Too Many Heroes

by Jan Turk Petrie

  There’s more thumping and cursing and then someone starts rattling his door. ‘Will one of yous hurry up, I need a shit somethin’ awful.’

  The toilet to his right is flushed. ‘Hold your ruddy horses, will ya?’ some bloke says before the door is unlocked.

  Releasing his breath, Frank doesn’t move an inch. The glue will lose its grip in a minute, but he needs to steady his nerves, or he’ll drop the wretched thing.

  ‘Halleluiah – at long bloody last,’ the desperate bloke declares.

  Blocking out the hideous noises that follow, Frank presses his moustache into place. He attaches both eyebrows in turn and then, desperate for fresher air, unfolds the walking stick, unbolts the door and walks out.

  As luck would have it, there’s a small shaving mirror above one of the basins. He washes his hands – though of course there’s no soap. Satisfied that he’s alone, he adjusts the angle of the wig and checks the grey face powder is reasonably even. Not bad; though possibly less convincing than before. This ought to fool most people at an arm’s length – he just has to make sure no one gets much closer.

  The weather is much finer than yesterday so there’s a danger he’ll start to sweat it off. With such calm conditions, it’s a good day to be setting out on a long sea voyage.

  The previous evening, he’d taken a bit of time to get the lie of the land. He knows a man of his supposed age wouldn’t just walk around aimlessly, they would sit on a bench and look out at the estuary; it’s not so bad, after all, to have to while away a few hours watching sea birds.

  He finds an empty bench facing the sea and slowly lowers himself down onto it. Just below, a stock-still grey heron is peering down into the shallows. He’s struck by the patience it shows while it waits for its prey to show itself. There’s something of the dinosaur about the way the bird carries itself.

  The place is teeming with sailors and dockers and scurrying clerks along with the hundreds of milling passengers clutching their precious possessions while trying to keep a tight grip on their children.

  Everywhere he looks there are gulls of one sort or another. Their mournful cries mix with the blunt reports of metal striking metal and petrol engines. Weighed-down lorries, buses, and cars keep coming and going in an endless stream; loading and unloading in clouds of exhaust fumes and honking horns.

  Some over-excited youngsters have managed to break free from their parents and are running around in between people’s legs or just staring up at those big ships in wonder. And they are a hell of a sight, the sheer scale of them dwarfing the docks. With so much going on, not one single person gives an old man sitting on a bench a second glance; old age would be the perfect disguise if he planned to rob a bank.

  Around midday, he catches sight of a swarm of uniformed men checking various berths along the length of the wharf. He’s too far away to tell if they’re regular policemen or customs officers. This could be perfectly normal – they must have to carry out a lot of spot checks for contraband and that sort of thing.

  The temperature is rising and his head’s getting uncomfortably hot under the wig; if he starts to sweat too much, it could streak his makeup. No wonder so many women keep a powder compact handy.

  Sitting down on such a hard surface for so long has made Frank genuinely stiff; the pins-and-needles in his legs ensure he gets up slowly. Leaning on his stick, he totters down to one of the cafés he’d spotted earlier. On the way there, he puts some money in the slot and picks up a newspaper – it won’t look odd that he’s keeping his head down at the table if he appears to be reading.

  It’s lunchtime and the cafe is too busy for anyone to notice another old man buying a cup of tea and some biscuits. When a couple of blokes get up to leave, he sits down at their table and unfolds his Daily Telegraph.

  From time to time Frank glances out of the window and each time he spots yet more policemen. A good many are positioned just outside the baggage hall scanning the faces of every person waiting to go inside.

  Frank tries to take his time; makes himself dunk the biscuits one after the other before sipping at the rest of his tea. He has to keep checking the moustache is still in place. Underneath the table his legs are trembling, his left foot pumping the way an old man’s never would.

  Two o’clock. It’s no good, he’s done with all this waiting around – better to get it over with one way or another. Yes, now’s as good a time as any to make his move.

  He folds his paper and stuffs it underneath his arm before picking up his old case. Leaning on his cane a little, he walks out of the café and heads for the ship. With the bright sun beating down, it feels like some spotlight is being shone on him as he walks off towards the baggage hall.

  His heart is racing, his palms slick with sweat. With so many coppers milling around, he’s careful to avoid the outer queue. Instead he chooses one of the central ones, stands in line just behind a young couple holding hands. From time to time, the man gives the woman’s shoulders a reassuring squeeze.

  The tremors in his hands could give him away but he can’t seem to still them. Along with everyone else, Frank slowly shuffles towards one of the entrances. He tries to look straight ahead most of the time, conscious of the eyes of the policemen sweeping back and forth over the crowd. Any minute he expects a shout to be aimed at him, but he’s carried forward by the swell of the crowd.

  Once he’s inside the hall itself, the sheer scale of the building overwhelms him. Sunlight is shining down through an ornate glass dome at the centre of the high roof – it feels like he’s stepped inside a cathedral. The effect is humbling. This towering construction is the very first or the very last building every traveller goes through as they depart or board the big liners.

  All the people around him are heading in the same direction – on their way to a new life. The adults in the queue are surprisingly quiet, as if contemplating the enormity of what they’re about to do. If some might be harbouring last-minute regrets, not one of them steps out of the line.

  Toys or biscuits are being offered to worked-up children. Nearby, a baby starts to wail and it sets off dozens of others. The people around him are so young – barely a line on their faces. He’s reminded of that other queue, full of over-excited young men on their way to a life of adventure, or so they thought.

  He spots more coppers – some of them in plain clothes – patrolling the building; they stroll in between the lines running curious and distrustful eyes over everything and everyone. Bags, cases and toys seem to attract equal attention. Could be looking for a stowaway teddy bear – for a second the idea makes him smile.

  Keeping his head bowed a fraction, Frank carries on shuffling forward; with each step he gets closer and closer to the desk where he, like the other passengers, will have to present himself and his travel documents for inspection.

  Someone grips his shoulder. ‘Excuse me, sir.’ The hand is attached to the arm of a tall policeman.

  ‘Is there a problem, officer?’ His heart is beating out of control.

  ‘You dropped your newspaper.’ Smiling, the copper hands it to him and he’s forced to look him in the eye. ‘You might want to hang onto it,’ he says. ‘A little reminder of home.’ He studies Frank’s face for a moment. This could be it.

  ‘You’re not wrong,’ Frank says. ‘Thank you.’ He tips his hat as the copper turns and walks away.

  At long last, he reaches the head of the queue. ‘I see you’re sailing to Melbourne, sir,’ the young clerk says, only glancing at him.

  Frank clears his throat. ‘Yes, my daughter, um, she has a place in Griffen Crescent, North Melbourne. My dear wife died last year. After that I promised myself I would go and see my grandchildren while I still can.’

  The man looks him full in the face perhaps sensing his nervousness. ‘Never been a great sailor,’ Frank says. ‘Can’t say I’m looking forward to weeks at sea.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find your sea-legs in the end.’ Smiling now, the man barely looks at Arthur’s handi
work. ‘Okay then,’ he says. ‘That’s all in order. Hope you have a pleasant voyage, sir.’

  Already, the clerk’s hand is outstretched ready for the next person’s papers.

  Following the general movement, Frank finds himself back in the sunshine amongst the crowd out on the landing stage. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he cranes his neck to look up at the enormity of the ocean liner berthed alongside them. Men, women and children are streaming up the gangplank while the ones already onboard are leaning over the rails to take a long last look at their homeland, knowing that, in six weeks, they’ll have travelled as far away from here as it’s possible to be.

  Under his feet, the platform Frank’s standing on feels almost like a living thing as it writhes up and down in the swell.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Saturday, 12th July

  Grace has been feeling sick all morning though she hasn’t actually thrown up. Remembering Lottie’s advice, she tries a bit of dried toast and it helps a little.

  The place she’s renting isn’t much but it’s all hers – at least for the time being. With two small rooms and a tiny bathroom, it’s cheap enough and easy to keep clean compared with the pub.

  The last of the bread is gone and all the cream crackers are gone; she’d better pop round to Smithson’s on the corner.

  On the way back, she bumps into Wilf Barnet in the street, though she wishes she hadn’t. He’s a nice enough old man but every time she sees one of their old customers it jolts her back to the Eight Bells and the life she’s been forced to turn her back on.

  It’s not long before Wilf mentions the trams. The old man takes off his cap and holds it to his chest. ‘I stood there last Saturday in the Old Kent Road, with all the rest of ’em, waitin’ for the very last one to go past and, d’you know, I said to the chap what was standin’ alongside me – and he agreed wholehearted – that it was just like being at the funeral of a dear friend you’d known all your life.’

  He doesn’t even notice her reaction, doesn’t for a minute think about what he’s just said.

  ‘That was a sad day for London,’ he says, ‘and no mistake.’ When he shakes his head, his bald head catches the light at an odd angle; if she squints, he almost has a halo. Despite everything, the thought of Wilf Barnet as an angel of the Lord makes her smirk.

  ‘Course there was all that cheerin’ and flag wavin’ when she did appear, but what was the point of it, eh? I got a glimpse of a fella with this gold chain of office round his neck standing there getting his photograph taken with the others like they were giving the old girl a proper send off. And some of ’em in the crowd sang Auld Lang Syne, would you believe? But what was the flamin’ point of that when it was already too late to save her.’

  ‘To be honest, Wilf, I never used ’em much,’ she says. ‘But still it’s a shame they’ve gone.’

  ‘It’s not like they were going to listen to the likes of you and me,’ he says. ‘Always the same, en it?’

  ‘I’d better go,’ she says. ‘Got things to be getting’ on with an’ that.’

  She’s expecting Dot, so when the bell rings, Grace rushes downstairs with a smile on her face. It’s a nasty shock to see Inspector Collingwood standing there – though this time without his trusty sergeant at his heels.

  ‘Good day to you, Mrs Stevenson.’ He raises his hat. ‘The Westons supplied me your new address.’

  ‘Did they now?’

  ‘Would you mind if I step inside for a moment?’

  Grace does mind, she minds very much but isn’t going to give him the satisfaction of showing it. ‘I’m up on the second floor,’ she says, leading the way up the stairs. She can’t banish the thought that he’s the sort of man who might take the opportunity to look up her skirt.

  The inspector’s eyes flit over her living room; can tell he isn’t impressed. ‘Only temporary,’ she tells him, though she can’t think why. ‘What was it you wanted? Dot’s coming round in a bit – we’re off to the pictures round the corner an’ it starts in half an hour.’

  ‘Be assured I won’t detain you for long.’ He takes off his hat but keeps hold of the brim. ‘As Mr Stevenson’s widow, I thought you should know that, though Frank Whitby has managed to elude us thus far, he –’

  ‘Hang on a second,’ she says, ‘by eluded d’you you mean Frank’s given you lot the slip? Is that right?’

  Oh, she can see that gets him going. ‘Yes, I’m afraid the man managed to give us the slip last week, as you put it. But I can assure you the situation is merely temporary.’

  ‘So, are you tellin’ me that with the full resources of Scotland Yard out to get him, Frank’s managed to escape?’

  ‘Yes, but Whitby clearly had considerable help. Thanks to your mystery correspondence – the unsigned postcard he sent you – we were able to trace his movements to a Tilbury bed and breakfast establishment. Unfortunately, the wretched man managed to board a vessel heading for Melbourne – that’s in Australia.’

  ‘I know where that is,’ she tells him. Grace has to sit down as she tries to take this news in.

  Collinwood remains on his feet in front of her. ‘As I was about to explain, the situation is a temporary one. We were able to identify the vessel he boarded by examining the passenger lists. There was a particular anomaly in the paperwork.’

  The smell of the Brilliantine on his hair is turning her stomach again. ‘We weren’t able to ascertain how this anomaly occurred in the first place. All involved are denying any irregularities have taken place and trying to claim it was simply a clerical error of no significance.’

  ‘You’re suggestin’ somebody helped him, but you don’t know who – is that right?’

  Collingwood keeps pushing the crown of his trilby in and then turning it over and pushing it out again. ‘Like I said, the situation is temporary, I assure you.’

  She stands up. ‘If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, it seems to me that a good many things are eludin’ you at the moment, Inspector. You reckon Frank had assistance from someone but whoever it was managed to cover their own tracks.’

  ‘I have no doubt that Whitby received considerable financial help from some misguided person in order to pay a corrupt administrator for their assistance.’ He shoves his hat towards her face; looks like he’d very much like to hit her at this moment if he could get away with it.

  Grace stands up daring the little runt to lay one finger on her. ‘If you’re suggesting I was the one who helped him, you’re wrong. Although it’s none of your business, for your information I haven’t received a brass farthing from Dennis’s life insurance because he’d stopped payin’ the premiums more than a year ago.’ She laughs in his face. ‘I know what you’re thinking – I’ll say it for you, shall I? He must have needed the money to pay off some of his gambling debts.’

  The doorbell rings again. Grace goes to the window. Dot is dancing about impatiently on the doorstep. It’s hard to lift the sash but she opens it enough to stick her head out. ‘Hang on – I’ll be down in a sec.’

  Grace turns back to her visitor. ‘So, if Frank’s ship is on its way Down Under, I wouldn’t think there’s much you can do about it. It seems he’s got away scot-free.’

  ‘Ah – but that’s where you’re wrong.’ Collingwood looks all cocky again. ‘We’ve already telegraphed the ship’s captain to inform him of the situation. What’s more we’ve alerted various port authorities although I am not at liberty to be more specific at this time.’ Collinwood only just stops short of poking his raised finger at her nose. ‘So, you see, it’s all been in vain. Francis John Whitby will be arrested when the vessel next docks. As a known deserter from the armed services and now as a fugitive to be charged with a capital offence, the man will be brought back to this country to stand trial for murder.’

  Grace grips the back of a chair for support. ‘Well you never know, he might just elude you again.’

  ‘Oh, not this time, Mrs Stevenson. His guard will be down. He’ll be congratulati
ng himself that he’s got away from us but all the while the net will close on him just when he thinks himself a free man at last.’

  From down in the street she hears Dot calling her name. ‘I’ll leave you to your outing,’ the inspector says, turning on his heels. ‘We’ll need your address if you should move on from here. Have no fear, I’ll stay in touch. I’ll be sure to let you know about the progress we’ve made bringing your late husband’s killer home to face the full might of the law.’

  ‘I wish you luck catching Dennis’s killer,’ she tells him. ‘But it isn’t Frank.’

  ‘You know, Grace, once the trial is over and the law has taken its course, you’ll have an opportunity to put all this sordid business behind you.’

  He takes a step towards her with a sickening smile on his face. ‘You’re a young, dare I say, very attractive woman; there’s plenty of time for you to make another life for yourself.’

  He strokes his moustache several times before he finally opens his mouth. ‘As we are told in the Book of John: if we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’

  ‘If I’m in need of a sermon, I’ll go to church,’ she tells him. ‘Just comin’, Dot,’ she shouts, before slamming the window shut. ‘I’ll see you out, Inspector.’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Wednesday 20th August

  Children are playing football in the street down below; chalked lines on the blank wall opposite mark their goalposts. There’s a dispute going on between them, their small fists curled ready. The city heat doesn’t help. So much passion over whether a half-inflated football struck the wall inside two arbitrary lines.

  Grace shakes her head. There are things she should be doing but she’s feeling lethargic. Working at the biscuit factory has one advantage – it keeps her occupied for most of the day. And of course there’s the money; that four pounds, seventeen and six in her wage-packet at the end of the week isn’t to be sniffed at. She won’t need to break into her savings for the time being at least.