Tara

by Lesley Pearse

  Josh had been brought up on the story of the elegant royal blue costume Solly made for Rachael and how she toured the West End shops in it until someone gave her an order. That first small order was the start of Bergman's. By the time the War ended Solly had a small workroom with two machinists, but his home was still the single squalid room Josh was born in.

  'Build up the business before you spend any money' was his father's motto, and he stuck to it in those post-war years as his business flourished. Josh had patches in the seats of his pants, his mother cooked on an open fire, and every penny went into bigger and bigger workshops.

  The end of 1949 was when everything changed. Rachael put her foot down and insisted on a decent home, and Solly reluctantly bought a small house. The first one was in Stoke Newington, but later they moved on to Golders Green.

  Josh had a great deal of respect for Solly's business acumen, but his father's way was too slow for him. He intended to be a millionaire by the time he was thirty and have a good time while he was getting there. Art college, then an extensive business course gave him all the knowledge he needed. A little wheeling and dealing in bankrupt stock gave him enough capital to start and, when the shop in Bethnal Green came on the market at a low rent, he took the plunge.

  He didn't need to know every step that went into the making of a garment, the East End was full of little sweat-shops. All it took was a few sketches of clothes he'd seen in magazines, and picking up fabric at the right price. His father's name, and his degree in art, persuaded people the clothes he produced were his own designs, and he kept the truth under his hat. Josh was nobody's fool. He knew he couldn't steal other people's ideas forever. If someone tumbled he'd lose all credibility. But good designers cost money, they wanted their name on the labels; furthermore they balked at making cheap clothes.

  He wasn't going to bank on anything with Tara. She might turn out to be as full of bullshit as himself. But, all the same, he had a good feeling about her. She had a discerning eye. He noticed the way she skimmed through the rails, really looking at the clothes. She'd winced at several garments, and he was tempted right then to ask what was wrong with them.

  A consumer boom had started. All the post-war babies brought up on free orange juice and the welfare state wanted to live now. There was work for everyone, fat pay packets waiting to be spent, and Joshua Bergman was determined that he was going to get a big slice of the pie.

  'Did I do all right?' Tara lingered by the counter as Josh cashed up the till. Angie had already shot off home and the shop door was closed.

  Josh looked at the takings and smiled. Considering the heatwave he hadn't expected as much and he had a feeling that Tara dancing attendance on the few customers had helped.

  'You did well,' he said, shoving the notes into a bag. 'I think you were born to it.'

  Tara fidgeted nervously. Josh seemed easy to work for, and he clearly liked people who used their initiative, but he was still the boss. He was hard to read. Although his dark brown eyes seemed soft and gentle, his manner suggested he could be ruthless.

  'We lost a lot of sales because we haven't got any summery dresses,' she said tentatively. 'People kept asking for sleeveless things and there's only those left.' She pointed to a rail of ugly eau de nil frocks with full skirts.

  'That's always a problem at this time of year.' Josh sighed. 'If only we could predict the weather! It's too late now to get some new designs and patterns made.'

  Tara took a deep breath and pulled her sketch out of her pocket.

  'I could make a pattern for this.' She put it on the counter cautiously. 'There are three bolts of lovely print out the back. I could even make up a sample for you tonight, if you liked it.'

  Josh looked at the sketch and his pulse quickened. The dress was simple, but it was classy. He hadn't even considered that fabric out the back and she was quite right, it would be perfect. Under the pretence of considering it, he studied Tara. She had moved away from the counter and was straightening a rack of skirts, obviously afraid she had overstepped the mark. A spotlight caught her gold hair and profile. The curve of her cheeks, her long neck and determined chin were achingly beautiful. She looked so vulnerable.

  'I'll give it a try.' He shrugged his shoulders in an effort to look unconvinced. 'Take a length of fabric home and if it works you can keep the sample.'

  'You mean you'll get my pattern made up and sell them?' Tara spun round to face him, eyes flashing with pleasure.

  'Only if it's right.' Josh had to bite his lower lip to keep from laughing. 'A sketch doesn't always work out. Let's just say we'll see!'

  Tara wolfed down her tea and between mouthfuls told George and Queenie all about her day.

  'I didn't expect him to agree,' she said rapturously. 'Just think, if he likes it I could be in business.'

  'You'd better use the dining-room table.' George smiled at her excitement. 'But don't get carried away, love, be prepared for disappointment.'

  At nine o'clock Tara heard Harry at the front door. He went into the lounge with Queenie and George and a rumble of laughter and chinking of glasses suggested they were all having a drink. She was too engrossed in her work to go and say hello.

  Queenie's sewing machine was a hand one, but far more modern than her Gran's treadle. It sat on a small table under the long narrow window that looked out on to the side of the kitchen and the back yard. The high wall up to the railway blocked out a great deal of light, but Queenie had made George paint the walls white and she'd planted a creeper up the railway wall, so it wasn't half as gloomy as it used to be.

  The dress was cut in six panels, but it had no collar or sleeves and already she was at the pressing stage, with only the edges of the facing and the hem to finish off. Her face was flushed with the heat but she glowed with pleasure.

  'What's this, a sweat-shop?' Harry came in just as she took it off the ironing board. He had clearly dropped in on his way to a club and he wore a sharp navy suit with a red handkerchief peeping out of the breast pocket. She wasn't sure she liked him looking like a spiv, with every hair in place and reeking of expensive aftershave – the Harry in jeans down at the farm had been much more approachable.

  He sat astride one of the dining chairs, leaning his arms on its back, taking in the brown paper pattern and the floor covered with off-cuts of bright fabric.

  'I'm making a sample for Josh,' she said. 'What do you think?' She held the dress up against her.

  George had already told him the story, but Harry smiled at her expression. Ecstatic was the only word that sprang to mind. She had bits of cotton all over her jeans and T-shirt, her hair shoved back behind her ears, and she looked adorable.

  'It's brilliant.' He grinned. 'At least, as far as I can tell with you just holding it. I dare say it fits as well as everything you make.'

  'I love it at the shop.' She sat down at the sewing machine again, but turned her head towards him. 'It's just perfect.'

  'What are you going to get out of making this sample?' Harry asked.

  'I'll keep it.' She bent her head over the machine and turned the handle.

  Harry looked at Tara's back and frowned. Her hair had parted to reveal her neck, her small shoulder blades stood out through her thin T-shirt, and all at once he felt fiercely protective.

  Something had happened to his feelings about Tara since she had arrived last Friday. It wasn't a purely brotherly thing any more; he kept looking at her shape, her face and wanting to stroke her hair.

  The feeling was so strong he hadn't even trusted himself to do Wainwright over personally, he'd sent some of the lads instead. If he'd been there it might not have stopped at a good kicking. Thank heavens he had a pad of his own now. If he kept bumping into Tara in her nightie there was no telling what would happen!

  'If 'e gets it made up and starts selling them you must keep a tally of them,' he said brusquely.

  Tara stopped machining and turned round in her seat. She didn't like his tone, it sounded disapproving, and he was
scowling.

  'Don't be a wet blanket. It's a start for me. I might get to be his designer.'

  Harry checked himself. He could drop in on Josh and make sure he didn't take advantage. He didn't want to dampen her enthusiasm.

  'Yeah, of course you might. I only meant that if it takes off you need some figures and stuff to bargain with. That's a lot of work for someone who's been in a shop all day.'

  'I don't mind.' She bent back over her work. 'Anyway, it doesn't seem like a real job. I love it, and the other girl Angie is nice.'

  'You 'aven't told them you used to live round 'ere?'

  Tara shook her head.

  'Keep it that way, darlin',' he said softly. 'And don't go mentioning me to Josh Bergman neither, not yet.'

  Once again Tara broke off and turned, puzzled by that last sentence.

  'Why? I thought you were old friends?'

  Harry shrugged his shoulders. 'It might prejudice 'im. I mean, I ain't no angel, darlin'. People with shops get a bit edgy when one of their girls knows "a face".'

  Tara felt uneasy. She knew he meant that if the shop got broken into he might be suspected. But only a guilty person would think that way!

  'OK.' She didn't feel she could question him. 'Just until I've settled down. But I can't keep it a secret forever, Harry. I'm too proud of you for that. Besides, Angie would go weak at the knees if she saw you.'

  Chapter 16

  June 1965

  Harry climbed over the high wire fence like a monkey, dropped silently to the concrete below, and ran to the shelter of the warehouse.

  It was a wild night. Not just rain but a deluge, driven sideways by strong wind. But the unexpected foul weather pleased Harry. It meant less chance of nosy-parkers showing up, and footprints and tyre marks would be eliminated. He pulled the hood of his black oilskin coat over his head, wiped the worst of the rain off his face with one gloved hand and looked around.

  The warehouse had been built as a store during the War, a single-storey brick building with a corrugated iron roof. Further down the road leading to Tilbury a new industrial estate was being built, but this place was surrounded by scrubby Essex marshland.

  In the far distance he could see a row of lights leading towards the docks, but here there was only inky darkness. The rain obscured everything, even the black dress van they'd stolen earlier this evening in Gray's Thurrock. Harry smiled to himself, imagining Needles peering anxiously out into the darkness, waiting for the signal.

  The big double gates were only more wire mesh over an iron frame, the gate-man's tiny hut next to them was in darkness. It looked like a prison camp, but without the arc-lights and sentries, and the only sound was the rain beating down on the iron roof and gushing from an overloaded gutter.

  Harry made a reconnoitre. Stealthily, he climbed up on to a raised wooden loading bay and peered into two dirty barred windows. There were no lights here either, and he smiled with satisfaction. Jumping down from the platform he skirted right round the building. At the back a small brick office had been added in recent times. By standing on tip-toe he could just make out a typewriter on a desk, a couple of filing cabinets and a Xerox copying machine. Further round the building the concrete gave way to rough grass and mud. Another window here was barred, but then as he came back on to concrete he saw a narrow door.

  Harry took out his torch, shielding the glow with his hand as he examined the lock. Just an ordinary Yale type, and even if it was bolted on the other side, the door was little more than strengthened hardboard. No dogs, no nightwatchman! This would be a cinch.

  Making his way back to his point of entry, Harry flashed his torch twice as a signal, then moved back under the shelter of the warehouse wall.

  'What sort of mug leaves a load of leather coats in the middle of nowhere, with no security?' he whispered to himself.

  It was a bird called Janet who had inadvertently put him on to it. Just a girl he met from South Ockenden who he'd taken out a few times. One Sunday she had to work overtime and she asked him to pick her up here in the evening instead of at her office in Tilbury. After a few drinks she'd revealed it was a holding place for goods about to be shipped overseas. She'd been doing the paperwork for engine parts, but all kinds of different goods got stored here.

  It didn't take Harry long to discover what went in and out. A couple of days of watching revealed goods as diverse as food stuff and refrigerators, and at six every night the staff locked the doors and went home. There wasn't even an alarm system.

  He hadn't seen Janet for months now and, though he'd been thinking about robbing the place for some time, he might never have done it. But early this morning he'd been in Tilbury picking up a shipment of china and drove out here again on impulse. His eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw rail after rail of leather coats being unloaded. Food and household goods were notoriously hard to get shot off, but leather coats were a different ball-game – high value, easy to lift and store, and he had contacts up and down the country who would pay cash on the nail for them.

  Needles, Tony and Eric, his old childhood mates, were the obvious men to come in on it with him. Every one of them could be trusted implicitly, none of them had a criminal record. But, though Needles and Tony were only too anxious to join him, Eric, who was the demon driver and brilliant at nicking cars, couldn't make it. It was Eric who'd suggested Ginger.

  Harry could see Needles and Tony running towards the gate, Needles' huge gorilla shape a few paces behind the smaller, more athletic Tony. Both wore the same oilskin coats as himself, and Needles carried a pair of bolt-cutters. He ran to the gate to meet them.

  'It's a doddle,' he said through the mesh. 'Come on, Needles, do yer stuff.'

  His real name was Albert, but they'd christened him Needles when they were seven, after he picked up a hedgehog to stroke it in Epping Forest. Now they told other people it was because he was sharp, but sometimes when they were alone they still teased him. His huge lumbering body, great physical strength and adenoidal voice suggested an empty-headed, hard man, while his black curly hair, bright shoe-button eyes, florid complexion and penchant for flashy clothes were hallmarks of a bully boy. In reality he was a warm-hearted family man with two small children and a dainty wife who adored him. Harry had never heard him raise his voice, let alone his fists, in anger. Although he worked the West End clubs as a bouncer, he used his gentle charm, not his size or strength.

  'Just 'old the chain tight, Tone,' Needles said, brandishing the bolt-cutters. 'Wot a poxy little chain. I could bite that off wiv me teeth.'

  'Save them for a steak tomorrow.' Tony grinned as the chain snapped like a piece of plastic. 'Which way in, 'Any?'

  'Round the back.' Harry opened the gates wide and signalled with his torch for Ginger to drive in. 'Ow's Ginge doing? It seemed like 'is bottle was going!'

  Ginger was the only fly in the ointment. Harry was prejudiced against men with red hair for a start, especially when they had white eyelashes. Not that there was really anything to dislike about Ginge, he always stood his round down the Blind Beggar. But he did tend to brag – whatever you'd done, he could top it.

  He'd spotted the right kind of van straight off, was into it like a ferret and had it hot wired before they could even draw breath. But Harry didn't like the way he chain-smoked, or the shaking of his hands.

  ' 'Ard to say if he's losing it.' Tony glanced round at the van moving towards them.' 'E don't say much. But this is a straightforward blag, 'e should be OK.'

  Tony's mother was Italian and he had inherited her velvet dark eyes and olive skin, with his father's thin foxy face and wiry body. Boxing was his sport, so far only amateur, but he hoped to turn professional soon.

  Needles stayed to close the gates after Ginger drove in while Harry led the way round to the back of the warehouse.

  'Know what this reminds me of?' Tony said as they stopped at the door.

  'Canvey Island?' Harry smiled.

  'Yeah, right.' Tony chuckled. 'We was right l
ittle sods, getting in all them caravans. Remember that night we stayed down there and that bloke caught us?'

  Tony pulled a jemmy out of his pocket and with one quick flick he had the door open.

  'I wet me pants,' Needles said behind them.

  These childhood memories had forged links of steel between them. Girls came and went, even Needles getting married hadn't loosened the bond. They understood one another. They were brothers.

  'Don't wet them tonight, or else you can walk 'ome,' Harry said over his shoulder as they walked in.

  'Leave it out!' Needles gave a low rumbling laugh. 'I'm more likely to shit meself these days.'

  The rich, warm smell of leather almost knocked them back.

  ' 'Struth!' Tony exclaimed as he flashed his torch around. 'There's bloody millions in 'ere!'

  Inside, the warehouse looked as big as an aircraft hangar, the torch revealing only small sections at a time. Rail after rail was crammed with coats. They couldn't see well enough to make out the styles or colours, but the feel of them was to know they were quality.

  'Fuckin' 'ell,' Ginger gasped behind them. 'We'll never get this lot in the van.'

  'Wheel 'em down to the door,' Harry instructed. 'Ginge, you get in the van and we can toss 'em up to you. Hurry now, just 'cos there ain't no guard don't mean the police won't come and check the place over. If it comes on top of us, leg it over the fence and we'll all meet up back at my van.'

  Needles and Tony stood by the door tossing the heavy piles effortlessly into the van, as Ginger stacked them. Harry went back and forward, returning rails and bringing new ones. They were silent now, each working flat out, the only sounds the slap of leather on leather, grunts of exertion and the constant drumming of rain on the roof.

  'That's enough,' Harry said when he saw the van was piled high with just a small space at the back. 'Needles, Tony, get in there. It's less 'suss at this time of night with only two up front.'