by Lizzie Lane
‘I apologize,’ Lech Rostok mumbled nervously and looked ashamed. ‘It is difficult,’ he said apologetically.
‘It’s disgusting,’ Charlotte snapped, ‘and no fault of yours! Did you remember the name of the man who put you here?’
‘Mr O’Hara it was. He arranged everything.’
‘Did he now!’ She made no attempt to hide her outrage. It was not for any private individual to arrange accommodation or work for these men. That task fell to her department.
‘He said it would be cheaper and we would be closer to the building site,’ said Lech.
Her jaw ached with anger. These men were living in squalor and someone had to answer for it. At least they were willing to tell the tale.
‘And where will I find this Mr O’Hara?’
Lech shook his head. ‘I don’t know. He comes to us.’
“When do you expect him?’
‘At eight o’clock. He pays us tonight. He pays us every Friday.’
I bet he does, thought Charlotte. After collecting the wages from the site foreman he takes his cut and gives them the rest. She clenched her jaw tight enough to hurt, then snapped, ‘Right!’
Leaving the smell and the squalor behind she went from there to see Brookman in his office. It was five thirty and she found him putting on his bowler and picking up his briefcase. Mr Brookman kept very regular hours. He did not join the more menial staff who came in on Saturday mornings. He looked from her to the clock that clanked away the minutes by virtue of a brass pendulum hanging like a rigid tail from its case.
‘I hope this is important.’
Charlotte slammed her handbag down on his desk. ‘It’s about these men being exploited by this building company.’ Brookman concentrated on rolling up his paper and tucking it under his arm. ‘Have you any proof?’
‘I’ve seen where they’re living. It’s disgusting. Six men to one room, no decent washing facilities …’
‘I thought we were talking about the illegal employment of displaced persons not the overcrowding of tenements. Decent accommodation is scarce enough for our own people.’ Brookman made for the door.
Charlotte kept pace with his longer stride despite her high heels and the slimline skirt of her pale green costume, which was silk-lined and had a daringly high kick-pleat at the back. ‘Someone’s exploiting both their accommodation and their employment.’
‘So see the landlord.’ He reached for the door, his gaze fixed straight ahead of him.
‘I suppose I could. I’d love to give him a piece of my mind …’
Brookman laid his hand firmly on her arm. ‘Do bear in mind, Mrs Hennessey-White, that this country is desperate for workers and equally desperate for houses. A lot of our own people are also living in very bad conditions. Is it so much to expect that a bunch of foreigners are also living in dire conditions? Be patient, my dear lady.’
He smiled at her smugly, tapped his bowler and marched off. Charlotte stared after him completely lost for words. He had a point. She knew that. A lot of people were still living in less than perfect accommodation. But there was still no need to turn a blind eye. Standards had to be maintained and if the likes of Brookman weren’t going to do anything, then she’d do something herself.
She made her way to her car and drove back to the house where some very tired, very disillusioned men were sleeping six to a room. Tonight was the high spot of their week. It was payday and Mr O’Hara would be calling.
Lech Rostok opened the door of their lodgings. ‘I won’t come in,’ she said as the smell of decay and many men living without women to look after them seeped from the grimness within. ‘I’ll be back tonight. I want you to give me some sort of signal when O’Hara arrives, just so that we’re absolutely sure.’
‘Signal?’
‘Hang something out of the window the moment he leaves the building so I can have my car started and ready to follow him.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll be back around eight thirty.’
For the first time since she’d met them, Lech and the others who had gathered round him looked hopeful.
‘Thank you for helping us,’ said Lech. ‘Ivan and you. Thank you from all of us.’
Charlotte smiled nervously. ‘Something will be done. I promise.’
As she drove home she regretted making a promise. How easy it would be just to stay at home with David, listen to the radio or read a book. Tackling O’Hara could be dangerous. But it was too late. She had given her word and she had to stick to it.
Company was needed if she were going to be successful and, more to the point, unscathed from her dealings with Mr O’Hara. To that end Janet and Ivan went with her and parked outside the grim Edwardian building where a peeling sign said ‘Hartsbourne Hotel’.
Janet looked it over. ‘Is this it?’
‘Yes. Hardly hotel accommodation,’ said Charlotte disdainfully. ‘Six men to a room. And one bathroom between four rooms.’ She automatically wrinkled her nose. Smells, she noticed, stayed with her longer than the look or feel of a place.
‘Do we go in?’ Janet asked.
Charlotte shook her head. ‘We wait. I want to follow this man. Lech will give us a signal when he leaves and we can have the engine started and ready to go.’
Headlights shone brightly then were shut off as a sleek black car pulled into the kerb. One man got out. The driver stayed behind the steering wheel.
‘The man,’ said Ivan.
‘The man,’ Charlotte echoed, her gaze fixed on the strong figure making for the solid but scruffy door of the Hartsbourne Hotel.
O’Hara – if this was he – chose that moment to pull the brim of his trilby down over his eyes.
Charlotte sighed. ‘Blast! I wanted to see his face.’
Ivan leaned forward. “Wait for the signal, then get ready to look at him more carefully when he comes back out.’
‘I will,’ said Charlotte and found herself counting the minutes from the time he went in. She flattened herself against the steering wheel and looked up the building to the fourth floor. Ten minutes, she reckoned, and O’Hara would be ready to leave the smelly room. Sure enough someone waved a less than white vest out of the window.
Still with the brim of his hat pulled low over his face, O’Hara came out, crossed the pavement in two strides and got into the car.
Charlotte started the engine. ‘Let’s go.’
They drove along Coronation Road keeping up with the car, but not getting too close. Charlotte thanked all those gangster films David had taken her along to see before the war. Janet, however, had not seen them.
‘Can’t you go faster, Mother?’
‘No. Edward didn’t. I’m doing it like he did.’
‘Who’s Edward, for goodness’ sake?’
‘I know this,’ said Ivan excitedly. ‘Edward G. Robinson. He was playing a G man and was following some gangster – James Cagney, I think. If you don’t want to be seen, you keep well back and try not to have your tyres squeal as you take a corner.’
Janet eyed Ivan Bronowsky in a new light. ‘Oh!’
Charlotte resisted a smug comment, but sighed with satisfaction. Thanks to Edward G. rules for following suspected criminals were very specific. And that was how she regarded these men. They were criminals, exploiting government money and unfortunate people.
There was little traffic – a few bicycles, a horse-drawn baker’s van returning late to the depot.
Charlotte kept the car and its occupants in sight, but left about twenty-five yards or more between them.
Their brake lights came on and an orange indicator shot out of the side of the car between the doors. They were turning right at a sharp incline on City Road where it joined Gloucester Road.
Janet sucked in her breath. ‘Slow down. They’ll see you.’
Charlotte pressed her foot lightly on the brake as a thought suddenly crossed her mind. If they could see her then she could see them and she badly wanted to see them, especially the man w
ho had shielded his face with his hat brim.
There was only one thing for it. With a determined jab, she transferred her foot to the accelerator pedal, gripped the steering wheel tightly and shot forward.
‘Mother!’
There was no stopping Charlotte once she’d made a decision, and that smell was still with her. The thought of those men having to live as they were made her more determined than ever.
‘Brace yourselves!’ she shouted.
Metal crunched against metal as the chrome bumper on the front of the Rover met the rear bumper of the car they’d been following.
‘Mother! You’ve hit him!’
‘Oh dear,’ said Charlotte with obvious satisfaction. ‘Stay put,’ she ordered. ‘Let me handle this.’
Janet and Ivan exchanged shocked looks. What was she up to?
A draught of cold air entered the car as she got out and headed for the occupants of the other vehicle who had got out of their car with a huge flourish of flapping coats and big arms.
They heard her say, ‘I can’t apologize enough.’
Ivan shook his head thoughtfully. ‘Are you sure your mother was never a general?’
Janet didn’t answer. Her eyes were narrowed and she leaned forward, peering through the windscreen. ‘There’s someone in the back seat of that car,’ she said. ‘Can you see?’
‘Ah! They do not want to be seen,’ he said as whoever was in the back ducked down out of sight.
‘Goodness, but that man looks angry,’ said Janet switching her attention back to her mother and the two men from the car in front. Things looked bad. The driver, a sallow-looking man with a ginger moustache and pale blue eyes rushed forward, grabbed Charlotte’s shoulder and tipped his hat back from his face.
‘You stupid cow! Why the bloody hell don’t you look where you’re going?’
Ivan stepped out of the car, but kept the open door between them and him.
Janet tried to push the door open. Ivan stood firmly against it. ‘Let me out,’ she hissed.
‘No. Be quiet. I will take care of things if they get angry.’
Charlotte threw Ivan a warning look and he understood immediately. Don’t speak. If he said much more his accent would become more noticeable which could very likely betray their mission.
‘Leave the lady alone.’ At O’Hara’s insistence, the man with the ginger moustache let her go.
Charlotte wondered at his accent. He spoke with authority, but in a smooth voice graced with the lazy intonations of somewhere west of Kerry – or was it further west? Could it be America? That was how he sounded to Charlotte’s ears.
‘Thank you,’ she said, beaming as she looked straight into his face and recognizing him as the man in the double-breasted suit who had watched from the shadows on the building site as two men fought upon the pavement.
His smile was wide and did not diminish when he spoke, but stayed fixed as though slapped on with a brush. ‘No problem at all, ma’am. Glad to help out so I am.’
Phoney, she thought. That accent is phoney, like something picked up from a Hollywood film.
‘I’m so terribly sorry for hitting you.’ She adopted a top-drawer voice, the sort she’d heard women at social gatherings use when they were trying to make an impression. ‘I have so much on my mind at the moment …’
O’Hara came close and stood over her, big teeth showing through his smile, his pale blue eyes reminding her of the sort of jellyfish that looked innocent but packed a nasty sting.
To avoid any deep questions, she had to come up with a very good excuse for running into him. With this in mind she glanced at Janet’s tense face behind the windscreen. She looked pale and slightly sickly beneath the orange glow of a sodium streetlight. An idea occurred to her.
‘My daughter’s in labour,’ she blurted. ‘And this is my son-in-law.’ She indicated Ivan. ‘We have to get her to the hospital … unless …’ She looked quickly from one man to the other. ‘Unless one of you gentlemen happens to be a doctor! If you could help …’
Like all men faced with the prospect of dealing with an impending birth, they made their excuses and reached for the car doors.
‘But what about exchanging names and addresses?’ she cried out with a hint of hysteria. ‘I am quite willing to pay for the damage.’
‘We’ll take care of the damage ourselves,’ said O’Hara, pulling his hat down over his eyes as he reached for the car door.
‘If you’re sure …’ Charlotte smiled to herself as they drove off. With a smug expression she got back behind the wheel of her car and Ivan returned to the back seat.
Janet was red-faced. ‘Well, that was quite a performance!’
Charlotte slipped the car into gear. ‘Did you get the registration number?’
‘Yes. I did!’
Charlotte eyed her daughter with amusement. ‘You’re blushing.’
‘Is that surprising? I’m pregnant according to you. What would have happened if I’d got out of the car and they’d seen that I wasn’t?’
‘You didn’t get out – and you didn’t need to.’
Ivan made no comment.
Charlotte drove slowly along the Gloucester Road keeping a distance she regarded as safe between her and the car they’d just smashed into. Height, weight, dress and facial details of the two men in the car were safely stored in her mind. Whoever was in the back had kept a low profile, but what she did have might just be enough. Tomorrow she would get the particulars typed out and on Brookman’s desk. She would also get the registration number of the car checked by the Chief Superintendent himself. She and David had met him socially. Armed with these details they could at least keep an eye on the situation in the short term and hopefully, eventually, apprehend the people responsible.
An arm came out of the driver’s window of O’Hara’s car to indicate they were turning right. She assumed the indicator had jammed.
Charlotte eased to the left and stopped at a traffic light. There was time to scrutinize, but not by me, thought Charlotte. They’ve seen my face too much already. ‘Tell me what they’re doing,’ she said.
‘They’re turning into a house. It looks like something from International Architecture,’ said Janet.
The house was in Ashley Place and had big gates and a gravel drive. Janet twisted round in her seat as they drove slowly past. Ivan did the same. Someone stalled in front of them bringing them to a standstill long enough to see O’Hara’s car come to a halt in front of the house. The driver got out and held the car door open for O’Hara who in turn held the rear door open for the unseen passenger to get out.
Janet sucked in her breath. ‘Well, would you believe it?’
As Charlotte pulled away Janet almost spun in her seat, then slumped back looking absolutely amazed.
Charlotte frowned with impatience. ‘Would I believe what?’
‘I don’t believe it,’ Janet said, her gaze fixed on the bus that had pulled out in front of them.
Charlotte tried to turn round. ‘For goodness’ sake tell me. What is it? What did they do?’
‘I will tell you,’ said Ivan. ‘The two men got out of the car, then Polly, your vacuum lady. She was dressed very nicely, as if they were going or had been somewhere very special.’
Janet maintained her silence. Charlotte frowned and took her eyes off the road long enough to see her daughter’s shocked expression.
‘Janet? Is this true?’
‘Am I right in saying that Polly gave up her job with Edna?’
‘Are you telling me …’
‘Polly has a benefactor who has a very nice house and a car with a dented bumper.’
Polly gritted her teeth. It was no coincidence that Charlotte’s car had hit Mickey’s up the backside. A little gang of nosey parkers were following her, taking an interest in her business. Bloody cheek! Typical! Mrs Charlotte Hennessey-White – Protector of Public Morals. Well she wasn’t having any of it. As if she didn’t have enough trouble convincing Billy about her rela
tionship with Mickey, she didn’t want any unnecessary tales getting back to him.
She visited Billy the following day and had to make it appear as if everything was the same. She adopted her most alluring voice, all sweet and sugary like Marilyn Monroe, who’d now replaced Jean Harlow as her role model.
He seemed concerned about her new career. Adopting her breeziest voice, she did her best to soothe his fears. ‘It’s a proper job, Billy. Help pay the bills, won’t it?’
Polly waited for Billy’s reaction, aware that the prison officers surrounding them were watching him almost as closely as she was. He looked unsure.
‘I’m going to be working as a receptionist.’ She made it sound as convincing as possible. Just because Meg didn’t believe her didn’t mean that Billy wouldn’t. It entered her head to compare it with the time when she’d worked for Charlotte’s husband, but thought better of it. Now was not a good time to remind Billy that she’d been less than pure when they’d met. She had egged David on because of a perceived wrong on Charlotte’s part and although she’d never admitted to feeling guilty, she certainly felt it at times.
‘Christmas is coming, Billy. Imagine our Carol with no presents, poor kid. Right down in the dumps she’d be. I don’t get that much with the cleaning and stuff.’ She sat poker straight and adopted an officious expression that she’d often seen on Charlotte’s face, and everyone believed Charlotte, didn’t they? She didn’t tell him that she’d already given up helping out with Edna’s mother. She still did a bit for Charlotte of course, but that was a social event more than anything else. After a quick whiz round with the vacuum, it was tea and biscuits around the kitchen table.
Billy rested his chin on his fists and looked glum. ‘I can tell you Father Christmas won’t be visiting this joint, that’s for sure. S’pose I could make a few decorations, but the only paper I got for paper chains is ’anging over the crapper.’ Although he grinned, there was a melancholy look in his eyes.
