Beware This Boy

by Maureen Jennings

  “Nothing serious, thank goodness. The odd bit of metal dust in the eye, bruised fingers.” He sighed. “The work is tedious. I’m always trying to find ways to keep up the workers’ spirits and energy. Mr. Endicott is opposed to piping in music because he thinks it might be distracting. I myself believe it would help relieve the boredom and therefore make everyone more efficient.”

  “That makes sense. I’m to write a report after my investigation. Maybe I can include that in my recommendations,” said Tyler. “Or at least that the matter have some further study.”

  Cudmore beamed. “Thank you, sir. It would be much appreciated.”

  “Righto. We can move on.”

  The secretary led the way to the opposite side of the floor.

  “Here are the change rooms. The female workers are on the right, the men on the left.” He gave a sly chuckle. “Perhaps we should have reversed that, given that women are the distaff side of humanity.”

  Tyler didn’t realize what he was referring to at first, but he nodded politely.

  “When all the workers have changed from their outdoor clothes, they declare that they are ‘clean,’ as the expression goes. Section A and Section B operatives, who deal with the fuses, proceed to their buildings, which are outside. Section B, alas, is where the explosion occurred.” He indicated the men’s change room.

  “We can go through here, sir.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go by way of the women’s room first. Follow in their footsteps as it were.”

  “Of course, sir. This way.” Cudmore actually knocked on the door before he opened it.

  The room was spartan, with wire-mesh lockers along the walls and a wooden bench running down the centre. The lavatory stalls were at one end and a communal wash basin in front of them. Blue overalls were hanging on pegs and more than a dozen pairs of black flat shoes were tucked underneath the bench, mute testimony to the absent women. Tyler knew that most of the workers would be returning tomorrow, but there was something oddly desolate about the sight of those empty shoes. He was reminded of the fairy story about the dancing princesses that he used to tell Janet when she was small.

  Cudmore seemed to pick up on his thoughts. “The slippers have a way of disappearing. Many of the young women say they make excellent dancing shoes.” He indicated a red-painted barrier about six inches high that divided the room just beyond the lockers. “That bar delineates the clean area from the so-called dirty area. As you can see, it’s a mental deterrent rather than a physical one. When they’re ready, the girls simply step over it and exit through the far door.”

  “Are the change rooms kept locked?”

  “No, they’re not. There were at one time. Mr. Endicott wanted to discourage what he called lavatory-mongering. He thought the women were tempted to linger and gossip with each other.”

  Tyler could tell by Cudmore’s tone of voice this was not a rule he approved of.

  “The key kept going missing,” continued the secretary. “It became too much trouble to hunt it down if anybody needed to get in. To use the toilet or some such.”

  Tyler walked over to each door in turn and examined it. The locks were the old-fashioned kind, requiring a fairly large, straight key.

  “No problems with theft, I take it?”

  Cudmore shook his head. “We’re a small factory. Everybody knows everybody else. We’ve had no trouble with anything like that.”

  “Except for the vanishing shoes.”

  Cudmore smiled. “We’ve decided to call that normal wear and tear of equipment.”

  Tyler noticed the secretary had edged closer to the doorway, presumably so he could flee immediately if one of the distaff side did appear.

  “Shall we proceed?”

  Cudmore stepped over the barrier and ushered Tyler through the door, which opened onto a short roofed passageway. Tyler coughed as the damp outside air penetrated his lungs. It might be more comfortable for the workers if the passage was enclosed. He’d use what clout he could muster and recommend it. Music, covered walkways, pats on the back. What next?

  Eileen found it strange being in the empty factory. She often went in at odd hours. Ever since the factory had been converted to war work, shifts ran day and night. There was always the noise of the machines, the bustle of the workers coming and going. This morning nobody seemed to be in the offices but she wasn’t surprised. She’d known Charles Endicott for a long time, and if there was an unpleasant situation he could avoid, he would.

  She went into the clinic, which was tucked away at the far end of the main floor. She didn’t expect any patients today, so she didn’t change into her uniform, but as she was removing her hat she glimpsed her reflection in the mirror. The disturbed night had left its mark. There were dark circles underneath her eyes. And bags big enough to carry luggage, she thought ruefully. She was well aware that what she and her parents were proposing to do could have serious repercussions. Most people would understand why, but the government wasn’t in the business of understanding. It was against the law to shelter deserters.

  Her father’s words echoed in her head. We don’t have much choice, do we.

  If there was anything Eileen had learned from her mother, it was the calming effect of work. “When in doubt, do,” was Beattie’s motto. The medical stocks always needed checking and this was a good time to do it. She opened the supply cupboard. She should order some more tubes of antiseptic. It was costly and hard to come by, but the workers, especially those in Section A, who handled the cordite, frequently got rashes and boils. Prue McDermott had developed dermatitis when she was working in Section A and had transferred only two weeks ago to Section B. Eileen sighed. Lively, glamorous Prue, who loved pretty clothes more than anything in the world. And Irma, solid, dependable Irma, so devastated by the death of her husband. What was to become of her children? No father or mother now. For a moment Eileen thought she was going to cry.

  “Hello. Hi. Anybody here?”

  She hadn’t heard the door open but somebody had come into the clinic. Quickly she closed and locked the cupboard and went out to the waiting room. A man was standing in the doorway. Medium height, perhaps her age, well dressed in a dark overcoat and trilby. He smiled – good teeth, ever so charming a smile – but he was nobody she knew.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Sister,” he said removing his hat. “I saw your light was on.”

  “Can I help you?”

  “I sure hope so. I’ve dislocated my shoulder. As I was in the factory today, I thought I’d avail myself of its excellent services.”

  She could see now that he was holding his left arm tightly against his side.

  “Come in. How did you manage to do that?”

  The visitor stepped forward. “It happens all the time. Weak ligaments. If you wouldn’t mind giving it a good pull, it will go back in place.”

  “I, er –”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had this happen. Put your foot in my armpit and give a sharp tug.”

  Eileen knew what to do, but usually a reduction was performed when the patient was under sedation. She regarded him dubiously. “Maybe it would be better if you went to a hospital.”

  “Absolutely not. This is nothing to what other people are suffering. I’m not going to take up their time. Some little bastard – excuse the language – on a bike knocked me over in the fog last night and out it popped. I’d hoped I could get it back myself but I haven’t been able to.” He stuck out his good hand. “God forbid I should forget to introduce myself … I’m Lev Kaplan. I’m here to do a film for the War Ministry.”

  She took his hand, which felt cool and firm. She couldn’t help but notice he had long musician’s fingers.

  “I’m Eileen Abbott.”

  “Glad to meet you, Mrs. Abbott. It is missus, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s miss, actually.”

  He gave what she felt was an exaggerated exclamation of surprise. “But some lucky guy has snat
ched you up, surely.”

  Before she could say anything, he jumped in. “My apologies. I stepped over the line, I see. Forgive me, it’s the Yankee side of me. We’re always too brash for English sensibilities. I take that question back. I never asked it, okay?”

  “All right. And I won’t answer it. Now let’s get you fixed up. Will you come into the surgery … It would be easier if we could get your overcoat off. Is that possible?”

  Lev grinned at her mischievously. “If you can tolerate me screaming. I’m a Yank – we don’t believe in stoicism like you Limeys. I find it helps with the pain to yell, unless you have a bullet I can bite on.”

  “No, I don’t. And besides, you might swallow it.”

  “Too true. All right, I’ll be brave. Do it. You look a gentle sort.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving.”

  However, she was gentle and she managed to get his overcoat and jacket off with his letting out only a couple of yelps.

  “It would be helpful if you could remove your shirt as well.”

  “Can you cut it off?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous – it’s a good shirt. And we’ve got clothes rationing here, don’t forget.”

  She helped remove the shirt. In just his undervest, he was unexpectedly well muscled; his shoulders and arms looked strong.

  She indicated the gurney. “Lie here, please.”

  “Best invitation I’ve had in years,” he said and cautiously did as she asked.

  She held back a smile. “First of all, I want you to try to relax your shoulder muscles. The arm will go back more easily if you can do that.”

  “Your servant, ma’am.” He took a deep breath as Eileen grasped his hand and forearm.

  “Breathe out nice and slowly.” She moved his arm to the side and gave one sharp pull, and the shoulder slid back into place.

  “Ouch.”

  In spite of what he’d said earlier, his exclamation was subdued. He sat up. “I think that did it. Hardly hurt at all. Thank you.” Gingerly he rotated his arm. “Swell. Excellent work.”

  He had a rather long-jawed, intelligent face and dark brown eyes. His colour was better now, the greyish tinge gone. He must have been in a lot of pain, for all his joking.

  “You were very brave – for an American. I’ve heard much worse from dyed-in-the-wool Englishmen.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’ve got British genes, so that must count for something.” He began to get dressed. Eileen helped him, finding herself feeling ridiculously shy. You’d think I’d never seen a semi-clothed man before.

  “Both of my parents were born in the East End of London, to be precise,” continued Kaplan. “They met on the boat going over to America. Love prevailed, then marriage, then me. Very proper. I was born in New York.”

  “Good Lord, what are you doing in England? I would think conditions are far better in America.”

  “They are indeed, but I was keen to see the home of my ancestors. I came here in thirty-nine and haven’t got back yet. It’s too risky trying to cross the pond. Besides, my sisters send me food parcels, so I’m okay.” He started to ease himself back into his jacket. “I wonder if I might prevail upon you for a cup of tea. I need reviving after my ordeal.”

  “Of course. I’ll put the kettle on.”

  “I’ll come and help.”

  Eileen burst out laughing. “Now that is a dead giveaway that you’re not an Englishman. Please stay here; the kitchen area is far too small.”

  She went into the adjacent office where she kept the Primus stove and tea paraphernalia. “You said you were here to make a film for the War Ministry,” she called over her shoulder. “What sort of film?”

  In spite of what she had said, he had followed her. “Propaganda, I suppose you’d call it. I’m to demonstrate the rewards of working in a factory like Endicott’s.”

  She grimaced. “I’d hardly say we were a good advertisement.”

  “I’m very sorry about what happened. It must be awfully upsetting for everybody.”

  His voice was so kind that all she could do was nod, not trusting herself to speak. She was rescued by the shrill whistle of the tea kettle announcing the water had boiled. As she removed it from the stove and poured a splash into the pot to warm it, Kaplan watched with as much interest as if he were an anthropologist studying aboriginal habits in the Dark Continent.

  “Go and sit in the waiting room,” she said abruptly. “I’ll bring it in.”

  “Yes, Sister,” he said meekly.

  While she was dispensing the tea, Kaplan looked around. “This room has a nice welcoming feel to it.”

  Eileen was pleased by the compliment. She had paid a lot of attention to the clinic, wanting to make it as friendly as possible. There was a wool rag rug on the floor that she’d begged from her mother. The two matching chairs and the loveseat were comfortable. She had even hung a couple of prints on the wall. One of them was a stunning photograph of St. Martin’s Cathedral, taken at sunset.

  “It’s a lovely church,” murmured Lev as he stood in front of the picture. “Such a pity it got hit.”

  “One of Birmingham’s jewels,” said Eileen.

  Neither of them spoke for a moment. The appalling devastation that the bombing raids were inflicting on English cities was almost impossible to absorb.

  She handed Lev a cup of tea. He waved away the offered milk and sugar.

  “Black for me – another Yankee quirk.” He sat down on the loveseat. “I’d like to shoot some footage in here. Is that all right with you?”

  “As long as I’m not in the picture, I don’t mind.”

  “Of course you must be in the picture. People like to see pretty nurses. It’s reassuring.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Mr. Kaplan, do all Americans lay it on with a trowel the way you do?”

  “ ‘Lay it on with a trowel’? I don’t know what that means.”

  “Never mind. But tell me, how are you going to make a film at Endicott’s given what has happened?”

  “I understand the factory will reopen tomorrow on a limited basis. I’ll shoot some film of the workers on the floor. Needless to say, we need recruits for the war work, but I’ll leave it up to the ministry to decide what they show.” He put down his cup and stood up, giving his arm another tentative twist. “Good. All hunky-dory. I’d better get going and scout around. Thanks for the most delicious cup of tea I’ve had since I arrived.” He gave a half-bow. “We shall meet again, Miss Abbott. Is it possible that on our second meeting I may call you Eileen? And on our third, may I invite you to come to the pictures with me?”

  “Mr. Kaplan, you are moving far too quickly. No first names for at least six months, and certainly no walking out for at least a year.”

  “Very well. I shall return tomorrow.”

  He left and Eileen took the tray out to her kitchen. For a few sweet moments the situation at home had receded from her mind.

  Brian waited to be sure his grandparents had well and truly left him, then he went to his auntie’s room.

  Where would she have put those pills? He yanked open the drawer of the bedside table. Ha. There they were, together with her Aspirin and a few medical samples she must have brought from the clinic. He poked at them. Painkillers, all sealed.

  He took out the RAF pills, twisted off the lid, and shook out a couple into his palm. He gulped them down, not even bothering to get some water. He replaced the bottle. She wouldn’t like to know he’d been going through her drawer.

  Tap, tap … tap, tap.

  He froze. Somebody was knocking at the front door. Softly. Surely it wasn’t Gran already. She’d said she’d knock three times. Then he heard somebody lift the mail slot and a voice whispered.

  “It’s me – Jack. Let me in.”

  Brian went to the door and opened it a crack, enough so he could see his brother.

  “Come in. Quick.”

  Jack stepped forward but another person was right behind him, already inside and closing the do
or. They both stood in the narrow hall, Jack with his head low, the other fellow, a grin on his face, staring brazenly at Brian.

  “Hey, Bri. Fancy seeing you here. Remember me?”

  “Yeah. You’re Donny Jarvis. You’re the shite who stole some of my tools when I was doing a job in one of the back-to-backs.”

  Donny smirked. “Come on, Bri. Isn’t a bloke innocent until proven guilty? I just happened to be in the vicinity. You never knew for sure it was me nicked your things.”

  “Don’t give me that shite. It was you all right. What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you’ve brought back my pliers.”

  Donny chuckled. “I heard you was in a spot of trouble. Thought I might be able to help.”

  Jack was looking completely miserable and he had yet another bruise on his chin. “I’m sorry, Bri … I –”

  Donny slapped him on the shoulder, supposedly playfully but so hard he almost fell.

  “Don’t blame Jackie. I’m a persuasive kind of bloke. I got him to tell me all.”

  “So? What are you going to do now you know?”

  Brian’s pulse was racing so fast he thought he was going to explode. Either that or smack the smirk off Donny’s mouth.

  The other boy must have sensed what he was feeling, because he shifted slightly out of reach.

  “Tell you what, why don’t we go where it’s more comfy. Jack, you stay here and keep a lookout. If your old gran or granddad comes back, stall them.”

  “But Donny –” pleaded Jack.

  Donny pinched Jack’s cheek. “Such a mitherer. Give ’em a bloody clout if you have to … No, no, silly, I’m joking. We won’t be long so they probably won’t be back until I finish my chinwag with Bri here. But you’re a bloody Boy Scout. You know you’ve got to be prepared at all times.”

  He looked at Brian and his eyes were frighteningly cold. Old as death itself. He gestured to the living room.

  “Shall we, me old mucker?”

  Cudmore trotted slightly ahead of Tyler along the passageway, which ended at a fire door. Here a second open walkway branched off to the left.

  “That passageway leads to Section A. As you can see, it is separated from Section B and there are two blast walls in between. Good thing too, or I’m afraid we would all have gone up in smoke.” He shook his head. “Such dangerous work. I confess to being a coward in this regard, Inspector. I wouldn’t do it.”