. They weren’t silent poachers for nothing.

  Sylvia heard a harsh whistle, like a policeman’s, and then Leon’s men, carrying clubs, were charging from the back. Granfer yelled, ‘They’re charging the front.’ Maudie was in the bedroom now and so too were Polly and Verity with Timmo who had appointed himself bodyguard, as had the girls, and they would fight any who came up here, to the death. As she watched, Steerer Wise burst from the shed with his boaters, including two youngsters from the flyboats, which wouldn’t normally stop for anyone. They caught the intruders, tackling them to the ground, as the curses were hurled, and blows. Two escaped and kept going to the house.

  Sylvia heard the crash of the back door, but there were boaters the other side of it, and the intruders didn’t get far. Some escaped and ran from the back garden into the woods, but two of the boaters were after them, with no need for clubs. There were shots from the attackers then two more boaters broke off from the melee and, roaring with rage, took off into the woods, too. Sylvia pressed her face against the window as Bet tore into the bedroom, and they all watched.

  Bet said, ‘The police and the newspaper have been called.’

  Sylvia’s laugh was veering on the hysterical, as she said, ‘It doesn’t seem real, any of this.’

  Bet muttered, ‘What does at the moment, anywhere?’

  Evelyn and Mabel flew in. ‘We’re needed, Bet. You too girls. Timmo is to stay with Maudie. The hooligans are tied up, but everyone seems to have cuts and bruises.’ They tore downstairs as Leon’s men were led, dazed, to the front garden, and made to sit. Bet yelled, ‘Evelyn and Mabel, sort out the Dettol and bandages. My girls, to the front with me. We’ll start fixing that lot of toe-rags.’ With Sylvia, Verity and Polly, she ran out of the front door, picking up her hessian first aid bag from the hall table. Slamming the front door, she nearly tripped over four of the men forced to sit on the path, their hands bound together, linked by rope to their bound feet.

  The boaters stood guard while Timmo hurtled down the stairs, shouting, ‘Where’s yer leader?’

  Bet shouted, ‘Where is Maudie?’

  ‘In the kitchen with your girls. Don’t yer worry, some boaters are inside the back door.’

  One of the men muttered, ‘Out in the woods at the back, with the gun. He’ll bloody use it too, but we don’t want no part of that.’

  The police were arriving, some cycling, but there were also four in a car. They piled out and up the garden path, handcuffs at the ready. First they rounded up the boaters, and only then did they haul Leon’s men to their feet.

  ‘You’re all under arrest,’ called a plain-clothes detective who was strutting down the path, having leapt from a squad car. He snatched off his hat, slapping it against his leg. ‘I’m not bloody having this London gang stuff on my patch. You’re a load of bloody ruffians, the lot of you.’

  Bet stepped between the Inspector and the men, pointing to Leon’s lot. ‘These men attacked Mr Hopkins’s house.’

  The Inspector said, ‘They all entered, did they?’

  Timmo, who was struggling with a policeman who had snapped handcuffs on one of his wrists, yelled, ‘Not all, but that were only cos we be ’ere. They was after Maudie.’

  The Inspector snapped, ‘You took the law into your own hands instead of contacting us.’

  Bet grabbed the Inspector’s arm then as the journalist, who had crept closer, took notes. She hauled him a few yards away, explaining something which appeared to owe much to gestures and four-letter words. She was more furious than Sylvia, Polly and Verity had ever seen her. It was they who stood between the police and the boaters now, ready to … well, fight, Sylvia thought.

  The Inspector was arguing with Bet, who said something that stopped him in his tracks. He stared at her, and at last nodded. He walked back, slowly, with Bet. A police van was arriving. The Inspector said, ‘Release the boaters, get the others into the van.’

  He turned on his heel and sulked off. More of Leon’s men were being hauled struggling around the side of the house by boaters led by Steerer Ambrose, who had tied the ruffians’ arms behind their backs. Steerer Ambrose held a pistol between his thumb and forefinger. He called back the Inspector, whose strut was no longer in evidence. Steerer Ambrose pointed to a blond hatchet-faced man and said, ‘You’ll need this. He winged one of t’fly boys, and we boaters don’t take kindly t’guns, we do not. He be named Vlad, strange sort o’ name.’

  The Inspector sighed and came forward. ‘Neither do we. Get over there.’

  He pointed to the van. Steerer Ambrose hauled the man to the nearest policeman.

  All the girls sat in the kitchen after the boaters had left to hitch lifts back to their boats on any passing pair that came through the Braunston Tunnel. Granfer had not thanked them; neither had Maudie, because the boaters didn’t thank others – they merely obliged in their turn, for these cut people looked after their own, it was a code, there was no need for thanks. Sylvia said thoughtfully, ‘It truly is an obligation, a sort of deal, isn’t it?’

  Bet nodded. ‘That’s exactly what it is, Sylv. And it works well, and is understood by everyone.’

  Sylvia just looked at her, then glanced out of the window at the sky and the clouds which were being blown on the wind, until she was brought back into the kitchen by Polly asking Bet what she had said to the Inspector. ‘I know his father. I mentioned this, and said that there was a policeman, or two, helping the man who arranged this, and he’d muck up the plan to rescue the son of the woman they were trying to grab today if he started to fanny about saying things and doing things he shouldn’t. Did he want that on his conscience or his subsequent job application? I also drew his attention to the journalist.’

  Granfer was pouring brandy, which they all downed in short order, wondering what was happening in London.

  Jacob sat at the back of the darkened bar in Piccadilly. He was tired, but then he’d been on the telephone for hour after hour, using his contacts to dig deep into Harkness’s world, and Norton’s before him. He’d taken to the streets, pulling in favours, making promises that he could just about keep, and of course money had changed hands, but what was money when the Nazis’ death factories had consumed his people in Europe, and broken his father’s and his wife’s hearts? What was it when a boy had been stolen by a man who beat him?

  He sipped the warm beer. Life had moved on from the barrow, then the textiles, and widened into the world of a middleman, someone who finds what people need, which, after all, was what he had learned from his father. ‘You want a sofa? I’ll fin
d someone who wants to sell one.’ Business was the same, the world over; it was just a matter of degree.

  He forced himself to drink, to hold his hands steady, because he had not been a middleman in such as this, ever – but needs must. How would he recognise Mario? How would Mario recognise him? How would he start with the gang leader? Would he even come? He’d said he would, but if he felt that Jacob was lying and there was nothing of interest, it would be the worst for Jacob.

  The door of the bar opened. A small Italian entered, his coat over his shoulders, and he wore a homburg at a slight angle. Behind him were two larger Italians, or Jacob supposed they were because they were similarly dark. Jacob rose. One of the bodyguards noticed Jacob and whispered in his boss’s ear, but Mario was already making for him. The bodyguards were looking to left and right, but no one took any notice.

  Mario arrived at the table, and Jacob stood, holding out his hand. It was ignored. Mario sat, Jacob too. Mario looked at him, his eyes hooded. ‘So?’

  Jacob swallowed, gripping his hands together. He explained what had happened in Buckby. He had received the telephone call that Bet had promised and explained about Joe, who they guessed was being held at the Blind Weasel, perhaps upstairs in the flat, or somewhere on the premises.

  ‘Guessed?’ Mario’s tone was flat.

  Jacob swallowed again. ‘More than that. Someone is looking after a dog that belongs to one of those involved. He responded to payment from a contact of mine. So we know Joe was, and hopefully still is, held at the club. Ten of Leon’s men have been arrested––’

  ‘Leon?’

  ‘Perhaps you know him as Lionel Harkness. He is actually Leon Arness, wanted by the police for the assault of Mr Thomas Holmes, amongst other things. He took over the business from Norton, who was killed by a bomb.’

  Mario was nodding. He lifted a finger to one of the bodyguards, who drew out a gold cigarette case from his breast pocket, and offered a cigarette to Mario. The bodyguard lit it with a gold lighter. Jacob was not offered one.

  Mario inhaled, exhaled, and still without emotion said, ‘So?’

  ‘This friend of Dobbo, who owns the dog, told me that there is an attack to be made on the Limehouse organisation by Harkness. He has built his army, which has now lost ten men.’

  Mario said nothing for two long minutes. Jacob could feel the sweat running down his back. His mouth was dry, so he sipped his beer, but his hand was trembling so much the beer slopped on the table and ran out of his mouth. Jacob drew notes written on a sheet of paper from his pocket and placed it on the table before Mario. ‘Here are his plans, as far as my contacts can tell. But Harkness is obsessed with his son and wife. Now is the time to strike, while he is thinking of them, if you wish to turn the tables and expand into his territory, rather than let him expand into yours. He will be expecting a report from Vlad, his man on the raid. It will not have arrived yet, but he has no cause to fear it will not succeed. I repeat, now is the time.’

  Mario looked at the plan then nodded. ‘I have similar information.’ He leaned back, his cigarette smoke wafting. ‘Though I did not know the Vlad scenario, or that Harkness is distracted.’ He stood, and stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray set in the centre of the table.

  He spread his hands. ‘And from me you want?’

  Jacob could hardly speak. His heart was beating so hard that he could hear it in his ears, and it was taking his breath away. Finally he said, ‘To save the boy. I will be outside the club to receive him. Then I will leave and I want to know nothing more …’ As Mario turned, Jacob spoke again. ‘There is a policeman in his pay, or two. I don’t know who.’

  Mario smiled a little now. ‘Ah, but I do.’

  As he began to leave, Jacob spoke yet again. ‘Vlad, captured by the police, might well give up Harkness, so I repeat, perhaps be quick.’

  Mario raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, I had arrived at that thought. Finally, and this is the end, is there anything else I can do for you?’

  ‘Find out what happened to Manny Teller, as he is known here.’

  ‘He is dead, left near Limehouse in the canal by your friend Harkness, to insult us.’

  Jacob’s flare of pain was so deep it scared him. ‘He is no friend.’

  Mario left, his coat swinging, and no one looking after him but Jacob who felt sick and too tired really to find his way to the club, but he must. Someone must wait in case Joe was freed. In case, he repeated to himself as he, in his turn, left.

  Joe was so thirsty he could only think of water, and the hardness of the floor, though Mr Dobbo had taken off his jacket for him to sit on, and now he were the one shivering. Mr Dobbo said, ‘We shivered in the trenches, lad, so this is nothing.’

  Joe had slept, and then woken, and slept again, and each time he dreamed of water, and woke thinking of it. He remembered Polly, Verity and Sylvia talking about being so thirsty under the rubble that it was hard to think of anything else. It made him feel more like one of them, if a boy could be like girl boaters. He told Mr Dobbo about the girls, and how Dog had shown Steve the fireman where they were, but how Dog had died. Mr Dobbo said, ‘I wonder if Rover would do that for me?’

  Joe looked at Mr Dobbo, who didn’t seem so strong and big now, just sad and ashamed. ‘I ’spect so, cos he’d be doing what you want, won’t he? He does that day after day so he must love yer and want to please. He pulled me out of the playground cos you told him, after all.’

  Dobbo hung his head. ‘I wish to ’ell I hadn’t told ’im. I don’t know what come over me. I were greedy, I suppose, but I knew it was wrong, but I didn’t think your dad would ’urt you. Never would I ’ave—’

  Joe interrupted, leaning his head on his knees: ‘It don’t matter, Mr Dobbo. No one would know what he were like less’n you saw ’im at it.’ Joe thought it was strange how much you could see when you got used to just a tiny slit of light coming in under the door. ‘’Ow long d’yer think we been in ’ere, now?’ he asked.

  Mr Dobbo said, shrugging, ‘I don’t know, and best not to keep asking, because it makes it seem worse.’

  ‘Is my da going to let us out?’

  Mr Dobbo sighed. ‘He said last time he wouldn’t ’less you tell ’im where yer ma was, and now he’s found out t’other way, from the shouting we’ve been hearing, but ’e’s waiting for summat else. I think he’s going to bring her here. It might make it better fer yer, to be together. ’E might be glad enough, and it could change him.’

  Joe shook his head. ‘It won’t, Mr Dobbo, but what’ll he do to you?’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that. It’s me own fault, and I deserves it. Not at all something a soldier should be about.’

  They fell silent again, then they heard a crash, shouts, and the sound of running feet. Joe shrank back into the corner, and Mr Dobbo found his way over to him. ‘Stay behind me, y’ear. You stay behind me, and keep yer mouth shut.’

  Joe whispered, ‘You got the gun, Mr Dobbo?’

  ‘Yes, lad, cos no one’s goin’ to ’urt yer, I’ll try and see to that, and neither will you be the one firing it and living with that stain on yer heart and in the eyes of whoever finds us.’

  They waited as the noise got worse, and Joe heard his da shouting and yelling, but he couldn’t hear what words he was saying. There were voices coming nearer, with heavy accents – and was that a groan? ‘Is they quarrelling, Mr Dobbo?’

  ‘I don’t know, lad. P’raps Vlad’s brought yer mum ’ere. ’E has an accent.’

  ‘’T’weren’t me ma groaning, that were a man.’

  Big heavy footsteps approached. ‘Mr Dobbo, I be scared,’ Joe whispered.

  ’Try not to be. I will stop ’em and you must go quiet if they get past me, and try and make it clear away later. You got that? If questions is asked about any shots fired, you never touched the gun, you never brought it from the study, it were me. I’ve wiped it on my shirt, so there’re none of your fingerprints. If they’ve brought yer ma, try and get ’er away too. Yer und
erstand. Don’t yer worry none about me.’

  The footsteps were closer still. Lots of them, and now raised voices. Dobbo sat up straight. Joe heard the click as he cocked the pistol. Dobbo said, ‘If you was my boy, I’d be proud of yer. Yer just remember that. Get well, get strong, and get away.’ The footsteps had stopped outside the door. They heard the sound of the key in the lock. Dobbo whispered, ‘Yer be still.’

  ‘Dobbo.’ It was Dougie. ‘I’m opening the door, and I’m coming in. They’re taking Joe back to his aunties and uncles, you understand?’

  The handle was moving. Dobbo shouted, ‘I’ve got a gun. I took it from the bastard’s study, I took it and I’ll bloody well use it, if you ’urt an ’air of ’is head.’

  Joe was leaning on Mr Dobbo, his head resting on his back, and he patted him as Mr Dobbo had done to him when he were afraid as he stood in front of his da.

  ‘No one’s going to hurt him, Dobbo. Mario’s men have taken the boss, and they’re letting me get you out safe and sound, and the boy to Jacob, who’s waiting outside. Then I can scarper, they say, though whether they mean it, who knows.’

  Joe sat up. ‘Jacob? That’s Mr Fisher’s son. What about me ma, Mr Dobbo?’

  The handle was moving again in the dim, dim light, and squeaking. ‘The lad’s ma?’ Dobbo asked.

  ‘Safe. The boaters were waiting for Vlad and the cops have the lot of them. Come on, Dobbo. Rover’s waiting for yer.’

  Mr Dobbo said to Joe, ‘Yer want to go with Jacob?’

  ‘Only if you come too. We can all go home together and Rover can come too.’

  Dobbo laughed slightly. ‘Ah well, I think that door’s closed for me, lad. So let’s see if we can get you out safe, eh?’

  ‘I’m coming in, Dobbo. You got that.’

  The door opened slowly, and light shafted in, dazzling them, and they could see nothing. Joe waited for the shot, because there was a big man with something in his hand. But nothing happened. Joe saw a shape come forward and take the gun from Mr Dobbo’s hand. Joe’s eyes were used to the light now, and he saw Dougie put the safety back on, and the keys he had been holding in his pocket.