‘Don’t you want to?’ she asked, slipping her hand underneath the open front of his shirt and clawing lightly through the hair on his chest.
‘Of course I want to, Jo,’ he replied. ‘But I don’t want you to do something you might regret tomorr—’
The sound of the air raid siren cut across his words and Jo tilted her hips and pressed against his rigid penis. ‘The only thing I’ll regret tomorrow, Tommy Sweete, is if you don’t.’
‘For God’s sake, Reggie,’ grunted Jimmy, as Reggie studied the silver trophies on the glass shelf as he tried to decide which one of them he liked best. ‘Give us a hand with this bloody bugger.’
‘Yeah,’ added Fred, the veins on his forehead bulging as he and Jimmy inched the company’s safe across the polished parquet flooring of the chairman’s office.
It was the last Thursday in November and the night Vic Bostock had designated as the night Upington & Sons’ safe was to be nicked. He, Jimmy and Fred, dressed in their heavy rescue boiler suits and wearing their tin hats, were on the second floor of the engineering works.
The air raid siren had gone off at six so Reggie and the rest of Blue Squad had loaded up and set off as usual in their lorry to the first call. Having left the rest of the ten-man team digging out casualties from a collapsed tenement block, Reggie and his two most trusted men had then slipped away into the blackout.
With searchlights criss-crossing the sky above and fire bells ringing below, Reggie had driven them between blazing warehouses to the brick-built factory in East Smithfield. They’d arrived at the premises just after the nightwatchman had completed his eleven-thirty rounds. Waiting until he’d tucked himself back into his sandbag bunker under the boiler house, it had taken Jimmy just a couple of turns of his skeleton keys to open the double gates. Reggie drove the lorry, still laden with their heavy rescue gear, into the yard.
‘Come on, Reggie,’ coughed Jimmy, resting his massive hands on his thighs as he caught his breath. ‘Or we’ll still be here when they clock on in the morning.’
Leaving his contemplation of the tall glass-fronted cabinet, Reggie strolled over.
‘There’s some decent bits of silver in that case,’ he said, stopping next to his two red-faced, sweating men.
‘Is there?’ grunted Jimmy, shifting the huge lump of metal forward a few more inches, peeling the floor wax into a small curl in the process.
‘Yeah,’ Reggie replied, looking at the three-foot-wide memorial plate in the centre that dominated the display. ‘I’d say at least seventy nickers’ worth, perhaps even a score more.’
‘I’m surprised they ain’t got it locked in a vault somewhere,’ said Jimmy, following Reggie’s gaze.
‘So am I,’ said Reggie. ‘But don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, eh?’
‘Perhaps we should get this loaded before we start worrying about poxy silver,’ Fred ground out as he and Jimmy shoved the squat green lump of metal another foot or so.
‘That’s the trouble with you lot,’ said Reggie, gazing back at the display of trophies and commemorative plates. ‘You don’t see the possibilities right under your nose.’
A bomb whizzed overhead and found a target somewhere to the west of them, shaking the building again.
‘The only possibility I can see at the moment is the possibility of me getting a double hernia after shifting this bugger,’ said Fred, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
Reggie pulled a face. ‘You two must be getting old cos I’ve seen you shift twice that weight before.’
‘And we’d be doing it now if Tommy were here,’ said Fred.
An emotion he couldn’t identify flared in Reggie’s chest.
When Tommy had turned up at the house that afternoon, Reggie had been unexpectedly glad to see him. So glad, in fact, that he’d almost gone all pansy and hugged him. Thankfully, he hadn’t, especially when he found out that the reason for his brother’s visit wasn’t because he wanted to throw his lot back in with his big brother but instead to tell him that the old drunk who’d birthed them was lying in the morgue. He’d even asked if he wanted to go with him to the bloody funeral. Stupid sod.
He glared at the two men in front of him.
‘Well, he ain’t,’ he barked. ‘And you want to be thankful he ain’t or else we’d be splitting Mr Bostock’s ton four ways instead of three. Now come on, you ungrateful buggers.’ Spitting into his palms, Reggie rubbed them together. ‘Stop acting like a couple of old biddies and let’s get this thing to the loading hoist.’
Upington & Sons was housed in an old four-storey wharf and still used the original cast-iron winch-and-pulley manual crane that was fixed above the loading hatches. After ten minutes of swearing at the safe and at each other, Reggie and his two oppos finally shoved and heaved their load out of the office, past the workshop benches and finally to the second-floor loading hatch.
Kicking open the pair of half-size doors, Fred caught the chain and grappling hooks usually used to lower mechanical parts and machinery into the waiting lorries. Pulling them towards him, he began fastening them to the safe. Reggie left Fred and Jimmy securing the safe on the pulley and retraced his steps back through the offices, casting a covetous glance at the cabinet loaded with silver as he passed.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Reggie left the building through the side door and crossed the loading area to the lorry. Jumping in the back, he tore back a sheet of tarpaulin then gave a two-tone whistle. It was answered by another from above.
Shining his torch upwards to guide them, Reggie watched as Fred and Jimmy manoeuvred the safe out through the hatch and slowly lowered it down. Another blast lit up the sky and illuminated the safe as Reggie guided it the last few feet so it sat squarely between the back axle. Then, as darts of light from the ack-ack guns on Tower Hill traced across the sky, Reggie drew back the tarpaulin and shifted their shovels and pickaxes over it to anchor it down.
Jumping down from the back of the lorry, he took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. Resting back on the door of the cab, he drew in a long breath, enjoying the tingle as the nicotine reached his lungs. Gazing up at the second floor for a second then snatching an empty sandbag and a crowbar from the back of the lorry, he hurried back in to the building, meeting Fred and Jimmy as they got to the bottom of the stairs.
‘Where you off to?’ asked Jimmy, grabbing his arm.
‘I forgot something,’ Reggie replied.
He tried to shake him off but Jimmy held firm.
‘Leave it, Reggie, we ain’t got time,’ said Jimmy, his massive frame all but blocking the light from the blazing building nearby. ‘Not with Bostock’s boys waiting for us.’
Reggie snatched back his arm.
‘Just get in the lorry,’ he shouted over his shoulder as he dashed up the stairs.
He burst into the manager’s room minutes later and, without breaking his stride, he swung the crowbar at the cabinet, shattering the glass doors into slivers with one blow. Gouging a line diagonally across the polished surface, Reggie threw the iron tool on the desk. Flipping open the sandbag, he scooped the ornate silver items on the shelves into the sack, shoving in as much as he could fit. Then, crunching across the glass, he hurried back down the stairs.
Fred and Jimmy were already in the lorry’s cab when he reached the door but, as he stepped out into the yard, one of the double doors creaked open showing a stout man wearing a Civil Defence tin helmet silhouetted by the blazing building beyond.
‘Who’s there?’ he asked, as a weak beam of light illuminated the open space.
Stepping into the shadow of the doorway, Reggie didn’t reply.
The light flashed past him and shone into the lorry’s cab. Thankfully, Jimmy and Fred had had the sense to duck beneath the window so it looked empty. The torch beam ran over the side of the lorry, lingering on the Sweete & Co lettering for a second before going around to the tailgate. Carefully placing the sack on the floor so its content didn’t jingle, Reggie stepped out of
the shadows and crept along the other side of the vehicle. By the time he’d reached the back of the vehicle the man had lifted the tarpaulin, revealing the squat green safe beneath. The man stood motionless for a second then, after scrabbling around under his ARP jacket, he pulled out a whistle.
Reggie sprang forward and struck the warden across the back of his head, sending the helmet he was wearing spinning across the cobbled courtyard. The man collapsed like a sack of potatoes at Reggie’s feet.
Bending down, Reggie grabbed his shoulders and turned him over as the lorry door opened and Jimmy and Fred jumped down from the cab.
A flash of light from a shell exploding above their heads lit up the yard and the face of the man lying still at Reggie’s feet.
‘Gawd, it’s old Potter,’ said Jimmy, as he stopped next to Reggie.
‘What did you hit him for?’ asked Fred.
‘To stop him seeing us,’ Reggie replied. ‘After all, we don’t want him running to the police now, do we?’
Fred turned on his torch and shone it on Cyril’s face then, hunkering down beside the motionless warden, he took off his glove and placed his fingers against Cyril’s neck.
‘Well, he’s not going to be running to the police or anywhere else from now on cos he’s dead,’ he said.
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Reggie, forcing a laugh. ‘I only gave Colonel Blimp a tap on the bonce.’
‘Maybe,’ said Fred, standing up. ‘But he’s as dead as a dodo now.’
Something akin to ice water trickled through his veins as Reggie stared at the chief warden’s lifeless face.
‘Oh God,’ moaned Fred, ashen faced even in the red glow of the blazing buildings. ‘We’ll be up for murder when the police find out.’
‘They’ve got to prove it was us who did it first,’ said Reggie.
‘So what are we going to do?’ asked Jimmy, still looking in horror at the body at his feet.
‘Yeah,’ Fred chipped in. ‘What are we going to do? It’s all right for you, you ain’t got a wife and kids to worry a—’
‘For fuck’s sake, will you two shut up and let me think?’ snapped Reggie.
Fred and Jimmy clamped their mouths shut.
Reggie chewed the inside of his mouth for a moment then, slinging the bag of silver into the back of the lorry, he bent down and grabbed the dead man under the arms. Cyril’s head lolled forward and his thick-lensed glasses slipped off his nose and onto the floor.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Fred, looking like a rabbit caught in a trap.
‘Getting him in the back,’ Reggie replied, heaving the limp body upright.
‘But he’s dead,’ said Jim, crunching the spectacles under his size tens as he moved forward.
‘So are hundreds of other poor buggers,’ said Reggie, scraping Cyril’s heels over the cobbles as he dragged him towards the tailgate. ‘Who’s to say he weren’t caught in a blast like the rest? Now stop yakking and give us a hand. And pick those bleedin’ goggles up, we don’t want to set the coppers off wondering about them now, do we?’
With one arm behind his head and the other lightly cradling the woman he loved, Tommy listened to the distant boom of the last bombs being dropped to the east. Fire-engine bells still cut through the night as they dashed to calls but the smog that had been just a few wisps the evening before had thickened to a pea-souper, causing the waves of German bombers to head back to their bases early. It was still dark, of course, as there were a good four hours before the sun rose at eight thirty but there was enough light from the burning warehouses in Limehouse Basin just half a mile away for him to see the curve of Jo’s hips and legs under the bedcovers as she lay snuggled into him. Using the dip between his neck and shoulder as a pillow and with her small hand resting on his chest, she lay sleeping, her unbound hair cloaking his right arm as it held her close. Their clothes lay scattered on his bedroom floor pretty much where they’d stripped them off each other. Knowing her inexperience, he’d tried to hold back but, driven wild by her hands, Tommy had given in. By the red glow of the burning dockland he’d touched and kissed every dip and curve of Jo’s lithe body and she had returned the favour. Finally, exhausted, they’d tumbled into his bed and Tommy had pulled the dishevelled bedclothes over them before, entwined together, they’d fallen asleep.
Somewhere over Canning Town way a bomb hit its target and the noise boomed around the room. Jo shifted and, setting his senses on fire, her fingers feathered across his chest as she turned onto her back.
She sighed and although her eyes remained closed a contented smile lifted the corners of her lips. Tommy smiled too. Wasn’t this what he’d dreamed of since he’d met Jo? Well, yes and no.
Obviously, with blood pumping through his veins, her every movement and touch fired him with passion, but he’d really imagined their first night together being after a day of vows and family celebrations.
His gaze ran over her peaceful face then shifted down to where the sheet skimmed the top of her bare breasts. He was tempted to tug the sheet down a little with his foot but resisted the urge. She was on duty at seven so would have to leave his bed soon enough but just for now, he wanted to savour the feel of her skin against his, nestled into him, before the world and the war laid their demands on them both again.
An orange flash from an explosion close by burst across the room and Jo opened her eyes.
She smiled. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello yourself,’ he replied.
She gazed up at him for a moment. ‘What time is it?’
‘About four.’ His gaze ran over her face. ‘Are you . . .?’
‘Fine. In fact,’ holding his gaze, Jo threw the sheet back and sat up, ‘I’ve never felt better.’
Tommy’s eyes travelled over her for a moment then he sat up and gathered her into his arms. Jo’s mouth closed over his in a long hard kiss and, as his arms tightened around her, she pushed him back onto the bed. Rolling onto him, she straddled his right leg and placed her hands on the pillow either side of his head. She raised herself up and gazed down at him, her breasts resting on his chest, firing his passion in an instant.
He smiled up at her. ‘You’re so . . . so . . .’
‘Shameless?’
‘I was going to say beautiful.’ He raised an eyebrow and cupped her right breast, rubbing the nipple with his thumb. ‘And a little bit shameless, too.’
Jo’s eyes smouldered for a moment then she kissed him and rested her head on his chest, idly tracing her fingers along the muscles of his arms and shoulder.
The Mudchute ack-ack guns sent a ribbon of shells into the sky as she lay in his arms, breathing out and breathing in.
‘Jo,’ he said, as St Anne’s Church clock chimed out the half-hour.
She raised her head and looked at him.
‘About, Lou.’
She smiled. ‘It doesn’t matter. Not now.’
‘It does to me, especially now,’ he replied. ‘Jo. I swear I never slept with her.’
Jo’s gaze ran over his face for a second or two then she smiled. ‘I believe you.’
‘And believe me, too, when I say I love you.’
Jo gave him a quirky smile. ‘I’d have to, wouldn’t I, after the way you were shouting it last night.’
Tommy grinned. ‘I got carried away and I’d like to point out, you weren’t exactly quiet yourself.’
‘I was taken by surprise by . . . you know.’ She gave him a sideward look.
‘Good,’ said Tommy, feeling a vigorous surge through his body again. ‘And I’d like to continue to surprise you as Mrs Tommy Sweete for the rest of my life.’
‘Would you now?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I would.’
A smile tugged at the corner of Jo’s mouth. ‘Is that a proposal?’
‘It is.’
‘Then I accept.’
Feeling like the King of the World, Tommy started to draw her closer but she braced her hands against his chest. ‘But you’ll have to speak to my dad.’
‘I will,’ he replied, as the memory of Jo’s bear of a father at the boxing club flashed through his mind.
Smiling down at him, Jo’s hands slid up his chest and around his neck.
Tommy gazed at her for a moment then hooking his legs around hers he rolled her onto her back. ‘And I’d also like to point out to the future Mrs Thomas Sweete, that the night’s not over yet.’
*
Resting back into the chair, Mattie put her feet on the box containing Post 7’s spare gas masks. It was the last Friday in November and the clock high above the door to the infant school’s hall showed it was just past six in the morning. She was sitting in the recreation area of Post 7, which they’d kitted out as best they could with old lounge furniture and a rug. Opposite her was the small bookcase containing both fiction and non-fiction, chess sets and packs of cards. At her elbow was an old kitchen table strewn with magazines and periodicals that people had brought in.
The all-clear had sounded a while ago; a thick blanket of fog had spread its way up the Thames, covering the whole of London, which meant they’d had a reasonably quiet night. Flying blind, the last couple of waves of German bombers had dropped their munitions and returned to their bases at four. No others had come so the locals, knowing the nightly rigmarole was over, had started packing up their belongings in the Tilbury shelter as soon as the pea-souper appeared. This meant that Mattie finished her duties just after five when she’d strolled back to Post 7 for a well-earned cuppa.
Well, when she said stroll that should really be waddle as over the last couple of weeks she’d really ‘blossomed’, as her mother put it. ‘Blown up like a barrage balloon’ would have been a more accurate description, so it was just as well she was giving up her warden job at Post 7 in a week.
Truthfully, she should have given it up at the beginning of November rather than December but being busy helped keep her mind from dwelling on Daniel. Except it didn’t, of course, because Daniel was her last thought as she collapsed into an exhausted sleep and her first thought when her eyes opened, especially as the latest postcard from his chief was long overdue.
A Ration Book Christmas Page 27
