The Camberwell Raid

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Promising?’ said Lilian, hiding a smile. ‘Why promising?’

  ‘I don’t know how that slipped out,’ said Bill, ‘I’m a reserved bloke normally.’

  ‘My life, are you sure you are?’ asked Lilian.

  ‘You noticed, I daresay,’ said Bill.

  ‘Not so far,’ said Lilian, and laughed.

  ‘So long, lady,’ said Bill, and returned to his float. Although milk churns and cans had been superseded by bottled milk, the Walworth dairy’s floats were still horse-drawn, and Bill gave his nag a pat that set it into motion. Lilian took the bottle of milk through to her kitchen larder, and then left the house. She passed the milkman and his float on her way to Browning Street and the bus stop. He watched her. Her coat was stylish and her hat, of light brown chamois, was fur-trimmed. She looked expensively kitted out, and Bill wondered if her husband had a job as well. You didn’t see a lot of expensive clothes in Walworth. Nor too many women as handsome as she was. Lucky old Hyams, whoever he was.

  At the Shoreditch factory, Lilian spent part of the morning supervising the delicate finishing touches to two bridal gowns, one for a young lady called Cassie Ford, the other for Susie’s sister Sally. Sally was Sammy’s sister-in-law, Cassie well-known to Sammy and the rest of the Adamses. To strengthen the relationship, Cassie was marrying Sally’s younger brother Freddy. The brides-to-be had had their first fitting of the gowns, both of white silk and designed to float. Lilian’s main problem had been to ensure that one gown did not outshine the other, for it was to be a double wedding in St John’s Church, and Lilian herself would be there.

  Finishing at twelve noon with the rest of the factory staff, she was back home before one. She treated herself to a light lunch, then changed into a costume for her Saturday shopping expedition. The sunshine had brought warmth and she did not need a coat. But she put on a light hat.

  Opening her front door she almost repeated the process of bumping into the new milkman.

  ‘I should believe this?’ she said with a smile.

  Bill Chambers, customers’ book in his hand, said, ‘Have I had the pleasure, missus?’

  ‘What pleasure?’ asked Lilian.

  ‘Of meetin’ you personally?’

  ‘Only for about ten minutes at twenty-to-eight this morning,’ said Lilian. The factory began work at eight, and Lilian usually got there at about eight-fifteen. ‘You informed me that old Ernie’s feet had gone to their rest at his sister’s.’

  ‘Well, so I did,’ said Bill. ‘I’m complimented that you remembered. Might I say I’m admirin’ of your togs?’

  Lilian looked extremely well-dressed in her brown costume and pristine white blouse. She liked the feel of good clothes.

  ‘Does your dairy encourage you to comment on your customers’ togs?’ she asked, smiling.

  ‘Not precisely,’ said Bill, ‘nor exactly, either. Polite’s the word for our relationship with one and all, missus. No familiarities. Still, I know a nicely attired lady when I see one. Now let’s see, one pint of milk Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays. That’s one-and-fourpence for this week. Wait a tick – any eggs?’

  ‘You asked me that this morning,’ said Lilian.

  ‘Did I?’ said Bill, and pushed his peaked cap back a bit, and scratched his hair with his pencil. ‘Well, it’s new, y’know, egg availability, and I’m givin’ the good news to all my customers. Would you like some?’

  ‘Not today, thank you,’ said Lilian. ‘I’ll slip a note into an empty when I’m in need.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Bill, ‘very good.’

  ‘You suggested it yourself, this morning,’ said Lilian.

  ‘All the same, I’m admirin’ of you catchin’ on, Mrs Hyams.’ Bill smiled. ‘Now, one-and-fourpence, did I say?’

  ‘That and other things,’ said Lilian, then paid up. Bill thanked her like a gent and went off whistling on his float. Lilian went up the street to the market, which was alive with Saturday afternoon crowds, from darting and diving young kids up to sharp-eyed grannies of any old age. In such crowds, it was bustling women who won most scrimmages. Bustling women were born market shoppers, and knew the worth of a plump and experienced elbow. Lilian was not a bustler herself. She’d been educated, in fact, at a Jewish establishment that was prone to sternly correct any tendency in a girl to be forward, aggressive or unfeminine. All-knowing motherhood was the ultimate goal to which they were pointed. Lilian, however, had had no children by her late husband. He’d been sent to France with his unit not long after they were married, and the day he finished his embarkation leave was the last time she saw him. From then on until Sammy took her on as a designer in 1925, Lilian had existed on close terms with poverty.

  She didn’t at all mind the market crowds. She was a Londoner and accordingly part of London’s crowded scenes. She eluded elbows and bodies with ease. She bought fruit and vegetables from her favourite stalls, and her shopping bag would have begun to bulge if it hadn’t been for the fact that she only ever had to shop for herself. A voice eventually accosted her ear.

  ‘Well, well, what a pleasure, Mrs Hyams.’

  She turned. Mr Abel Morrison, proprietor of a leather goods shop, was beside her, his kind smile broadening his double chin. It was a shame that he was stout and also two inches shorter than Lilian, because he really was a very kind man. He was also of an age, forty-three, when he was willing to be a comfort to a good woman like Lilian. He’d been a bachelor married to his shop long enough.

  ‘Hello, Mr Morrison, out of your shop on a Saturday afternoon and all?’ said Lilian.

  Mr Morrison, a large green baize apron covering most of his shirt, waistcoat and trousers, lifted his bowler hat to her.

  ‘Young Amos Stein is presently keeping an eye on things,’ he said, ‘but I should leave him in charge for longer than five minutes? Not without heart failure. I saw you from my shop doorway and said to myself, “Abel, let Mrs Hyams know you’ve seen her or she’ll reproach you.” For five minutes, then, I’ve left Amos in charge. My word, Mrs Hyams, a splendid woman you look, don’t you? Tomorrow, yes, I shall call for you at two-thirty in the afternoon and take you for a bus ride to Hyde Park, providing the weather is fine.’

  ‘No, really, Mr Morrison—’

  ‘I insist,’ said Mr Morrison with an even kinder smile. A bustling woman buffeted his back, impelling him forward, and Lilian avoided a clash with his rotundity only by an elusive sideways movement. ‘I’m begging someone’s pardon?’ he said, turning.

  ‘Move over, Charlie,’ said the woman, ‘you’re in me way.’

  ‘I’m not Charlie, madam,’ said Mr Morrison.

  ‘Course you are,’ said the woman, heaving herself into a vacant space, ‘everyone in trousers is a bleedin’ Charlie, ain’t ’e? And me old man’s Charlie number one. Useless, poor bloke.’ Off she went, bustling, and Mr Morrison turned back to Lilian. Alas, Lilian was no longer there. She was elsewhere, amid a sea of faces.

  ‘So sorry, Mr Morrison,’ she called, ‘but I got carried away.’

  She vanished then, and Mr Morrison went back to his shop. However, he’d call for her tomorrow, as he’d promised. She was a lonely widow, poor woman.

  Lilian, of course, didn’t see herself like that.

  Boots and Emily took Eloise up to the West End shops in the family car that afternoon. Rosie went too. Tim, hearing that there was a shopping expedition in the offing, made himself scarce in case he had a weak moment and allowed his mum to wheedle him into the car.

  ‘Where’s Tim?’ asked Emily as Rosie opened the car door for her.

  ‘Hiding,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Hidin’?’ said Emily.

  ‘Oh, he’ll pop out once we’ve gone,’ said Rosie.

  ‘But what’s he hidin’ from?’ asked Emily.

  ‘West End shops,’ said Rosie.

  ‘But everyone likes the West End shops,’ said Emily.

  ‘Not Tim,’ said Rosie.

  ‘That boy is funny, isn’t he?�
�� said Eloise, due to attend Pitman’s College in the City after Easter in order to perfect her written English and to learn touch typing.

  ‘Like his father,’ said Emily, with all four of them now in the car.

  ‘For which we’re grateful,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Oh, yes, funny is better than long faces,’ said Eloise, and Emily smiled as Boots motored out of the drive and down Denmark Hill towards Camberwell Green and the West End.

  Rosie was also smiling. Eloise had managed to put herself in the front passenger seat beside Boots. Rosie found such antics amusing.

  As for Tim, he went to Brockwell Park to watch a football match between Browning Street Rovers and their deadliest rivals, Manor Place Rangers. The Rovers were captained by Nick Harrison, the fiancé of Tim’s cousin, Annabelle Somers, daughter of his Aunt Lizzy and Uncle Ned. Annabelle was there along with other girl supporters, and so were two of Nick’s sisters, Alice and young Fanny, as well as Cassie Ford. Freddy Brown, Cassie’s own fiancé and right halfback for the Rovers, was playing alongside Nick.

  The game had just kicked off when Tim arrived. He was a footballer himself, playing for his school team on Saturday mornings. He received a warm greeting from Annabelle, a gorgeous-looking girl of eighteen with glossy chestnut hair and large brown eyes.

  ‘Tim, lovely to see you,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ said thirteen-year-old Tim, ‘just give us a kiss.’

  Tim being her favourite male cousin, Annabelle gave him a smacker on his cheek.

  ‘I saw that,’ said Cassie.

  ‘’Ere, yes, what’s goin’ on?’ asked Chrissie Thompson, known as Dumpling on account of her cuddle-some plumpness. Married to the Rovers’ right back, Danny Thompson, Dumpling was in aggravated expectancy of their first child. Well, nothing had aggravated her more than finding out exactly what Danny had done to her on their honeymoon last August. Dumpling was so keen on football, playing as well as watching, that she’d thumped Danny for putting her in the family way. Still, as he said, it did mean she’d be having their first little footballer in May or thereabouts. ‘Annabelle, what’s all that kissin’? Oh, it’s you, Tim.’ All the girl supporters knew Tim, for he often came to watch the Rovers in action. ‘My, ain’t you growin’ a good-lookin’ boy?’

  ‘Pardon his blushes,’ said Annabelle.

  ‘I don’t see any,’ said Alice, whose young man, Johnny Richards, was also doing his stuff for the Rovers. Her young sister Fanny, noted for her sauciness, darted a glance at Tim. Tim, a typical Adams, and accordingly gregarious, gave her a friendly smile. Fanny actually blushed. Her family, knowing her well, would have said it was her first ever blush. But then her family didn’t know she was experiencing her first crush. Tim, a slim lad, was tall for his age and had his dad’s dark brown hair and grey eyes. Fanny thought him thrilling. He thought her an engaging young pussycat, with her girlish little nose and her straw-coloured pigtail that was tied with black ribbon.

  ‘Sorry about me embarrassing looks,’ he said with a grin, and put himself between her and Alice. Fanny went sort of quivery as elbows touched, and she even blushed again. ‘How’s yourselves?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, we’re in the pink, Tim, thanks,’ said Alice, a trim and nice-looking young lady of nineteen.

  ‘Is Nick still cheerful about getting married to my cousin Annabelle?’ asked Tim.

  ‘I think he’s walkin’ on air,’ said Alice, as the footballers surged up and down.

  ‘I’ll tell Annabelle, she’ll like that,’ said Tim, and turned his attention on the game. ‘Any score yet, Fanny?’ he asked.

  ‘Beg pardon?’ gulped Fanny, not at all her usual self. Well, a girl of thirteen suffering her first crush was bound to have the kind of problems that played havoc with her teenage aplomb, if she had any, and Fanny had her fair share and a bit more – usually.

  ‘No score yet,’ said Alice, ‘the game’s only been goin’ for ten minutes.’

  ‘Oh, lawks, there goes me poor old Danny,’ said Dumpling. Danny had been floored by the hefty Manor Place centre half, Bonzo Willis, sometimes known as Bonzo the Elephant. ‘That won’t do me better ’alf much good, not in ’is delicate condition.’

  ‘He doesn’t look delicate from where we’re standing,’ said Tim, ‘does he, Fanny?’

  Oh, crikey, he’s talking to me, thought Fanny.

  ‘Beg pardon?’ she gulped again.

  ‘It’s ’is state of ’ealth,’ said Dumpling, face rosy beneath her knitted blue and white supporters’ hat. ‘We’re expectin’, yer know, Tim, so we’re both delicate. Mind you, it’s more ’is fault than mine.’

  ‘I think I’ve heard about it,’ said Tim.

  ‘We all have,’ said Alice.

  ‘Yes, and it’s mucked up me football career,’ said Dumpling.

  ‘Oh, what a shame, you poor woman,’ said Cassie.

  ‘Still, think of the patter of tiny feet,’ said Annabelle.

  ‘In football boots,’ said Cassie.

  ‘Crikey, Nick’s down now,’ said Dumpling.

  Nick had crashed following a hefty tackle.

  ‘That’s broken his leg, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Cassie, ‘and him gettin’ married to you in June, Annabelle, you poor woman.’

  ‘Cassie, stop calling all of us poor women,’ said Annabelle.

  Nick, upright again and uninjured, scored the first goal for the Rovers a minute later, planting an elbow in Bonzo’s ribs on the way, which the ref didn’t notice. The girls danced about in triumph, Dumpling making light of her extra weight. In any case, she’d been told exercise was good for expectant mothers. Fanny, forgetting her nervous condition at being elbow to elbow with Tim, almost took off in her delight.

  ‘You’re going up and down a bit, Fanny,’ said Tim.

  ‘Oh, help,’ breathed Fanny, ‘did it notice?’

  ‘Not half,’ said Tim. ‘D’you do athletics at your school?’

  ‘Me?’ Fanny was all over goosepimples. ‘Me do athletics?’

  ‘Running and jumping?’ said Tim.

  ‘Oh, help,’ said Fanny faintly.

  ‘What d’you want help for?’ smiled Tim.

  ‘Yes, what’s up with you, Fanny?’ asked Alice.

  ‘Me, Alice?’ said Fanny.

  ‘You sound as if your tongue’s ’aving an off-day,’ said Alice.

  ‘Fanny’s all right,’ said Tim, ‘she’s just been jumping up and down a bit.’

  ‘Well, Nick scored a goal,’ said Fanny.

  ‘That’s as good an excuse as any for jumping up and down,’ said Tim. ‘D’you like films, Fanny?’

  ‘Beg pardon?’ gasped Fanny, all over more quivers.

  ‘Going to the pictures,’ said Tim.

  ‘Me?’ said Fanny helplessly. Having a crush on a boy was awful weakening when he was standing so close to her and being so friendly.

  On the field, Bonzo Willis, miffed about his team conceding a goal, took his umbrage out on Freddy and sent him flying.

  ‘Oh, me beloved Freddy,’ breathed Cassie. She’d taken to calling him that on suitable occasions. It made other girls shriek. ‘That hurt me all over,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, poor woman,’ said Annabelle, and Cassie giggled.

  The ref had a few words with Bonzo.

  ‘Me?’ said Bonzo. ‘I ask yer fair and square, ref, is it my fault Browning Rovers are all bleedin’ legless?’

  ‘Language, language,’ remonstrated the ref.

  ‘Someone said something, then?’ asked Bonzo, sorry to see Freddy was up on his feet and relatively uninjured.

  ‘That Bonzo Willis is a shockin’ hooligan,’ said Cassie.

  The game went on, the Rovers hanging on to their lead. At half-time, they came and mingled with the girls. Nick said hello to Tim, and took a slice of lemon from Fanny.

  ‘It’s a good game,’ said Tim.

  ‘Hello, hero,’ said Annabelle, arriving at Nick’s side.

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ said Nick.
/>   ‘Leg muscles bearing up, are they, lovey?’ smiled Annabelle.

  ‘Funny you should ask,’ said Nick, ‘I think I’d better stay in bed tomorrow and give ’em a rest.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky,’ said Annabelle, ‘you’re coming up in the morning to take me to church, and in the afternoon you’re playing the piano with me in our front room.’

  ‘I’m off the piano,’ said Nick, ‘I’ll think of something else we can do.’

  ‘Don’t say things like that in front of Tim, you shocker,’ said Annabelle.

  Tim smiled. He stayed until the end of the game, talking to Alice and Fanny from time to time, and Fanny gradually got hold of herself. But she went to pot again when, just before he left, Tim told her he’d take her to the pictures himself one day, if she liked. She could only gulp that she would like.

  When Tim got off the bus at the stop in Red Post Hill, a small motorized baker’s van approached. It passed the standing bus at a steady speed. Tim noted the name, ‘Joseph Roberts, Family Baker’. Not our local baker, he thought casually. He little knew it, but the van was on a nefarious practice run from a certain bank in Camberwell to North Dulwich railway station. Ginger Carstairs was driving, Dusty Miller in the passenger seat. From North Dulwich they would take a train which, with a change, would get them to Tonbridge and from there to Dover and a ferry to France.

  But not today, of course.

  Chapter Three

  ‘TIME I LEFT,’ said Major Charles Armitage.

  ‘If you must,’ said Cecily Bennett, an old friend. They’d had a long lunch at the Criterion, and then spent the afternoon at her Maida Vale house. A divorcee, Cecily was a well-known London socialite, noted for her avant-garde parties, especially during the war. It was happenings at some of those mad wartime parties that had led to her divorce. As for Charles Armitage, a young lieutenant in 1914, he’d been among the Army men who’d enjoyed themselves at her house on several occasions just after the outbreak of war. Then they’d gone off to France. ‘Pauline will be waiting for you, old thing?’

  ‘If she’s not drunk,’ said Major Armitage, now on the reserve list. He had an estate in Surrey to look after.