Tanner Trilogy 03 - Backstreet Child

by Harry Bowling

  ‘Well, I s’pose there’s a few Germans that can read English,’ he sighed, wishing he had never mentioned the signposts.

  Daniel was feeling better by now and he ventured up to the Kings Arms for a pint one evening, only to be cornered by Bert Jolly.

  ‘What they could do is come up the Thames in a submarine,’ Bert remarked, ‘land at Westminster pier an’ they’d be in Parliament before yer knew it. After all, there’s only one copper standin’ on the gate, an’ all ’e’s got is a bloody gas-mask case. What would ’e be able ter do ter stop ’em, smash ’em wiv ’is gas mask?’

  ‘Who yer talkin’ about?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘Why the Germans o’ course,’ Bert replied.

  ‘That wouldn’t work, the tide changes too quick,’ Daniel told him.

  ‘I know that, an’ you know that, an’ the bloody Germans will too, what wiv all those fifth columnists we’ve got,’ Bert went on. ‘They could come up on the tide, take over the Parliament an’ Bob’s yer uncle.’

  ‘An’ Fanny’s yer bleedin’ aunt,’ Daniel growled. ‘I’ve never’eard so much tosh in all me life. Submarines up the Thames indeed.’

  ‘Well, they got one in Scapa Flow, didn’t they?’ Bert persisted.

  ‘Scapa Flow is a bit wider than the Thames, an’ a lot deeper,’ Daniel said. ‘They’d be better orf rowin’ across the Channel, comin’ up on the Brighton Belle an’ doin’ the London bit by Underground. Mind you, that wouldn’t go down well wiv the passengers. Fancy ’avin’ ter give yer seat up ter some scruffy German soldier.’

  Bert realised that his perspicacious idea was being ridiculed and he turned his attention to the domino team. Daniel settled himself by the counter sipping his pint of ale and soon he was joined by Maurice Salter, who was feeling depressed by the day’s events.

  ‘I knew I should ’ave stayed in bed terday,’ he groaned.

  ‘Why’s that then?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘Well, I was on early shift this mornin’ an’ I thought I’d try out me new bike,’ Maurice said.

  ‘Yer got a new bike, then?’

  ‘Well, it ain’t a new bike really, only a second-’and one, but it’s a good runner,’ Maurice told the ex-docker. ‘Got four speeds, it ’as. The cogs need a good oilin’, but it’s in fair condition. Trouble was, the bleedin’ dynamo packed up this mornin’ before I got ter work, an’ the bleedin’ coppers stopped me fer ’avin’ no lights. Anyway, I thought ter meself, Maurice, I said, yer better fink of a good excuse or yer in fer a fine. One o’ me stoker mates got fined twenty shillin’s last week fer no lights.’

  ‘What did yer tell ’em?’ Daniel asked, beginning to wish he had stayed indoors and sent Sadie up to the jug bar for a pint of each.

  ‘Well, I said that I wasn’t on early shift this week but there was a shortage o’ stokers due ter sickness and the guv’nor sent fer me ter do an extra shift,’ Maurice told him. ‘Anyway, the coppers seemed satisfied wiv me explanation, ’specially when I said that me guv’nor told me I was ter get ter work as quick as possible.’

  ‘So yer got orf, then?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘Nah, I got nicked,’ Maurice replied.

  ‘ ’Ow comes?’

  ‘Well, as I started pedallin’ away, me saddlebag fell orf the back o’ the bike,’ Maurice told him.

  ‘So?’

  ‘All the tins o’ corned beef fell out in the road.’

  ‘So yer got done fer black-market stuff, then?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘I’m bailed to appear on Monday,’ Maurice replied.

  ‘There’s a bit in the paper terday about a bloke gettin’ nicked for black-market corned beef,’ Daniel told him. ‘Six months’’ard labour, ’e got.’

  Maurice groaned aloud and leaned his elbows on the bar counter dejectedly. ‘Six months’ ’ard labour!’ he repeated.

  ‘Don’t fret,’ Daniel told him. ‘Breakin’ stones on Dartmoor can’t be much ’arder than shovellin’ coal at the gasworks.’

  Maurice finished his pint and left the pub, wondering what his daughters would have to say about the latest in his catalogue of disasters.

  Rachel Bradley had been posted to an emergency airfield that had only just been set up in Kent and she joined the plotting team. West Marden was home to a Spitfire squadron and Rachel found the job different and exciting, taking calls from various sources and passing the information to colleagues who plotted the positions and strength of aircraft activity over the Channel and south coast. The plotters used large rods to push and pull counters over a huge horizontal map of southern England, and all the time the activity was monitored by senior officers sitting on the balcony above the central area.

  Rachel soon made friends with the other aircraftwomen, or ACWs as they were called, and got to know one in particular, a young woman named Mary Hannen from north London. Mary had a well-to-do boy friend called Timothy Jarman who came down by car to collect her on the two occasions she managed to get a weekend pass. They seemed a happy couple. From the snippets Rachel had picked up in conversation, he seemed to be working on something top secret. It figured, she thought, considering that the petrol rationing did not seem to affect the handsome young man, who looked fit enough to be in the armed forces.

  Rachel’s early days at West Marden were happy ones. She felt that she had finally come to terms with losing Derek, and she did not mind being away from home any more. She knew that her decision to join up had been the right one. She thought sometimes about the young soldier she had met while on leave and wondered what had happened to him. Maybe she would go along to the Samson dance hall in Rotherhithe on her next weekend leave, although she did not hold out much hope of seeing him there. Still, there were things happening here, she thought. The camp dance this weekend was likely to be a good one, with servicemen and women coming from other camps in the area.

  On Friday there was a briefing during which the solemn-looking group captain warned all personnel to be on their toes, adding that there were likely to be mass raids on airfields and installations prior to an invasion attempt. All leave was cancelled, which upset Mary Hannen more than anybody, but the dance would take place.

  Early on Saturday evening Rachel’s friend confided in her. ‘I really wanted to see Timothy this weekend,’ she said sadly. ‘He’s going away for a few weeks on this special course. He was going to book us into a hotel up west.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Rachel replied, glancing into her hand mirror and pursing her lips. ‘Still, I’m sure there’ll be anuvver chance soon.’

  Mary looked worried. ‘Tim works with the War Office,’ she said quietly. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you, but I know you’ll not let on. It’s something to do with bombs and mines. It’s very dangerous work.’

  Rachel smiled at her as she stood up and adjusted the collar of her uniform. ‘Don’t worry, Mary, yer secret’s safe wiv me. Now ’ow about us gettin’ over ter the NAAFI, or all the best fellers are gonna be spoken for.’

  Gloria Simpson was feeling pleased with herself as she waited for Frank Galloway in the Lyons tea rooms at the Bricklayer’s Arms. He had promised to meet her there at three o’clock that afternoon and she was sure that he would be pleased with the information she had gathered from her friend Lola. Frank had promised her a sum of money for her assistance, but Gloria felt that there were more substantial rewards in the offing, if she played her cards right. Frank’s marriage was on the rocks and he seemed keen to progress with their affair. He was obviously a wealthy businessman, and there was a mysterious side to him which she found exciting. He was so different from the men she was used to associating with. With luck she would soon be able to give up the game and let Frank take care of her.

  At ten minutes past three Frank hurried into the tea rooms and flopped down heavily on the chair facing Gloria. ‘The old man held me up,’ he moaned. ‘He called in just as I was getting ready to leave the yard.’

  Gloria put on her best smile and touched his hand gently. ‘Never mind, luv, yer not lat
e,’ she said.

  Frank hid his revulsion and rewarded her with a brief smile in return. ‘Well, what have you got for me?’ he asked, trying not to look too enthusiastic.

  Gloria reached into her handbag, took out a small notebook and opened it. ‘Right, ’ere we are,’ she replied. ‘Mary O’Reilly is in ’er late fifties. She’s a widow whose ole man died some years ago. ’Er boy Tony is in the army an’ jus’ got back from Dunkirk. She lives alone at that address.’

  ‘What about the boy?’ Frank asked impatiently. ‘Where’s he live?’

  ‘’E lives wiv ’is muvver, when ’e’s on leave,’ Gloria told him.

  Frank nodded. ‘What about the woman’s habits?’ he asked.

  ‘What d’yer mean?’ Gloria queried.

  ‘Well, does she drink, and if so what pub does she use? Is she in the habit of going to the music hall and suchlike?’

  ‘Don’t yer want ter know a lot,’ Gloria remarked, smiling at him again.

  Frank was not amused and he gave her a cold look. ‘Now listen, Gloria,’ he said. ‘I’ve a very good reason for wanting to know all I can about the O’Reillys, mother and son. I can’t tell you why just yet, but I will, when it’s right. Suffice it to say that it’s very important to me that I learn all I can as soon as possible. Now you go back and get what information you can. I’ll contact you before the week’s out.’

  Gloria looked crestfallen. ‘Ain’t we goin’ out ternight?’ she asked him.

  Frank was looking forward to an evening with one of Bella’s younger and equally flighty friends, a very attractive lady who was the soul of discretion. ‘No, I can’t make it,’ he said quickly. ‘Something very important has come up. I’ll see you soon. I promise.’

  Gloria sighed in resignation. She would have to be patient, she realised. There was time enough.

  The tenants of the Kings Arms found themselves kept very busy during the summer evenings. Patricia was breathing easier now that her husband was not leaving her to cope alone twice a week. Terry was making the most of his respite from harassment by the crooked police inspectors, but he realised that it would not last for much longer. He had played his part acting as a link man between them and Bruce McKenzie and things had started to move down at the Elephant and Castle. Already there had been a clampdown on the small fry with quite a few arrests, but Terry knew that time was at a premium as far as he was concerned. The inspectors would not feel safe while he was in circulation. He knew too much for his own good and one day someone was going to come for him, he felt sure. They would not stop at him either. Patricia was equally at risk. At the moment, though, things were quiet. The Dougal McKenzie case had not come to court yet and Terry did not think that any of Dougal’s cohorts would pay him a visit until the trial was over. In the meantime, he was making his own plans. Hopefully he and Patricia would be well away from London before very long.

  In a backstreet not very far away from the Elephant and Castle, Tony O’Reilly sat talking to his sick mother in their little parlour.

  ‘What was ’e like?’ he asked her.

  Mary stared into the black-leaded grate as she answered him. ‘Yer farvver was a gentle man, Tony,’ she said. ‘’E was very different from ’is bruvver Frank. Geoffrey was the apple of ’is farvver’s eye an’ ole man Galloway brought ’im in to ’elp ’im run the business when ’e was little more than a lad. Geoff’s bruvver Frank was allowed ter go ’is own way though, but ter be honest I don’t fink George Galloway trusted Frank wiv the responsibility o’ the business.’

  Tony sat thoughtful for a few minutes, thinking of the second meeting he had had recently with George Galloway. Suddenly he looked across to his mother. ‘Why didn’t me farvver ever take yer ter see the ole boy?’ he asked.

  Mary smiled cynically. ‘Geoffrey Galloway was a very’andsome young man,’ she replied. ‘’E ’ad ’is pick o’ the young women, but ’e was quiet an’ studious. The sort o’ woman ’e was attracted to never seemed ter go down well wiv ’is farvver. Geoff told me once that ’e did take one or two young ladies’ome ter meet the ole boy, but ’e give ’em the cold shoulder. George Galloway preferred the loud, brassy women, the sort Frank went wiv. I wasn’t brassy in the least, an’ I was married ter me first ’usband at the time, though our marriage was goin’ wrong. Anyway, me an’ yer farvver fell in love. I couldn’t stop it ’appenin’. When I realised I was ’avin’ you, Geoff was in the army an’ about ter go overseas. I didn’t tell ’im, but then when you was born, Geoff promised me ’e’d take me ter see ’is farvver. As yer know, Geoff was killed in action soon after an’ I vowed there an’ then that I’d manage wivout any ’elp from the Galloway family. It was pride, Tony. I wanted yer ter grow up independent. Fings ’ave changed now though. I’m ill an’ I’m not likely ter get better. I want ter die knowin’ yer’ve got a good start in life. That’s all I want.’

  Tony could see the tears welling up in his mother’s eyes and he went to her, putting his arm round her thin shoulders. ‘Yer gave me a good start in life, Mum,’ he whispered. ‘Yer did it your way, an’ I’m proud of yer. We don’t need the Galloway money. I can make it on me own.’

  Mary sat up straight in her chair and shrugged his arm away. ‘Don’t talk such rubbish,’ she said loudly. ‘That money is yer right, yer ’eritage. Yer real farvver worked ter build up that business, an’ if ’e’d ’ave lived yer would’ve got it one day by right. Look, son, whatever decisions I made as a young woman left alone wiv a child ’as no bearin’s on what’s transpired. I gave yer me reasons fer goin’ an’ seein’ George Galloway. Take what’s yours by right. Let me die ’appy, will yer?’

  ‘Yer gonna be around fer a long time yet, Ma,’ Tony said softly. ‘But if it’s what yer want, I’ll go along wiv yer wishes.’

  ‘Yer a good boy, Tony,’ she said, wiping away a tear. ‘Just do what’s right. Use what money yer get wisely. That way it’ll bring yer ’appiness, not misery like it’s done ter the Galloway family.’

  Tony looked up at his mother. ‘Misery?’

  ‘Yeah, misery,’ she replied. ‘Money didn’t do the Galloways any good. George Galloway’s wife died while she was still a young woman. ’Is young daughter committed suicide by jumpin’ in the Thames. There was talk of ’er bein’ in love wiv one o’ the Tanner boys an’ the ole man ferbid ’er ter see ’im. Then Geoffrey was killed. Talk to anybody who worked fer Galloway. ’E was a pig to ’is men. Ask ole Nellie Tanner what she finks o’ George Galloway. ’E sacked ’er feller while the poor sod was orf sick, an’ that was after more than firty-odd years o’ loyal service. It cost the Tanners their ’ome too. People say that was the reason Carrie Tanner went inter the transport game, so she could try an’ put the Galloways out o’ business. Mention the name Galloway round Dock’ead an’ see the look on people’s faces. The reason I know so much about it is because o’ Nora Flynne. She used ter tell me fings.’

  ‘Who’s Nora Flynne?’ Tony asked.

  ‘Nora was George Galloway’s ’ousekeeper,’ Mary told him. ‘She went ter work fer Galloway just after ’is wife died. It was’er that come ter me wiv the news about Geoffrey. She was a lovely lady an’ we got quite friendly. She spotted straightaway that I was pregnant an’ she advised me ter go an’ see the ole man, but I wouldn’t. She used ter bring me bits an’ pieces an’ parcels o’ food now an’ then. In fact it was Nora who arranged a midwife for me. It was one of ’er close friends who’d delivered ’undreds o’ babies round the Rovver’ithe area. Yeah, she was a lovely lady was Nora Flynne. She brought George Galloway’s kids up an’ she was very close ter young Josephine, Galloway’s only daughter. She was ’eart-broken when the girl drowned ’erself an’ she blamed ’im fer what’appened. Anyway, she left after the tragedy an’ took rooms in Rovver’ithe near ter where I’d bin livin’ when you was born. I’ad ter move out after I ’ad you. It was a big ’ouse we were livin’ in an’ times were really ’ard. I couldn’t afford ter pay the rent any more. Anyway, I managed ter find thi
s place which was a lot less rent an’ that’s ’ow we come ter live ’ere.’

  ‘Did yer see much o’ Nora Flynne after that?’ Tony asked.

  ‘I bumped into ’er about a year later. You was still in the pram at the time. We got ter talkin’ an’ she told me she was ’avin’ ter get out ’cos they was pullin’ ’er place down, so I told ’er about some places fer rent near me. She moved ter New Kent Road an’ we used ter see a lot of each ovver after that. She used ter come round ter see me an’ we’d sit fer hours chattin’ over the past.’

  ‘What ’appened to ’er?’ Tony asked.

  ‘She got very frail as she got older an’ then she finally went into an institution. Must ’a’ bin about two years ago. There was nuffing else for it. She couldn’t look after ’erself an’ she was nearly eighty years old.’

  ‘Did yer ever go an’ see ’er, Ma?’ Tony asked her.