Late Night on Watling Street
and other stories by
Bill Naughton
Contents
The stories:
Late Night on Watling Street
A Skilled Man
Bit o’Skin
Poison Pincher
Taddy the Lamplighter
The Key of the Cabinet
The Bees Have Stopped Working
Tom’s Sister
Boozer’s Labourer
Weaver’s Knot
Seeing a Beauty Queen Home
A way from Home
The Tell-tale Clock
Cockney Mum
Spiv in Love
The Half-Nelson Touch
The Little Welsh Girl
Late Night on Watling Street
It was after midnight when I drew my lorry on to the parking ground in front of “Lew’s” caff. I switched off the engine and lights, got out of the cab, knew it would be safe without locking it up, and stretched my limbs and looked up at the sky. It was all starry. The air had a nice fresh rinsed taste to it. I walked round the wagon and kicked my tyres, testing the ropes round my load, and with that nice weekend feeling you get on a Friday night, I went inside.
It was nearly empty. I went up to the counter. Ethel, Lew’s young wife, was making a fresh pot of tea, and Lew was watching her. I heard him say: “Make it any stronger an’ you’ll hatta serve it with knives and forks.”
“I can’t stand the sight of weak tea,” said Ethel.
“You can get it a good colour without putting all that much in,” said Lew.
“It’s not colour a man wants,” said Ethel, “it’s body.” She winked at me. “Eh, Bolton?”
Lew hadn’t seen me listening, and he tried to laugh it off. I didn’t take much notice of him. I never do. He’s turned fifty, has a thin face with red cheeks and sandy hair. He always wears a big jersey with a polo collar, a check cap, and sandals, and he always has a fag in his mouth. Box? You could blow him over. But during the war, with all the shortage of food and fags, he suddenly found himself important, like most little shopkeepers and café owners, and he started giving orders and took to wearing this boxer’s rig-out. I hate fakes and show-offs, and Lew’s one. But maybe he’s not a bad bloke at heart, for they say he’s good for a touch if you’re short of cash. But I can never forget that he used to put soda in his tea urn, and I blame that for the guts’ ache I used to get. That was before he married Ethel.
I said nothing to Ethel except to give her my usual warm nod and wink, and then I ordered a large tea, and asked could I have some egg and chips.
“Yes,” said Lew. “She’s got the chip pan all ready.”
“I’ll bring your tea over,” said Ethel.
I knew he was getting at her over something. And I’d a good idea what it was—a driver called Jackson. Ethel wouldn’t shut up until he’d been. I said nothing because I reckoned I was lucky to get my egg and chips. Practically the only spot in the British Isles you could get them on a Friday night at that hour. I walked across to the big table where Taff and Ned were sitting, and sat at one end.
“I see old Babyface is out on the scout again,” said Taff.
“That dirty little bleeder,” said Ned. “I’ve known many a speed cop in my day, but never one like him, an’ his mate. The way they creep up on your tail and hang there.”
“He’s done that man Jackson three times,” said Taff.
“Once more,” said Ned, “an’ his licence will go for a walk for six months.”
Ethel brought my tea. She came up behind me and put it on the table. I saw her brown arm and strong woman’s fingers. I like a healthy woman. Especially when she’s just on thirty. A woman’s best age. I could have made her for myself until Jackson came on the scene. Our feelings had been warming up nicely in looks. But at forty-two you don’t compete with a bloke of twenty-eight. But if she had known it, I was better than I’d ever been in my life. Outside a lorry drew on to the parking ground and the engine revved up and then shut off. Taff said, “That’ll be Jackson.” I could see Lew looking a bit tense.
“It’s not Jackson,” said Ethel. She smiled at me, and went back to the counter. The door opened and in came Walter, a driver from St Helens, and behind him his trailer-mate, Willie.
Walter, a short little stiff chap, carrying his lunch basket, and Willie, one of these artistic lads you see around these days, with a silk scarf round his neck. He always followed Walter like a faithful poodle. Walter let out a shout and when he came up to Lew he got up on his toes and began boxing. This just suited Lew who began throwing in what he thought were snappy lefts. Old Walter could have let him have one and knocked him out for good. But he always liked to gee old Lew up a bit. He went up and kissed Ethel on the cheek. Those cheery blokes, I thought, can get away with murder.
“Love me as much as ever, love?” said Walter to Ethel.
“You know me, Walter,” said Ethel.
“That’s why I’m asking,” said Walter.
Old Lew said, “Lay off mate, in front of the husband.”
“You can always rely on a chap as does it under your nose, Lew,” said Walter.
It was a lively little entrance and it brightened the place up.
Taff called out, “Did you see old Babyface on your way down?”
“Did we see him, Willie!” said Walter. “Ethel, double egg and chips for my mate. I’m treating him.” Walter came over to the table and cocked his leg across a chair. “We were just coming down the Long Hill there, we had the stick out, doing a nice forty-five, and old Willie here crooning away, when he suddenly broke off like he’d been shot. ‘What’s up, Willie?’ I says. ‘Sum’dy on our tail,’ says Willie. I revved up and put the old stick in and got into gear. I looked through the mirror. Not a thing in sight. I watched closely, not a thing. And I think the lad must be seeing something. I get the old speed down to a bit of a crawl, and still nothing in sight. ‘Are you sure, Willie,’ I says. ‘I am that an’ all,’ says Willie here. Well, I’m crawling along and still can’t see nothing and I comes to thinking that old Willie’s psychic bump has let him down. So I tells him to lean out of the cab at his side while I give a chancy swerve and switch off my own lights for better seeing. Right enough it was that damn great mardarse, Babyface. Him and his mate had been stuck on our tail.”
“What happened then?” said Ned.
“They knew they’d been rumbled,” said Walter. “So the next thing they drew ahead and went into a side road. And there they’re stuck this minute, waiting for the next poor sod that comes down.”
Ethel came across with my egg and chips. A minute later she was back with Willie’s.
“Ee, were you expectin’ me, Ethel?” said Willie, all smiles.
“Not you,” said Lew, looking at the door.
I was wiping my plate clean with bread when a lorry came belting off the road on to the parking ground outside. It hammered along and stopped with a loud brake squeal right at the door. Nobody looked up.
“That’s Jackson now,” said Willie.
“And a good job his anchors are all right,” said Taff, “or else—”
“Curse the bloody man,” said Lew. “He’ll drive up to the blasted counter one of these fine days.” He turned what he must have thought was a tough face to the door. We all gave a look that way. It was Jackson all right. Lew quickly dropped his stare and started wiping a table.
“Has he got the rats in him!” said Ned.
“He’s not in the best of moods surely,” said Taff.
Jackson came striding up slowly. He had a dark chin, pale face, black hair. As he was passing our table he saw Willie still eating his egg and chips. The sight of
the plate seemed to stop him dead. His face went even darker. Willie looked dead nervous. Walter picked up the sauce bottle.
“Here y’are, Willie boy,” he said in a loud easy-going way, “have a shake of the old bottle.”
Willie smiled at Walter. Jackson went to the next table, an empty one. When Lew saw that Walter had got one over Jackson, he seemed to take heart. He went up to the table.
“What is it?” he said.
“What’s what?” said Jackson, looking for Ethel.
“Have you ordered?” said Lew.
“Ordered?” said Jackson. “I’m not getting measured for a suit. Small tea.”
“That all?” said Lew.
“That an’ a bit of peace,” said Jackson.
“You’re supposed to bring your own,” said Lew, walking away.
When he went up to the counter I could see he said something to Ethel, and I heard her say: “There’s times when your funny stuff just isn’t funny, Lew. I’ll serve him.”
“You’re welcome,” said Lew.
He looked hurt. She took his arm and smiled at him. He smiled back.
“Sorry,” said Ethel.
“We’ve had eighteen hours of it,” said Lew, looking at the clock. “Another half-hour and we’re through. What about a tune?”
Ethel takes the tea across to Jackson. He gives one tight grip over her wrist.
“You want your egg an’ chips, don’t you, Jack?” she says.
Jackson shakes his head. Lew dropped his coin into the juke-box, and the next thing you can hear a woman singing something about “Waltzing with her darling”. It’s called The Tennessee Waltz. Jackson kissed Ethel’s arm. Then Ethel moved slowly away from his table, looking like a woman with a dream on her mind.
As it happens, old Lew is just moving away from the juke-box, and this music and woman’s voice is filling the place, and Ethel comes up facing Lew with that faraway walk, and the next thing Lew has got hold of her and is dancing her gently around to a slow foxtrot or something.
Although I don’t like him I had to admit to myself that he handled it nicely. And he danced nicely too, with a nice skilful movement. They all began calling out, “Life in the old dog yet”, and “Go on”, but there was no doubt they all liked to see the dance. All except Jackson. His face went dead poisonous. He kept himself sitting there for a time and then he got to his feet. He went across to the juke-box, half turned his back on it, and gave it a back-heeler. It was a dead sharp kick, and the next thing there was a groan and the tune died away in the middle of the woman singing something about “remembering the night”.
I looked up and saw old Lew’s face. One second it had that look that comes over a chap’s face when he’s enjoying a dance. The next it had the look of a child that’s had its dummy snatched out of its mouth in the middle of a good suck. Ethel gave Jackson a sharp sort of a look and went behind the counter. Willie looked towards Lew, his big eyes soft and wide open with sympathy. Lew stood there in a daze for a couple of ticks, then he went across to Jackson.
“You, did that,” he said.
“What’ll you do?” said Jackson.
“You’d no right,” said Lew. “Didn’t you see us dancin’?”
“I saw you,” said Jackson.
“I won’t bloody stand for it,” said Lew.
“What’ll you do?’ said Jackson.
“I’ll show you what I’ll do,” said Lew. Then he weakened. “I mean, we were doin’ no harm.”
“I told you I wanted some peace,” said Jackson. “I’ve had enough din in my ears for the last five hours.”
“But you’d no right,” said Lew. He went across to the juke-box and shook it. You could hear the record whirring round but missing the needle or something. He came hurrying back to Jackson. “You had no right to do what you did,” he said, talking legal like. “I’d put my money in that box.”
Jackson leant back in his chair. “Why didn’t you say it was the money was troubling you?” he said. He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a fistful of silver and copper. “Here y’are,” he said, holding out his hand. “You can take it outa that.”
Lew, being a money-mean sort of bloke, couldn’t help being caught off guard. The sight of money carelessly handled seems to make some people so that they can’t think for a minute. He just stared at Jackson and at the money and didn’t know what to do. Then Ethel came walking up behind Lew. She went round him in a gentle way, until she was facing Jackson, and before he knew what was happening she brought up her hand with a swift smack under his. The money went right up in the air and flew all over the place.
“And you,” she said, “can take it out of that!”
Then she turned to Lew like a mother who has gone out into the street to help her lad who is being challenged by a bigger lad. “Come on, Lew,” she said, and led him back to the counter. We drivers said nothing. After all, Jackson himself was a driver. Jackson didn’t know where to look or what to do. Then another lorry stopped outside.
The door opened with a quick jerk and in came Clive. A real spiv kid, the clothes, the walk, the lot, even to the old rub of the hands, as though he’s going to sell you something. He comes whistling along.
“What you all bleedin’ talkin’ at once for?” he says, everything being dead silent. “Large tea, Ethel, two of toast and drip. Don’t be tight with the jelly—m’back’s bad.”
Clive eyes everybody.
“Howzit goin’, Bolton?” he says to me.
“Not bad,” I says.
Suddenly he makes a dive for something on the floor.
“Coo. I’m in bleedin’ luck,” he says, picking up half a crown. I beckon with my thumb to where Jackson is sitting. Clive catches on. He goes across and puts in on the table in front of Jackson.
“I wouldn’t rob you, Jackson,” he says. “You might need it. I see old Babyface did you again—back up the road there on the Long Hill.”
As soon as Clive said that, the atmosphere changed.
“Bloody hard luck, Jackson,” said Ned.
“I hope they don’t scrub your licence,” said Taff.
I gave him a look. He didn’t seem to have Babyface on his mind. A lot had happened to him since that.
“He must have nailed you just after he left us,” said Walter. He took out his fags, handed them round, hesitated, then held the packet out to Jackson. Jackson thought it over for a moment, and then took one. The matey feeling came up then, the feeling of all being drivers and the law always after you.
Clive leant over the table and looked at Jackson: “I was stuck in a lay-by up the road, mate, with a floozie, when you came whamming past. You was goin’ like the clappers of hell. Whoof … ‘Wot’s that?’ she says. She went dead cold on me.”
Ethel came up with Clive’s tea and toast and drip.
“You was goin’ at a hell of a lick, Jackson,” went on Clive. “What was on your bleedin’ mind?”
Ethel was leaning over the table. I saw Jackson give her a long and hungry look. Ethel looked at him. She picked up his cup. “Piece of my apple pie?” she said. He nodded. Then he looked at Clive. “What did you say?” he said.
“Let it pass,” said Clive, his eye following Ethel. He didn’t miss much.
The atmosphere had come on matey, and even Lew came up and hung around.
“I wouldn’t like to say what I’d do to a cop like that,” said Taff.
“Babyface?” said Lew. “Got his job to do, ain’t he? That’s what he’s paid for—bookin’ you! Well, ain’t it?”
“He ain’t paid bleedin’ bonus on the job,” said Ned. “He don’t have to creep on your tail. None of the others do it.”
“It’s legal, ain’t it?” said Lew. “You keep to the law too, then nob’dy can touch you.”
They went on yapping about the law then, about loads, log sheets, brakes, licences, and all the rest of it, with old Lew sticking his motty in at every chance.
Then Walter said: “Has it ever struck you, Lew
, what a dangerous caper it is—tailing a lorry?”
I saw Jackson suddenly take an interest.
Clive said: “Suppose you didn’t know this geezer was on your tail? Say you was doin’ a nice fifty-five, when you spotted something just ahead of you?”
“Yeh,” said Ned, “an’ down on the bleedin’ anchors.”
“Pull up with a jerk,” said Clive, “and where’s Baby-face?”
“Over the bloody top,” said Taff.
“No, he ain’t,’ said Ned, he’s under the back. You get out an’ run around the back, and there’s the bleedin’ bogeymen an’ their car, practically buried under the back axle. ‘Wot wuz you a-doin’ of?’ said Babyface. So you says, ‘Testin’ my bleedin’ brakes for efficiency. Why, officah, you’ve scratched your radiator—not to mention bashin’ in your National ‘Ealth dentures!’”
“Come on, Ned,” said Taff, rising, “you’d talk all night.”
“It’s about time you was all off,” said Lew. “We want to get to bed.”
Ethel came over with Jackson’s tea and apple pie. “You go off, Lew,” she said. She looked at Jackson as she put the piece of pie in front of him, but he was staring down at the table. He didn’t seem to notice the pie, or, come to that, Ethel herself.
“Can I trust you to lock up properly if I go off?” said Lew to Ethel.
“I’ll help her,” said Walter.
“Then I think I’ll go off to bed,” said Lew.
“That’s right,” said Clive, “let your bleedin’ brains cool down. ‘Keep to the law.’ Never heard such bull in all my life.”
“Come on, Taff,” said Ned.
They went off.
“I think I’ll go,” said Lew.
“All right,” said Walter, “go, but stop natterin’ about it.”
“Don’t be long, Ethel,” said Lew. “Turf ‘em out.”
“It’s too late to hurry,” said Ethel.
“Goodnight, Lew,” said Willie.
“Goodnight, Willie lad,” said Lew.
When Lew had gone off, Clive turned to me: “Fancy a game of darts, Lofthouse?”
They either call me by the town I come from or its best-known footballer.
Late Night on Watling Street Page 1
