by W H Oxley
Replacing the phone, Foxy strolled casually back to the table and began to pocket his winnings.
‘I hate to leave you, boys,’ he grinned, ‘but duty calls.’
‘It sounds like iffy business.’ Les shook his head. ‘You’ll come a cropper one of these days if you’re not careful.’
Foxy winked. ‘Don’t worry, Les, I can look after myself.’
‘Would you mind going out the back way? It’s on account of the blackout. I don’t want that bloody air raid warden having a go at me again, right little Hitler he is.’
‘Okay, Les, anything to oblige. See you next week.’
‘Yeah, see you, Foxy. Maybe you’ll give me a chance to win my money back.’
‘No chance, mate, no chance.’ Foxy laughed as he headed for the exit.
Having negotiated his way to the scullery, he gingerly opened the backdoor and was about to step outside when he spotted the raincoat and flat cap hanging from a peg...
Hmm, just what the doctor ordered. I hate nicking something from a mate, but when it’s a life or death situation…
Leaning on a walking stick, collar turned up and cap pulled well down, a stooping figure in a shabby Mac shuffled through the unlit streets of Walthamstow. When Foxy reached the end of his street he peered around the corner. Even in the almost total darkness, the reflected chrome radiator and headlights of the car parked outside his house was unmistakeable.
Sneaking past the turning, he carried on until he reached the alleyway that led to the rear of the house and crept along it to his back gate. On reaching it he paused and stood there five minutes, listening, watching and waiting – nothing: neither sight nor sound. Satisfied, he was about to open the gate when a tomcat began to yowl. There was an answering challenge, and after a few more vocal exchanges and a brief scuffle, silence. Having calmed his shattered nerves, Foxy was reaching out again for the latch when an upstairs window opened and a voice called out softly.
‘Psst, are you there Jimmy?’
‘Yeah, still here, Slasher.’ The voice came from a few feet away on the other side of the fence.
‘I thought I heard something.’
‘It was nothing, just a couple of cats fighting.’
Chapter 11
The first train of the day to Southend steamed on through the rain at a steady rate, its wheels clickety-clacking over the rails. In a third class compartment a crumpled figure covered by an old raincoat was stretched out across the seat, fast asleep.
‘Wakey wakey!’
Foxy woke up, rubbed his eyes and found himself facing a man wearing a shiny peaked cap.
‘Where am I?’
‘The end of the line, sir, Shoeburyness. Where were you supposed to get off?’
‘Southend Central.’
‘Sorry, sir, but I’ll have to charge you excess fare. It’s company policy. No exceptions.’
As Foxy waited for his change, he glanced out of the window. A few stationary engines stood forlornly outside a soot encrusted engine shed, steaming gently in the rain.
‘Is there anywhere I can get breakfast around here?’ he asked.
‘There’s a café at the other end of the High Street, opposite the barracks.’
‘Barracks?’
‘Yes, sir, barracks, Shoebury is a garrison town.’
The café was situated a short distance from the barrack gates. It smelt of yesterday’s boiled cabbage. At one table sat a handful of fresh faced young soldiers, clutching mugs of tea, smoking cigarettes and laughing and joking amongst themselves. The only other customers were a couple of workmen sitting at a table in the far corner and a mournful looking old man who sat fiddling with his bowler hat. The proprietor stood behind the tea urn polishing a glass. He eyed Foxy suspiciously as he strolled up to the counter.
‘I’ll have a sausage, egg, bacon and fried bead, please.’
The proprietor scowled. ‘Haven’t you heard there’s a war on?’
‘Of course I have. What’s that got to do with my breakfast?’
‘It means that for breakfast you can have: porridge or a kipper or a sausage and beans or beans and fried bread.’
‘How about an egg?’
‘Sorry, no eggs. There’s a–’
‘Yeah, I know: a war on. I’ll have a sausage and beans.’
‘Tea?’
‘Yes please. And two slices of bread and butter.’
‘No butter: margarine.’
‘Okay, margarine it is. How much?’
‘A shilling.’
‘A shilling!’
‘There is a war on, you know.’
‘Yeah, so you keep telling me.’
When he’d finished his beans and (almost meatless) sausage, Foxy sat mournfully contemplating his watery tea – and his future…
Blimey, I never thought it would come to this: the end of the line, literally – it’s only a couple of miles from Southend but it feels like Siberia. Yesterday I had a business, a home, thirty suits, half a dozen willing women and a nice little wad of cash hidden under the floorboards. Now, all I’ve got is the clothes on my back and a few pound notes in my wallet – I haven’t even got my ration book. Still, I s’pose I should look on the bright side, at least I’ve still got my dick – though for how much longer…
Foxy’s reverie was interrupted by a new arrival, a soldier. He didn’t march through the door, he swaggered. The proprietor’s eyes lit up, and the fresh faced army lads greeted him respectfully before resuming their conversation. He didn’t join them, but sat by himself at the table nearest the counter.
‘I’ll have a full breakfast please, George,’ he called out, as he took his seat.
‘One egg or two, Harry?’
‘Make it two – and a couple of rashers.’
‘I’ve only got streaky.’
‘That’s okay. We all have to make sacrifices in times of shortage.’
When the breakfast arrived – eggs, bacon, sausages, beans, fried bread and even a tomato – Foxy sat watching the soldier plough through it. He was curious as to what it was going to cost. But when the soldier had finished eating, he simply stood up, shook hands with his host and departed. Only Foxy saw the proprietor slip an envelope into the man’s pocket with his other hand.
Once outside, the soldier set off at brisk pace, hands in pockets and whistling as he went.
Foxy caught up with him. ‘Excuse me, Harry, I’m Foxy,’ he announced, extending a hand.
Harry turned, looked him briefly up and down and, having categorised him as a kindred spirit, shook the hand and asked, ‘So, wha’d’yer want, Foxy? You buying or selling?’
‘Neither. I was just wondering what a bloke like you’s doing in the army. Did you get called up?’
‘Nah, didn’t wait for call up. I volunteered.’
‘Volunteered? But you could get killed.’
‘Not much chance of that: I’m a driver in the Service Corps, same as my old man in the last war. He didn’t go within twenty miles of the front line and,’ Harry winked, ‘so much stuff fell off the back of his lorry he was able to buy a couple of houses when the war was over.’
‘Blimey, I never thought of the army as a business opportunity, but why volunteer?’
‘Cos if I’d waited to be called up, I could’ve ended up in the infantry, but by volunteering I was able to wangle my way into the Service Corps, get it?’
‘Yeah, I get it. I s’pose that slimy little café owner’s in the market for groceries.’
‘Heh-heh, you can suppose all you want, mate. Anyhow, I won’t be in Shoebury much longer. I’m off to France next week.’
‘France?’
‘Yeah,’ he winked, ‘just think of the business opportunities over there.’
It was after six, and Lil was doing the accounts when the phone rang.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello, Lil…’
‘Cripes, it’s you, Foxy. What’s going on?’
‘I just thought I’d give you a rin
g and find out how you’re keeping?’
‘Are you in Southend?’
‘Why d’you ask?’
‘Don’t play games with me, darlin’. Why did I have two gentlemen on my doorstep inquiring as to your whereabouts?’
‘Coppers?’
‘I doubt it. To well dressed for a start, and they didn’t sound like the law. Tried to kid me they were lawyers. Said your auntie had died and left you some money.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I told them I hadn’t seen you in years, said you preferred your women younger.’
‘Thanks Lil.’
‘How bad is it?’
‘Terminal.’
‘Cripes...’ There was a pause before she continued. ‘You can hide out here if you want to.’
‘Thanks, Lil, but I wouldn’t want to risk you losing your face.’
‘I’m not easily embarrassed.’
‘I meant, I wouldn’t want them carving their names on it.’
‘Crikey!’
‘So remember, if anybody asks, you ain’t heard from me in years.’
‘But–’
‘Bye, Lil. If I get out of this I’ll come back and shag the arse off you for old time’s sake, but meantime…’ Click
Not far from Southend seafront, the sign in the window of the terraced house read Bed & Breakfast. Foxy rang the bell. There was a shuffling sound in the hallway before the door was opened by an old woman. The shawl covering her shoulders was pinned with a cameo broach. She peered at him through thick glasses, before asking, ‘Are you looking for a room, love?’
‘If you have one.’
‘Single or double?’
‘Single.’
‘Sorry, love, I’ve only got a double.’
‘How much is it?’
‘I usually charge eight shillings, but I can let you have it for six.’
‘I’ll take it.’
Thirty-six hours on the run gives a man a healthy appetite, and Foxy had no trouble polishing off a bowl of porridge and a couple of kippers. He had just finished spreading marmalade on a slice of toast when the door opened and the man of the house shuffled in clutching a copy of the Daily Mail. He was wearing a dressing gown. Foxy had never seen medals worn on a dressing gown, but refrained from commenting.
‘Morning, guv, I thought you might want a read of the paper,’ he wheezed, handing Foxy the Daily Mail. ‘It looks like the Poles have had it.’
‘So the war’s over then.’
‘Oh, no it is not! The British Tommy will never quit until the Hun are defeated.’
‘Were you in the last effort then?’
‘Regretfully, no.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘The wound I received from Brother Boer in the South African campaign kept me out of the Great War. I wanted to go to France and do my bit, but...’
‘Yeah, I wouldn’t mind going to France,’ muttered Foxy, thinking aloud, ‘but I haven’t got a passport.’
‘What did you say about France?’ The man cupped a hand to his ear.
‘I said I wouldn’t mind going.’
‘Well said, sir, well said.’ The old veteran grabbed Foxy by the hand and pumped it up and down. ‘You’re a white man, sir, a real white man. Don’t delay; hurry down to the recruiting office today.’
‘Er … yeah … where is it?’
‘It’s in Milton Street, round the back of Southend Victoria station.’
‘Thanks, I’ll bear it in mind…’
The jeweller’s shop was situated in Southchurch Road, not far from Victoria Circus. Foxy spent some time looking in the window at the display of watches and jewellery before walking away. Five minutes later he was back. This time, after glancing briefly at the three gold balls suspended over the pavement, he directed his attention to the side entrance and opened the door. After passing along a grim passageway, he found himself in a shabby room at the back of the shop. The whiff of mothballs hung in the air. He took off his watch and rang the bell on the counter.
After a brief interlude the pawnbroker strode in, took one look at Foxy and stated very firmly, ‘Sorry, sir, we are not accepting pledges today.’
‘But it’s a Swiss watch…’
‘I regret, sir, but…
‘Solid gold case…’
‘I repeat, sir…’
‘It’s a Rolex.’ Foxy’s tone was pleading.
The pawnbroker sighed, shook his head and peered at him over the top of his gold rimmed spectacles. ‘I really am very sorry, but we are not accepting pledges of any nature today – and that is final! Good day to you, sir.’
Foxy had no trouble finding the place. It stuck out like a poppy in a cornfield. In a street of drab yellowish brick, the riot of red, white and blue that festooned the army recruiting office hammered home the need to do one’s patriotic duty.
The recruiting sergeant stood rigidly to attention outside his domain. The brass adorning his immaculately pressed uniform gleamed like gold as he scanned the street for a potential recruit. Initially, his eyes reflected curiosity when they latched on to the figure at the far end of the street, but as Foxy drew near, curiosity changed first to hope and then, eager anticipation.
‘I say, laddie,’ he called out. ‘You, laddie, you have the bearing of a soldier.’
‘Who me?’
‘Yes you. We need men like you in France.’
‘Hmm, France … but I haven’t got a passport.’
‘You wouldn’t need one if you were in the army.’
‘Are you sure I’d go to France?’
‘I can guarantee it?’
‘Hmm…’
‘A fine fighting figure of a man like you should be in the infantry.’
‘Infantry? Would that mean I’d have to kill somebody?’
‘Only Germans…’
‘I don’t think I’d fancy that.’
‘Are you by any chance a conscientious objector?’ The recruiting sergeant’s eyes narrowed with suspicion and his waxed moustache bristled.
‘I am most certainly not a conchie.’ Foxy’s tone was indignant. ‘It’s just that don’t like the idea of having to kill people. Maybe I should join the air force.’ Foxy made as if to leave.
‘Hold it hold it. Don’t be hasty. How about the Pioneer Corps?’
‘What do they do?’
‘Dig ditches.’
‘You’ve gotta be joking!’
‘Sorry… I know! Can you drive?’
‘Of course I can. I’m one of the best bloody drivers this side of the Hackney marshes.’
‘Then you’re just the man we need in the Royal Service Corps – and don’t worry, we won’t ask you to kill anybody.’
‘Hmm, does that mean I’d be driving a lorry?’
‘It most certainly does. You’ll be ferrying vital supplies from the ports to our gallant lads manning the defences.’
‘Hmmm, vital supplies … I like the sound of that… If I join up, would I have to stay in Southend?’
‘Once you have accepted the Kings shilling, you will report to Catterick for basic training.’
‘Catterick, where’s that?’
‘In Yorkshire.’
‘Hmm, that’s at least two hundred miles from London, isn’t it?’
‘That is correct. You will be issued with a rail warrant valid for a single journey, and will be expected to report for duty in five days.’
‘Erm, can I report tomorrow?’
‘You most certainly can. Step this way.’
*****
Epilogue
Foxy succeeded in reaching Catterick without running into anyone set on giving him a facelift. Having completed his basic training, he was assigned to a unit stationed at Tidworth before being sent to France. At the start of the war, the British Army was expanding fast and promotion was rapid. Thanks to his age and education, Foxy reached the rank of corporal within months.
France at that time was wide open for business – black market business – and Foxy wasted no time in exp
loiting the opportunities to the full. There was virtually no fighting during the winter of 1939/40, a period that became known as the phoney war: the Germans stayed politely behind the Siegfried Line, allowing the French to enjoy their lunch undisturbed behind the Maginot Line. This suited Foxy admirably as there was nothing to disrupt the flow of profits, but on the 10th of May 1940 Hitler decided to ruin everything by turning the phoney war into a real one, and Foxy found himself doing the one thing he had not planned to do when he enlisted: holding a rifle.
*****
By the same author
Hitler’s Banner
Set in 1940 at the time of the Dunkirk evacuation, a full length novel, it is the sequel to A Hanging Job and follows Foxy’s exploits with the British Army in France, and the series of events that brought him to the attention of Hitler’s SS.
‘Oh what a lovely war! If I’d know it was going to be like this I’d never have enlisted. The German Army’s trying to kill me and the British Army keeps shoving me into situations that’ll get me killed, but what I want to know is: why have the Germans started putting up posters with my picture on them? I mean, there’s a war on for Christ’s sake; you’d think the Jerries would have something better to do.
Sorry. I was so busy trying to fight this bleeding war I forgot to introduce myself. The name’s Foxy, I’m in the Royal Army Service Corps and I’m supposed to be driving a truck not playing soldiers.
So how did I end up as the number one pin-up boy for the Waffen-SS? It all started a few days ago when Mad Lenny killed those Jerries and I found that flag in one of their tanks…
*****
The Missing gun: Hawker of the Yard
Features Inspector Hawker: Foxy’s adversary in A Hanging Job
London in the autumn of 1939: the early months of World War 2. Hitler has just conquered Poland, but life in London continues much as it did in peacetime, albeit a little more restricted since the introduction of petrol rationing. No bombs have been dropped on the city as yet, but the population go about their daily business under the constant threat of German air raids, and a blackout remains in force at night.
