Backstreet Child (22 page)

Patricia let herself go limp in his grasp and her hand came up to her forehead. ‘I’m sorry, Billy,’ she said sighing. ‘I got carried away.’

‘Yeah, so did I,’ he said, moving away from her. ‘This can only bring us a lot o’ trouble.’

She did not answer him, she just sat down heavily in a chair and looked up at him with wide eyes.

‘Look, Pat, I want yer to understand that yer can count on me fer any ’elp I can give,’ Billy said reassuringly, ‘but yer gotta realise that unless Terry stands up ter those coppers they’re gonna walk all over ’im. ’E’ll ’ave ter call their bluff sooner or later. Maybe they won’t carry out their threat.’

‘Yeah, an’ maybe they will,’ Patricia replied.

‘What about Terry seein’ a good solicitor?’ he suggested.

‘I’ve already talked to ’im about gettin’ a solicitor,’ she told him, ‘but ’e don’t seem too keen on the idea.’

There was no more time to talk, for they heard a key going into the lock and in a few moments Terry walked in. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ he said. ‘I was on a winnin’ streak. ’As it bin quiet?’

Patricia nodded and gave him a wan smile. ‘Billy’s swept the bar up, it’ll save a job termorrer, an’ I’ve bin busy sortin’ out the optics,’ she lied.

Terry watched as Billy put on his coat and made for the side door. ‘Fanks fer ’angin’ on. See yer termorrer,’ he said.

As soon as his barman had left, Terry turned to Patricia. ‘I’ve made arrangements ter see Bruce McKenzie,’ he said flatly, sitting down heavily in a chair.

Patricia looked at him with fear showing in her eyes. ‘Fer Gawd’s sake be careful, Terry,’ she implored him. ‘Yer gonna get in so deep the only way yer gonna get out is in yer box.’

He laughed cynically. ‘Don’t worry, Pat, I’m gonna lay it on the line ter McKenzie. Maybe we can work somefing out between us.’

She sighed deeply. ‘Yer can’t tell Bruce what the coppers’ave got on yer, can yer?’ she said. ‘It seems ter me it’s playin’ two ends against the middle, an’ your the one who’s gonna be squashed.’

Terry laughed. ‘I can’t fink about it ternight. Let’s get ter bed, Pat. Don’t ferget we’ve still got a pub ter run.’

Josiah Dawson put on his coat and hat, slipped on his ARP armband and took up his gas-mask case and helmet. ‘Well, I’m orf, Doll. Shan’t be too late,’ he told her.

Dolly looked up from her sewing. ‘Don’t ferget yer gotta be up early fer work, luv,’ she reminded him.

Josiah nodded dutifully and let himself out of the house. It was dark in the street, with the moon obscured by heavy clouds, and as he made his way towards the elbow of the turning he saw a chink of light showing from one of the houses to his left. Josiah thought about his scant training. The first step was to call out in a loud voice for the culprit to ‘Put that light out’. If that did not do the trick then the second step was to knock at the door and remind the tenant that he or she was breaking the blackout regulations. And if that did not work, the police had to be called.

Josiah felt that he was rapidly earning the respect and friendship of the Page Street folk and was loath to do anything that would upset the delicate balance, but he knew very well that he had an important job to do and he was determined to carry it out to the best of his ability.

His gentle tap on the front door brought no response, and the street’s warden wondered whether he was correct in forgoing the first step. His second and louder knock brought a rapid response, however; the door was flung open and he found himself being glared at by a somewhat ruffled tenant.

‘What the bleedin’ ’ell d’yer want at this time o’ night?’ Maurice Salter growled. ‘Piss orf.’

Normally that sort of attitude would have landed someone in hot water, or rather on his back with a sore jaw, but Josiah was determined to be a model warden. ‘I’m sorry, Maurice, but there’s a chink o’ light showin’ frew the winder,’ he said meekly.

Maurice drew breath. He suddenly realised that it was Josiah Dawson, and he had been taking a chance addressing him in that fashion. He had heard much about the man’s past life and his quick temper. Maurice was a proud man, however, and he eased himself out of the dangerous situation by blinking once or twice and stroking his chin. ‘Well, I don’t know ’ow that’s come about,’ he replied. ‘My Brenda got the blackout down the market an’ the bloke on the stall told ’er it was best quality. In fact ’e said it was the same stuff they’ve got up in Buckin’am Palace.’

‘Well, yer’ll ’ave ter get it sorted out, mate,’ the warden told him. ‘I’ve got a job ter do, yer know.’

Maurice was a very enterprising character and he suddenly realised that he might be able to turn this embarrassing situation into something profitable. ‘Well, of course yer dead right, Josiah,’ he said, beaming. ‘If it wasn’t fer the likes o’ you I dunno where we’d be. I’ll fix it straight away, an’ ter show there’s no ill feelin’, ’ow about you poppin’ in fer a cuppa. Yer mus’ be cold walkin’ the street on a night like this.’

The warden nodded. ‘Yeah, all right,’ he replied, taking off his cap as he walked in the house.

Maurice showed him into the parlour and after removing newspapers, a handbag and various bits and pieces from the armchair he bade Josiah make himself comfortable. ‘It’s me daughters, yer see,’ he said by way of apology. ‘They’re the most untidy gels yer could wish ter meet. It’s not a bit o’ good me tellin’ ’em, they jus’ ignore me. Mind you, they’re a bit too old ter spank now,’ he laughed.

Josiah nodded. He had seen the Salter girls on numerous occasions in the street and he had been struck by their grace and attractiveness. ‘I s’pose yer right,’ he replied.

Maurice left the room and called up the stairs. ‘Can one o’ you gels drag yerself away from yer chattin’ ter come down ’ere an’ make a pot o’ tea? We’ve got a visitor.’

One by one the three girls popped their heads round the door to see who could possibly have called at such a late hour, then they disappeared into the scullery to carry on talking while the kettle was heating up. Maurice rubbed his hands and hummed slyly to himself as he went out into the back yard. The girls exchanged knowing glances.

‘Gawd, I ’ope ’e ain’t tryin’ ter flog that blackout stuff ter Josiah,’ Brenda remarked.

‘’E’ll end up in the nick if ’e’s not careful,’ Barbara groaned.

‘I wouldn’t mind, but it’s so thin yer’d need ter double it fer it ter be any good,’ Lily said, raising her eyes to the ceiling.

Maurice came back into the scullery carrying the large roll of cloth and as he slipped past the girls he was still humming to himself.

Josiah could hear giggling coming from the direction of the scullery and was beginning to wonder whether it was a good idea to accept the offer of a cuppa, and when Maurice walked back into the room beaming from ear to ear, he felt decidedly uncomfortable.

‘I s’pose yer get a lot o’ people wiv dodgy blackout, don’t yer, Josiah?’ Maurice asked him.

‘Yeah, as a matter o’ fact I do,’ he replied, wondering how much longer the tea was going to be.

‘Well, I fink I’ve got the answer,’ Maurice told him. ‘Out there in the passage I’ve got a roll o’ the best blackout material that money can buy. It’s far superior to that rubbish they sell at the market. In fact I was finkin’ that maybe me an’ you could go inter partnership wiv that roll o’ cloth.’

‘’Ow d’yer mean?’ Josiah asked suspiciously.

‘Well, it’s like this,’ Maurice began. ‘Whenever there’s light showin’ out o’ the ’ouses an’ you ’ave the uncomfortable job of knockin’ at the doors, it might be better if yer can give ’em a bit of advice. Yer know what I mean, tell ’em that the rubbish they’ve got up at their winders don’t conform ter blackout regulations, an’ when they look at yer as though they’ve bin struck dumb, all yer gotta do is tell ’em yer can get ’em the best stuff available. You take the orders an’ I’ll deliver the material.’

Josiah looked a little sceptical and Maurice leaned forward in his chair. ‘I tell yer what I’m prepared ter do,’ he said, taking a deep breath. ‘I’m prepared ter give yer a commission of one penny fer every yard o’ cloth yer sell. Of course, I’m gonna be out o’ pocket, but it’s gonna be werf it if it makes yer job that bit easier. After all, mate, us blokes ’ave got ter stick tergevver, an’ it’s ’elpin’ the war effort in the bargain.’

Josiah thought about the offer over his cup of tea, and when he finally left the Salter house he was trying to work out just how many yards of blackout material it took to shut out the light in one of the Page Street houses.

Calculations were taking place in the Salter house too.

‘’Ere, Brenda, if I knock a penny orf o’ two an’ elevenpence three farthin’s, that leaves me wiv two an’ tenpence three farthin’s, right?’

‘Blimey, you are a clever ole cock,’ Brenda teased him.

‘So what’s seventy-five times two an’ tenpence three farthin’s come to?’ he asked.

Brenda looked puzzled as she stared down at her spread fingers, then she leaned her head round the door. ‘Lily, Dad wants yer.’

Chapter Fourteen

Carrie pushed back the pile of papers she was working on and stared out of the window, her chin resting on her cupped hand. She glanced over at Jamie Robins, saddened at the thought of losing him. Jamie had told her that morning about someone in his street of the same age who had received his call-up papers and he was expecting to hear very shortly.

The young man was engrossed in bringing the ledger up to date and he occasionally grunted nervously, his thin shoulders hunched. He seemed so young and frail and the thought of him going off to fight in the war filled Carrie with dread. How many other young men like Jamie would soon be putting on a uniform and going off to the war, she wondered, their heads held high and their shoulders thrown back as they prepared to face the unknown horrors awaiting them? It had been like a grand parade in the last war, she remembered; her brothers going off to France along with many other local young men, the bands playing and people standing at the kerbsides waving Union Jacks and cheering loudly. This time it was different though. The young men left their homes quietly, with little fuss, only a few tears and kisses as loved ones said their goodbyes.

The February morning was cold and bleak, with a threat of snow in the heavy clouds. Outside the warm office the yard was quiet now that the lorries had left. Carrie turned away from the window and her contemplation of the thin spiral of chimney smoke drifting up into the greyness. Her mind seemed to be filled with worries on that cold winter morning. Her mother was going through one of her bad periods and for the last few days she had hardly left her bedroom at the back of the house, preferring to sit at the window staring down at the back yards of the adjoining houses and the pickle factory yard beyond. Rachel, too, was causing Carrie a great deal of concern. She was still taking her loss very badly, and only that morning she had suddenly announced at breakfast that she wanted the morning off to take care of something. Not wanting to pry, Carrie had told her not to worry, and Rachel had left her and Joe exchanging puzzled glances as she hurriedly left the table.

Footsteps in the yard roused Carrie from her thoughts and she looked up as Joe entered the office.

‘It’s started ter snow,’ he said, nodding briefly to Jamie as he sat down in the one vacant chair.

Carrie glanced out of the window at the sudden flurry of snowflakes and sighed. ‘I wonder where Rachel’s gone,’ she said anxiously.

Joe shook his head and toyed with the paper knife at his elbow. ‘I ’ope she’s not gone too far, wiv the wevver turnin’ nasty,’ he replied.

Carrie looked down at the pile of papers in front of her. There was so much to be done but on this particular morning she felt unable to put her mind to it. There were forms to be filled in, an application for the monthly petrol ration, and a large document to be completed concerning a Government transport pool that was being set up to enable essential supplies to be moved around the country in an emergency. There was also a form requiring further information about her exemption application for Jamie Robins, and Carrie removed it from the pile and dropped it into the wastepaper basket at her feet.

‘By the way, Carrie, did the rum contract letter arrive?’ Joe asked.

She shook her head. It was the first letter she had looked for that morning, mindful that the most important contract she had was up for renewal and there were other local firms interested in winning it away from her. There were enough problems with that contract as it was. When she had spoken to the rum firm’s transport manager he had told her that imports of the spirit might have to be switched to West Country ports, should London be bombed. It seemed that Bristol would most likely be the port of entry and it would mean competing against the railways, as well as applying for an extra petrol allowance for the long journeys involved. It was all very worrying and the fact that no letter had arrived made Carrie feel that it was quite possible she had already lost out to another transport firm who had made a short-term offer.

Joe grunted and leaned back in his chair, his eyes searching Carrie’s and reading the misgiving reflected in them. ‘Don’t worry, luv, it’s not the end o’ the world. It might come termorrer,’ he told her with a smile.

Carrie nodded. ‘I’m not worried,’ she lied. ‘There’s still a week ter go yet.’

‘Well, at least the rest o’ the contracts are safe fer the time bein’,’ Joe said encouragingly. ‘Then there’s the casual pool. There’s always a chance of a day’s work if we’re stuck any time.’