Tanner Trilogy 03 - Backstreet Child

by Harry Bowling

  ‘I enjoyed the film, Brenda, didn’t you?’ Maurice asked.

  ‘Yeah, an’ the fish an’ chips went down well,’ Brenda told him. ‘The pub was a bit packed though,’ she remarked.

  ‘Still, we got a seat, eventually,’ he said.

  Brenda slipped her arm through his as they sat on the upper deck of the tram and leaned against him provocatively. ‘I wish we ’ad somewhere ter go where we could be really private,’ she said in a husky voice.

  Maurice pulled a face. ‘We can’t go ter my place, the gels are always poppin’ in an’ out,’ he groaned.

  ‘I can’t relax at my place,’ Brenda frowned. ‘I’m always frightened Mum’s gonna come down an’ walk in on us.’

  Maurice had thought about tying a rope across the banisters or maybe connecting Granny Massey’s bedroom doorknob to the electricity supply, but he felt that Brenda wouldn’t take too kindly to it. After all, the old witch was her mother, bad as she was. The alternative was to cosset the old girl and win her over; hence the flowers.

  Brenda let herself into the house and immediately sensed that all was not well. Her usual greeting was not answered and she gave Maurice a worried frown as he followed her into the passage. ‘Mum never goes ter sleep before I get in,’ Brenda remarked.

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ Maurice mumbled.

  As she entered the parlour to hang up her coat, Brenda gasped. Granny Massey was sitting back in the easy chair beside the empty grate, a blanket thrown over her frail shoulders and a handkerchief held up to her mouth. On the table there was a glass of water, a bottle of smelling salts, and the flowers Maurice had given her. All the blooms had dropped from the stems, which were laid out as though for inspection.

  ‘Whatever’s wrong?’ Brenda asked, kneeling down at her mother’s side.

  ‘I came over queer as I was turnin’ in,’ Granny whispered. ‘I came down fer a glass o’ water an’ must ’ave fainted. When I come round I dragged meself inter the chair an’ all I could see was those bloody fings there on the table. That’s what made me ill, them,’ she croaked, pointing to the withered flowers.

  Maurice would have gladly strangled the old lady there and then, but he knelt down beside Brenda and gave the old woman a cheery smile. ‘I’m sorry, luv,’ he said. ‘They was lovely when I bought ’em.’

  ‘When was that, last month?’ Granny chided him.

  ‘I’m sure Maurice couldn’t ’ave known they’d die off so soon,’ Brenda remarked.

  ‘Oh yes ’e did,’ the old lady replied. ‘ ’E did it on purpose.’E’s never liked me. I’m only in ’is way. I know.’

  Brenda had wanted this evening to be special; she had been prepared to allow Maurice into her bedroom, as soon as her mother went to sleep. Now, though, she felt that it had all been spoilt because of her mother’s unreasonable behaviour. ‘Maurice wouldn’t do that, Mum, ’e really likes yer,’ she said with feeling. ‘’E wanted ter please yer wiv those flowers.’

  ‘Please me?’ the old lady croaked. ‘’E done it on purpose, I tell yer. Just smell ’em. ’E’s put some poison on ’em. Go on, smell ’em.’

  Brenda reached for the stems and sniffed them. Her face suddenly darkened and she turned to glare at Maurice. ‘’Ow could you?’ she said with passion. ‘Of all the dirty, wicked tricks. Maurice Salter, I never want ter see yer ugly face again as long as I live. Get out!’

  Maurice sadly made his way home, feeling that he should have stuck to his ducking and diving instead of dabbling with the unfamiliar pastime of chasing the ladies.

  Gloria Simpson took a pocket mirror from her handbag and studied her face once more, her thoughts centred on the meeting she had had with Frank Galloway a couple of nights ago. The Horse and Groom public house was filling up and she felt a little less conspicuous. Being conspicuous normally never troubled Gloria, in fact it aided her in her profession, but tonight she had good reason to want to blend in with the surroundings. Since Frank had come into her life, things had changed for the better. It was in this very pub that she had solicited him when he called in looking very sorry for himself. He had allowed her to approach him and he had bought her a drink before he realised that she was a professional woman of the streets. Taking him back to her seedy flat in Rotherhithe for the night was the best thing she could have done. Instead of wanting to climb into bed as quickly as possible like all her other clients, Frank Galloway seemed more inclined to talk. He was very drunk and obviously feeling very miserable. He had wanted a sympathetic ear and Gloria did not mind in the least. Her house rule was that men paid her on entry to her flat and Frank obliged without question. The fact that he spent two hours talking to her was no problem for Gloria, and when he had exhausted himself with his ramblings and fallen into a drunken sleep on her sofa, she covered him with a blanket and went off to bed. Next morning he could hardly remember any of the evening and she played her part very well. The bruises on her arm and leg had been caused by a previous client who took pleasure in brutalising her and Gloria used the marks of violence to good effect. Frank Galloway was full of apologies for being so rough with her and asked to see her again.

  The chance encounter had worked out very well for her, and Frank had now become a regular visitor to her flat. Recently he had taken her home to his smart house in Ilford and arranged a job of work for her. The payment was more than Gloria could have hoped to earn in a full week on the streets and Frank Galloway was very pleased with her performance. Now he had given her another job to do and she was eager to make a success of it, after he had promised her a handsome reward.

  The public house in a little backstreet near the Surrey Docks was frequented by merchant seamen from Scandinavia and Russia who crewed the timber ships, as well as the local dockland folk. Frank Galloway had gone there that first evening to talk business with a prospective customer who had not shown up, and he had met Gloria instead.

  She gazed casually round the bar and sipped her gin and tonic. Her friend was late and she did not want to attract the attention of a prospective client before she arrived. Gloria operated from the Horse and Groom and would have preferred to have the meeting elsewhere but her old friend knew the whereabouts of the pub and had insisted that they meet there.

  A couple of the customers who knew her were sniggering at one end of the bar and a middle-aged man in a dark pinstripe suit occasionally lifted his head from the evening paper and gave her an inquisitive glance. Gloria looked up at the large clock at the back of the counter and decided to give her friend another ten minutes.

  It was exactly eight minutes later when Lola Fields walked into the Horse and Groom. She looked flushed and out of breath and as she spotted Gloria she sighed with relief. ‘I thought I’d missed yer, Gloria,’ she said, sitting down heavily in the chair.

  ‘I was just about ter leave,’ Gloria replied a little irritably.

  ‘There was a tram breakdown an’ the bleedin’ fings were lined up all along as far as the tunnel,’ Lola told her. ‘I ’ad ter walk most o’ the way.’

  ‘Anyway, yer made it,’ Gloria smiled, taking an envelope from her handbag and putting it down on the table. ‘Now listen,’ she began. ‘I want yer ter get me some information. I know yer work the Ole Kent Road pubs, so yer shouldn’t ’ave much trouble gettin’ me what I want. There’s money in there fer yer trouble, an’ if yer do a good job there’s a bonus ter come.’

  Lola’s eyes lit up and she reached for the envelope, but Gloria stopped her by placing her hand over it.

  ‘Before yer take this job on, there’s one or two fings yer should know,’ she said in a low voice. ‘First of all, nobody, an’ I mean nobody, must know what yer doin’. Is that understood?’

  Lola nodded her head vigorously, beginning to feel excited.

  ‘Next, I want yer ter memorise the address an’ instructions then get rid o’ the paper,’ Gloria told her. ‘I don’t want the police askin’ questions if they pull yer in fer solicitin’. Is that clear?’

  Lola nodded
again, and then Gloria handed her the envelope. ‘Put that in yer bag, an’ I’ll get yer a drink,’ she said.

  ‘What’s it all about?’ Lola asked as they sipped their gins.

  Gloria gave her old friend a steely look. ‘Survival, Lola.’

  Chapter Twenty

  On Friday evening, 10 May, Fred Dougall hobbled down Page Street holding the Evening Standard in his hand. ‘They’re on the move!’ he told Maudie Mycroft as he passed by her front door and saw her cleaning the windows.

  Maudie went in and woke up her husband Ernest who was snoozing in his favourite armchair. ‘They’re on the move!’ she told him.

  ‘Who are?’

  ‘I dunno, somebody must be.’

  ‘Who said?’

  ‘Fred Dougall.’

  ‘Well, ’e should know,’ Ernest mumbled.

  Fred’s wife Maisie was standing at her front door talking to Sadie and when she saw Fred approaching with a serious look on his face, she nudged her friend. ‘Somefink’s up,’ she said.

  Sadie, like Maisie, was now in her mid-seventies and not easily excited by trivalities, but she too could see by Fred’s serious expression that something important was happening. ‘Wonder what’s goin’ on,’ she said.

  ‘They’ve invaded ’Olland an’ Belgium,’ Fred announced as he reached them.

  ‘Who ’as?’ Maisie asked.

  ‘Well, it’s not us, yer silly mare,’ Fred said sharply.

  The two women stared at the headlines. ‘Gawd! It looks bad,’ Sadie remarked.

  ‘It’s all gonna blow up now, mark my words,’ Fred told them. ‘They’re gonna put the ARP an’ civil defence services on the alert.’

  ‘Does that mean we’re gonna be invaded too?’ Maisie asked him.

  ‘Course it don’t,’ Fred said quickly, trying to reassure the frightened-looking pair.

  Maudie hurried up to the group. ‘It’s jus’ come over the wireless,’ she said excitedly. ‘The Dutch ’ave opened the floodgates. They’re floodin’ the ’ole country.’

  ‘What they doin’ that for?’ Maisie asked.

  ‘Ter stop the Germans,’ Fred replied.

  Maisie and Sadie exchanged puzzled glances while Fred walked into the house to hear the rest of the news. Maudie looked worried, her eyes going from one to the other of her old friends, hoping for some comment from them that would make her feel easier, but the two merely stared down the turning as though waiting for the hordes to appear.

  ‘I jus’ bin talkin’ ter that man at the fruit stall,’ Maudie said. ‘’E made me go cold all over wiv what ’e said.’

  ‘What did ’e say?’ Sadie asked, hardly interested.

  Maudie pulled a face. ‘’E said that if the Germans got ’ere,’e’d cut all ’is children’s froats sooner than let them get ’em.’

  ‘’E should be locked up fer sayin’ such fings,’ Maisie growled.

  ‘Yer don’t fink we’ll be invaded, do yer?’ Maudie asked them, her eyes flitting nervously from one to the other.

  ‘Course not, yer silly cow,’ Sadie replied quickly. ‘Not jus’ yet anyway.’

  Maudie picked up her shopping bag. ‘I’m gonna ’ave anuvver word wiv my sister an’ see if me an’ Ernest can go an’ stay wiv ’er,’ she mumbled. ‘I fink we’ll be better orf away from London.’

  ‘Where’s she live?’ Maisie asked.

  ‘Pratt’s Bottom.’

  ‘Never ’eard of it.’

  ‘It’s in Kent.’

  ‘Yer might be all right there,’ Sadie cut in. ‘I don’t s’pose the Germans ’ave ’eard of it eivver. They might give it a miss if they do invade.’

  Maudie walked away mumbling to herself and her two friends exchanged grins. ‘I do feel sorry fer ’er sometimes,’ Maisie remarked.

  ‘I do too, the silly ole cow,’ Sadie replied.

  Joe Maitland locked up the yard gate and went into the house just in time to hear the news. ‘It looks bad,’ he said.

  Carrie sat back in her armchair and stared into the empty grate with a serious look on her face. ‘There’s bin no letter from Rachel,’ she said. ‘I’m gettin’ worried.’

  Joe turned down the wireless and sat down facing Carrie. ‘I shouldn’t worry too much, luv,’ he said quietly. ‘She did say she was gonna be posted. It’ll take ’er a time ter get settled. Yer can’t expect ’er ter write too often.’

  Carrie shrugged her shoulders. ‘I dunno what ter fink,’ she sighed.

  Nellie walked into the parlour and Joe got up to give her his chair. ‘I’ll make us a nice cuppa,’ he said.

  ‘That’s Joe’s answer to everyfing,’ Carrie smiled at her mother.

  Nellie took her seat and reached down for her needlework. ‘I’m gonna go round an’ see our Danny an’ Iris later,’ she announced. ‘The way fings are goin’, those kids o’ theirs should be evacuated.’

  ‘They’ll ’ave ter make their own minds up, Mum. Yer can’t interfere,’ Carrie replied, sounding a little sharp.

  Nellie looked sternly at her daughter over her steel-rimmed spectacles. ‘Well, I fink they should ’urry up an’ make their minds up,’ she said. ‘If yer farvver was ’ere ’e’d ’ave somefink ter say about it.’

  Carrie felt disinclined to continue the conversation, considering her mother’s mood, and she settled down to read the evening paper.

  ‘I dreamed about yer bruvver Charlie last night,’ Nellie said suddenly. ‘ ’E was standin’ in this field an’ there was all people around ’im. I waved to ’im but ’e just ignored me. It was the first time fer ages I’ve dreamed about ’im. Last time I did there was a letter from ’im a week later.’

  ‘P’haps yer’ll get a letter soon, Mum,’ Carrie said encouragingly.

  Nellie put down her embroidery and reached for her handbag which was lying at her feet, rummaging inside it until she found the dog-eared photograph of her middle son. ‘ ’E looks thin in that picture,’ she remarked. ‘Mind you, it must take the weight off yer in that sort o’ climate. In ’is last letter ’e promised ter send some new photos of Lorna an’ the children. They must be gettin’ big now.’

  Carrie looked up from the paper and saw that familiar wistful look on her mother’s lined face. She had often said that she never expected to live long enough to see her son again and she could well be right, Carrie thought. The war looked as though it would drag on for years and her mother was getting exceedingly frail.

  Joe came into the room carrying cups of tea, and as Nellie sipped hers noisily, her eyes stared ahead, her mind going back through the years. Charlie was leaving for India and there was so much she wanted to tell him, so much to say, but the lump in her throat had choked the words and the tears had misted her last look at him. She remembered his heavy tread down the old wooden stairs of the tenement block, and she remembered in her misery cursing the very name of the man who had been the cause of his leaving.

  Billy Sullivan had been true to his word and no longer worked at the Kings Arms. Terry had asked him to remain for a little longer but Billy was adamant. The parting was amicable and Billy still used the pub, along with his old friend Danny Tanner. On a warm Friday evening at the end of May, they were sitting together in the public bar discussing the latest bad news.

  ‘They’ve got fousands out already an’ accordin’ ter the paper they reckon they’ll get most of ’em ’ome,’ Billy said, sipping his pint.

  Danny nodded. ‘I was lookin’ at the map o’ Dunkirk in terday’s paper,’ he remarked. ‘It’s not far from some of our ole battlefields.’

  Billy nodded. ‘Once France falls, they’ll be facin’ us over a very narrer strip o’ water, Danny,’ he said raising his eyebrows.

  ‘Me an’ Iris ’ave decided about the kids,’ Danny said, picking up his pint.

  ‘Are yer sendin’ ’em off?’ Billy asked.

  ‘No, we’ve decided against it,’ Danny told him. ‘We give it a lot o’ thought an’ we came ter the conclusion that we’ll keep ’em wiv us. Iris can
’t bear ter be parted from ’em an’ she said that if anyfing ’appens to us then we’ll all go tergevver.’