The chance of earning a little extra money working at the Kings Arms had seemed sensible at the time; he was not to know just how things were going to turn out. Terry Gordon was now spending two nights a week with his cronies and Patricia was taking advantage of his loneliness. She had been very open about the fact that she wanted him and it seemed to Billy that unless he gave up working at the pub, things could get out of hand in a weak moment. Patricia was a very attractive woman and he was very lonely. He would have to be careful not to encourage her in any way, but could he trust himself? It would be best if he left the job, he realised. He could tell her that he found it was too much for him after a hard day’s work, but that wouldn’t cut any ice with her. No, he would have to be honest with her and tell her the real reason why he should leave. But then they would have to make up a good excuse to give to Terry.
Billy slipped on a clean shirt which Danny’s wife Iris had washed and ironed for him and as he brushed his thick hair in front of the mirror his face was set in a serious expression. It was Terry’s night out and no doubt Patricia would make the most of it as usual. He would have to be careful that none of the regulars noticed anything. There might be one who bore a grudge and would take the opportunity to write to Annie. It wouldn’t be the first time that some troublemaker had broken up a marriage by penning poisonous gossip.
Billy let himself out of his house and walked along Page Street deep in thought. The evening was bitterly cold and a coating of fresh snow blanketed the hard cobbles. Ahead he could see the lights from the corner pub shining out into the empty turning and he hunched his shoulders against the cold. There were other considerations to take into account too, he thought. Terry was playing a very dangerous game in consorting with Bruce McKenzie and his mob, and Billy knew that he would be in the firing line should things go wrong. Danny had warned him to get out while he still could and he was right. His old pal would be there beside him if he could be, but it was not right to involve him. There was Iris and the children to consider.
When Billy walked through the door of the Kings Arms he immediately sensed that something was wrong. Patricia was behind the bar as usual but she looked very worried. As he lifted the counter flap and walked through, she nodded towards the saloon bar.
‘There’s a couple o’ strange faces in there an’ they’ve bin askin’ a lot o’ questions,’ she said in a low voice.
‘What sort o’ questions?’ Billy asked.
A customer walked over to the counter and Patricia shook her head. ‘I’ll talk ter yer later,’ she said quickly, giving the elderly man a forced smile.
Billy took off his coat in the back room and rolled up his sleeves before going back into the bar. The few hardy customers who had braved the cold weather sat around the small room, their faces inscrutable, apart from one old lady who bit on her bottom lip and occasionally shook her head as though reminding herself of the dangerous times they were all going through.
Suddenly the door opened and an angry-looking Josiah Dawson stormed into the bar. He looked around for a few moments and then approached Billy.
‘ ’Ere, mate, ’as Maurice Salter bin in yet?’ he asked quickly.
Billy shook his head. It was the first time he had seen Josiah Dawson inside the pub and if the look on the warden’s face was anything to go by, Maurice Salter was in for trouble.
‘I’ve just started work. ’E might ’ave bin in earlier,’ Billy told him with a disarming smile.
‘Well, if yer see ’im tell ’im ter get ’imself round ter my place quick as ’e can, if ’e knows what’s good fer ’im,’ Josiah growled.
Billy watched the irate man leave the bar then he turned towards Tom Casey who was sitting by himself in the corner. ‘What’s all that about?’ he asked.
Casey scratched his bald head and stared back at Billy. ‘Search me,’ he said.
‘Blackout,’ a voice piped in.
‘I beg yer pardon,’ Billy said, turning to look at the dapper Bert Jolly.
‘Blackout, that’s what I said,’ Bert repeated. ‘I bought four yards meself an’ the bloody stuff ain’t werf a carrot. Yer can see right frew it. I reckon them there fifth-columnists are be’ind it. Wait till I see Maurice Salter, ’e’ll ’ave a bit of explainin’ ter do, mark my words.’
Billy grinned and got on with polishing glasses, until Patricia suddenly popped her head round the corner. ‘They’ve gone,’ she said with obvious relief.
Billy walked over to her. ‘What’s goin’ on?’ he asked.
She laid her hand on his bare arm and squeezed it. ‘I thought they were ’tecs at first,’ she said in a shaky voice. ‘They was askin’ a lot o’ questions, then I realised they was villains. They asked me about where Terry was and then they said do I get any’tecs in ’ere. They fair scared me. One of’em ’ad this funny look.’
‘Funny look?’
‘Yeah. The short bloke ’ad this funny eye,’ Patricia told him. ‘It was all faded, sort o’ milky lookin’, an’ ’e kept grinnin’ at me. That evil leer of ’is sent shivers down me spine.’
Billy looked around the bar to make sure he would not be overheard, then he turned to Patricia. ‘Yer’d better tell Terry soon as ’e gets in,’ he said. ‘If I’m not mistaken they’ll be part o’ the McKenzie mob an’ they’ve come ter let yer know they’re weighin’ the place up.’
Patricia’s face turned pale and she bit on her lip in anguish. ‘I wish I knew what was goin’ on,’ she groaned. ‘Terry won’t tell me much an’ every time I bring up the subject ’e tells me ter shut up. I’m fair worried fer the both of us, Billy. Fer you as well, come ter that. I couldn’t blame yer if yer got out while yer still can.’
Billy blew deeply and then gave her a reassuring smile. ‘I’m not leavin’ yer while fings are the way they are,’ he told her, immediately wishing he had not said it. ‘It’d be different if Terry didn’t leave yer alone in the pub.’
Patricia’s face took on a firm look. ‘Well, I’m ’avin’ it out wiv ’im when ’e comes in ternight. I can’t stand much more o’ this,’ she said, her voice faltering.
The rest of the evening seemed to drag on for Billy, with only a few customers to take care of, then at ten o’clock Maurice Salter walked in the public bar.
‘Gis a pint o’ bitter, Billy,’ he said, leaning his forearms on the polished counter.
Billy pulled down on the beer pump and out of the corner of his eye he spotted Bert Jolly approaching. He could also see Tom Casey and Charlie Alcroft exchanging expectant grins.
‘Jus’ the bloke I wanna see,’ Bert said, leaning on the counter close to an apprehensive-looking Maurice. ‘That blackout curtainin’ yer bin peddlin’. It’s bloody rubbish.’
Maurice had just finished his late shift at the gasworks and was feeling tired. He had also been stopped on his way to the pub by one of the neighbours who informed him that an angry Josiah Dawson was looking for him. He knew now that his little venture into the drapery business had not been such a good idea after all. He remembered that his three daughters had been quick to warn him that he was trading on very dangerous ground recruiting a man like Josiah to act as his agent. Maurice, being a man of considerable resourcefulness and guile, had already realised that things needed thinking out carefully, and by the time he had finally reached the Kings Arms he felt reasonably able to deal with the looming crisis.
‘You’re quite right,’ he told an irate Bert.
‘Oh?’ was all the startled pensioner could say.
‘Yeah, Bert. The bloody stuff is rubbish, in the normal manner o’ fings,’ Maurice went on, sipping his frothing pint.
‘So yer admit it then?’ Bert said.
Maurice wiped the froth from his lips with the back of his hand and grinned cheekily at the pensioner. ‘Yer see, Bert, we’re not talkin’ about the normal manner o’ fings in this case,’ he said in a low voice.
‘Ain’t we?’ queried Bert, puzzled. ‘I thought we was talkin’ about four yards o’ blackout cur
tain that’s so bleedin’ skimpy it don’t shut out any light whatsoever. What’s more, Josiah Dawson told me yer was sellin’ the best blackout stuff money could buy. Two an’ elevenpence three farthin’s a yard yer charged me. Bloody ’ell, I could ’ave bought better stuff orf a stall fer less than that.’
Maurice hid his irritation. He realised he might well have to return the pensioner’s money, and there was no way he was going to be able to get the fourpence commission back which he had already paid to the street warden. He leaned his elbow on the counter and winked at his angry neighbour.
‘’Ave yer ever ’eard o’ Shantung silk?’ he asked.
‘What?’ Bert said, shaking his head.
‘Well, Shantung silk comes from China, but yer can’t buy it these days, not since the Japs overran Shantung,’ Maurice started to explain. ‘They used Shantung silk ter make dresses fer the upper-crust women. Cost a fortune, it did. Anyway, the stuff I sold you was Chunking silk, which is even better than the ovver stuff. It’s very fine fabric, that’s why the light shows frew it.’
Bert frowned and looked disbelievingly at Maurice. ‘Yer’avin’ me on, ain’t yer?’ he growled.
Maurice held both hands up. ‘Would I do that ter you, Bert?’ he asked. ‘Now look. Let me explain. Before Chunking was overrun by the Japs, the Chinese merchants dyed all their rolls o’ Chunking silk black, so as ter disguise it, in case it got nicked, yer see. Then they transported it ’alfway across China, realisin’ that when it got there they could boil all the colour out of it an’ Bob’s yer uncle. Trouble was the stuff got mislaid durin’ the long journey an’ it was sold as blackout material ter this country by certain exporters who didn’t know their arses from their elbows.’
‘So what yer tellin’ me is, I got four yards o’ Chunking silk up at me winders,’ Bert cut in.
‘’S’right,’ Maurice said grinning broadly.
‘But it ain’t no bleedin’ good if it don’t keep the light in,’ Bert said, his anger rising again.
Maurice laid his hand on Bert’s arm reassuringly. ‘Just fink fer a minute,’ he urged him. ‘That blackout material I sold yer is an investment. Buy anuvver four yards an’ double it up. That’ll do the trick. Then, when this bloody war’s over, yer can boil it ter take the colour out, an’ crash bang wallop, yer got yerself eight yards o’ the finest silk money can buy. All the young ladies are gonna want new dresses when this lot’s over, that’s fer sure. Yer’ll make a fortune.’
‘Well, if that’s the case, why d’yer sell it in the first place?’ Bert asked him. ‘Why don’t you make the fortune?’
Maurice kept the pensioner waiting while he took another large gulp from his glass. ‘ ’Cos I’m a man o’ principle, that’s why,’ he finally said with passion. ‘Josiah Dawson got me all the orders an’ I couldn’t let the man down, nor the customers, now could I?’
‘But yer must ’ave told Josiah it was blackout stuff fer ’im ter get yer the orders,’ Bert argued.
‘I didn’t know at the time,’ Maurice said, looking aggrieved. ‘I only found out meself by accident. Young Brenda boiled the curtains an’ while she was at it she done the blackout as well. Very thorough is my Brenda. Anyway, there it was starin’ us in the face. She couldn’t believe it when she took it out o’ the copper. Reco’nised what it was straightaway, she did. I was sick, ter tell yer the trufe, but what could I do, bein’ a man o’ principle. Some yer win, some yer lose.’
‘Well, in that case yer better sell us anuvver four yards then,’ Bert said.
At that minute Josiah Dawson walked into the pub. ‘Jus’ the bloke I wanna see,’ he growled at Maurice.
The hassled wheeler-dealer put his empty glass down on the counter and turned to face Josiah. ‘Look, I can’t stop now. Bert Jolly’ll explain everyfing,’ he said, making for the door.
Chapter Fifteen
As the bitterly cold winter days dragged on, Carrie became increasingly worried. There had been no letter from the rum factors to renew the contract, and to add to her problems Rachel had returned home late one afternoon to announce that she had volunteered for the WAAF. There had been tears and pleading from Carrie for her daughter to reconsider, but it was to no avail.
‘It’s no good, Mum, I’ve made my mind up,’ Rachel had said quietly. ‘I need ter get away. Not from you an’ Joe, but from this area. Everywhere I go I can see Derek. It’s as though ’e’s still’ere wiv me. Yer’ve got to understand.’
Carrie recalled the heartbreak she had felt as she hugged Rachel, and the hard tone Joe had adopted with her when she tried to use the business as an excuse to keep her daughter at home.
‘Look, Carrie, yer not bein’ fair ter the gel,’ he had told her. ‘She’s spent enough years cleanin’ an’ fetchin’ an’ carryin’ when yer farvver was ill. We can manage the paperwork between us. Don’t make the gel feel guilty about leavin’ us. Besides, she’s right about gettin’ away from around ’ere. It’ll be good fer ’er.’
Carried could still remember clearly the way it hurt him when she barked back at him, ‘It’s all right fer you, she’s not your daughter.’
He had turned away with a sad look on his handsome face but she pulled on his arm quickly and then melted into his arms, her apologies for her hasty words dissolving into sobs. He had held her close and stroked her back, the way he always did to give her comfort.
‘I’m sorry, Joe,’ she told him. ‘Yer’ve bin like a dad ter Rachel an’ she loves yer every bit as much as I do. I’m so sorry.’
Carrie was grateful for the comfort Joe had been to her these last few months, and now, as the deadline for the rum contract arrived, he was as supportive and optimistic as ever.
‘It could be in the mail,’ he said. ‘Everything’s late these days. Even the postmen are gettin’ called up.’
Carrie laughed at his pathetic excuse but she knew that he was as worried as she was. The contract must have gone to another transport firm, but she wondered why. Her rates were competitive, and Paddy Byrne her regular driver for the contract was beyond reproach. There had never been any complaints about his work, and he had told her only a few weeks ago that there didn’t seem to be any reason why the contract would not be renewed.
‘There’s got ter be a reason why we’ve lost that business,’ Carrie said as she sat with Joe beside a roaring fire on Friday evening.
‘I s’pose we’ve bin underbid,’ Joe said, staring into the flames.
‘I can’t see that,’ Carrie replied. ‘Our rates are rock bottom. If any firm went lower they’d ’ave no margin o’ profit, or very little. Yer can’t go any lower than us an’ survive fer long, I’m sure o’ that.’
‘P’haps money’s changed ’ands,’ Joe volunteered.
Carrie shook her head emphatically. ‘It can’t be that. It’s always bin a board decision. They wouldn’t all be open ter bribes, surely?’
Joe shrugged his shoulders. ‘It beats me,’ he said, still staring into the fire.
The sound of the gate bell startled them and Joe eased himself out of his chair and hurried from the room. Carrie frowned. Rachel was in her room and her mother had been in bed for the past few days with bronchitis. It was very rare that anyone would call at this time of night, she thought.
Joe returned with Dolly Dawson, who nodded cheerfully to Carrie.
‘I’m sorry ter trouble yer at this time o’ the evenin’, luv, but I bin finkin’ over what your Danny said about the job fer Wallace,’ she said, standing in the doorway. ‘At first I didn’t fink’e was up to it, that’s why I never come round ter see yer, but it was your Danny who got me ter change me mind.’
Carrie motioned Dolly to a seat by the fire. ‘’Ow did ’e manage that?’
‘Well, it was like this, yer see,’ Dolly began. ‘This mornin’ your Danny asked me if I’d come ter see yer an’ I ’ad ter tell ’im no. Then ’e asked me whyever not. Don’t get me wrong, luv, Wallace is not a wilful sort o’ lad. ’E’s good as gold when ’e’s left alo
ne, but ’e is inclined ter get excitable, especially when people take the piss – I mean the rise out of ’im. I was finkin’ the drivers might take it out of ’im, Wallace bein’ the way ’e is, if yer understand me meanin’. Then I wasn’t sure if the lad was up ter sweepin’ the yard an’ keepin’ it clean. Your Danny said there’d be no trouble from yer drivers, ’cos they’d be out all day, an’ ’e said that ’e was sure Wallace could keep the place clean.’E’s a lovely boy, your Danny. So is ’is wife Iris. And those kids o’ theirs. A credit ter the two of ’em, they are.’
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