by Joanna Toye
‘No one? We’ve been shivering all winter at Marlow’s, and now I know why! More important, what about the poor bloody miners working their you-know-whats off, and the men dying at sea to keep up supplies? And the blokes in the Forces that need coal far more than we do – apart from them, you’ve been robbing your own father! Why would you do that?’
Robert gave a tiny shrug. He had no answer and his nonchalance made Jim long to slap him.
‘It’s not as if you need the money!’ he said instead. ‘You of all people!’
‘You don’t understand, do you? Any of it.’ Robert put down his spoon and dabbed his mouth with his napkin. ‘It’s not about the money, it’s about the – the excitement. You don’t know what my life’s like, Jim.’
‘Do tell me. It’s a hard one, is it?’
‘You’ve no idea. Back here I was living with Dad, with him going on every night about Marlow’s, Marlow’s, Marlow’s, and in Birmingham – well! I’m living in a mansion flat under the beady eye of Evelyn and her parents. Every evening it’s drinks, dinner, bridge, news at nine then a chaste kiss and night-night, Robert – no hanky-panky, I can tell you. On top of which, I’m working for Sir Douglas, God help me, so I’ve got him all day every day as well! This was my last chance for a flutter, to spread my wings!’
‘A flutter?’ Jim had picked up his spoon but he put it down again. ‘Like you thought you’d have with Beryl? Cheating your own father! Risking prosecution? You know it’d kill him if anything happened to Marlow’s’ reputation! Too right I don’t understand. But the thing I most don’t understand is why the confession. Why tell me? And why now?’
Chapter 5
Robert had begun to sweat.
‘Drink your soup,’ he said.
Jim obeyed. He might as well. There was obviously more to come.
Robert lowered his voice.
‘This haulier chap, he won’t let me go, he wants it to carry on. Not with coal – going into summer there’s not so much demand, so he wants to make it up with other things.’
‘What things?’
‘I don’t know! Anything in the store! Soap, razor blades, stockings, batteries and spare parts for radios from the repair workshop … he was even going on about Thermos flasks!’
Down went Jim’s spoon again. When they could get them, which was rare, Thermos flasks were sold on Small Household Goods – part of his own department.
‘Robert, you can’t!’
‘I know I can’t! I’m not even here any more, am I? I’m in Birmingham!’
‘That wasn’t what I meant – and I should hope that’s not the only reason!’
‘Of course not. It was—’
‘If you say fun—’
‘It was a one-off,’ pleaded Robert. ‘I want out.’
‘So tell him.’
‘Don’t you think I’ve tried? He’s putting the arm on me, coming on strong. Saying he’ll make sure Dad finds out and worse – saying he’ll tell Sir Douglas. The wedding’s three months away, I can’t have that! You’ve got to get him off my back, Jim.’
‘Me? Why me? Why should I?’
Surely Robert wasn’t trying to play the ‘family loyalty’ card? One look at him told Jim he was. Or at least Jim’s loyalty to Cedric and the store – and in that, he was on to something, blast him. Jim took a moment to think.
‘If I agreed to help – if – how am I supposed to do it?’
Robert clearly took this as a sign that Jim had caved in. He relaxed and the infuriating devil-may-care arrogance was back.
‘I don’t know,’ he shrugged with a grin. ‘Concrete boots?’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’
‘Well, OK, maybe not. But you’re a bright bloke. Jim. You’ll see a way through.’
‘Yes, I do! It’s simple. The bloke’s a crook! Go to the police!’
Robert made a ‘pipe down’ gesture; the waiter was hovering. Jim quickly spooned up the rest of his soup and their plates were removed. Robert leant forward, annoyed now.
‘I don’t think you’re taking this seriously.’
‘I’m not taking it seriously?’
‘I can’t go to the police! I know what you’ll say, tell them this fellow tried to blackmail me. You don’t know him. He’s a proper player round here. He keeps up a respectable front, but he’s got contacts with some real shady characters. I won’t live to see him prosecuted!’
‘I don’t see what else you can do,’ Jim replied firmly.
The waiter reappeared and put their main course in front of them. It looked and smelt delicious. It was the best meal Jim had seen since the start of the war, possibly ever, and though they both started to eat, he couldn’t enjoy any of it.
‘Please, Jim,’ Robert said simply. ‘The simple fact is – I don’t have anyone else to turn to.’
Jim chewed, tasting nothing. There was no reason why he should help. He could eat his lunch, walk away, let him get on with it. But Robert was such a hothead, he might do anything in desperation, something crazy like try to get this other bloke beaten up or worse, and whatever he did it was bound to end in disaster. Then what? Robert’s, Cedric’s and the store’s reputation dragged through the mire? That wasn’t going to help anybody.
‘Look,’ Jim said reluctantly. ‘I’m not saying I’ll help you. I don’t know that I can. But tell me who this bloke is. It’s not the one you were talking to last night, is it, at the fashion show? Flash Harry type?’
‘Not Harry,’ said Robert. ‘Barry. Barry Bigley.’
Of course! Barry Bigley! Now he had a name, Jim could place the face. He’d seen him once or twice, in old trousers and a brown dust coat, getting in or out of his lorry in the delivery bay. His name had been painted on the lorry’s side. And now something else was coming back to him.
‘Barry Bigley,’ he said slowly. ‘He’s got the scrap metal contract at Tatchell’s.’
Tatchell’s was one of Hinton’s few factories, which had turned from making car parts to aircraft parts.
‘So?’
‘I worked there for a while.’
‘Really? And?’
‘I did a few night shifts, and I remember seeing Bigley’s lorries arrive empty and leave piled with scrap. At least, I assumed it was scrap. But it was a damn funny time to be collecting it, don’t you think, two o’clock in the morning?’
‘You reckon it was a fiddle?’
‘What if,’ said Jim slowly, ‘some of it wasn’t scrap, but was good stuff underneath. From what you’ve said about Bigley … and the driver was very pally with the foreman, Deakin. I never liked him, nasty little man—’
‘Deakin?’ said Robert keenly. ‘I’m sure Barry mentioned that name.’
‘It’s not exactly proof,’ mused Jim. Despite himself, he was interested now. ‘It’s not even evidence. Just supposition.’
‘But it’s something else on Bigley! Possibly.’ Robert took a gulp of wine. ‘But what do we do with it? Maybe you could go to the police!’
‘And maybe I couldn’t!’ Was there nothing Robert wouldn’t have him do? ‘I suppose though … if this is still going on … an anonymous tip-off … tell the police to watch Tatchell’s, spot-check Bigley’s lorries …’
‘That’s the one!’ Robert seized on the suggestion.
‘Look, it may not work. Even if the police catch Bigley or one of his drivers in the act, if Bigley’s as slippery as you say, he might wriggle out of it. But with luck he’ll at least take it as a warning, move his activities a bit further afield. And it might stop him bothering you.’
‘That’s brilliant, Jim. When can you do it?’
‘What?’
‘This anonymous phone call. I assume you mean a phone call.’
They were right back where they’d started!
‘Hang on,’ protested Jim. ‘Why me? You’re nothing to do with Tatchell’s! There could be no comeback for you.’
‘There won’t be for you if it’s anonymous!’ Robert speared the last succ
ulent morsel of meat on his plate and delivered it to his mouth. ‘That was delicious. Look, do stay and have a pudding if you’ve got time, Jim – on me, of course.’
‘What?’
How Robert could turn the conversation so lightly to the dessert trolley was beyond Jim. Robert took a final swig of his wine.
‘I’ve got to shoot straight back to Birmingham. Evelyn’s mother’s giving one of her blasted soirées – I had to make an excuse for not going back with them this morning. And it’d look highly suspicious to make a trunk call from Birmingham about a firm in Hinton; they can trace them, you know.’
He was absolutely shameless.
‘You never agreed, Jim?’ Lily was disgusted.
‘He wasn’t going to let me go till I did, and it was nearly two o’clock, I had to get back! I had to get a special dispensation from Simmonds to go in the first place.’
The working day was over and they were walking home. There was no fashion show excitement tonight, but it was one of those suddenly sunny April evenings, clouds bouncing along merrily in a stiff breeze, sparrows and starlings chirping from the chimney pots. If it hadn’t been for Robert Marlow, Lily might have felt all the joys of spring.
‘Every time he shows his face in Hinton it means trouble,’ she said bitterly. ‘And you always seem to get dragged into it. We seem to get dragged into it.’
When his delivery racket had been discovered, Robert had tried to pin the blame on Jim.
‘Yes, well, he’s gone now,’ replied Jim, ‘back to Birmingham and his terrible life there – or so he’d have me believe.’
‘Leaving you to clear up his mess!’
‘Which is why I’m going to knock this whole wretched thing on the head. Now.’
As Jim spoke, he was opening the door of a telephone box and nudging her inside.
‘You’re going to call the police right this minute?’
Squashed in the kiosk, Lily eased her gas mask case around so it wasn’t sticking in her ribs.
‘May as well get it over with.’ Jim dug in his pocket for change. ‘Look me up the number, will you?’
Lily found the number for the local police station in the directory and read it out as Jim fed coins into the slot and dialled.
‘You haven’t put your hanky over the mouthpiece,’ she chided as he waited for the connection. It was what they always did in the films. But Jim shushed her as the phone was picked up at the other end. He pressed the button and Lily, craning her neck to listen, heard a voice say, ‘Hinton Police.’
Jim kept it short, said what he had to, mentioned Bigley, scrap metal and Tatchell’s, then put the receiver down quickly.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘Let’s get out of here.’
They bundled out of the box and scuttled off as if they were the criminals, Lily clutching Jim’s arm when she saw a policeman at the crossroads. He nodded them kindly across and Lily gave him a ghastly grin back.
‘What did the police say?’ she demanded when they were out of hearing.
‘I only spoke to the desk sergeant,’ Jim replied. ‘He said he’d pass it on.’
‘Is that all?
‘What did you expect? A black Maria shooting off to Bigley’s straight away?’
‘Well, no, but … how do we find out if they investigate? We’ll never know.’
‘We’ll have to keep an eye on the Chronicle.’ It was Hinton’s local newspaper. ‘It’d be a big story for them if Bigley was exposed. Who knows what else he’s been up to?’
‘You might have uncovered a whole crime ring!’
‘Yes, a real local hero! I can tell you one thing though. Next time Robert Marlow asks me to lunch, I’m not going. Not even for soup and saddle of lamb and leeks à la crème.’
Lily’s eyes could have passed as soup plates themselves.
‘You never ate that lot!’
‘I did,’ said Jim.
‘And all to get you to make a phone call? I’d have done anything for that!’
‘You’ve changed your tune! Shows how easily you can be bought!’ retorted Jim.
They’d reached the park, their shortcut home, though it wasn’t really a park any more, most of it ploughed up for ‘Dig for Victory’ allotments. Jim stopped and felt in his pocket.
‘If it’s any consolation,’ he added, ‘I didn’t taste any of it. But I brought you these.’
He produced a grubby envelope and gave it to her. Inside were two very squashed peppermint creams.
‘I sneaked them off another table on my way out – they’d left them, can you believe!’
‘Jim! We’ve been going on about Robert and Barry Bigley being crooks, and you’re thieving chocolates from the White Lion! You’re no better than they are! I’ve got a good mind to go back to that phone box, and—’
She was only teasing, he knew. Jim grabbed her and pulled her towards him.
‘Oh shut up and give me a kiss.’
‘Ow! Careful! You’re squashing my chocolates!’
But she gave in.
Chapter 6
When Lily met Gladys by the lockers in the bustle of the staff cloakroom next day, her friend was a different person, fresh-faced and cheerful.
‘A letter,’ she trilled excitedly. ‘Waiting for me when I got in!’
Lily didn’t need to ask who it was from. She could have dropped to her knees and sung Hallelujah right there on the cold stone floor.
Perfect! – exactly what Gladys needed. But there was more.
‘He can’t tell me the whys and wherefores …’ Gladys bundled her handbag, jacket and gas mask into her locker. One of her precious photos of Bill was taped to the inside of the door. ‘I don’t know how he knows, but he’s told me to definitely book the church! July the tenth!’
‘Oh Gladys! That’s wonderful! A date!’ Lily clasped her hands. ‘That’s not long at all!’
‘Not quite ten weeks!’
Of course, Gladys had worked it out.
‘There’ll be a lot to do.’
Neither of them had a dress yet; there was the church to organise, and a place for a reception, and the catering to sort, and the flowers, and then the extras Gladys would want – plenty to think about.
‘Oh I know, and I can’t wait to get started. I can leave the dress to Beryl, she knows what I want, I’m not worried about that, but the rest … you will help, won’t you, Lily? And your mum, with the food? And make the cake, of course. I’ll put by as much dried fruit as I can … and sugar … and thank goodness for your hens! We’ll be stuck for icing sugar, but isn’t everyone …’
‘Gladys! Calm down!’ Lily couldn’t help smiling. ‘We’ve got ten weeks, not ten days! Of course Mum’ll help, she’d be offended not to! We’ll all pull together.’
‘Oh, thank you! I knew you would. We’ll all do our best. It’s only that …’ Gladys tailed off, her eyes clouding.
‘What?’
‘Well … I just want it to be as nice as it can be. There’ll be some things missing, we can’t help that …’
Confetti, thought Lily. Icing for the cake. Bells at the church … Gladys had listed them before, many times.
‘I know, but it’s the war, isn’t it?’
‘Not just things. People, too.’
‘Sid’s got enough notice. Barring emergencies, he’ll be able to get leave—’ Lily began.
It couldn’t be Reg Gladys was bothered about; she hardly knew him, but she had a very soft spot for Sid. Most women did.
‘It’s not Sid I was thinking of,’ said Gladys quietly, and Lily could have bitten her tongue off.
Gladys wasn’t originally from Hinton. She’d been born and brought up in Coventry, but her parents had been killed in the Blitz on the city and she lived with her gran, who was pretty much wrapped up in herself and her ailments and took advantage of Gladys’s good nature. Her gran’d be at the wedding, of course, but no mum, and no dad to give Gladys away …
Lily put a hand on her friend’s arm.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I wish I could—’
She didn’t finish; she didn’t know what she could say.
‘No, I know, it is what it is. I’ve got used to not having my mum and dad anyway, as time’s gone on. But for Bill to have no family there either …’
Now there was even less to say.
Bill had been brought up in a children’s home, left there by his mother as a baby. That was all he knew. Of his father, he knew absolutely nothing.
‘I know it’s barmy,’ Gladys went on, ‘but sometimes I have this dream of … well, it’s more a fairy tale really, thinking I could find her for him.’
There were no words. As Lily stood at a loss, Gladys rescued her.
‘But I can’t, so that’s that.’
Lily seized the moment.
‘That’s right, Gladys. Onwards and upwards. Let’s concentrate on what we can do.’
‘Yes,’ Gladys nodded. ‘First things first. I’d better find some nice cards for the invitations. I’ve been having a look around …’
The cloakroom was emptying now as salesgirls scurried to their departments. Lily steered Gladys gently in their wake as she chattered on.
‘There’s not much about. What I’d like best is a plain card with a cherub in each corner blowing a trumpet and trailing a ribbon, so if you see anything like that on your travels …’
Lily smiled to herself. Dear Gladys. Ten weeks of this!
Unbeknown to Lily, someone else at Marlow’s had had a letter – and not one they were anything like as pleased to receive.
Peter Simmonds picked up the envelope that was lying on his desk – hardly more than a shelf – in the cramped little space he called his office. Once again he squinted at the postmark, which was unhelpfully blurred. It might be Hinton but it could have been Tipton, a town nearby. It could even, at a stretch, have been London. Laying it down, he picked up the sheet of cheap paper that had been inside.
On it was a typed message in capital letters.
EILEEN FROBISHER IS A SLUT AND HER SON IS A BASTARD
SHE WAS NEVER MARRIED SHE DOESN’T BELONG AT MARLOW’S
Peter felt sick, sick to his stomach. What a thing to say about anyone – and about Eileen in particular! He didn’t believe it for a moment, but who could dislike her – even hate her – so much that they’d think, let alone write, such a thing?
