Too Many Heroes

by Jan Turk Petrie

  It’s as busy as it always is on a Friday night. Customers have spilled out into the street so there’ll be empty glasses left on all the windowsills and probably a few broken ones on the pavement. Despite every door and window being open, the place has been like an oven all evening – so hot and smoky, Grace can barely draw breath.

  Working alongside her, Dot’s been doing a sterling job. With relief, Grace calls last orders; ringing the bell a half dozen times so it can be heard above the din.

  There’s a sudden commotion near the street door. Not a bloody fight, please Lord, not that of all things. The public’s so packed out she can’t see what’s causing all the fuss. Finally, the crowd parts as he makes his way to the counter ahead of a gaggle of jeering regulars.

  ‘Eh – see, what did I tell ya, Grace darlin’?’ Charlie Metcalfe is beaming. ‘The wanderer has returned.’ He winks at Dot. ‘Mind you, I have to say he’s not nearly as good-lookin’ as his replacement.’

  ‘Frank.’ Straight away she spots the fresh cut under his left eye. She lowers her voice unable to disguise her relief at seeing him. ‘Where in hell have you bin all this time?’

  Bert digs him in the ribs. ‘Eh, you’re in for it now, mate. If she’s anythin’ like my missus, she’ll be gettin’ the ruddy rollin’ pin out later.’

  Dot stops what she’s doing to listen.

  ‘Something came up,’ Frank tells her. ‘I’m really sorry but I had to deal wi’ it. I’d no choice.’ He looks over at Dot but says nothing as he flips the hatch up and steps behind the bar. ‘I need to have a word wi’ you in private, Grace.’ His expression is deadly serious.

  ‘It’ll have to wait till we’ve finished serving,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you go through to the back – I’ll be through when I’m done here.’

  He stays where he is. ‘I’d rather have a quick word wi’ you now, if you don’t mind.’

  Grace turns to meet her friend’s curious gaze. ‘Would you mind holdin’ the fort on your own for two seconds?’

  ‘Don’t you go leaving me for any longer, will ya? I’ve got the hang of most of it but I’m much slower than you are.’

  ‘I swear I’ll just be two ticks.’

  Once they’re in the kitchen, Frank grabs her shoulders. She breathes in the familiar smell of his body. ‘I wish I didn’t have to say this to you, Grace, but I’m worried. There’s things goin’ on–’ He bites his lip, then looks back towards the doorway as if he expects the Mongol hordes to come rushing in any minute.

  She checks his eyes and then his breath to be certain he’s not drunk. ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘I can’t say owt – for your own good. You’ll just have to trust me.’

  ‘Trust you! You bugger off without a word of warnin’. Then Dennis ups an’ vanishes into the night. Both of you leave me here to cope with all this whole pub on me own.’

  She pulls away from him. ‘An’ now, out of the ruddy blue, you reappear and it’s obvious you’ve bin in some kind of brawl, and after all that you still expect me to trust you about summat but you haven’t said what, or put two words together that make any kind of sense.’

  She makes to walk off, but he comes up behind her, spinning her round by her shoulders to face him. ‘This is serious – I think you might be in danger.’

  ‘Are you tryin’ to scare me, Frank?’ She shakes her arms free. ‘For the life of me, I don’t know what the hell you’re goin’ on about. I’ve got a pub to run an’ the danger I’m facin’ right now is stoppin’ the buggers out there from riotin’. Dot can’t manage by herself so I’m goin’ back to help her. You can bugger off home or come an’ give us a hand – the choice is yours, Frank.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Frank finds it difficult to concentrate on the clearing up with his mind still racing away in every direction. He can see that if he’d chosen to go home, the two women would have managed by themselves. The new girl – Dot – seems a nice enough lass and a hard grafter. Pretty girl, though her short, dark hair has been teased into a stiff style that doesn’t suit her.

  ‘I’m not sure I’ll be needed again,’ Dot says, ‘not now she’s got you back. Shame really, I could get to like it here.’ The girl looks at him in a strange sort of way before going outside to collect more stray glasses.

  Coming through with her hands full, she bumps up against him on her way to the sink then keeps peering at him through her eyelashes. The penny drops when she deliberately catches his eye while over-polishing one of the pump handles. Despite the present circumstances, he struggles to suppress a laugh, has to look away for fear of hurting her feelings.

  ‘Can’t thank you enough,’ Grace says, giving her friend a hug. ‘You really saved my bacon tonight, Dot, an’ I won’t forget it.’

  Grace hands her some cash from the open till. ‘It’s bin a long day for you. I expect you’re keen to get off home to your bed.’

  ‘Not particularly. I mean I’d be happy –’

  ‘No really, off you go now – we can manage the rest between us, can’t we, Frank?’

  There’s some sort of kerfuffle going on in the street outside. ‘Listen to that. You never know who’s about these days, do ya?’ Dot says. ‘’Praps Frank might see me home safe – that’s if you can spare him, Grace?’

  ‘I’m sure he won’t mind bein’ a gentleman and escorting you.’ A look he can’t quite fathom runs between the women. ‘Your place is only a couple of streets away, he’ll be back in no time to help me finish up.’

  It’s good to be breathing the cooler night air. The streets around them are quiet for this time on a Friday, though Frank eyes up every passerby.

  Their footsteps fall into an easy rhythm. ‘Have you and Grace been friends for long?’ he asks.

  ‘Ever since we started school,’ she says. ‘The two of us used to sit next to each other at one of them double desks. D’you remember them?’

  ‘Aye, I do.’

  They walk on a few yards before Dot says, ‘Back then, her name was Gretchen. Did she tell you that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You see, her dad was a German an’ he called her after his own mum; daft idea, givin’ her a name like that in the first place, if you ask me. Elsie – that’s Grace’s mum who lives down in Brighton – she must have gone along with it at the time, though she herself was a Cockney through an’ through like the rest of us. Weird sort of name Gretchen – us kids had a job sayin’ it, as you can imagine. She must have bin about seven, when we were all told to start calling her Grace instead.’

  ‘I see – I didn’t know that.’ He stops walking, stands there under the streetlamp wondering what else he doesn’t know about the woman he’s obsessed with. Now there’s a thing – how long has it been since he felt like this about anyone?

  ‘Course, she had a tough time of it at school when the war started.’ Dot looks up at him. ‘I felt so sorry for her, ’specially when they came an’ took her dad away –

  interned him over on the Isle of Man, so me mum said. Poor man died before the war ended. Caught pneumonia apparently. I remember that because it was a funny word I hadn’t heard before. After he died, they moved away an’ I didn’t see Grace for a few years; not till she moved back again. When we left school, Grace started workin’ in the biscuit factory like me. Course, that didn’t suit her for long. Bit later on, she got a job as a barmaid in the Eight Bells instead and that’s when she met Dennis.’

  For a while they carry on walking in silence, their footsteps ringing loud in the empty streets.

  ‘Well, this is it,’ Dot says. There’s only a step between her front door and the street. ‘Thanks for seein’ me home, Frank.’ Though her face is in shadow, he can see from the way she’s tilted her chin that she’d like him to kiss her.

  When he doesn’t make a move, she reaches into her pocket and produces her key. ‘Maybe I’ll see you again in the pub. That’s if you plan on stickin’ around.’

  He knows she’s expecting an answer on
e way or the other; that her friend will want to know the exact same thing as soon as he gets back.

  ‘Goodnight then,’ he says. ‘Sleep tight.’

  ‘I’m all in – anything else will have to wait till the mornin’.’ Grace looks as weary as she sounds. ‘I’ll leave you to put the lights out.’

  Frank follows her into the kitchen. When he goes to hold her in his arms, she doesn’t resist. He buries his face in the smell of her, the way her head tucks into his chest as if that precise spot was made for her. He lifts her chin to kiss her and she responds at first but then pulls away. ‘No, we mustn’t.’

  He opens his arms up. ‘Grace, there’s no one else here,’ he says. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you – the touch of you – everything about you.’ Passion turns his voice hoarse. ‘I missed you. I just want to fold you into my arms and –’

  ‘It’s all very well you sayin’ you missed me when you buggered off who knows where without a word. I was half out of my mind frettin’ over where you might have got to.’

  How pale she is despite the heat, her forehead creased with worry. ‘And then there’s Dennis. Why on earth would someone beat him up like they did? I know he’s a daft bugger in lots of ways but it’s not like him to up and disappear like this.’

  She moves around the room unable to settle into a task or a direction. ‘I grant you he’s stayed out all night in the past but he’s usually back the next day.’ She rubs her eyes. ‘Something’s not right, Frank – I just know it.’

  ‘D’you want me to go out and look for him?’

  ‘No.’ She grabs his sleeve. ‘You wouldn’t know where to start. In any case, I don’t want you dragged into the ruddy mess he’s in. It’s bin awful havin’ to worry about the two of you at the same time.’

  She sits down and eases off her shoes. Leaning on the table, she buries her head in her hands, a sea of brown hair. ‘I wish I knew what to do. I’ve bin thinkin’ ’praps I should go to the police an’ report him missin’ – though I know he’d go mad at the thought of me involvin’ the Old Bill. Dennis reckons half of ’em are crooks and the other half sadists.’

  Frank rubs his forehead, tracing the line of his scar over and over. ‘Aye, I agree it’s best not to say owt to the coppers.’ He sits down on the opposite side of the table. ‘They like to go poking around in things. From what you’ve told me, who knows what they’re likely to turn up. You could be dumping the poor man in it good an’ proper.’

  Grace brings her head up. ‘You’re right.’ She stands up, her chair scraping against the hard floor. ‘I think you should get off home now – Dennis could walk through the door any minute an’ find you still here.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave you alone. Like I said before, I’ve heard rumours – there’s things going on and I’m worried. I don’t mind kippin’ on the sofa.’

  ‘You can’t do that – what would it look like if the neighbours noticed you were here all night as soon as Dennis’s back is turned? There’s enough talk already. I’m the one who has to live with all their stares and whispers.’

  ‘This is serious, woman.’ Without meaning to, he thumps the table and she jumps out of her skin. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘but you have to understand you could be in danger. There are people out – I won’t mention names – let’s just say they’re out to settle some debts with Dennis.’

  ‘You’re scaring me. Why the hell would they go after me? What is it you’re not tellin’ me?’

  He grabs her arm. ‘Please, Grace; idle talk can’t hurt you nearly as much as they can.’

  She looks down at how he’s gripping her arm. ‘Take your ruddy hands off me, Frank Danby.’ She pries his fingers away and lets his hand drop. ‘I don’t need a man to look after me!’

  ‘Under normal circumstances that might be true, but this is different. You saw how Dennis was beaten up. You’re not safe here by yourself. I wouldn’t say that if it wasn’t true.’

  She shuts her eyes, is taking a moment to think about it. He presses the advantage. ‘You’ll be much safer if I stay. I promise not to come creeping into your bed in the middle of the night.’ He smiles across at her. ‘Scout’s honour an’ all that.’

  Finally, she grins back at him. ‘I’d bet good money you were never a boy scout.’

  In the end she takes him at his word. Finding the sofa too small for comfortable, he curls up on the rug with a cushion for his head – luxury compared to the previous night.

  He’s woken by the sound of floorboards creaking under someone’s tread. ‘Oww!’ She stumbles over his foot. He grabs her by the waist before she can fall and feels something wet running down his arm. ‘I only came down for some water,’ she tells him. In the half-light he watches her put down her glass. ‘All this heat – it’s too much.’

  ‘You must have had a yearning for something to cool you down,’ he says, tightening his grip.

  She drops to her knees, trails her fingernails across his chest. ‘When a thirst comes over a person, it does make it hard to sleep.’ She slides down beside him, her bare legs wrap around him. ‘Just like drinking a cup of tea in summer – I find it’s the things that make you hot that cool you down the most.’

  Saturday 28th June

  Someone’s hammering on the street door. Frank reaches it first. ‘Who is it?’ he shouts, hoping on one leg as he pulls on his trousers. ‘What’s your business at this hour?’

  ‘Southwark police; we need to speak to Mrs Stevenson.’

  ‘What about?’

  Grace comes up behind him tying the cord of her dressing gown. She squeezes his shoulder. ‘It’s alright, Frank – you can let them in.’

  He unlocks the door and they both step back. A couple of bobbies are standing on the doorstep, the dawn chorus breaking around them. Both of them are holding their helmets in their hands and looking far from comfortable. ‘Mrs Grace Stevenson?’

  She nods. ‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it? I just knew it. Don’t just stand there – answer me.’

  ‘If we could come in,’ the fat one says, pushing his way on through. ‘Maybe there’s somewhere we can go and sit down?’

  They all walk through into the kitchen. The big one says, ‘I’m Sergeant Bradley and this is P C Hitchens.’

  He turns to Frank. ‘And you sir are…?’

  Frank shrugs. ‘I’m just the barman here. Friend of the family.’ The copper looks from his naked torso all the way down at his bare feet but says nothing. ‘And your name, sir?’

  ‘Frank – Francis Danby.’

  ‘What’s happened? Just tell me,’ Grace demands.

  ‘Please sit yourself down, Mrs Stevenson.’ The sergeant waits for her to comply. His podgy hands inch along the brim of his helmet, turning it slowly. ‘I’m afraid we have some very sad news.’ He takes a deep breath then lets it partway out before he adds: ‘It concerns your husband, Mr Dennis Albert Stevenson. I’m sorry to have to tell you he was found dead earlier this morning.’

  All colour drains from Grace’s face. She tries to speak but her mouth’s having trouble forming words. Frank goes to stand behind her chair though he daren’t touch her. ‘How?’ At the second attempt she says, ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘It’s a bit of a mystery at the moment. His body was found by a bargeman – floating in the river just past Rotherhithe.’

  Grace turns on him. ‘How can you be certain it’s my Dennis?’

  ‘He had his driving license on him. Luckily, it was sandwiched between all the other bits and pieces in his wallet and that kept it dry enough to read.’

  ‘So he hadn’t been robbed?’ Frank asks.

  The sergeant turns a curious eye on him. ‘We didn’t find any money on him – so it’s possible he had been.’

  Every inch of Grace is shaking now. ‘Oh, my Lord, then he really has drowned?’ Tears are wetting her cheeks. ‘So, you’re saying he fell into the water – the river?’

  ‘He’d been in the water for some time,’ the sergeant says. �
�However, there are injuries on his body that remain unexplained.’

  Frank’s aware both coppers are now looking directly at him. He knows only too well they will have clocked the cut on his cheek.

  ‘Oh, my poor Dennis.’ Grace covers her head with her hands and starts to wail – a strange primeval sound. The younger copper goes over and hands her his hanky. After a while her cries subside into quiet sobbing.

  Instead of comforting her, Frank clears his throat to ask, ‘You think someone pushed him in?’

  ‘Afraid we’ll have to wait for the full medical report, sir.’ The sergeant gets to his feet. ‘Once we have that, Mrs Stevenson, we’ll have a clearer idea of how your husband may have met such an untimely end.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  They bow their heads and stand there by the door to give her a few minutes to get dressed.

  There’s no time to wash. Upstairs she finds her clothes on the chair from yesterday. No – too colourful. She tries the wardrobe, finds a darker dress that’ll be too hot in this weather. Dammit, she can’t think straight, can’t make zips and buttons do up with her hands so much out of control.

  She has to grip the handrail on the stairs. All three men are standing around the table in the kitchen. A copper’s helmet is sitting on the tabletop along with the morning post and a fresh bottle of milk no one’s put away. Grace is tempted to do it herself, can’t bear the thought of how it’ll go sour in all this heat – Dennis can’t abide it when it’s turned like that.

  She’s pleased to see Frank’s fully dressed now. The constable – the young thin one – has his notebook and pencil out. They must have been questioning Frank, but she can’t think why. ‘I’ll go with her,’ he says. ‘She needs someone there.’

  The sergeant is holding his hat under one arm like you might cradle a goose that’s in danger of escaping. ‘No need for you to fret, Mr Danby, a policewoman’s on her way.’

  The shaking starts up again forcing Grace to sit down. Above her, they keep on with their questions. ‘Is there someone else we should inform? Are Dennis’s parents still alive? Someone you would like us to contact for you, Mrs Stevenson? A relative perhaps?’