by Joan Lock
The river was widening even more now and changing character as Best relaxed again. Flat, low marshlands stretched for miles from either bank, ensuring that the only large building, the already gigantic and momumental new Beckton Gasworks on the north bank, appeared even more imposing. The largest in Europe, it stood back from the riverside, its line of massive jetties looking like sentries guarding this huge fortress.
A little further on lay the vast edifices of the Barking Creek Sewage Pumping station. The outfall pumping station for all of north London, it had recently been opened by the Prince of Wales to much cheering from the citizens of the capital – grateful that they would no longer have to face the summer stink from their river. The Crossness Sewage Works stood a little further up on the south bank – it drained the whole of south London. Both works had been hailed as the engineering feat of the age. Best had seen pictures of all these magnificent buildings. Now, in reality, they did not disappoint.
With a jolt he realized that, while it had not been Martha alighting at Blackwall, he had not in fact seen her since then! He rushed down into the lower saloon, then up again and pushed his way around the decks twice over. No sign of her. Don’t panic, he told himself as he imagined revealing to Cheadle, Williamson and Vincent how he had managed once again to lose his quarry and on such a relatively small boat. She must be in the ladies lavatory he decided, positioning himself to watch the top of the stairs and the deck. But what was she doing there all this time? It came to him in a sickening flash. She could be throwing something out of the porthole window. Oh, God.
Should he demand to be allowed in there?
No, he couldn’t do that; it would be going too far. He’d been negligent and would now just have to live with the consequences.
Suddenly, there she was alongside him arriving at the top of the stairs. He averted his startled face and watched her out of the corners of his eyes as she went aft. As he suspected, she now had no valise.
He’d been right! She’d thrown it overboard! Damn! He’d been so sure she wouldn’t chance tossing anything that large overboard while there were so many people about that he’d grown careless. The toilet – it was obvious now. But, even if he’d known, he had no woman with him to go in there.
This was all such a mess. He slumped dejectedly, watching Martha as she paused and bent over to speak to a young woman who was holding a small baby. The woman smiled and nodded towards a spot under her seat. Martha reached down and retrieved her valise. Best breathed again. Good job he wasn’t really in ill health or he would be considerably worse by now.
Chapter Seven
The river narrowed again as they approached Tilbury Docks where ships waited in line, their masts and funnels thrusting up dramatically against the low Essex skyline. Two sailing ships were anchored midstream and a couple of red-brown Thames barges sailed lazily by as the Princess Alice began curving in towards the opposite bank.
She drew alongside the pier of that extraordinary resort, The Rosherville Pleasure Gardens. Judging by the jockeying for position on board, this was the chosen destination of most of the passengers.
Best hadn’t been to Rosherville for years but he could still remember his excitement when he had first seen them at the age of nine. Lush and green, they spread along the riverside and up and over the high cliffs which hugged them into a crescent shape. Cliffs which he later discovered had been formed back in the 1830s when the site was a chalk quarry owned by one John Rosher.
That first time, however, the young Best wasn’t interested in how they had come to be, they just were – and they were fun. That was all that mattered. He had been excited at the prospect of throwing buns at the fearsome, captive bear who could catch them in its mouth and he had gaped in astonishment at the thousand-year-old Peruvian mummy and the skeleton of the huge whale, said to have been caught just opposite in the Thames. Then there had been the display of mechanical figures to fascinate him – not to mention the pleasurable fear of becoming lost in the maze.
Best made his way towards the centre of the boat. He wasn’t expecting Martha to get off here – too many people about. More likely she’d go on, just a short way to Gravesend or maybe even to the terminus, Sheerness, where the spreading Thames estuary finally opened out on to the sea. There, she might find quieter backwaters in which to dispose of unwanted burdens.
Just to be safe, however, his eyes ranged through the expectant crowd assembling near the gangplank. No sign of Martha. He ambled aft to a quieter spot and gazed idly over the side at the hoardings proclaiming,
ROSHERVILLE GARDENS
The Place to Spend a Happy Day!
He smiled at the familiar quote from a burlesque song to which he had many times sung along in music halls. Underneath, the billboards listed the gardens’ many attractions:
Constant Change of Programme!
Old Favourites and Fresh Faces
THE GRAND BOTANIC COLLECTION UNSURPASSED
Dancing all day on the Mammoth Platform, and Evening in the Baronial Hall
At 3 a Miscellaneous Open-Air Entertainment, FREE
The BIJOU THEATRE at 4 o’clock,
Burlesque, Comedy and Farce
Supported by a powerful Company
Ecological Collection. Baby Bears born in the garden.
Old English Fair, Sports and Pastimes
Miles of lovely walks.
His attention shifted lazily to the now familiar pierside activity – the securing of ropes around bollards and the lowering of the gangway – which was just as well. There, at the very front of the shore-bound crowd, he saw Martha. She was straining forward eagerly scanning the river bank. Her squat figure had previously been shielded from his view by a tall man standing behind her.
When she caught sight of whoever she was looking for, her plain face lit up and she began to wave excitedly. Returning her greeting was a very small, fair-haired boy wearing a pristine white sailor suit. He was now jumping up and down and had to be restrained by a stout and smiling, middle-aged woman.
As she reached the promenade Martha dropped her valise with a thump and held her arms wide. As the running boy collided with her she picked him up and hugged him to her as though he were her whole world. She buried her face in his fair, springy curls which glinted in the sunlight as she spun him round.
The contrast of his sparkling blue eyes and pink and white face with Martha’s dark looks, dull-brown eyes and pallid skin was remarkable. Yet they had similar stubby noses, wide mouths, straight eyes and eyebrows which turned down oddly at the ends. Martha was smiling now and the difference this made was striking. No longer a sullen, demonic figure, she appeared warm and motherly. Later, Best was to wish that he had not seen her so humanized in this fashion.
He shadowed the trio at a distance as they walked down Burch Road and through the elegant lodge gates into the gardens. He needn’t have worried that they’d notice him, they were oblivious to everything except each other. Once inside, they hesitated before making the inevitable, difficult decision. Should it be to the left ascending to the upper walk, or straight ahead through the gardens? No contest with an adored child in tow: they chose the path which led up to the cliff edge. The boy would want to go to the tower first. He always had.
Today’s crowd was rather more sedate than the usual mob of Cockneys who descended on Rosherville on Bank Holidays, determined to enjoy themselves or bust. It was a weekday and many of the crowd were obviously not oppressed by the need to work nor, consequently, the strong compulsion to loosen their stays when on a jaunt.
As Best climbed, fragments of the various gardens below began to reveal themselves. He tried to recall which was which. Every verdant portion had been duly named: The Botanical Garden, The Pleasure Lawn, The Private Lawn, The Dell with its lake and water birds and, his mother’s favourite, The Italian Garden. Down on the Archery Lawn, Best noticed several decorous young ladies drawing their bows – some guided by solicitous males, obviously enjoying the forbidden public intimacy su
ch assistance offered.
The four-storey, redbrick, castellated tower still seemed to teeter precariously on the cliff edge. Outside it, the same old placard offered A Beautiful View of the River Thames for 1d.
The older woman, whom Best had already dubbed ‘granny’, promptly sat down on a nearby bench, took the valise from Martha and waved mother and son away. The pair went off chattering and laughing. Best couldn’t decide whether to stay and get into conversation with granny. In the end, he concluded that such a move was too risky so settled instead for keeping his quarry in sight. He knew that up here there was another exit from the gardens and having come this far, he would be furious with himself if he lost Martha now. In any case, it might be fun to see the ‘beautiful view’ again.
It did not disappoint. Presented like a map the now much widening river spread out to almost merge with the flat Essex shores. In turn, the land mingled with the misty, distant sky. Thames barges and steamships passing below appeared like so many toys. They sent out ripples which touched the river bank then flowed gently back out across the flat expanse in widening arcs.
The whole effect was most peaceful but the little boy was obviously more taken with the view to the right of the sixteenth-century Tilbury Fort. The guns pointing towards them became mere dots at this distance and the full grandeur of the monumental water gate and the fort’s hexagonal, moated outline, was lost. But, judging by the youngster’s delighted squeals, much of it was being brought into focus for him through the telescope mounted on the tower battlements.
Best had been keeping an eye open for a post office telegraph station. But he was pretty certain there would not be one in the gardens and, if there were, there would be too large a crowd around it for him to get served quickly, despite his official status.
Anyway, post office telegraphs could take such an age to arrive and Cheadle might not be at the Yard to receive it. And, come to that, what would he say? ‘Shadowing the maid in Rosherville, she is carrying suspect package. Please assist’? Even if they received it in time they wouldn’t know what he was talking about.
Back down on terra firma, a family conference resulted in Martha and child heading straight for the mini Crystal Palace Conservatory, doubtless to view the multi-coloured parrots and cockatoos and to make silly faces at the monkeys, while granny headed for the Tudor-style Baronial Hall. This time, Best decided to stay with her. He chose a table near enough so he could hear their conversation when Martha returned – despite the loud music from the next-door theatre where the orchestra was presently in full flood with a spirited rendition of ‘The Rose of Rosherville’.
Sure enough, in due course the pair returned, flushed with the excitement of it all, and joined granny, the boy chattering non-stop as he described what he had seen.
‘You’re gettin’ to be quite the young blazer, my lad,’ exclaimed Martha, appraising the boy as she sat down for a plate of shrimps and lettuce. ‘So tall, an’ ’andsome!’
He preened himself then ran to sit on her knee and hug her. ‘You’re lookin’ after Georgie well, Hannah,’ she said over his head to the older woman.
Hannah smiled. ‘He’s a lovely little fella. Wouldn’t be without him.’
Martha looked sad and tried to hide the tears which had sprung into the corners of her eyes by glancing around for the waiter.
Hannah leaned over and patted her hand. ‘It’ll come right one day, you’ll see.’
Martha glanced around some more, then spotting Best, looked puzzled and began to frown.
Best smiled, raised his hat and inclined his head in salute.
She still wasn’t sure who he was but nodded back uncertainly.
He was saved by the arrival of the waiter. While they were ordering he took out and became engrossed in a copy of the Woolwich Gazette, which he had picked up on the boat. Nonetheless, he managed to witness Martha opening the valise. From it she extracted a toy drum, a plush teddy bear and a navy-blue suit which she held up against the boy. Georgie accepted these gifts with little whoops of joy, which was more than Best felt at this revelation.
After a while Hannah glanced at the banqueting hall clock and said, ‘We’ve still got plenty of time before you catch your boat back.’
Oh well, that settled it. She had emptied that blasted valise, revealing nothing more sinister than a teddy bear and she was unlikely to get up to anything more which might interest him. Merely she’d return home to John Street. No need for him to stay with them; he’d been a bit obvious anyway. He would stroll about, renewing old acquaintanceship with the place.
To say this had been a wasted journey was an understatement. He preferred not to dwell on what else it had meant as regards the disappointment over missing the longed for reunion with Helen. But, he tried to reassure himself, at least he was now on nodding terms with Martha and knew more about her. Maybe that would prove useful. He toyed with the idea of taking the train back to London but he had a return boat ticket and really felt too tired to make the effort to change things now. He would just stick with the boat and relax a little, while awaiting its arrival.
The afternoon remained sunny and quite warm. Reluctantly he decided to forego the maze, just in case it trapped him and he failed to extricate himself in time. Instead, he perused the exotic plants in the conservatory, bought a bottle of The Rosherville Bouquet perfume for Helen in the bazaar before descending the zigzagging stairway to the gardens.
Once there, he sauntered through the leafy arbour and shady tunnels which led from secret dell to wide lawns, from formal gardens to rough wilderness. Close up, he noticed, some of the temples, colonnades and fountains were starting to show their age and the busts of the famous lining the Broad Walk were becoming somewhat marred by flaking surfaces and small stains. But he was pleased to see Rosherville remained a very pleasant and imaginative spot. He almost felt happy again there. Small wonder that that clergyman had written a long (and truth to tell, rather awful) poem beginning:
If in London’s streets you grill,
All is cool in Rosherville
If in London time stands still,
He wears wings in Rosherville
and so on for no less than twenty tedious couplets …
Best was late. He’d promised to be back by 5 p.m. It was now 5.30 p.m. and there was no sign of him. Smith had served his wares to the returning schoolchildren who were surprised to see him still there and kept asking whether he’d be back the next day. Not if I can help it, he thought.
He was tired from standing in one spot so long and his nose had become sunburned despite his white cap and the cart’s shade. Italians must be immune to that, he imagined, unlike fair-skinned Englishmen.
Worse, stocks were getting very low and, in any case, he was starting to feel conspicuous, now that his potential customers had dwindled. Ironically, neither he nor his short-term relief local detective had seen one single person leaving seven or nine John Street, carrying bundles or not.
What should he do? His problem was compounded by the fact that he ought to have told the divisional detective that he had not actually seen Best leave that morning. He could have telegraphed Cheadle or Williamson from Islington police station but Smith had worried that he might get his friend into trouble, should he have slipped away early to meet Helen.
What would Best do, he asked himself as he always did when difficult decisions were to be made.
He should weigh up the pros and cons, that was what he should do. To stay in position might draw attention to himself and this could ruin the operation, particularly since he now had only one flavour of ice-cream left (raspberry) and of that only a few more scoops. But, if he left he might miss some vital exodus of a guilty party.
To fill in a little more time he made a big business of closing down the umbrella shade, putting covers over the cart then nonchalantly sitting down beside it on the pavement to consume the last of his potted tongue sandwiches. He took a well-earned swig from a bottle of beer and lit up a cigarette. He didn�
��t really smoke but had learned from Best that cigarettes could prove useful in moments such as these. Newspapers, too, were often part of Best’s shadowing equipment.
Six o’clock came and went. Decision time.
In the event, the matter was settled for him by the arrival of Alfredo Marroni who was in need of his cart to take to the West End to cater for the evening trade. Smith could hardly stay at his post without his reason for being there.
Chapter Eight
This time, Best wasn’t going to bother to keep Martha and her wretched valise in view when they stopped at North Woolwich. He knew the bag was empty and was sure where she was going – back to John Street.
He felt an absolute fool. It had been a totally wasted journey. Smith would be wondering what the hell had happened to him and, as for Helen … He’d pushed her to the back of his mind but now she came forward again as she always did. She would understand why he couldn’t come, wouldn’t she? But it made him unutterably sad that the train-side reunion he had imagined so often had not taken place.
The light was fading as they passed through Erith Reach. A lad began putting a taper to the wicks of the red and green port and starboard warning lights before hoisting a white light on to the masthead. The band was thumping out that rousing patriotic song, ‘We don’t want to fight but by Jingo if we do!’
The children were less boisterous now, worn out by the day’s excitements. Next to him, on a bench aft, a dark-haired little boy lay insensible in his mother’s arms, his head thrown back – doubtless dreaming of the dazzling delights of Rosherville. An older child leant against her, nodding off. Her companion, a dapper, middle-aged man with abundant soft brown whiskers, kept a still active toddler named Joseph engaged by pushing a bright red toy train to and fro on the deck and crying, ‘Toot toot! Toot toot!’ to the child’s squeals of delight.
