Tuppence to Tooley Street (21 page)

Later, a phone call from Limehouse Police Station informed him that a lorry belonging to George Sullivan and Sons, Wharfingers, had been found abandoned in a lorry rank outside the West India Docks.

‘It wasn’t exactly abandoned,’ the desk sergeant explained. ‘One of our constables found a couple o’ Chinese seamen asleep in the cab. They had adopted the vehicle. Their dabs were all over the cab.’

‘Can’t we nick ’em for theft?’ Inspector Flint asked.

‘No chance,’ was the reply. ‘We’re charging the two of ’em for an affray in a gambling house in Pennyfields. They sliced another Chink’s ear orf during an argument over a game of Mah Jong.’

Inspector Flint shook his head sadly and looked out of his office window. Down below he could see the activity in the local timber yard. Two men were leisurely stacking pine planks while another worker lolled against a covered pile, busily engrossed in rolling a cigarette. Inspector Flint returned to his desk and picked up a pile of papers. That stupid fat Detective Constable had better come up with something pretty quick, or it’s back on the beat for him, he vowed. Inspector Flint was determined to ‘ginger up’ the station, as he put it. Already he had made some drastic changes in his efficiency campaign. Had Inspector Flint been gifted with X–ray vision he would have made more progress, for down in the timber yard behind a stack of deal boards, and out of sight of the station window, were three tons of corned beef and eighty cases of canned peaches.

On the Monday morning of the 15th of July 1940 all the daily newspapers carried a front page report of the Prime Minister’s address to the nation. In the backstreets of dockland the speech was being discussed on doorsteps, in the corner shops and behind crisp lace curtains in the small parlours. Winston Churchill had seized the attention of almost everyone when he delivered what the papers were calling his masterful speech. Pubs had stopped serving to listen, and those with no wireless set had crowded round their neighbours’. The dire warning frightened the wits out of Granny Bell, as she confessed to the Brightmans. ‘’E fair put the fear o’ Gawd inter me last night,’ she said. ‘What wiv ’im goin’ on about fightin’’em in the streets. ’E said they’re comin’ any day now, by all accounts.’

The content of the Prime Minister’s speech had an effect on Maggie Copeland too. She was now more than ever determined to see that Joe would allow the children to be evacuated from London. ‘Even ’e said it. London’s gonna be laid in ruins before we’d surrender.’

Joe licked a dob of marmalade from his finger and shook his head in anger. ‘’Ow many times we bin over this? I’ve gotta get ter work, I ain’t got no time ter argue wiv yer.’

Maggie threw down the morning paper. ‘It’s in there. Read it, sod yer! Read it!’

Joe pulled a face and picked up his teacup. Maggie saw that she was getting nowhere with him and she sat down and pulled the paper towards her. ‘Listen ter what it says. “Be the ordeal sharp or long, or both, we shall seek no terms, we shall tolerate no parley. We may show mercy, but we shall ask none.” You listenin’?’

Joe tried to hide a smile but Maggie saw his face and she got even more angry. She ran her finger along the type. ‘There’s more: “London itself, fought street by street, could easily devour an entire hostile army, and we would rather see London laid in ruins and ashes than it should be abjectly enslaved.” What about that then?’

Joe felt the toast sticking in his throat and he realised he was late for work. ‘Look ’ere, luv, we’ll talk about it ternight, okay?’

Maggie was having none of Joe’s procrastination. ‘We’ll talk about it now, or I’ll leave yer, Joe, I mean it!’

Joe Copeland saw the determination in his wife’s eye and he pointed to the teapot. ‘All right, you win. Pour me anuvver cuppa, an’ we’ll talk.’

‘I thought you was late for work?’

‘Sod work. Let’s talk.’

 

When The Globe opened Danny Sutton was the first one through the doors. He was soon joined by Johnny Ross who looked particularly pleased with himself.

‘You look like you jus’ found a fiver stickin’ ter yer shoe,’ Danny remarked.

Johnny winked and called Eddie Kirkland over. ‘’Ere, Eddie, give me an’ me mate a drink, an’ ’ave one yerself.’

The landlord of The Globe pulled a face. ‘Leave me out, Johnny. We ’ad a late session last night. Biff Bowden was in ’ere wiv some of ’is cronies. Even ’is dog got pissed.’

The joke was lost on Danny, who sipped his drink thoughtfully. Johnny watched as Eddie moved away to serve an old gent who had just walked in, then he leaned over close to his pal. ‘Done a bit o’ business last night, we did. Might be able ter put some easy money your way.’

Danny was used to Johnny’s boasting and he ignored the remark. Johnny looked around to make sure they were not being overheard and he put his hand to one side of his mouth. ‘We knocked over a ware’ouse. Got a lorry load o’ tinned stuff. Most of it’s spoken fer, but we’ve gotta punt the rest. I’m seein’ a bloke later terday. Fancy givin’ us an ’and? I’ll row yer in fer a few bob.’

‘Sorry, Johnny, I’ve got a date. I’m seein’ ’er soon as I’m finished takin’ the bets.’

‘Oh yeah? An’ who’s the lucky little bird then?’

Danny leaned back and folded his arms. ‘Anybody ever told yer you’re a nosy git, Rossy?’ he said, his pale eyes glinting.

Johnny grinned. ‘All right, all right, I’m only tryin’ ter be sociable.’

‘She’s a nurse I met when I was in ’ospital. I took ’er out last night. She comes from Wales, an’ she’s on leave,’ Danny said, hoping to satisfy his pal’s curiosity.

‘What’s she like?’ Johnny prompted.

‘She’s a little darlin’.’

‘Does she do a turn?’

‘Bloody ’ell, Johnny, you don’t stop, do yer?’ Danny exclaimed as he picked up the empty glasses and walked over to the bar.

When he returned Johnny was ready with a suggestion. ‘’Ere, if yer wanna place ter take ’er, yer can use my drum. I’m goin’ up town ternight ter celebrate me good fortune. I won’t be’ome–if yer know what I mean.’

Danny sat down and sipped his pint thoughtfully. There would be little time before Alison caught her train to Cardiff but then it might be some time before he could see her again. Trouble was, if he accepted Johnny’s offer, everyone in the pub would know within a day or two. But it wouldn’t hurt to take the key, just in case. ‘Okay,’ he said at last.

‘Okay what?’ Johnny said absently, fixing Eddie’s barmaid with a malevolent stare.

‘Okay, I’ll borrer yer key,’ Danny said.

Johnny fished into his coat pocket and pulled out a key on a length of string. ‘There we are. The only fing is, don’t go blamin’ me if yer put ’er in the pudden club.’

Danny finished his drink then glared at Johnny. ‘I ain’t cut out ter be a daddy. What do I do wiv the key when I’m finished wiv it?’

‘Leave it wiv Ginny Coombes. yer can spin ’er a yarn, she don’t ’ave ter know what yer borrered it for. I can call in fer it termorrer.’

‘I won’t tell ’er if you don’t,’ Danny mocked as he stood up to leave.

Johnny gripped his pal’s arm. ‘You sure it’s a nurse yer takin’ out, an’ not Kathy Thompson?’

Danny looked down at his friend with a murderous stare. ‘Yer gonna get yerself in a lot o’ trouble wiv that tongue o’ your’n. No it’s not Kathy Thompson. She’s not my concern since she shacked up wiv Jack Mason.’

‘Sorry, Danny,’ Johnny said. ‘Water under the ole bridge, eh? By the way, she was in ’ere fer a spell last night.’

‘Wiv ’im?’

‘Yeah, but they went out early. I was in the piss ’ole an’ I’eard ’em naggin’ each uvver as they went by the winder.’

Danny walked to the door. ‘See yer aroun’, Johnny, an’ fanks fer the you know what.’

Joe Copeland was not the only member of the Sutton family who missed work that Monday morning. Connie had opened the paper and seen the heading: ‘Destroyer sunk’. Her heart pounded as she read on. ‘The Destroyer
Prowler
(Lt Cmdr W. Bass) has been sunk by a torpedo in the North Atlantic, it was announced by the Admiralty last night. There are reports of some survivors. The
Prowler
was launched at Greenock in 1935 and carried a complement of 145 officers and men. She had a speed of 36 knots and was armed with . . .’ Connie could read no more. Her eyes were swimming and she dropped her head onto the table. Almost immediately there was a knock on the door and sounds of someone in distress.

Alice Sutton came into the parlour looking white and shaken. ‘Connie, luv, it’s Missus Ellis. She’s ’ad a telegram. It’s Jimmy.’

The plump figure of Mrs Ellis followed Alice into the room. Her eyes were red from crying and her face was ashen. In her shaking hand she clenched a plain, buff–coloured envelope. Alice led her to a chair and Mrs Ellis sat down heavily. ‘It came late last night. I couldn’t come roun’ before, I was too upset.’

Connie bit on her knuckles. ‘What does it say? Is Jimmy—?’

Mrs Ellis held out the telegram. ‘You read it, Connie.’

The young girl took out the buff slip with shaking hands and read it quickly. ‘It only says about ’is ship bein’ sunk an’ they’ll keep yer informed when there’s more news. I’ve jus’ read that much in the paper,’ she blurted out.

Mrs Ellis dropped her head and sobbed. Connie got up and went over to her. She knelt down and clasped the distressed woman’s hand in hers. ‘Listen, Missus Ellis, Jimmy’s gonna be okay, I know ’e is. We’ve jus’ gotta wait.’

‘And pray,’ Alice said as she laid her arm round Mrs Ellis’s shoulders.

Ben Morrison had received a letter that angered and shook him. Now, a week old, it rested behind the mantelshelf clock, but still a fury burned inside him whenever he saw it. Lucy had argued with him to destroy it, but he was adamant. ‘Those sort of letters are evil,’ he had said. ‘The writers should be exposed and locked up. I’m determined to find out who wrote it, however long it takes.’ Lucy had given up the argument. There was no shifting him. More than the letter, she was startled by Ben’s attitude to the affair. He had talked to her often of having compassion and understanding, and he had preached to her about the need for forgiveness and mercy, but he had changed since the tribunal hearing. He was becoming bitter and cynical, although in their most intimate moments together he was tender and romantic and Lucy found their lovemaking exciting. When Ben received the anonymous letter, however, he had shown her an anger that was alien to him. Lucy was shocked by his reaction and it worried her. She had come to the conclusion that he must be smarting from the taunts at work and the lack of any support at the mission; he must be feeling isolated and shunned. She sensed it in his growing need to be with her as much as possible, and she was more than willing to spend her time with him. One nagging worry, though, clouded Lucy’s mind. Her period was overdue. It had never happened before, and she had always been as regular as clockwork. As she felt no different she put it down to worrying over Ben. She had wanted to tell him but decided to wait another week, and now he was preoccupied with the letter.

When the letter had first arrived Ben would not let Lucy see it, but she persisted until he gave in. The envelope bore a Bermondsey postmark and the message was hand–printed and badly constructed, although Ben was sure that was intentional. The letter vilified him. It condemned his pacifist views and called him a bastard. It went on to express the hope that Ben’s family would be the first to get shot should the Germans arrive, and it ended by wishing him a syphilitic death, a plague on his offspring, and agony as they all burned in the fires of Hell. Lucy had been overcome when she read it and urged him to consign the evil thing to flames, but Ben had stubbornly placed it behind the clock.

Down below in Tooley Street the usual traffic was converging outside the wharves. Now and then a number 70 tram rattled along until it reached the foot of Duke Street Hill, where it waited until the next tram arrived. The points were then switched and the trams changed places. The area was noisy throughout the whole day. Vans and horse carts were called from their ranks into the wharves and onto the quays, more vans and carts arriving to take their places as the laden vehicles struggled past and drove away. The main topic of conversation on that Monday morning was the Prime Minister’s speech. The carmen discussed it as they stood beside their vehicles or drank tea from tin mugs in the cafés; the dockers and stevedores chatted about it in the ships’ holds and on the quayside. Almost everyone felt that what had been said needed saying. It had been spelt out, and at least everyone knew exactly where they stood.