Tanner Trilogy 03 - Backstreet Child

by Harry Bowling

  Maisie had heard the story before but she feigned surprise. Nellie seemed prone to repeating herself lately and it made Maisie feel sad. They were all showing the ravages of time now, but it seemed to Maisie that she herself was the only one of the old group who still looked fairly well and younger than her seventy-one years. Had she known what was going through Nellie Tanner’s mind at that moment she would have been very upset. For some time Nellie had considered her to be a scatter-brain, and as she watched Maisie pick up the tea caddy again and open the lid she sighed. I’m sure the woman’s beginning to lose her mind, she thought as she gripped Maisie’s arm. ‘Yer’ve already put the tea in,’ she said.

  A week later a lorry pulled into Page Street and workmen jumped down. One attacked the padlock with a crowbar and other workmen put up a rope on iron stands across the pavement on both sides of the yard. Maisie had seen the lorry arrive, as had Florrie, who went to her front door to watch. They saw the gates being quickly removed and loaded onto the back of the lorry, and then as the lorry disappeared from the turning a high-sided vehicle took its place. It reversed into the yard and it was not long before the noise of demolition carried along the turning. Dust rose into the air and black smoke climbed up into the sky from a huge bonfire the men had lit. All day the noise went on, and by early evening when work ceased the yard buildings had been reduced almost to a pile of rubble. Only the main stable remained, without its roof.

  That night a watchman sat in the yard in front of a burning brazier guarding the workmen’s equipment and Maisie in her infinite wisdom decided to take the man a mug of tea in the hope of gleaning some information from him.

  ‘’Ere we are, luv, get that down yer,’ she urged him. ‘Yer must be fed up o’ sittin’ all on yer own.’

  The man gave her a toothless smile and sipped the hot tea gratefully. ‘I used ter be on the demolition but I got an injury, yer see,’ he told her. ‘Can’t do no ’eavy work now, so they gave me this job. I gotta be fankful, I s’pose.’

  ‘I reckon yer still know what’s goin’ on though,’ Maisie said with a crafty grin.

  The elderly man nodded vigorously. ‘Oh yeah. Me an’ the guv’nor’s quite friendly. ’E keeps me in the know.’

  ‘What they gonna build ’ere then?’ Maisie asked him.

  Albert Twist was ready for it. He had been warned only that day that should anyone ask him such a question he must say simply that he did not know, and he had been made to understand that his job depended on it. But he felt that giving out a little information, wrong though it was, would be better than saying he did not know what was going on, especially after what he had just told the woman.

  ‘As a matter o’ fact it’s a church they’re buildin’ ’ere,’ he told her in a low voice.

  ‘A church?’

  ‘’S’right, missus. Though yer mustn’t let on to anybody, or I’ll get the sack,’ he warned her.

  ‘I can’t believe it. We’ve got plenty o’ churches round ’ere already,’ Maisie told him.

  Albert was enjoying her consternation. ‘Well, it’s not yer usual sort o’ church,’ he went on, sipping his tea while Maisie scratched her head through her hairnet. ‘It’s more like one o’ them there monastery churches. It ain’t gonna be fer everybody.’

  ‘Yer mean ter tell me monks are gonna live ’ere, in Page Street?’ Maisie asked incredulously.

  ‘’S’right.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Well, yer can believe what yer like, but I’m tellin’ yer what I know,’ Albert said, staring down into his tea so as not to laugh at the look on Maisie’s face. ‘Yer see, there’s a problem wiv overcrowdin’.’

  ‘Overcrowdin’?’

  ‘’S’right.’

  ‘What d’yer mean?’ Maisie asked, furrowing her brow.

  ‘Well, yer see,’ Albert went on, ‘there’s a lot o’ blokes who won’t sign on fer the army an’ what ’ave yer, an’ quite a lot of’em are joinin’ the monks. That way they can’t be touched. I ’eard there’s fousands signin’ up ter be monks.’

  ‘Well, I fink it’s downright disgustin’,’ Maisie stormed.

  ‘Yer will do when they come knockin’ at yer front doors scroungin’ food an’ money,’ Albert told her.

  ‘I didn’t know monks scrounged fer food an’ money,’ she said.

  ‘This lot will,’ he told her.

  ‘Who’s buildin’ the place?’ she almost shouted.

  ‘It’s the borough council,’ he replied, still not looking at her.

  Maisie felt her temper rising to screaming point. The houses in the street were almost falling down and the council were more concerned about building a monastery. It’s about time we all woke up round here, she thought as the nightwatchman noisily sipped his tea. Wait till Florrie and Sadie know.

  ‘’Ere, yer ain’t gonna let on to anybody about what I just told yer, are yer?’ he asked, eyeing her with a worried look on his angular face. ‘I don’t wanna end up on the dole.’

  ‘Well, somefink should be done about it,’ Maisie said angrily. ‘Jus’ look around at these bleedin’ ’ouses we all live in.’

  ‘They look all right ter me,’ he replied.

  ‘All right?’ she spluttered. ‘They’re leaky, cold bug ’utches, an’ the lan’lord won’t pay out a penny on repairs till ’e’s forced to.’

  ‘Well, it ain’t fer me ter say,’ he told her, scratching his head, ‘but if I was you lot I’d get tergevver and go roun’ the council offices wiv a petition, but fer Gawd’s sake don’t tell ’em where yer got the information, ’cos I’d just ’ave ter deny I said anyfing to yer if I’m asked.’

  Maisie took the empty cup he was holding and smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry, mate. I won’t drop yer in it, I promise. I’ll jus’ say somebody over’ eard the council people talkin’ in a pub.’

  When Maisie had left, Albert settled back in his seat facing the warm fire with a satisfied smirk on his lean face. If the women did go to the council with a petition, the proverbial sprat might catch a mackerel, he thought. If they find out what’s really going to be built on the site, they’ll be more than a little worried.

  Wilson Street, just a few turnings away from Page Street, was where the Galloways operated their transport firm. It was also the site of Murphy’s Gymnasium, named after a much-loved priest, Seamus Murphy, who had spent a lifetime in the borough and had organised money-raising for the boxing club. Murphy’s was the brainchild of Billy Sullivan, once a leading contender for the championship before the war put an end to his ambitions. Billy now laboured for a local building contractor, and on two nights a week, along with his friend Danny Tanner, he taught the young lads of the area to box at the club.

  Murphy’s Gym was administered by St Joseph’s Church, which had appointed Father Kerrigan to take charge. Patrick Kerrigan was a huge, genial Irishman who allowed Billy and Danny a free hand at their coaching sessions, but change was threatening. The church committee had agreed to the use of the gym as a gas-mask fitting station and for civil defence training. They had also discussed plans to turn the club into an air-raid shelter in the event of war. The committee had informed the two coaches of their plans and it was the subject of discussion at the Sullivan household that Monday evening.

  ‘I s’pose we can’t argue, Billy,’ Danny said, spinning the wheels of a wooden toy belonging to Billy’s son Brendan. ‘If the worst came, most o’ the youngsters would be evacuated anyway. There wouldn’t be enough lads left ter teach.’

  Billy picked up his five-year-old daughter Mary Jane who was standing by his knee and sat her on his lap. His face looked troubled as he glanced at the room door and then back at Danny. ‘The church ’as bin on to Annie about movin’ out o’ London if the worst comes ter the worst,’ he said in a low voice.

  Danny’s face dropped. ‘Where would yer go?’ he asked, puzzled.

  ‘Not me,’ Billy replied. ‘Only Annie an’ the kids. Apparently there’s a Catholic ’ome in Gloucester f
er young gels who ’ave babies wivout bein’ married. Farvver Kerrigan was tellin’ us they might need some more workers down there. Wiv Annie’s nursin’ experience wiv babies she could work there an’ the kids could stay in the ’ome wiv ’er.’

  ‘What does Annie fink o’ the idea?’ Danny asked.

  ‘Well, she don’t wanna leave me ’ere on me own but there’s the kids ter fink about. I could go down ter Gloucester some weekends ter see ’em. At least they’d be more safe there than in London.’

  ‘Yer could always come round ter me an’ Iris. She’d cook yer meals,’ Danny offered.

  Annie entered the room with cups of tea. Her dark hair was piled onto the top of her head and her deep blue eyes had dark circles round them. Her pretty, angular face was pale and she had a worried expression. ‘Has Billy told you about Gloucester, Danny?’ she asked.

  Danny nodded as he took the cup of tea. ‘Let’s ’ope it don’t come to it,’ he said quietly.

  Annie sat down in the only vacant chair and smiled at Billy. ‘I’ll be worried about him if we have to leave him here on his own,’ she said to Danny with a sigh. ‘Billy can’t even boil a kettle and I’m sure he’d starve.’

  ‘I’ll go back ter me muvver,’ Billy said, grinning.

  ‘I’ve already told ’im Iris’ll cook fer ’im,’ Danny reassured her.

  The children were seeking attention and Annie took Mary Jane from Billy’s lap. ‘Come on, chicken, it’s past your bedtime,’ she said hugging the child to her.

  Eleven-year-old Patrick was getting the better of his younger brother Brendan in a tussle and Billy got up to pull them apart. ‘ ’Ow would yer know these two were Sullivans?’ he grinned.

  Danny stood up and ruffled Brendan’s hair. ‘Well, I’d better be off,’ he said stretching and reaching for his padded coat. ‘It’s gonna be a long night. We’ve got a union meetin’ before we start work an’ we can’t afford ter miss the tide. We’ve got a line o’ barges ter moor.’

  Billy collected the empty cups as his lighterman friend left for his night shift and he sighed deeply. He could not help thinking how terribly he would miss Annie and the kids if they did leave London.

  Chapter Four

  Christmas was over, the New Year church bells rang out through the little backstreets of Bermondsey, and worried folk raised their glasses to peace. But as 1939 got under way, at workplaces, on doorsteps and in the pubs everyone was talking about the preparations for war. People read of massive rearmament and the dwindling unemployment queues, and in March the headlines announced that Germany had swallowed up Czechoslovakia. Men hurried to join the Territorial Army, and everyone was talking about the news that Britain had signed a pact with Poland.

  ‘Well, that’s it as far as I’m concerned,’ Nobby Smith said to a frightened Granny Phillips as they sat round an iron table in the Kings Arms one Friday evening. ‘That git ’Itler ain’t gonna pay no ’eed ter no pacts. ’E’s already marched inter Czechoslovakia. Poland’s next, an’ where does that leave us, I ask yer?’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ Granny Phillips told him with a worried look on her face.

  ‘I’ll tell yer where,’ Nobby went on. ‘Right up the Swannee.’

  Jack Whitmore, Nobby’s arch enemy for the attentions of Granny Phillips, puffed loudly as he leaned forward on the table. ‘Them Germans won’t start war wiv Poland,’ he said emphatically. ‘Not now we’re signed up wiv the Poles. Those Germans ’ad enough of us last time.’

  Nobby gave Jack a withering stare. ‘Don’t talk such rot,’ he growled. ‘The Germans ’ave bin itchin’ ter take us on again. They’ve bin rearmin’ fer years now.’

  Jack was not to be put off. ‘Yeah, but what you don’t seem to understand is, we wasn’t rearmin’ then an’ the Germans knew it. Now we’ve let ’em know we’re gettin’ ready, they’ll back down,’ he said, smiling at Granny Phillips.

  Nobby looked over towards the counter where the new landlord was busy talking to a couple of dockers. He was well aware how his views often caused his rival to take offence, and in the past the raising of voices had always upset the landlord. The new tenant of the Kings Arms looked a mean character to Nobby, not someone who would tolerate their little discussions so easily, he thought.

  ‘Look, me ole mate,’ the ex-docker went on in a conciliatory voice. ‘I ain’t sayin’ that it’s definitely gonna be a war, but yer gotta realise that once yer go too far, there ain’t no goin’ back. That’s all I’m tryin’ ter say.’

  Jack leaned forward, a wicked glint in his rheumy eyes. ‘In the first place, I ain’t yer ole mate,’ he growled. ‘In the second place, I ain’t interested in yer views, an’ nor is Mrs Phillips fer that matter, are yer, luv?’

  The elderly lady was upset at having to endure the constant bickering of the two men; she felt they were old enough to know better, and she decided that a change of seating was the answer. With a huge puff of indignation she got up and took her empty glass to the counter, and when it had been refilled she walked over to another table and sat down beside Florrie Axford who had just come in on the arm of Maisie Dougall.

  ‘Yer don’t mind me sittin’ ’ere, do yer, Flo?’ she asked. ‘Those two are drivin’ me roun’ the bleedin’ twist wiv their talk.’

  Florrie shook her head. ‘Them two caused enough trouble when Alec Crossley was runnin’ the pub,’ she said. ‘This one don’t look like ’e’ll put up wiv it. ’E looks a bit of a cowson ter me.’

  Nobby had been expounding the international situation and had not noticed Granny Phillips move places. Jack had, however, and he knew then that he had lost his chances of encouraging her to accompany him home when the pub closed, for a cup of tea and a little canoodling. He looked at Nobby with venom.

  ‘Look what yer bin an’ gorn an’ done now,’ he grated. ‘I was gettin’ on all right wiv ’er, till you opened yer big trap.’

  Nobby looked over to where Maria Phillips was seated and then back to the angry suitor. ‘Don’t worry, mate,’ he said, trying to mollify him. ‘They’re all the same. Fickle, that’s what they are. Take my first ole woman.’

  ‘I don’t want ’er,’ Jack cut in quickly. ‘What’s more, I don’t wanna listen ter you spoutin’ orf about fings yer know nuffing about. Now why don’t yer piss orf an’ leave me alone.’

  Nobby felt he had tried hard to be friendly but there was a limit to what a man could stand. ‘Right, that does it,’ he said, getting up as quick as his legs could manage it. ‘I know where I’m not wanted.’

  ‘’Ave yer only jus’ found out?’ Jack growled, picking up his pint and taking a large swig.

  ‘Yer askin’ fer a smack on the ’ooter,’ Nobby replied, leaning forward menacingly.

  ‘Oh, an’ who’s gonna do it?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You an’ whose army?’

  ‘Me an’ meself.’

  Jack put his glass down heavily on the table. ‘Why, yer silly ole sod, yer couldn’t punch yer way out of a paper bag.’

  Nobby forgot his promise to himself and raised his fists. ‘C’mon then, on yer feet,’ he snarled.

  Terry Gordon, the new landlord, had been warned about Nobby and he knew from hard experience learned in various other pubs that trouble of this sort had to be nipped in the bud. He had already decided, however, that on this occasion it would be more prudent to use a bit of guile rather than brute force. He quickly slipped through the counter and confronted the sparring ex-docker.

  ‘Now look, Nobby, I’ve ’eard all about you from Alec Crossley,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘Alec told me yer’ve done a bit o’ boxin’ in yer time, is that right?’

  Jack snorted contemptuously and was rewarded with a brief warning glance from the landlord, but Nobby’s face relaxed somewhat and he rolled his shoulders. ‘Yeah, yer could say that,’ he said proudly.

  ‘Well then yer know yer mustn’t get yerself inter scrapes outside the ring, or you’ll get it in the neck if yer get taken ter court,’ the landlord
reminded him.

  Jack was still fuming over his spoilt evening with Maria Phillips. ‘I wouldn’t waste me time takin’ ’im ter court,’ he growled. ‘I’d knock the silly bleeder right out.’

  Terry had succeeded in getting Nobby seated once more by pressing down on the man’s bony shoulder with his large hand, and he turned to Jack. ‘I should ’ave thought yer’d seen enough fightin’ in yer time, you bein’ an ole soldier,’ he said, shaking his head sadly. ‘Now look, why don’t yer call a truce an’ I’ll send yer over a pint each?’

  ‘Suits me,’ Nobby said grinning.

  ‘Righto, guv’nor,’ Jack said grudgingly. ‘Long as ’e don’t start up again.’