One Fight at a Time

by Jeff Dowson

  “No. I’ll find my way.”

  “Like you found your way here? No no. Get your coat Harry.”

  Walking across Victoria Park, Harry asked Grover if he had a gun.

  “Yes,” Grover said.

  Heaving with excitement, Harry asked if he could see it.

  “I don’t have it with me,” Grover said. “It’s back at the army base.”

  Disappointed but not daunted, Harry asked him if it was a Colt 45. Like in the westerns.

  “No, it’s a Smith and Wesson 38.”

  “Oh...” Harry nodded sagely.

  They walked on for a while.

  “Have you ever shot any Indians?”

  “Indians?”

  “You know, like Randolph Scott and Hop-Along Cassidy.”

  Grover had once seen a Native American Indian, in a Wild West show.

  “There aren’t many where I live,” he said.

  “But they do dance round totem poles and scalp people.”

  “Not these days.”

  “Oh,” Harry said. Clearly disappointed again.

  They walked on for a while more.

  “Why are you fighting in our war?” Harry asked.

  Grover looked down at him and stared.

  “I didn’t think it was your war exclusively.”

  Harry looked up at him. “Ex what?”

  “What I mean is, I think anybody is welcome to join this war. As long as they fight against the Germans.”

  “It’s just that Dad says the bloody Yanks are late. Like the last time.”

  Grover grinned. “Don’t worry. We’ll all get here eventually.”

  At Temple Meads, still taking his escort duties seriously, Harry insisted on guiding his charge to platform 3. Grover stumped up the penny for the platform ticket. Once on the platform and relieved of his responsibilities, Harry stepped back a pace and smiled up at him.

  “Goodbye Mr Grover,” he said.

  “Thanks. You take care.”

  Harry turned to go.

  “Wait a minute.” Grover fished into a trouser pocket and produced a sixpence. “For when you’ve saved up enough chocolate coupons.”

  Harry gleefully pocketed the sixpence.

  “Thank you.”

  “Great to meet you.”

  Harry moved to the ticket barrier, turned and waved. Grover waved back and watched Harry cross the entrance hall and disappear from view.

  *

  Grover and Whelan spent the next month and a half in the infantry workshop. They found a collection of jeeps in pieces and destined for scrap. They began by choosing the best of the bunch. The chassis floor had a substantial hole in it, but it was still attached to the front axle and the gearbox. Grover found a back axle with a broken differential. Whelan found a working diff, four wheels and four track rod ends. Grover prised a clutch from Leading Mechanic Stokowski, handing over the four bottles of Jack Daniels he had exchanged for a German Luger with the Able Company Quartermaster. The engine re-build took two weeks; fitting the clutch and the gear box, two days. Whelan found a steel floor plate and re-welded a new sub frame into the chassis, while Grover scrounged the necessary engine electrics. He stripped another dead jeep of its seats, and the Sergeants Frankenstein had the final bits of their new creation.

  They christened her Salome and the lady made her debut, speeding around the air base perimeter road on Easter Monday.

  Three days later, the 21st was told it was going home at the end of the month. This time it looked like it would stick. Which meant that Sergeant Major Grover had six days left of his sojourn in England. He was going back to the States to become plain Ed Grover once again, but before he did, he a place to go and people to see.

  He went to the Adjutant, to get his signature on a seventy-two hour pass.

  Chapter Two

  In Bristol, in a garage on the Avon Vale Trading Estate, Mickey Samson doubled up and sank to his knees, gasping for breath. Two pairs of arms hauled him upright and dropped him on to the seat of the wooden chair. Rodney Pride hitched at his trousers, bent his knees and looked straight into Samson’s eyes.

  “Is that all clear then?” he asked.

  Samson nodded at him, unable to speak.

  “Sure?”

  Samson nodded again.

  “Because next time will be much more painful.”

  Rodney Pride was short and wore shoes with lifts. He was thin and ginger haired, with huge ginger eyebrows. His top set of teeth were uneven and he had a pronounced over-bite. To compensate for all this physical injustice, he had bullied his way through life. Giving no quarter and allowing no one to get the better of him. Unmarried and never likely to be an eligible prospect – rising fortunes notwithstanding – his sex life consisted of regular weekly visits to prostitutes who could manage to get through an hour with this embittered, social and sexual deviant.

  Pride looked like he had got dressed in the dark. His tie did not match his shirt, which did not match his suit – a wide shouldered, non-waisted ensemble straight out of an American B Movie. He was proud of his dress sense. His employees, wearing selections of cheap, off the peg fifty bob tailoring, knew better than to give styling tips. Their boss considered himself a bit of a hard man. He had hated the war. He was conscripted into the army, just one eighth of an inch taller than the minimum height. He came home with his army issue Webley .38 still in his kitbag, determined to exact revenge on those who had dragged him out of the pre-war rackets, put him in uniform and sent him to North Africa. He did not actually know who those people were, or where they were, so anybody who got in his way would do. Mickey Samson was an easy target.

  Samson’s chin dropped onto his chest. Pride straightened up, took a step backwards and looked around the garage.

  There was enough space to park twenty cars. And there was another garage just like it next door – the only two buildings on the trading estate. The place had been a community of tiny terraced houses, bordering narrow streets east of Temple Meads Station, until January 3rd 1941. That night, the Luftwaffe launched a twelve hour onslaught on the city. Two bombers overshot their targets and dumped one hundred kilos of high explosive on the citizens of Albert Vale. Now the area was a flattened eleven acres of rough, stony land, ringed by a chain link fence; and currently housing the newly pre-fabricated HQ of Prides Rides.

  Samson’s chair was in the middle of the floor, underneath a row of light bulbs with tin shades. Two men were standing behind the chair. Rodney Pride stood in front of it, a couple of other men three or four steps back.

  The set up was a cinematographer’s dream. High above the group, daylight filtered into the garage through barred windows. It was refracted by the criss-cross of roof girders and fell gently to the floor. Motes of dust, disturbed by the invasion of the place, danced in the light. The men ringing Samson were alternately highlighted and silhouetted by the light and shade. It was like a scene from G Men.

  Rodney Pride had not even tried to get a job after VE Day. He had simply called in some favours he was owed by people who were shit scared of him and who had fervently hoped he would be killed in the conflict, and bought a couple of taxi cabs. Now he had thirty of them and no competitors on the streets of south Bristol.

  Pride Rides was a legitimate concern. Rodney made sure of that. No back handers, wonky cash deals or funny money. The taxi firm was squeakier than squeaky clean. The books were done by a highly respected firm of Queen Square accountants, happy to take double fees for dealing with someone they contrived to meet only once a year. And now that petrol was coming off ration in two weeks’ time, the firm was set to expand even more.

  Which could not be said for Mickey Samson. In a courageous, but brief moment, he had attempted to reason with Pride. Pointing out that fifty pounds a month was more then he wanted to pay for protection he was not getting, from the man whose organisation was dishing out the threats and the violence in the first place. A perfectly reasonable attitude to take, under ordered circumstances. But ill
-advised, when the orders were coming from a devoted wannabe like Rodney Pride. Who now put an end to the business. He pointed to the man on his right.

  “Mr Williams here, will be round as usual at the end of the month. And from now on, he will be demanding sixty-five pounds per visit.”

  Samson raised his head in supplication. Pride went on.

  “Show your friends and fellow traders the bruises. Feel free to tell the story of this meeting as often as you like. It will help to keep things in order.”

  He nodded to the men behind Samson’s chair.

  “Drive our client back to his store.”

  Samson was lifted on to his feet, grunting in pain as his body took the weight of the bits that hurt. One of the enforcers pressed the green button on a box to the left of the metal door. It rattled upwards and Samson limped outside into the afternoon sunshine.

  Pride turned to the employee standing next to him.

  “Call on everybody else. Remind them how this works. And tell them that all payments have gone up seven and a half percent. By the time they work out how much that is, we’ll be around to collect.”

  *

  Bristol City Council House sat on the corner of what remained of Broad Street and Corn Street. The building was flanked by a series of huge craters, some of them partly filled by the debris they had disgorged when hit by the Luftwaffe. Miraculously, the council house, a big, bold Victorian edifice built in the 1830s, had stayed upright, while the buildings around it had crumbled under the onslaught of incendiary bombs and later subsidence.

  No longer scarred by rubble and bombed out buildings, simply full of gaps and holes where the buildings had been, the city was broke. And the question which now paralysed all council action and stifled debate was – new homes or restored places of business? Pre-fabricated houses were going up at a miserably slow rate. Something close to twenty percent of the city’s population was still bivouacking in the spare rooms of relatives, straining even the best of family relationships. The problem was clear as day; people needed homes. But even pre-fabs cost money. And no money was available, because city centre business had no place to work, and the council was earning no revenue.

  Sam Nicholson was red-faced, heavily built and around five feet eight. Leader of the city council, local worthy, fixer and long-time fence; he was sitting alone in the office he shared with the Mayor. He had worked hard to get the upholstery under his arse. He was too old to be called up in 1940; so he stayed in Bristol and kept his home fire burning, with some advantage to himself. Right now, however, he was not in the sunniest of moods. He ran the fingers of his left hand through his comb-over and scratched his scalp. He could always smell trouble, and right now, the hair in his nostrils was standing on end. He needed to make some calls, but it was best not to do so from the office.

  As if on cue, the phone on his desk rang. He picked up the receiver and immediately panicked.

  “Why the fuck did you call me here? Jesus...” He listened for a second or two. “He’s what?... Slowly, slowly...” His eyes popped and his facial muscles began to twitch. “This is no fucking way to do business.” He listened again and then yelled onto the mouthpiece. “No no no, you fucking leave me to deal with this.” He slammed the receiver down and stared across the room. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.”

  He got up out of his chair, grabbed his jacket from the bentwood coat stand near the door and left the office.

  Since the war, a series of one way traffic systems had grown like Topsy; devised to make journeys across the city smoother. But Bristol traffic had never been speedy before the blitz, and now the Highways Department was baffled and desperate. A smaller lobby than the citizens who had no roofs over their heads, Nicholson mused, but a bunch of irritating fuckers nonetheless. It took him half an hour to get to Albert Vale. And less than a minute to feel his gorge rising. He parked, got out of the Rover and fell to considering, yet again, what the hell Rodney Pride was doing to repay the city council’s generosity.

  Pride had persuaded the council to sell him three acres of Albert Vale for ‘light industrial’ use. He told Nicholson he intended to build a mini industrial park of warehouses, car workshops and small manufacturing sheds. He must have crooned better than Bing Crosby during his hour in the council chamber, because he got the three acres for a song. As yet, there was no development, save for the new headquarters of Prides Rides.

  Nicholson walked into the office above the garage, stood in front of Pride’s desk and bellowed at him.

  “It’s not what we fucking agreed. And you’re now trying to extort money out of my fucking nephew.”

  The greengrocery in question, was a shop on a disputed corner in Windmill Hill. It had been designated Nicholson territory until such time as Sam no longer had any interest in it. Sam’s brother had handed the shop over to his son in law, who had put the business in his wife’s name and changed the sign above the door.

  Pride leaned back in his leather swivel chair and spread his arms wide.

  “Calm down Sam. It was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

  “You’re fucking right it won’t.”

  “For God’s sake man, sit down.”

  Nicholson burbled into silence. He sat in the armchair facing the desk.

  “That’s better.” Pride waited until Nicholson was settled. “The place changed hands and one of my associates saw an opportunity. He didn’t know, hell I didn’t know, he was a relative of yours. It’s all been ironed out now, so let’s forgive and forget eh?”

  Nicholson grunted in agreement. Pride beamed at him.

  “Good.”

  He stood up and stepped across the office to a sideboard with a drinks tray on it. He picked up a bottle of malt whiskey.”

  “This is your tipple isn’t it?”

  Nicholson nodded. “Thanks.”

  Pride poured a generous double, handed the glass to Nicholson and moved back to his chair.

  “Now, as you’re here, there’s something I’d like you to take a look at.”

  He pulled out a drawer in his desk, reached into it, produced a sliver snuff box and placed it front of Nicholson.

  “Georgian. Made around 1786, apparently. The hallmark’s underneath.”

  Nicholson put his glass down, picked the box up and turned it over.

  “Where’d you get it from?”

  “Nowhere local. Don’t worry”.

  Nicholson looked across the desk.

  “I got it from a bloke who owed me some money,” Pride said.

  Nicholson turned the box the right way up and opened the lid.

  “Where did he get it?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  Nicholson gave him his best ‘this is me you’re talking to’ look. Pride reciprocated.

  “Come on Sam... How much?”

  Nicholson closed the lid and put the box back on the desk.

  “On a good day, given the right circumstances... Thirty quid.”

  “Bollocks. It’s worth three times that.”

  “So, take it to Clifton Auctions and let them sell it.”

  Pride grinned across the desk. “Don’t be too clever Sam.”

  Nicholson sucked at his teeth. “I’ll give you thirty-five.”

  “Sixty,” Pride suggested.

  “Forty-five,” Nicholson said.

  “Fifty,”

  “Forty-five, is as far as I’ll go.”

  “Fucking crook,” Pride said and held out his right hand.

  Nicholson stood up and shook it.

  “Meanwhile, I’m working on the scheme of a lifetime,” Pride said. “It’ll make us a fortune. I just need you to rubber stamp the project.”

  Nicholson looked alarmed. Pride stared at him. The alarm morphed into mild terror, Pride’s stare into a wide smile. Nicholson managed two words.

  “What project?”

  “I want to buy the old Scarlet Fever Hospital in Brockley Wood.”

  This was a massive surprise. Nicholson felt his heart rat
e rise by fifty beats. The news that that anybody would want to buy the place was a minor miracle. The fact that it was Rodney Pride however, sucked out all the joy out of the prospect.

  “Why?”

  “Can you make yourself available tomorrow, around noon?”

  Back in the street, Nicholson looked at his watch. 4.35. He decided he might as well go home. Give himself time to get into the right mood for the evening ahead. His wife had dinner planned for some relatives on the take. Another bunch of idle bastards he was expected to support.

  He got into the Rover. Pride watched him from his office window.

  Chapter Three

  Swindon railway station was dismal. Overnight April showers had segued into steady morning rain and an aggressive easterly wind was blowing straight along the westbound platform. The temperature was ignoring the calendar. It may officially have been spring, but less than forty degrees Fahrenheit was all the day was offering.

  Zoe Easton managed to squeeze into the Waiting Room. She had tried the Ladies Waiting Room, but it was just as cold as the great outdoors. Most of the passengers heading to Bristol were packed into this tiny space, where a coal fire was hurling out three or four kilowatts of heat. The Station Master had used up his last ration coupons on behalf of his customers. Zoe stood next to a tall man reading the Daily Sketch and tried to breathe.

  *

  Ed Grover was due to board the transport for Reykjavik in five days’ time. Meanwhile, he had his seventy-two hour pass. Salome had developed an oil leak, so Whelan ferried him the twelve miles to Swindon railway station in another jeep.

  Grover wasn’t too great in small spaces with people packed shoulder to shoulder. He had discovered this while pitching and rolling in a landing craft in the Channel. So he sat down on the bench in a shelter along the platform, pulled up his greatcoat collar, crossed his arms and banged his hands against his shoulders in an effort to keep warm. He looked across the line towards the railway yard. Swindon had always been a railway town and since the end of the war had returned to the business of producing steam locomotives. But it was not the sleek new monsters standing outside the building sheds that caught Grover’s attention. Directly in his line of sight, behind the eastbound platform, were four battered landing craft, stacked one upon the other. There was a message on the sides in white paint, reading from the top LCP down to the bottom one – 2,400 produced here for D Day. He began to wonder if he had crossed the channel in one of them...