It’s less than a week since Dennis’s death and there’s plenty who might judge it too early to reopen the pub. Let them think what they like; she knows what he would have wanted and it’s not that she should let all this go to rack and ruin.
Grace takes a final look to make sure all is shipshape before she puts on the lights. The big hand of the clock moves round to form a defiant V and she unbolts the doors as eleven chimes ring out.
No one is outside waiting. The drizzle that had started the day seems to have turned into a heavier downpour. With the drop in temperature, the air’s a lot fresher. Across the street a handful of sparrows are splashing and squabbling in a pothole puddle.
Half an hour passes and still not a solitary customer comes in. With the beer on the pumps unlikely to keep much longer and the storeroom awash with those cases of spirits from who-knows-where, Grace is determined to keep the place open until closing time at two-thirty. Once word gets around, the regulars at least are bound to trickle back in dribs and drabs.
The clock chimes twice – the sound echoes in the deserted bar and Grace reluctantly accepts defeat. Not a single person has come in. Nobody’s even ventured into the jug and bottle to buy baccy. She goes through to bolt the doors to the saloon bar.
Back in the public, she finds Wilf Barnet standing there by himself in the middle of the empty room. ‘The missus told me she’d walked past an’ seen your lights on,’ he says.
‘Pint of bitter, is it?’
The old man slowly shakes his head.
‘Look, I know it might seem too soon,’ she says, ‘but Dennis would have wanted me to sell off the stock at the very least – get what I can for it. If I don’t, it won’t stay put for long.’
Wilf takes off his cap, holds it in front of him like a hearse might be passing. ‘I dare say you might be right about that.’ He goes to say something and then stops himself.
‘I don’t believe no one seems to want to drink in here anymore. Once they know the place is open again, they’ll soon –’
‘Don’t.’ He stops her with a raised hand. ‘I’m afraid to say, you don’t know the ruddy half of it, sweetheart.’ That wry smile only makes his lined face look more serious.
She walks past him to secure the outside door. ‘Then ’praps you’d care to tell me the half of it I don’t know, Wilf.’
‘I’ll do that; only turn them ruddy lights off before they see the place lit up like a ruddy Christmas tree.’
Ever since she’s known him, the old man has seemed so solid a figure; nothing appears to shake him. Now, for the first time, she detects fear in his voice.
Once Grace turns off the lights, they stand there facing each other in the gloom. ‘Might as well take the weight of me old pins first,’ he says, sounding more like his old self. ‘Why don’t you sit yourself down, an’ all?’
She pulls out the chair opposite. ‘So now,’ she says, ‘tell me exactly what you know that I don’t.’
He pulls out his empty pipe and sucks on it. ‘Since what’s happened here, some of us have bin goin’ down to the Farriers for a pint. I’ll grant you it’s a bit further to go but it’s a decent enough boozer and they keep the beer nearly as well as your Dennis did – God rest his soul.’
Grace wants to rush him to the point, but she can see this is hard for the old man.
‘I was on me way down there the other day when Harry Bishop rushes past me in Chandler’s Walk with a face like thunder on him. “What’s up wi’ you?” I shouts after him, and with that he turns round –’ Wilf frowns. ‘Let’s just say the gist of what he had to say was, that he was now well an’ truly up shit creek without a paddle.’
He leans in closer, pointing the wet stem of his pipe at her. ‘Seems somebody in the Farriers had told poor Harry that, if he knew what was good for him, he was to inform the Old Bill that he’d caught a glimpse of Frank roughing up your husband on the night before Dennis up and disappeared.’
‘But that makes no sense. Frank was clearin’ up right here when Harry himself brought Dennis home.’
‘Harry was told to say that Frank must have seen him comin’ along and legged it; then nipped back in here to cover his tracks.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’ Grace stands up. ‘I’ll tell the coppers the truth – that Frank was as shocked as I was at the state Dennis was in.’
‘Trouble is, sweetheart, they’ve been askin’ lots of questions round here about yourself and Frank and what might or might not be goin’ on between the two of you.’
He raises his hand before she can say anything. ‘Regardless of the truth of that particular matter, I shouldn’t wonder that they’ll argue you’re coverin’ for him.’
‘What, against my own husband?’ Grace tightens her fists then sees the old man flinch like he’s expecting her to start laying into him.
Straightening out her hands, she takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. ‘So what’s Thin Harry planning on doing?’
‘That’s what I asked him straight out and he said that he wasn’t gonna put a noose round an innocent man’s neck for any bugger. Knowin’ the nature of the crooks involved, he said he was of a mind to bugger off on his holidays – and stay away for the foreseeable future. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since – so I ’spect true to his word he’s gone an’ scarpered. Who can blame him?’
‘But who are these men – the crooks who want to set Frank up?’
‘Harry said he wasn’t certain but the fella who spoke to him is known to hang around with them Dawson brothers. It seems the Farriers is now part of their patch. Seems for some reason they’ve got it in for Frank – want to make damned sure he swings for Dennis’s murder.’
‘But that makes no sense – the coppers don’t even know for certain Dennis was murdered. If they had got proof of it, I should have thought, as his wife, I’d be the first one to be told.’
‘I can’t answer all your questions, sweetheart. All I know is that every bugger’s scared of them Dawsons.’ The old man leans on the side of the table and takes his time getting to his feet. ‘I thought you deserved to know why no one’s likely to come in here. Right now, there’s so many rumours flyin’ around. Then there’s more ruddy rumours about them rumours; an’ most of ’em boils down to the Dawsons not wanting this place to reopen.’
Wilf straightens up to look her in the eyes. ‘Every bugger round here is now too scared to cross that threshold. I’m an old man with nothin’ more to me name than the clothes I stand up in, but I still looked left an’ right half a dozen times before I crossed the street an’ walked through that door just now. I’ll do the same ruddy thing when I leave.’
He puts his empty pipe into the corner of his mouth. ‘Breaks me heart to have to say such things to you, sweetheart, but not one of us is brave enough to put our head above the parapet an’ I’m afraid that’s the way it’s likely to stay.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Friday 4th July
Braving the driving rain, Frank walks from the bus stop to the Westons’ house. Though it’s not yet eight in the morning, he rings and then knocks several times but no one comes to the door. Rainwater dripping down his collar, he shouts her name through the letterbox. After a while it’s clear she either won’t come to the door or she’s out.
Round the corner and along the street he takes in the sorry sight of the closed-up Eight Bells. He tries all the doors but they’re locked. Someone’s removed the signs he’d taped up announcing Dennis’s death leaving just the faintest outline where the strips of plaster had been. Peering in through the clear parts of the glass, he puts his face to each door and window in turn. There’s no sign of life, not one light on inside.
He hasn’t the foggiest where Grace might have gone off to so early in the day.
Before he left Whitechapel yesterday, Arthur had made a good start on the documents he’d asked for. With a number of other things to see to, Frank had agreed to return the next day with the woman he’d described as his “tr
avelling company”.
Looking around, the streets are almost deserted. When he pictures Grace, she’s in this place – the association is so strong he keeps expecting her to appear in front of him. Truth is she could have gone anywhere; finding her in this warren of back streets would be as likely as stumbling over a four-leaf clover.
He holds up both hands in defeat, lets them fall to slap his sides. Damn and blast it – if only he’d made time to see her yesterday, he might have persuaded her to meet him this morning.
Outside the ironmongers, he catches sight of a bloke in a green cap hanging around underneath the awning and looking aimless. A roll-up is dangling from the side of his mouth though it doesn’t appear to be lit. The chap’s particularly short – no more than five-four at most; brown jacket, dark green shirt and trousers; Frank could almost swear he’d seen that same bloke yesterday only he was waiting at the bus stop opposite Robbie’s shop.
For a moment he’s caught off guard and then, thinking through all the possibilities, he heads towards the nearest tube station; with its many entrances and exits, it’s an easy place to lose someone in a crowd.
Halfway there, he stops to look in a grocer’s window. By tilting his head, he hopes to catch a glimpse of the man if he’s trailing behind him. Nothing. If the bloke in the green cap is following him, he’s making a decent job of it – a professional job.
Frank’s so busy looking behind, it takes him a moment to notice the black car coasting alongside him. Adjusting his hat to shade his eyes, he keeps up a steady pace while the car accelerates away only to pull into the kerb thirty yards up ahead. A man gets out. It’s no one he’s seen before. This bloke’s wearing a grey hat and gabardine coat while carrying a rolled-up umbrella. Despite the rain, he doesn’t put it up. Then again, he might be using it like a walking stick.
The man begins to stride out in Frank’s direction – no sign of a limp. Amongst the small handful of people now standing between the two of them, Frank spots Edwina Jones – a regular who’s particularly fond of a glass of stout on a Saturday night.
Frank raises his hat to her and, recognising him, she gives him back a tentative smile. ‘Such terrible news about Dennis.’ He draws her off to one side of the pavement. The flowers on her hat are drooping in the rain. ‘I can hardly believe he could have gone an’ drowned like that.’
‘Yes, it was a shock all round,’ he says. ‘Poor Grace is beside herself – who wouldn’t be?’
The approaching man steps around them still swinging his umbrella as he continues on his way. Over the old woman’s shoulder, Frank observes him as he climbs a short flight of steps and extends his arm to ring a house bell. Half a minute later the door opens to admit him.
‘Well, mustn’t keep you nattering out here in this dreadful weather,’ he tells Mrs Jones. ‘I’ll let you get in out of this ruddy rain.’
‘You too,’ she says. ‘Or you’ll catch your death.’
Frank takes a tube to Victoria and from there the circle line to Tower Hill. From there it’s just a five-minute walk to Fenchurch Street where he catches the overground to Tilbury town. As the train takes him further east, the rain eases off. Arriving at his destination, he alights with the crowd into bright sunshine.
There’s a tobacconist kiosk a few yards on with a rack of postcards outside. He buys a couple and then leans up against the wall to write his messages.
Before leaving the station, Frank pauses to watch four blokes piling up a lorry with assorted suitcases. Once they’ve stacked the luggage up as high as it’ll go, they throw several long straps over the top and then set about securing them on the other side, much as you would a hay-wagon. The porters shout their farewells to a man wearing overalls who turns out to be the driver. The bloke’s in no hurry; before he climbs up into his cab, he stops to roll a cigarette.
‘You’d have a job to get any more on there,’ Frank says, nodding towards the man’s load. The driver looks directly at him. Frank starts kicking a stone around as casually as he can. He surveys the piled high cases with their destination labels and thinks about his own battered case – how it bears no traces of any of the places it’s been.
The driver runs his tongue along the paper to seal the tobacco inside. He nods at his load. ‘Most of this lot’s bound for the SS Salvation.’ Frank notices his slight Irish accent. ‘She’s in the docks right now taking on her cargo and that.’
The man blows a stream of smoke out through his nose. ‘Come the morning she’ll be on her way down river to the landin’ stage where she’ll pick up another twelve hundred or so brave souls makin’ that one-way trip to Melbourne.’
‘Sooner them than me,’ Frank says. ‘I’m only down here looking for an old mate of mine. Not sure where his digs are. He’s a bit of an argumentative sod – tends to fall out with people faster than he should do. I heard he likes to drink in the Mermaid so I was planning to start there.’
‘That’s a sailor’s watering hole.’ The driver takes a long drag of his cigarette before pinching out the burning tip and sticking it behind his ear for later. ‘Sure, the place is normally wall to wall with all them Tars.’
‘Me and my mate were in the Royal Navy together. Needless to say, he took to the life on board far better than I did.’
The Irish bloke nods towards the lorry. ‘If you’re determined to stick your nose in that place, I’m going right past it. Hop in and I’ll give you a lift down there.’
‘Thanks, pal,’ Frank says. ‘That’ll save me a bit of shoe leather.’
It doesn’t take him long to conclude his business in the Mermaid. On the walk back to the station, he pops into a post office to buy stamps and then posts his cards in a postbox a bit further up the road.
By the middle of the afternoon, Frank’s back in the Smoke and heading west again towards Victoria. The city air’s been freshened by all that rain. From there he strides out past the Palace. The royal flag is flapping in the breeze as he heads up the Mall towards the theatre district in search of the business premises of Mr Irving Reynard.
He’d seen the place advertised in the small ads; it’s meant to be just off the Strand. Dodging some sizable puddles, Frank walks past a number of turnings with no luck. In the end, he’s forced to retrace his footsteps and start over again. One thing’s for certain – he’s not going to be asking passersby for directions.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Grace had spent most of last evening wondering where she might find Frank. In desperation, she finally plucks up courage to go back to his lodging house.
It’s a strange sensation to be retracing the steps the two of them had taken together on that Sunday night. She passes the alleyway they’d snuck into in search of a bit of privacy. In daylight, the place is squalid and strewn with rubbish. How could she have been so distracted that she didn’t notice?
Grace has to walk a further mile or more, doubling back looking for a landmark. Finally, she remembers the police box on the corner and turns to be faced with two rows of soot-blackened identical houses. Their small front gardens are unkempt, used only as somewhere to put the bins. Such a street would have been for the well-to-do in the past; she can see the stubs of the railings that must have been removed – melted down for the war effort. Frank had reached up to pick a blossom for her from a tree near the front door. In daylight she can see it’s a poor stunted thing springing from the gap between two frontages. She remembers the two iron handrails and these lead her up the worn smooth steps to the front door of number eleven.
Ten-thirty in the morning and yet the smell of cooking cabbage is escaping from an open basement window. An age after she pushes the old-fashioned bell, a middle-aged woman sticks her head round the side of the front door. Her salt and pepper hair looks like it hasn’t seen a comb in a while.
‘Good mornin’. You must be Mrs Harris,’ Grace says, in her pleasantest voice. It’s odd speaking to the woman face to face like this when she’d snuck out of this same house at dawn. She can hear mus
ic – possibly an operetta – coming from somewhere. ‘I’m really sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for Frank – Frank Danby.’
The landlady folds her arms across the front of her sagging chest. ‘’Fraid he’s not ’ere.’
‘D’you have any idea when he’ll be back? I really need to speak to him.’
A door must have opened, the violins have become strident – the same grating notes over and over. Behind Mrs Harris, a man’s voice. ‘Who is it, Mum?’
‘No one important.’ Blocking his view with her body, the woman’s head swivels round like an owl’s. ‘Nothin’ for you to worry about, Malc. Go back to your music, love.’
He retreats and the music becomes muffled; she has the landlady’s full attention again. ‘I need to see him about somethin’,’ she says, ‘somethin’ really urgent.’
‘I’m sorry, dear.’ The woman’s face softens at her obvious distress. ‘He’s gone an’ cleared off for good. Shame really – he was a decent sort; always passed the time of day and you could have a laugh with him at times – not like some we get ’ere. My Malcolm’s already got someone interested in his old room.’
‘I see.’ When she turns to go, the landlady touches her arm: ‘Didn’t catch your name, love?’
‘It’s Grace.’
‘Ah yes – such a pretty name.’ She bends closer. ‘He left somethin’ for you. Stay right there, darlin’ – I’ll be back in two ticks.’
A minute later she reappears with an envelope in her hand. ‘Frank made me promise I’d put this into your hands and your hands only.’ She chuckles to herself. ‘You young people, you do make me laugh sometimes. Cheer up, duck. Remember what they say about the course of true love, eh – how it don’t have an habit of runnin’ smooth?’
She forces a smile to her face and thanks the woman, stuffing the letter into the bottom of her handbag away from any prying eyes. She doesn’t dare to read it until she’s back inside the Wetsons’ house.
Too Many Heroes Page 20
