East End Jubilee

by Carol Rivers

  Rose paused to look in the shop next door. The window was full of washing machines and vacuum cleaners. Outside had been given a coat of paint. It looked very bright and cheerful, just like Bobby Morton himself. At that moment a van pulled up at the kerb beside her with a screech of brakes. She turned to see the driver clamber out, dragging with him two big bundles of newspaper tied with string.

  ‘Guilty as hell,’ he called to Rose as he crossed the pavement in front of her.

  ‘Who is?’ Rose asked as she followed him in and he dropped his burden at the base of the counter.

  ‘Christie, of course,’ he replied, staring at her in surprise. ‘Never was any doubt though, was there?’

  Rose glanced down at the headlines clearly visible under the criss-cross of thick, knotted twine. Christie Guilty. She swallowed. The case had been expected to last weeks, months even, but was over in four days! Rose read on. The jury had shown no mercy and decided he was not mad at all, just evil. His sentence was death by hanging.

  Rose forgot all about Bobby Morton. There was just one thing on her mind now. Would Eddie’s case come up sooner now that Christie’s was over?

  The following day the name Christie was on everyone’s lips. Rose found it a depressing subject, but Anita said her boys and Benny had lapped up every detail.

  ‘The police think he done a lot of other women in,’ Anita was saying as they walked to market, the two girls running ahead as usual. ‘But he’s not owning up. He’s too crafty for that.’

  ‘But how do you commit such terrible acts of violence if you aren’t insane?’ Rose asked, bewildered.

  ‘The same could be said of Hitler,’ Anita pointed out as they turned into Cox Street. ‘But he was as sane as you or I.’

  ‘So you think he should hang?’

  ‘’Course I do. Though no doubt he’ll appeal. He may even get away with it yet. There’s always a chance right up to the last minute, apparently.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Anita turned to stare at Rose. ‘Ain’t you been reading the papers, gel?’

  Rose shook her head. ‘No. It’s too upsetting.’

  ‘Well, your Eddie will know all the goss, I’m sure.’

  Rose hoped he didn’t. All she wanted to do when she next saw him was to tell him how much she loved and missed him. And try to find a way out of their problems. She felt sickened by what was printed in the papers.

  Also it disturbed her that Eddie would be subject to the same powerful system of justice that could take a man’s life. A jury of twelve men and women who knew nothing of Eddie’s good character would hold his future in their hands. Would they show clemency to a loving father and husband? Or would they accept his guilt on the evidence of the police?

  ‘Penny for them?’ Anita was staring at her as they approached the fruit and veg stall.

  Rose blinked. ‘I was thinking about Eddie’s case.’

  ‘Worrying won’t help,’ Anita reminded her gently. ‘Now shouldn’t we be on the lookout?’

  Rose came back to the present. ‘I’ll go to the right and you go left, that way we’ll not miss anyone.’

  ‘Suits me,’ Anita nodded. ‘Meet you in half an hour at Alf’s.’

  But half an hour later they had walked the length and breadth of the market and no one of Syd’s description had been spotted.

  ‘No luck,’ Anita sighed. ‘What about you?’

  ‘None.’ Rose shrugged dispiritedly.

  ‘Where are the girls?’

  ‘Over at the toy stall. Come on, I’m hungry. Let’s have something to eat.’

  ‘Hello me darlings,’ Alf welcomed, wiping his greasy hands over his apron. ‘What can I do you for today?’

  ‘Cheeky,’ Anita grinned, batting her eyelids.

  ‘Four sausage baps with onions and tomato sauce, two mugs of tea and two lemonades, please,’ Rose ordered.

  ‘Coming right up, me lovelies.’

  The smell of frying onions filled the air as they watched the large figure of Alf do a conjuring trick with the food. Steaming sausage baps, greasy onions, sauce, scalding tea and lemonade all suddenly appeared. ‘Two and eight to you girls,’ he grinned, pushing a not very clean cloth over the grubby counter.

  Rose dived into her purse. ‘Thanks, Alf.’ She glanced at Anita. ‘The shoebox can stand it.’

  Anita licked her lips. ‘Are you sure?’

  Rose nodded, then looked up at Alf once more. ‘You don’t happen to know anyone by the name of Syd round here?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’ Alf asked suspiciously.

  ‘He sold my Eddie the telly that was stolen.’

  Alf appeared to be turning this over in his mind before replying. ‘I know half a dozen Syds, maybe more, but don’t everyone?’

  ‘That’s true,’ Anita conceded. ‘But this Syd’s got a dark coloured van and you don’t see many of them round here.’

  Alf tipped a basin of onions into the fat and nodded across the road. ‘You could ask Dol and her old man over on the clothes. She’s been here the longest. But don’t hold yer breath – she ain’t quite with it these days.’

  Rose knew Dol. She was with it enough to demand good money for her second-hand clothes. Anita nudged Rose’s arm and grinned.

  But neither Dol nor her husband were very forthcoming. Either they didn’t know, Anita commented, or wouldn’t tell. Anita wanted to ask round, but Rose felt it would be unwise and even more risky to ask about Syd. She didn’t want to raise anyone’s suspicions that they were on the lookout. Market traders were very canny about giving information away since much of their business was done off the books.

  ‘If we can’t ask, we’ve come to a dead end,’ Anita sighed, watching Donnie and Marlene gulp their lemonades.

  ‘No sense in drawing attention,’ Rose decided. ‘He ain’t here, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Yeah, let’s go home,’ Anita conceded.

  Rose sighed. ‘I’ve got to help Eddie somehow.’

  ‘What can you do, though? There’s dozens of markets.’

  ‘I could try them all.’

  Anita looked shocked. ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘No, far from it.’

  ‘But your feet’ll drop off.’

  ‘The exercise will do me good.’

  Anita grabbed her arm. ‘Tell you what, you can use our Alan’s old bike. The crossbar’s lower than average and it ain’t got any brakes to speak of, but the tyres are good. And it’s got a pump. You could tie a tea cosy over the saddle.’

  Rose was delighted. ‘Are you sure Alan won’t want it?’

  ‘He wouldn’t be seen dead on it these days.’

  ‘Well then, I can wheel it to school in the mornings and ride off from there.’

  ‘You really are serious about this, aren’t you?’

  Rose nodded. ‘It’s better than doing nothing.’

  ‘Well, I give you full marks for trying.’ Anita shrugged lightly. ‘Now, I want you and the girls to come to dinner tomorrow.’

  Rose glanced at her friend. ‘But it’s Sunday.’

  Anita rolled her expressive eyes. ‘That’s why I’m asking. I’ll buy a nice joint from the butcher. Benny’s at home for a change.’

  Rose didn’t want to impose as it was Benny’s only day off and he was lucky to get that. ‘I’d planned to write to Eddie and Em tomorrow,’ she excused, aware her friend was offering to give up her valuable time and, more importantly, a rare family Sunday. ‘But thanks anyway.’

  ‘Shame,’ Anita said generously. ‘Another time perhaps.’

  ‘Yes,’ Rose nodded, ‘when there’s four of us again.’

  ‘’Course, love. And it won’t be long I’m sure.’

  Rose smiled wistfully at the thought of Eddie tucking in to his Sunday dinner, giving her a wink over a pile of roast spuds that vanished from his plate in the blink of an eye.

  Chapter Nine

  Eddie opened his eyes and tried to remember where he was and how he got there. One part of
his brain didn’t want to know, needed to fade back into unconsciousness again, while the other part struggled to surface from the limbo into which he had fallen.

  Where had it all begun? He could remember slopping out; carbolic soap and soiled clothes still reeked in his nose together with the sight of his fellow inmates in vests and baggy prison trousers, their towels slung over their shoulders. One of these men had approached him. He remembered the smile on his face, a smile that had not reached his cold, hard eyes and was anything but friendly.

  A sharpness had dug into his ribs forcing him to shuffle backwards, distancing himself and the man with the smile from the watchful screws. Finally he’d found himself in the piss-pot recess. It was then that his memory played tricks. Had he heard a voice whispering? Or was it a sixth sense that made him turn? Too late though, as his arms were pulled back and a blow indented the pit of his stomach. More blows followed and last night’s corned beef and mash had flowed upward and over the wet floor.

  He lay face down in the urine, briefly astonished at the violence. Wondering how a beating of such force could take place without intervention. After that came darkness.

  He’d woken up in the hospital wing, a guard beside him. He’d endured an interrogation, denying fiercely that he had cut another prisoner, drawn blood from the man whose smile had been the precursor to incredible pain. After a while his folly was clear. They required no answers. The system was at work. You heard nothing, said nothing, saw nothing.

  Eddie looked round the small, dark cell into which he had been transferred; Punishment Block, solitary confinement with nothing but a mattress, a jug and piss pot to keep a man company and the wait that would stretch endlessly ahead.

  He was beginning to understand. He was here because others wanted him here. From the moment Syd had appeared in his life, events had been orchestrated and, no doubt, would be again. Just as for the last two years he’d been a fool, believing he could turn a loss into a win with just one sure-fire tip, getting more and more into debt as he did so. Norman Payne had offered him ready cash, made it seem possible, even easy, to provide for his family in the way he’d seen other men provide. Men whom he’d envied so deeply that their wealth had obsessed him.

  He lifted himself with difficulty from the mattress and slung his legs on to the cold floor. His body ached unbearably but his mind was in deeper torment. He dropped his head in his hands. What had he done? How had he got mixed up with the likes of Norman Payne?

  Suddenly there were voices. Feet approaching. The door of the cell banged open. Eddie stared up at them and instinctively shrank.

  ‘Edward John Weaver?’

  The voice was an outsider’s, brimming with disdain. Eddie squinted up into the shaft of light let in by the open door. Silhouettes. Four of them. They moved forward, surrounding him.

  ‘I represent the Board of Visitors.’

  He blinked, trying to see which one was speaking.

  ‘I’m here to ask if you wish to make a complaint?’

  Eddie realized he wanted to laugh. Complaints? No. He was loving his own six feet of hell.

  The small man, the central figure, moved forward, all upright and shoulders back. ‘Come now, have you anything to say?’

  Eddie stared at the other three, the guards with their silent menace transferring itself to his bowels. A response was a ticket to oblivion and he knew it. Yes, he knew the rules now and would abide by them.

  ‘Speak up, whilst you have the opportunity.’

  He closed his eyes, swallowing the bitter anger inside him. A lump of cyanide burned through his belly. He was trapped. Norman Payne wanted him here; he knew that for certain now. And in this world there was only one law. Keep shtum and take the punishment meted out. Whatever was ahead, he had to face without complaint. Fight and he was dead meat.

  ‘Mr Weaver?’

  He thought of Rose, of her beautiful brown eyes and sweet-smelling hair and the way they made love, his arms around her slender waist as he felt the pleasure grow inside him. There was nothing in his world except the two of them.

  ‘I take it then, you have none?’

  No, he had no complaints.

  ‘I ask you one last time, Mr Weaver. If you have anything to say, now is the time to say it.’

  Eddie lowered his eyes and stared at his knees. A lifetime later, the heavy door banged and he lifted his head. He was alone. ‘Rose, I’m coming home, I promise you,’ he whispered, sinking back on to the mattress and closing his eyes, trying to remember what home was like.

  On Wednesday morning, Alan delivered the bike, improvements made. The tyres were pumped up and an old black beret was secured around the saddle with string.

  ‘Where are you going on Alan’s bike?’ Marlene queried the next day as Rose pushed the bike to school.

  ‘To the market, pet.’

  ‘But it ain’t a lady’s bike. It’s got a crossbar.’

  Rose, clad in trousers, demonstrated her new-found skills by elegantly lifting her leg and perching on the saddle, carefully maintaining her balance with the tip of her toe.

  ‘You look funny,’ giggled Marlene,but Donnie was impressed.

  ‘I wish we could come with you.’

  ‘You can on Saturday.’ Rose looked at her two daughters dressed in their navy blue uniforms. She was so proud of them. Donnie’s hair was plaited neatly,her satchel swinging by her side. Marlene already had her top button undone and her tie was crooked. She’d forgotten her shoe bag as usual, but Rose just smiled and said quickly,‘Now off you go and I’ll see you at four.’

  Ten minutes later, Rose was riding Alan’s bike with the soft wind blowing her brown hair over her shoulders. One trouser leg was bound by a bicycle clip and her sandwich was safely in the saddlebag.

  She’d made a list of the markets she intended to visit. Petticoat Lane and Whitechapel, Columbia Road and Kingland Waste. Covent Garden was a little too far and Billingsgate was fish. But she’d earmarked Chrisp Street on the Lansbury Estate for Saturday with the girls.

  Rose arrived at Mile End out of breath and overwhelmed. The crowds were thick and the stalls crowded. But she pushed her way through, looking and listening. She had never seen such a variety of traders. Fruit and vegetable stalls, flowers, plants, tailors, butchers, bakers, milliners, second-hand and new clothes stalls, antiques and books of all kinds. She finally came to a halt at a jewellery stall.

  ‘Do you have any watches?’ she asked the trader who had fingers full of rings and a wrist laden with gold bracelets.

  ‘Along there, gel.’ He pointed to a stall further down. ‘Dunno why you want ’is rubbish though. Treat yerself to a nice bit of hot and cold. Look, this little piece is a cracker.’ He slid a thin gold bracelet from a box and dangled it over his fingers enticingly.

  But watches were what she was looking for and Rose thanked him politely and went on her way, amused by his patter as he tried to hook another punter.

  ‘Are you Syd?’ she asked the man who was selling watches illegally from a pile of boxes heaped upon one another. A makeshift cover lay over the top to display the merchandise. Rose began to get excited as part of the description fitted. The trader was in his forties and though not wearing a camel overcoat, his fingers were dripping with rings.

  ‘I’m anything you want me to be, sweetheart,’ he smiled, giving her a wink. ‘Ten bob for this little darlin’. But blow me down if I don’t like your face so I’m giving it away almost free. Two and six and you’re its new owner.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid—’

  ‘Go on then, two bob to you, Mrs. You twisted me arm till it broke.’

  Rose looked at the cheap metal watch that was far too big and vulgar for her tiny wrist. ‘It’s very nice, but—’

  ‘’Ere, how much is this?’ A young blonde in tight leopard-skin trousers tapped him on the arm. She was holding a child’s watch with Sleeping Beauty painted on its face.

  ‘That’s a give-away, duck,’ he told her softly. ‘Breaks me heart t
o sell it ’cos it’s the only one I’ve got left. Four and six to you, sweetheart. I ain’t called Honest ’Arry for nothing, you know.’

  Rose felt her excitement evaporate. ‘You’re not called Syd, then?’

  The trader turned back. ‘What?’

  ‘Your name isn’t Syd?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘Would you know of anyone else who specializes in these, um . . . watches?’

  He smiled craftily. ‘Why? Who wants him?’

  ‘Only me,’ Rose said with a shrug guessing she would be lucky indeed to receive a straight answer from Honest Harry.

  The trader looked at her suspiciously. ‘Sorry gel, can’t help you. Now, as I was saying about this little cracker—’

  He turned his attention elsewhere and Rose realized she was wasting her time. Finally, exhausted by her search she climbed on her bike and, ignoring the hoots and curses of the motorists on the busy main road, she rode away.

  On Saturday morning Rose took the girls to Chrisp Street. Anita declined the outing as she was spring-cleaning, though Rose knew the real reason was that her friend was on another one of her Butlin’s economy drives.

  The market was busy and though Marlene and Donnie enjoyed the excitement of new stalls to look at and candyfloss to eat, Rose made no headway with her investigations. Syd was definitely not present in his watch-selling guise and neither was there a van remotely like the one Eddie had described. She did, however, buy a bottle of Milk of Magnesia from a chemist on the walk home and on Sunday administered herself a generous dose or two.

  But on Monday morning Rose still felt queasy. She was about to take another spoonful of the unpleasant medicine when a letter dropped on the mat. She gulped the liquid down and ran along the hall. Her heart was racing as she recognized the familiar scrawl. Not a letter writer at the best of times, Eddie explained he was well and cracked a joke about the food. He promised he would send a visiting order soon and signed off with love to them all. Three big crosses concluded the letter.

  Five minutes later Rose was pedalling towards Hackney High Road, ignoring the waves of sickness that flowed over her. The shops and markets were busy, people content to browse and buy under a dazzling sun. Rose looked in windows and studied each stall. One little word, she told herself, might provide the clue that changed the course of their lives.