Tanner Trilogy 03 - Backstreet Child

by Harry Bowling

  She stepped down from the stationary train and walked briskly from the platform, carrying her service gas mask and steel helmet slung over her shoulder. The soldier who had shared her carriage was a little way in front and Rachel noticed the confident swagger of his broad shoulders. She had been wrong about his height though, she realised. He was just an inch or so taller than she was.

  Outside the bustling railway station Rachel turned left and walked on towards King’s Cross. The soldier was still in front, walking quickly and lengthening the distance between them. At King’s Cross, Rachel hurried across the wide thoroughfare and turned into King’s Cross Road. Ahead was the bus stop and standing there was the young soldier. He grinned at her as she reached the stop and spoke to her for the first time.

  ‘Are yer goin’ over the water?’ he asked casually.

  Rachel nodded. ‘Bermondsey.’

  ‘So am I,’ he replied.

  There was no more time for conversation as the 63 bus drew up.

  ‘On top only,’ the conductor called out.

  Rachel hurried up the stairs and slipped into a seat towards the back of the upper deck, while the soldier was forced to go along to the front of the bus.

  The journey home through familiar surroundings seemed to be over very quickly and at the stop before the Bricklayer’s Arms the young soldier alighted, giving her a cheery grin as he hurried past her. ‘Good luck,’ he said simply.

  At the Bricklayer’s Arms, Rachel got off and decided against waiting for the tram which would take her to Dockhead. It was a warm Friday evening and there was little traffic about. She knew the backstreets well and she was soon nearing the lengthy St James’s Road which led out to the wide Jamaica Road. She could see the Kings Arms now and the still cranes on the river beyond. The sky above was slowly turning a glorious golden hue, and she was suddenly aware of the tang of spice and the sour smell of the river mud. She was home now, back among the folk she had grown up with. She could see the tall spire of St James’s Church, set back from the road, and she remembered the time she had walked through the church gardens with Derek’s arm round her waist. She could see him now in her mind, but mistily.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Frank Galloway poured himself another drink and glanced irritably at the wall clock. It had been a hard, trying day and now it looked like Gloria was going to let him down. He needed to talk to her urgently and as he sat down again in his comfortable leather armchair and sipped his Scotch, he felt worried.

  Gloria would have been able to get him the information he needed. After all she was a street-walker and she had the right contacts. He had met her by chance one evening in a public house near the river and had gone with her to the Rotherhithe flat she rented. That evening he had persuaded her to do a job of work for him and had been pleased at the way in which things had worked out. Gloria had been well paid and Frank had expected her to jump at the chance of another tidy sum. He knew that she could be relied upon to be discreet, and with the new job of work he had in mind for her, discretion was paramount.

  Frank sipped his drink with a moody expression on his broad face. His day had started with two of the drivers off sick, and then he had received a message from Mrs Duffin which said that his father was very poorly and he should call round as soon as possible. He had gone along to Tyburn Square expecting to find his father breathing his last but the old man was sitting up in bed with a glass of whisky in his hand smoking a large cigar.

  ‘It’s me leg,’ George had said gruffly. ‘Can’t put any bloody weight on it an’ Mrs Duffin called the doctor in. It seems I’ve got trouble wiv me sciatic nerve, whatever that may be.’

  ‘Should you be drinking at this time in the morning?’ Frank asked.

  ‘It’s me leg not me bloody stomach,’ George replied sharply. ‘Anyway, at my age what’s the use o’ takin’ notice o’ those quacks? They’re all the bloody same wiv their advice. If they ’ad their way we wouldn’t be able ter do anyfing ’cept give up the ghost.’

  Frank could see that his father was as hale and hearty as ever and he attempted to make his excuses and get away. George had other ideas, however. ‘Pull up a chair, Frank,’ he said benignly. ‘I want ter talk ter yer.’

  Frank did as he was bid. ‘I’ve got problems at the yard, Father,’ he said before George could start. ‘There’s two of the drivers out sick and the rum merchants got a bit shirty because we were late getting a vehicle there. I’m running near to the bone with that contract and if we lose it due to the penalty clause we’ve lost our investment.’

  George seemed uninterested in his son’s predicament and he reached over to the bedside table and picked up his watch and chain. ‘ ’Ow’s Bella and young Caroline?’ he asked.

  Frank was surprised at the question. It was not often that the old man showed any interest in either of them. ‘They’re doing well,’ he replied. ‘Bella’s on a countrywide tour of the service camps and Caroline’s settled in the West Country.’

  ‘It was a shame she couldn’t sire a boy,’ George said, winding the watch slowly. ‘ ’E would ’ave bin finkin’ about comin’ in the business by now.’

  Frank nodded, feeling that the business was the last thing he would inflict on a male offspring. ‘That’s how it goes,’ he muttered.

  George put the watch to his ear and then fiddled with the gold medallion hanging from the chain. ‘ ’As there bin any more news about that extra petrol supply?’ he asked.

  Frank shook his head, watching with irritation as his father’s fingers worked over the medallion. It was a habit the old man had had for years and it seemed more pronounced when he was fishing for answers.

  ‘Anything troubling you, Father?’ Frank asked suddenly.

  The old man chuckled. ‘I can see this irritates yer, boy, it always ’as done. But I wouldn’t be parted wiv this medal. It’s brought me a good deal o’ luck through the years.’

  Frank bit back an angry retort. He remembered well when it was stolen from the office years ago with the watch and chain and then recovered from the thief after he had been killed by a train. It had hung in a pawnbroker’s window before eventually finding its way back to the yard, surviving the fire which killed its third keeper. Frank remembered, too, the police inspector saying that the pawnbroker had told him it was a runic reproduction and had something to do with a Nordic fire god. It had brought nothing but bad luck to the men who had carried it around with them, except for his father.

  ‘Did I ever tell yer about ’ow I came by this?’ the old man asked.

  ‘You took it from a toff in the Old Kent Road,’ Frank replied.

  ‘That’s right, I did. It was a question o’ survival in those days,’ George said with passion. ‘Me an’ Will Tanner slept under the arches and stole from the markets to eat. Many a night we slept wiv our stomachs rumblin’ wiv ’unger. It’s different now though. Yer don’t see the starvin’ kids ’angin’ around the markets these days.’

  Frank was keen to get back to the yard office and he stood up. ‘I’d better be off,’ he said.

  ‘Pity there wasn’t a son from yer marriage,’ George said, toying with the medallion.

  Mrs Duffin was lingering near the bedroom and as Frank came out and shut the door she approached him. ‘I’m sorry ter bovver yer, Mr Galloway, but yer farvver asked me ter post these letters so they’d catch the midday post an’ I can’t leave the ’ouse, the doctor’s due back this mornin’ wiv some medicine an’ ’e’s late. I don’t want ter miss ’im, yer see.’

  Frank nodded. ‘All right, Mrs Duffin, I’ll post them,’ he replied, taking the half-dozen or so letters from her.

  ‘Yer farvver was most concerned about that one,’ she said, pointing to the top letter. ‘’E told me ter make sure it got posted safely.’

  ‘All right, Mrs Duffin, leave it to me,’ Frank told her. ‘Don’t mention that I posted them. You know how fussy he is about such things. If he asks, just tell him you slipped out and posted them yourself.’
>
  Mrs Duffin smiled her thanks. It was a load off her mind to know that the letters were in safe hands.

  Frank had returned to his office directly, with the letters still in his coat pocket. As soon as he was seated at his desk he opened the one Mrs Duffin had pointed out to him. It was addressed to a Mrs Mary O’Reilly and the contents intrigued him. Folded in the paper was a five-pound note and the letter urged the woman to get a good tonic with it. It also asked for George’s best regards to be sent on to ‘young Tony’ and said that the lad would be well looked after in the future.

  Frank sat brooding over the message which he had resealed and sent on. What was the old man playing at? he wondered. Was the boy a love child? Was Mary O’Reilly one of his many women? It seemed a very likely possibility, he thought, bearing in mind how the old man had harped on about him and Bella not being able to produce a male child. It would be just like the silly old fool to give the boy a part of the business.

  The doorbell interrupted his anxious speculation, and when Gloria was made comfortable with a large gin and lemon, Frank had some serious questions to put to her.

  Loud music was blaring out as Rachel and her friend Amy Brody walked into the Samson dance hall in Rotherhithe. Rachel was wearing her uniform, reluctantly, after realising that she had gained a few pounds in weight since joining the WAAF and her two dance dresses no longer fitted her. Amy had dragged her out on her first night home, saying that servicemen and women got in half price and that women in uniform were always being asked to dance. Amy herself was working as a machinist at a factory engaged in making uniforms and she had not been able to enlist in the ATS, much to her chagrin. ‘Some gels get all the luck,’ she moaned to her best friend.

  ‘It’s not all it’s cracked up ter be,’ Rachel said. ‘In our camp there was a couple o’ those manly women. One tried ter cuddle me in the washroom and there was anuvver who tried it on wiv one o’ the ovver gels. She got reported.’

  ‘’Ow ’orrible. It makes me go cold finkin’ about those sort o’ women,’ Amy said with a shudder.

  ‘They’re in every camp, so I’ve bin told,’ Rachel went on, enjoying Amy’s discomfort. ‘They’re really nice gels most of’em, it’s just that they don’t like men. One o’ my friends in camp is a bit like that.’

  ‘Yer don’t let ’er cuddle yer, do yer?’ Amy asked in a shocked voice.

  ‘Course not. We’re jus’ good friends,’ Rachel told her, trying to keep a straight face.

  Amy was feeling a little better now about not being able to join up and she looked around the large hall for a suitable partner. ‘’Ere, Rachel, I like the look of ’im,’ she said giggling.

  The lad in question was dancing confidently with a large partner who towered over him. He glanced over at Amy and appeared to smile at her.

  ‘Did yer see that,’ Amy said excitedly, nudging her friend. ‘I fink ’e’s interested.’

  The music was lively and the two friends soon had partners. Rachel danced first with a bespectacled youth and then with a tall gangling lad who trod on her feet. Amy was enraptured by the attention her admirer was paying her. He seemed to have deserted the large young woman for good and as they danced round the floor, Amy could see the hard looks she was getting.

  The crowded hall quickly became stuffy, and after the third dance Rachel motioned her friend to go with her to the bar which was on the upper floor overlooking the dance area. Amy was feeling thrilled at the prospect of being taken home by her attentive companion and Rachel was pleased that her clumsy dance partner had found another young lady to stamp on.

  As they reached the bar, Amy’s partner came up to her. ‘Would yer care ter join me fer the next dance? It’s fer a spot prize,’ he said excitedly. ‘We stand a good chance ter win it. It’s a foxtrot.’

  Amy hurried away to take part, leaving Rachel standing alone at the bar. People were milling about waiting to get drinks and the bar staff were kept busy. By the time Rachel managed to order a shandy, the spot dance was finished and a disappointed Amy walked from the dance floor seething. She and her partner had been beaten by the large young woman and her new partner. Rachel meanwhile had taken her drink and passed over the money, only to be told that the drink had been paid for. She looked around in surprise and suddenly caught sight of the young soldier standing at the far end of the bar, the young man who had shared her compartment on the train. He was with a group of friends, some in uniform. He smiled and raised his glass then suddenly turned away. Rachel felt her face grow hot and she sipped the shandy self-consciously, glad when Amy rejoined her.

  ‘It wasn’t fair,’ Amy was going on. ‘We were definitely the best couple. I’m sure that fat pig knows the manager. She kept makin’ eyes at ’im.’

  The soldier was looking her way again and Rachel realised that he was trying not to arouse the suspicion of the young woman by his side. Rachel made a pretence of listening to Amy’s incessant chatter. The music started up again, an excuse-me waltz, and Amy was whisked off by her new-found beau. The young woman with the soldier went off to dance with another member of the group and then the soldier came over to Rachel, smiling broadly.

  ‘I was surprised ter see yer ’ere,’ he said, leaning on the bar counter. ‘D’yer come ’ere often?’

  ‘I used to,’ Rachel told him. ‘What about you?’

  ‘This is the first time fer me,’ he said. ‘As a matter o’ fact I’m on compassionate leave fer forty-eight hours. Me mum’s ill in’ospital an’ me friends dragged me out ter cheer me up.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Rachel replied. ‘Is she very ill?’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah. I was ’opin’ ter get a longer leave but it looks like our lot are gonna be movin’ off very soon.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ Rachel said, feeling sorry for him.

  Suddenly the young soldier touched her arm. ‘I gotta go,’ he said quickly. ‘The girl friend’s jus’ bin excused. Talk ter yer later if I get a chance.’

  Rachel watched him walk away with his pronounced swagger and while he was chatting with his friends she stole a few furtive glances his way. He was certainly good-looking. His dark hair tended to curl and his square features were open and friendly. He had a charming smile, too, and his relaxed way of talking had made her feel at ease with him and almost forget that he was a stranger.

  Amy had returned, and during her constant chattering Rachel still took the odd moment to look over at the group. The soldier occasionally glanced over towards her too and once or twice their eyes met very briefly. The girl he was with giggled a lot and seemed flighty, appearing to be out to impress the whole group with her loud talk. Rachel took an immediate dislike to the young woman and began to wish that the soldier would come over and ask her to dance. He had not gone onto the dance floor at all, she noted, and it seemed as though he was not really interested in the dancing.

  Rachel was asked to dance by one or two young men, however, and when at last she had managed to encourage Amy to go for another drink at the bar she was disappointed to find that the group were no longer there. Amy was bubbling, though, as she had made a date with her new-found dancing partner.

  The two friends finally left the dance hall and caught the tram back to Dockhead, and all the while Rachel thought about the soldier at the dance. He was the first man she had found herself remotely interested in since Derek, although she had attended a few camp dances where there were many opportunities for her to date young men. She told herself that it was just as well things had turned out the way they had. The soldier was going off to fight and she would be posted somewhere, maybe miles away from London. To get involved now with anyone would be unwise, and she leaned back against the tram seat and tried to put the brief encounter out of her mind. There were other things to think about.

  Maurice Salter had enjoyed the evening and was feeling very hopeful. It had not been easy for him to form an attachment with a woman after his wife died and he had concerned himself with bringing up his three daughters to the best
of his ability. Now he had new interests.

  Lily had been the one who suggested to him that it was about time he found himself a nice lady friend who would make him happy. Brenda and Barbara, too, had agreed that it was a good idea for him to have some pleasure instead of moping around the house. Maurice knew full well that the girls loved him and wanted him to be happy, but he knew also that his choice of lady friend would be a subject of discussion among his daughters. He knew that Brenda Massey was not their idea of a good companion for him and they had told him so in no uncertain words. Brenda thought that her namesake was a man-eater and Barbara thought that she was flighty, and likely to cause him pain before long. Only Lily gave him her unqualified approval. ‘She seems a nice woman, Dad. Good luck ter yer,’ she had remarked.

  Maurice had been very careful not to rush Brenda into getting between the sheets, although she seemed keen to progress with their courting. The fly in the ointment, as far as Maurice was concerned, was Granny Massey. She was a nasty, interfering old battleaxe, for his money, and she had made it plain to him that he wasn’t her choice of a suitor for her daughter. Brenda told him he should not take any notice of her ageing mother’s attitude and at forty she was old enough to make up her own mind about the men she went out with. Granny Massey did not share her daughter’s opinion, however, and she did all she could to thwart the courtship. Tonight was no exception. As Maurice and Brenda travelled back to Dockhead on the late tram, Granny Massey was ready and waiting.