Sons and Daughters

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘I ain’t daft,’ whispered Large Lump. He entered the forecourt with Sparky, and closed the gate silently. Sparky, rubber soles softly treading, made for the double doors of the factory. There were two Yale locks. His torch was in the carpet bag, and he left it there while he applied himself to springing the locks.

  That took less than a minute. He opened one door, picked up the bag, and inserted himself soundlessly into the gap. He stood and listened. Not a sound. Good-oh. Interference on a job like this could damage his career which, after all, was only injurious to insurance companies loaded with the ready.

  He closed the door, gently set the carpet bag on the floor, opened it and extracted his torch. Facing the wide passage, dark as the night, there were no windows at his back, and he switched on the torch. Its beam cut a bright hole in the darkness and illuminated a large sliding door on which was painted a notice.

  ‘WORKSHOP AND STOCKROOM. NO UNAUTHORIZED ADMITTANCE.’

  Very right and proper, thought Sparky, but I’m under contract.

  Picking up his bag, he advanced, sniffing a bit, but otherwise in sound working order. A door opened on his right, a light flooded on, and a thunderbolt fell on the back of his neck.

  Sparky dropped, out cold.

  At the gate outside, Large Lump was suddenly aware that one of the factory’s windows was showing light. Eh? Sparky wasn’t noted for turning on lights when doing a job. It advertised the kind of thing that the law didn’t like. The law was as interfering as the rozzers.

  The factory entrance doors opened. Framed in the gap, with light behind him, was a broad-shouldered man, nothing like narrow-shouldered Sparky. He shouted a command.

  ‘You there, stay where you are!’

  ‘Flaming clappers, it’s Scotland Yard in a suit,’ hissed Large Lump to the night. The night offered no help, so he opened the gate and set off like a galumphing elephant with a scalded tail. He breathed bitter words about what his horoscope was doing to him lately.

  He charged into the night.

  Neither Michal Greenberg nor his brother Jacob followed. They were quite happy with having downed the man with the carpet bag.

  ‘He’s coming to,’ said Jacob.

  ‘Give him some of the coffee,’ said Michal.

  ‘His mouth isn’t open yet,’ said Jacob.

  ‘Pour it over his head,’ said Michal, ‘then we’ll ask him a few questions. If he turns out to be a Nazi as well as a threat to Tommy and Sammy Adams, we’ll torture him.’

  ‘I should do that?’ said Jacob. ‘I’m declining.’

  ‘We’ll only pour hot coffee over his assets,’ said Michal.

  ‘I ain’t declining that,’ said Jacob.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Saturday.

  Tommy, having received a telephone call from Michal at seven, arrived at the factory some fifteen minutes ahead of Gertie and the machinists, who always travelled from the East End by the underground railway.

  Michal and Jacob, a little heavy-eyed from their long night, introduced Tommy to the slick, skinny geezer whose monicker was Cyril Jenkins and who, under some direly threatening interrogation, had admitted to the nickname of Sparky Dewdrop, and to having been contracted by Mr Ben Ford to do an arson job on the factory.

  ‘You lump of skinny meat, I’ve a good mind to tread your face in,’ said Tommy. He was tall, sturdy and muscular enough, as well as grim enough, to make Sparky feel the messenger of death had arrived to do him a fatal injury. Gawd help us, he thought, that could kill me.

  ‘Honest, guv,’ he said, ‘I know it don’t look too good, but I got to earn an honest living. Well, it’s honest use of me talents, and there’s me missus and five kids – no, six – to keep.’

  ‘What a barrowload of wet winkles,’ said Tommy. ‘You’re an out-and-out crook, and your missus ought to run you through her mangle until you’re flat all the way up and down, then slip you down a kerbside drain.’

  ‘Mangle?’ said Sparky, whose head was still aching from the chop he’d received on the back of his neck hours ago. ‘She don’t use one of them antiques, guv, she sends all the washing to the local laundry. Course, it costs a bit, which costs me a bit, and what with that and all the other expenses, you can see I got to make a name for meself at me profession.’

  ‘By doing dirty jobs for ugly spivs like Ben Ford?’ said Tommy, scowling.

  ‘Well, I grant yer, guv, Mr Ford ain’t exactly handsome,’ said Sparky, ‘and I promise yer, you give me permission to go on me way and I’ll cross him off me list. On behalf of me missus and all me kids – oh, I nearly forgot, there’s me old widowed mother and her wooden left leg as well—’

  ‘Has he been like this all night?’ asked Tommy of Michal and Jacob.

  ‘He would’ve been if we hadn’t stuffed his socks into his tonsils,’ said Jacob.

  ‘Guv, I ain’t telling no lies,’ said Sparky, sniffing. ‘Me dear old mother lost her left leg when one of them ’orrible doodlebugs dropped in Kennington. It was there one minute, next to her right one, and a second later it was gone. She never found it, and had a terrible job getting to hospital. Still, they fixed her up with her wooden peg, and seeing she relies on me, like me missus does, and me kids, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention me name to the cops. I’ve—’

  ‘Shut your gob,’ said Tommy. He heard the machinists arriving. ‘Michal, on your way home, could you deliver this heap of no-good cabbage back to the Fat Man? With a message?’

  ‘No sooner said than done, Mister Tommy,’ said Michal. ‘We’ll use his car. It’s parked a little way down.’

  Sparky shook his head gloomily.

  ‘Mr Ford ain’t going to like it,’ he said. ‘Still, no cops, guv?’

  ‘Next time there will be, you squirt,’ said Tommy.

  ‘You’re a gent,’ said Sparky, ‘specially as these two coves give me a terrible night. Didn’t sleep a wink – ouch!’ Michal had kicked his thigh. ‘’Ere, what’s that for?’

  ‘For your old mother’s wooden leg,’ said Michal.

  Breakfast over, and with Cornwall bathed in morning sunshine, Jimmy took a walk up Daymer Lane while everyone else made preparations for another day on the beach. Jimmy had holiday cards to post for himself and the two families. The little post office of Trebetherick that sold newspapers, tobacco, confectionery and gifts was at the top of the lane, and the walk was an exercise of the will for people who spent most of the year inhabiting the flat streets of inner London. Jimmy, however, living on Denmark Hill, made easy work of the climb.

  He popped into the shop to buy penny stamps for the cards, and who should be there but none other than gorgeous Jenny Osborne, and what a picture postcard she herself looked in the tail-tied RAF shirt and hip-hugging, thigh-hugging navy blue shorts.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ he said.

  ‘Are you following me about?’ she asked, face browned by the sun and the sea air.

  ‘Definitely not,’ said Jimmy. ‘I’ve been brought up by a dad who believes in leading, not following. Leading means initiative and a bright future, and who gets anywhere by just following?’

  ‘Well, you’ve got here, which isn’t anywhere, it’s suspicious,’ said Jenny. ‘What have you come for, anyway, if not to ask me for my home phone number?’

  ‘I’ve come for stamps,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Stamps?’ said Jenny.

  ‘Postage stamps for holiday cards,’ said Jimmy. ‘What’ve you come for?’

  ‘Stamps,’ said Jenny, and laughed. ‘And a straw hat for the beach.’

  ‘Here’s one,’ said Jimmy, lifting a round white creation with a wide brim from a shelf. ‘Try it for yourself, it’ll suit you better than it’ll suit the beach. Do beaches wear hats?’

  ‘You’re killing me,’ said Jenny, but she took the hat and plonked it on her head. Jimmy thought it made her look like the spirit of Mayfair in the summer. ‘How’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘Buy it,’ said Jimmy, and watched as she took a mirror out of her
handbag and studied her reflection.

  ‘Love it,’ she said, ‘I will buy it. What led you to choose it?’

  ‘Initiative,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘There’s a clever boy.’

  ‘I’m wearing trousers,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Oh, very manly,’ said Jenny, and she paid for the straw hat. ‘Well, I must be off, Jimmy, me and my lot are going sailing off Rock today, with my father and his yacht.’

  ‘Sounds breezy,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Not too breezy, I hope,’ said Jenny, ‘or Barry will get seasick again. That and a sprained ankle, what a buffoon. So long – oh, d’you want to try a round of golf again tomorrow?’

  Jimmy experienced a mental shudder, then thought about the hour he’d spent with the club professional and what he might be able to achieve in company with stunning Jenny.

  ‘I’ll chance it if you will,’ he said.

  ‘See you at the pro’s shop at two tomorrow afternoon, then,’ said Jenny.

  ‘By the way, what’s your home phone number?’ asked Jimmy.

  ‘I didn’t hear that,’ said Jenny, and off she went.

  Jimmy bought his stamps and some more picture postcards for his mum and Aunt Polly, then returned to the cottage, where he found everyone ready for another day in Cornwall’s balmy sea air.

  He imparted the news of a second go at golf.

  ‘Hello,’ said Sammy, ‘something’s cooking.’

  ‘Something is,’ said Susie.

  ‘So it should be,’ said Polly.

  ‘Crikey,’ said Phoebe, ‘is she getting keen on you, Jimmy?’

  ‘I can truthfully say I’m doubtful,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Ah,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Ah, well,’ said Boots.

  ‘Ah, my eye,’ said Jimmy.

  Large Lump was in another difficult position in trying to explain one more failure to Mr Ford. The Fat Man listened to details, including an assertion that Sparky Dewdrop, very unfortunate, had been copped by a bloke who looked like Scotland Yard in a suit. Large Lump also asserted that it all pointed very suspicious, like, at an interfering informer, as he’d mentioned before.

  ‘I tell yer, guv, the plain clothes cops was waiting for us,’ he said. ‘Large as life. And seeing I couldn’t do nothing for poor old Sparky, I scarpered double quick.’

  ‘You half-baked rissole, you’re giving me a pain in my posterior,’ said Fat Man, and looked at his gold pocket watch. ‘It’s gone eleven. Why didn’t you report at nine?’

  ‘Have a heart, guv, I didn’t get home till four in the morning,’ said Large Lump. ‘I ain’t never felt more worn out. So I flopped, didn’t I? I only woke up half an hour ago.’

  ‘Listen, are you telling me the cops have got Sparky Dewdrop for definite?’ asked Fat Man.

  ‘I’m telling yer it’s a fact, guv,’ said Large Lump.

  ‘Because you saw some geezer in a suit?’

  ‘Well, it was dark and the light was behind him,’ said Large Lump, ‘but I could make out he was wearing a suit, and he hollered at me to stay where I was so he could finger me collar.’

  ‘He said exactly that, did he?’

  ‘Not exactly, guv, but sort of good as. Yus, “Stay where you are.” That’s what he said. Hollered it at me.’

  ‘And you didn’t think it might have been Tommy Adams, Sammy’s ’orrible brother?’

  ‘Eh?’ Large Lump looked vague. He’d been a bit slow on the uptake since he’d been conked by a beer mug in a pub brawl. ‘Eh?’

  ‘Tommy Adams, I said, didn’t I?’ Fat Man’s growl sounded like bacon frying.

  ‘Well, it could’ve been, I suppose,’ said Large Lump. His brain worked then. ‘Mind, I got to point out that Sparky ain’t showed up. So I ask yer, guv, why ain’t he?’

  At which precise moment, the door opened and the bruiser Rollo appeared.

  ‘Someone to see yer, Mr Ford,’ he said.

  ‘Got an appointment, has he?’ said Fat Man irritably.

  The door was pushed wider open, and Sparky Dewdrop entered at a lurching stagger, having been shoved in. He was followed by Mr Greenberg’s sturdy stepsons, Michal and Jacob, who made short work of Rollo’s attempt to get in their way.

  ‘’Ere, I know you,’ said Large Lump, twitching.

  ‘Good morning, gents,’ said Michal.

  ‘Nice weather we’re having, ain’t we?’ said Jacob.

  ‘Get ’em out of here,’ said Fat Man.

  Rollo made another attempt to assert himself, this time by trying to eject Michal. Michal, with a flip of his hand, put him on his backside.

  ‘That’s assault and battery,’ said Fat Man, solidly wedged in his chair. But, recognizing the intruders, he decided not to lift himself to his feet, anyway. ‘I’ll have the law on the pair of you. And what the hell happened to you?’ he asked Sparky.

  ‘Good question, I tell yer,’ said Sparky, looking tired out. He sniffed forlornly. ‘These geezers—’

  ‘Copped him,’ said Jacob.

  ‘With a bag of fire-lighting naughties,’ said Michal. ‘Would you like to sign a receipt for his delivery? It’ll let Mr Tommy Adams know he’s now all yours.’

  ‘Drop dead,’ said Fat Man.

  ‘There’s a message from Mr Tommy Adams,’ said Jacob.

  ‘I hate Mr bleedin’ Tommy Adams, and his brother Sammy,’ wheezed Fat Man out of his purpling face, ‘and I ain’t listening to any message.’

  ‘You’d better,’ said Michal. ‘Mister Tommy says if you don’t behave yourself you’ll end up stuck on the spire of your Sunday church. He further says he’ll get his brother, called Boots, to lift you off and shove you under a tram.’

  The Fat Man’s purple face swelled and darkened. Many years ago, Boots had threatened to wrap him up in barbed wire and roll him all the way down Brixton Hill.

  ‘You dogs’ dinners,’ he howled, ‘I hate that bleedin’ Boots worse than I hate bleedin’ Sammy, and I ain’t taking messages like that from a pair of fleabags like you two.’ He turned his glare on Large Lump and Rollo. ‘Get rid of ’em.’

  ‘We’d like to, guv, honest we would,’ said Large Lump, ‘but we need some back-up on account of that recent ding-dong at—’

  ‘Shut up!’ bawled Fat Man.

  ‘I’d like to go home,’ said Sparky, ‘I’m all wore out.’

  ‘Well, there you are, Mr Ford, the geezer’s delivered back to you,’ said Michal, ‘and you’ve had the message.’

  ‘Yup, that’s all,’ said Jacob. ‘Good day, gents.’

  He and Michal left.

  In due course, they reported to Papa Eli at his Camberwell yard.

  ‘My sons,’ he said in Hebrew, ‘for that I am proud of you, and so will your mama be. Always, since I first knew them, I have had fine and steadfast friendship from Boots, Tommy and Sammy, and their kin. True, in some business deals, Sammy has had the shirt off my back with his percentages not coinciding with mine, but friendship counts for more than a shirt or two, which is good to remember. In helping him and his brothers so well with their little problems, you have pleased me more than if you had sold that piano for twenty pounds, say, it being worth no more than five as it stands. Go home now and sleep, while your mama spends the day baking special cookies for you.’

  That evening, a telegram was delivered to Boots in Cornwall, where he and all the others had acquired a handsome holiday tan.

  ‘FAT MAN FOILED STOP ALL TAKEN CARE OF STOP NOW ENJOY YOURSELVES TOMMY.’

  ‘The Fat Man done in the eye? Lovely,’ said Susie.

  ‘Better than a picture postcard,’ said Polly, who had received one from her parents, presently sunning their ageing selves in the South of France.

  ‘Mind, a telegram’s expensive,’ said Sammy, ‘but the news was worth it, and I daresay Tommy will claim reimbursement out of the petty cash.’

  ‘Will it hurt, I wonder?’ said Boots.

  ‘Hurt what?’ asked Jimmy.

  ‘The overheads,’ said Boots, which cr
eated mirth.

  ‘I don’t know why everyone’s having a fit,’ said Sammy, ‘overheads ain’t funny.’

  ‘But you are, lovey,’ said Susie.

  ‘Thank heaven for Sammy,’ said Polly.

  ‘And for me and Paula?’ said Phoebe.

  ‘Heaven must be thanked for all its angels,’ said Polly.

  ‘There, aren’t you lucky, Daddy?’ said Phoebe who, although knowing she was adopted, was a girl happy with her lot. ‘You’ve got two angels in me and Paula.’

  ‘You bet I’m happy, pet,’ said Sammy, ‘but I’ve still got to watch the firm’s overheads.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sunday morning.

  The Fat Man wasn’t at church. Church wasn’t his style, nor were sermons. Sermons were all about loving thy neighbour, and he didn’t go in for the impossible.

  He was thinking about the poncy Adams family.

  I ain’t finished yet, he told himself. I’ll get ’em one way or another. I’ll cripple the lot.

  Now that’s an idea.

  Accidents do happen.

  I need a clever bloke, one that don’t go to church and couldn’t care less about his neighbours.

  No, I ain’t finished yet. On the other hand, I don’t want any accidents that point at me. So who’s clever enough to arrange clueless accidents? There’s got to be someone.

  It was a little past two in the afternoon when Jenny, wearing a short blue skirt with a light creamy shirt, addressed her ball on the first tee. Jimmy was wearing trousers because shorts were barred in the clubhouse, and he had hopes of enjoying a pot of tea with Jenny at the end of their round. He watched the graceful movements of her body as she drove off. The ball flew away.

  ‘Good shot,’ he said.

  ‘Go to it,’ said Jenny, ‘and look here, having told me about your lesson with the pro, you’d better follow my drive with a scorcher of your own, or I’ll tear you limb from limb.’

  ‘Believe me, Miss Osborne,’ said Jimmy, ‘I’m against coming off this course in bits and pieces.’

  He teed up. He addressed the ball, his nerves frankly taut. He reached high with his club and executed his swing. Smack!