Back in the ruins of British Street, each daybreak Charlie would wipe his hands and face with a cloth dampened from the dripping pipe, dust off his clothes and, when sure he wouldn’t be heard or seen, wriggle out of the hole to go foraging. British Street itself was deserted, all other families having been evacuated from the dangerously unstable buildings. He calculated that on the busy Mile End Road, a main artery into the City, the fire officers, ARP wardens and other volunteers making up the Civil Defence teams would probably be too exhausted and overrun to ask questions or check his identity during the day, but he nonetheless took no chances.
Instead he would turn south and cut across Bow Cemetery. The cemetery too had been hit and each morning there were new craters with bits of coffin and white bones pointing accusingly at the morning sky through the mounds of soil and clumps of disturbed turf, and many of the headstones were blown far from their original positions. They lay like scattered dominoes, broken, chipped and scarred by shrapnel.
Charlie would then turn towards Limehouse and the River Thames. Several streets close to the river had also been evacuated but had thus far remained undamaged, and he had no trouble getting in and raiding larders and basements.
However, after six days the mains supply at the end of British Street was shut off, and the trickle of water dried up. For two days Charlie managed to fill empty milk bottles from houses in other streets but then he began to feel ill. He spent two days in the hole, shivering and doubled up with stomach cramps, crawling out to the garden to empty his bowels, and crawling back again, exhausted.
Late that night he’d been awoken by torchlight shining into his flushed and feverish face. A new incendiary bombing raid, through which Charlie had somehow slept, had set alight houses at both ends of the street and as Charlie climbed out, he found himself in the centre of a bustle of activity of firemen and ARP wardens. He was moved out of harm’s way, wrapped in a clean blanket and given a cup of tea, the assumption being made that the house had just been damaged and that his family were still buried.
However, when his lair of treasured possessions was discovered, he had no choice but to admit that he’d been living alone in the remains of the family home. As his belongings were handed to him by in a paper bag by a tired and humourless ARP warden, Charlie gave his name, date of birth and former address to his captors.
That was over an hour ago, long after the “all clear” sirens sounded, but Charlie is still sitting on the pavement, shaking, his back against the ambulance side, wrapped in a blanket smelling of moth balls. The cramps have subsided, but his whole body cries out to lie down.
Every now and then he looks up to watch the firefighters dousing the flames further up the road. Finally one of the firemen, the one who had handed the cup of tea to him with a wink over an hour earlier, approaches. Charlie’s heart sinks as he sees the man in conversation with a tall young police constable in uniform. Charlie stands unsteadily, holding onto the ambulance for support. The fireman is covered in dust and soot and looks like he’s been down a mine, but his teeth gleam white as he smiles and introduces the constable.
‘Charlie, this is PC Archer. He’s going to take care of you from here on. Best of luck, son!’ he says shortly, and he turns and jogs back to rejoin his colleagues.
‘OK,’ says Archer. He looks down at Charlie and then reads from his notebook. ‘Charlie Horowitz, born fourth December 1925. Formerly of 26 British Street, Mile End. Is that right?’
‘Yeah,’ says Charlie, his voice shaking and uncertain.
‘Come over here and sit down,’ says the constable, pointing to a dwarf wall outside a demolished house. They both sit, and the constable takes off his helmet and rests it next to him.
‘And your parents: Harry and Millie Horowitz, of the same address, but presently evacuated somewhere in Carmarthenshire?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But you don’t know exactly where?’
Charlie shakes his head. ‘It ’ad cows,’ he says despondently.
‘Don’t get cheeky with me, sunshine. Don’t you think we’ve enough to deal with without a runaway schoolboy?’
Charlie flushes briefly, chastened, but tries to explain. ‘I weren’t trying to be funny.’
The policeman looks at the exhausted and dirty youngster, his pale face and febrile eyes, and nods. ‘Got any family left in London?’ he asks more gently.
Charlie shakes his head again. ‘I’ve been trying to think. I don’t think so. Me mum ’ad two older brothers. But one went to live in South Africa and the other one she don’t speak to, not for years. I dunno where he lives, or even if he’s still in the Smoke.’
‘What’s the name of the brother who didn’t emigrate?’
The constable takes an inch of pencil stub from behind his left ear and holds it, poised to write, above his notebook. It’s almost pitch dark except for the moving loom of an anti-aircraft searchlight behind the row of destroyed houses, and the constable angles his notepad to get some light onto it.
‘Uncle Jacob. He worked on the river.’
‘On the Thames, eh? What, waterman? Lighterman?’
‘Dunno. Why?’
‘Reserved occupation; he may well still be in London. Surname?’
‘Cohen. But I ain’t seen ’im since I was a kid. And he changed his name … “Conway” maybe?’
‘Jacob Conway. And where does he live?’
‘I don’t know. It was near the river.’
The constable finishes scrawling. ‘Righto, son. I’ll make a call and see what we can find out.’ He stands, and hesitates, considering Charlie carefully. ‘You’re going to stay put, right? You’re not going to do a runner on me, are you?’ he checks.
Charlie shakes his head. ‘Nah, too knackered. Not feeling too kosher.’
‘No, you don’t look right. You need a proper bed and some food. And a bath, ’cos you really don’t smell too good, mate.’
Constable Archer returns with an address and informs Charlie that a police car is on its way to take them to Shadwell. They wait for almost another hour until Archer concludes that the bomb damage in Mile End Road is probably preventing the car from getting through. They start walking.
Charlie fears with every step that his knees will give way, but fortunately Police Constable Archer is not a chatty man and Charlie is left to grit his teeth and concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. Archer only speaks once on the journey.
‘You know where we are now?’
Charlie looks up and recognises the street immediately. ‘Yeah. Cable Street.’
‘Were you here?’
Charlie knows immediately to what the policeman is referring. The Battle of Cable Street is already part of East End folklore, especially among the Jewish population. Like many children growing up in the East End, Charlie listened attentively to the frequent impromptu street corner meetings of the Labour Party, the Communists and Moseley’s British Union of Fascists.
It was inevitable that he, like all the kids from the surrounding streets, would become aware of political events. He’d actually been in Levi’s the poulterers collecting a chicken for his mother when the bricks thrown by two Black Shirts came through the window, covering all the customers in glass. It had been in the papers. And although his parents strictly forbade him to go anywhere near the route of Moseley’s planned march — everyone knew it was a deliberate provocation, calculated to prompt a violent response — like every other boy in his cheder class he’d slipped out of his Sunday school lessons that morning to watch.
‘I was ten.’ Charlie glances up at the tall man walking slowly by his side. ‘And yeah,’ he concedes, ‘I was ’ere.’
‘So was I. I’d only been in a few months.’
They continue walking in silence for a while. When Archer speaks again, what he says surprises Charlie. ‘Frightening, wasn’t it?’
Charlie looks across at the young copper, trying to judge if he’s genuine, and concludes that he is. ‘Yeah,’ Charlie co
nfesses. ‘I got caught in the crush at Royal Mint Street. Couldn’t get me breath at all for a bit. Thought I was a goner.’
‘I lost my helmet. Well, in truth, it was taken off me. By your lot. Lots of us did. But that was all; no violence, not even angry words. Symbolic, I suppose. The Commies, well that was different; a right bunch of thugs.’ The policeman pauses, searching for the words to say something further. ‘But I did get a new respect for your people, that day. The Jewish community, I mean.’
Charlie doesn’t know how to answer so they walk on in silence.
The sky over the jagged wrecks of houses, silhouetted broken teeth in the gums of a wrecked East End, lightens from black to blue as dawn approaches. Every now and then they are forced into detours by bomb disposal crews and firemen, and the journey takes another hour. It’s almost full daylight when they arrive at a narrow, four-storey, grey terraced house on Juniper Street. Charlie can smell the salt air from Shadwell Basin, just behind the houses, and a squabble of gulls fight over something small and dead in the gutter.
Constable Archer stops at number 16, Charlie behind him, and bangs on the flaking wooden door. They hear shouting and clattering from somewhere inside but no one comes to answer the knock. The policeman knocks again. This time footsteps are heard approaching the door and it opens a crack.
‘Yeah?’ says a boy’s voice. The door is only open a couple of inches and the hallway beyond is in darkness. It’s impossible to see who is speaking.
‘I’m Police Constable Percival Archer, and I’m looking for a Jacob Conway, or Cohen. Is there anyone of that name at this address?’
There’s a pause and then the boy behind the door evidently turns away. ‘Dad. Dad! There’s a copper ’ere to see you.’
The door opens wider to reveal a skinny boy in a vest, short grey trousers and bare feet, aged between ten and eleven. The outline of someone approaching from the back of the house can be seen and then the door opens fully.
A man in his mid-forties blocks the doorway. He is stocky with prematurely grey hair. Charlie doesn’t recognise him but, as he looks more closely, he notices a definite resemblance to himself: a similar build — a broad chest with muscled forearms sticking out of the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt — and although the hair is grey, it falls in curls over half the man’s forehead in just the same way as Charlie’s black curls do.
‘I’m Jacob Conway,’ says the man, suspicion in his voice. His eyes move from the police officer to Charlie behind him and back again, and in that split second of eye contact Charlie thinks that he detects a flicker of recognition.
‘Do you know this young man?’ asks Constable Archer, stepping back slightly.
Conway narrows his eyes and starts to shake his head slowly. ‘Not sure I do…’
‘He says you’re his uncle. His parents are Millie and Harry Horowitz?’
Conway leans forward, examining Charlie more carefully. ‘So … you’d be … Charlie?’ he asks.
‘Yeah,’ confirms Charlie.
‘In that case,’ says Conway, ‘I do know him. Or at least, I know of ’im. Last time I saw ’im was shortly after his bris. But what’s the problem? I’ve got to leave for work.’
‘Can I come in for a moment?’ asks Constable Archer. ‘We don’t want to be discussing this on the pavement.’
Conway hesitates but then steps back to let the policeman enter. Charlie follows, Conway’s eyes on him throughout. ‘Go in the front parlour then,’ he says, ‘on your left.’
They file in, followed by Conway and the young boy. They are in a dark room full of heavy furniture. An enormous Marconi wireless set, as large as a sideboard, takes pride of place in the corner of the room, a standard lamp and several chairs in a semi-circle around it as if awaiting the start of a broadcast.
Before Conway can shut the parlour door completely it’s pushed open again and an older man enters. He’s short and wiry, almost completely bald, with a sun-bronzed pate and arms. He has deep wrinkles around his brown eyes which seem to dance with mischief. Charlie puts him in his late sixties, but his movement is quick and agile and he looks very fit for his age. He perches on the arm of an armchair just inside the door, careful not to disturb the embroidered antimacassar, and smiles at Charlie.
‘And you are, sir?’ asks Archer.
‘I’m not important,’ replies the older man with a Germanic accent.
‘That’s my father-in-law,’ explains Conway. ‘He lives with us. Now, what’s the problem?’
‘It’s this young lad, here —’ starts Archer, turning towards Charlie behind him. He is just in time to see Charlie folding up on the floor and his bag of treasures hitting the wooden boards.
Charlie’s knees have finally given way. Archer and the boy leap to catch him. Charlie isn’t unconscious but the room is spinning and its colours have suddenly bleached white. He’s helped onto a couch where he collapses, clammy and breathing heavily.
‘What’s the matter wiv ’im?’ asks the boy.
‘I’m fine,’ says Charlie, but the words are mumbled and he can’t focus.
‘He was evacuated with Mr and Mrs Horowitz to Wales, but he ran away. As far as I can tell he’s been living rough in the remains of British Street for about a week. He’s been looting food and I suspect he’s eaten something he shouldn’t. Bit of bedrest and feeding up and he’ll be right as rain.’
‘P’raps he should be in hospital,’ suggests Conway sceptically.
‘There isn’t a bed to spare in any hospital in London,’ replies the constable. ‘You know that.’
Conway sighs. ‘Yeah. But we can’t look after him. I don’t mean to be unkind, but we’ve a full house ’ere —’ and as he says that, as if to prove the point, the parlour door opens again and a rangy fair young man of about seventeen enters, followed by a middle-aged woman. ‘And, ’cept the boy, we’re all out at work all day. Can’t he go back to his parents?’
‘I suppose he can, but not till he’s a bit fitter. And it’ll take some time to make arrangements,’ replies Archer. ‘I’d have to make enquiries about when the next train of evacuees is going to Wales.’
The woman intervenes. ‘It’s little Charlie, isn’t it?’ she asks, peering at Charlie over the top of her glasses.
‘Looks like,’ confirms Conway. ‘Not so little now.’
‘Jake we can’t send him away,’ says the woman. ‘What would Millie say?’
‘I don’t give a stuff what my sister says,’ replies Conway in a quiet but vehement tone.
‘Yes, you do,’ says the woman softly. ‘And you can see the poor boy’s not well.’ She turns to Charlie, still lying back on the couch, and addresses him in a sing-song voice as if he was a toddler. ‘Do you remember me, Charlie? Auntie Bea? Do you want something to eat, darling? I’ve got some chicken soup from last night.’
Despite feeling dreadful and a bit put out at being addressed as if he were a child, Charlie smiles. You can’t ever go into a Jewish household without being offered food. It doesn’t matter what time of day or night or what crisis might be unfolding, somehow there is always some chicken soup, fried fish balls, salt beef, herring, something, in the larder.
‘Yes, please.’
As he answers, Charlie notes himself moderating his cockney accent. He doesn’t want to be sent back to Wales. His accent becomes stronger when he’s on the streets of the East End because it goes with the tough image he cultivates, but right now he’s presenting Millie Horowitz’s well-behaved, well-brought up lad who can be trusted to join the Conway household.
‘Of course you do,’ said Aunt Bea. ‘I’ll put the gas on.’ Before she leaves she puts her hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Jake: he’s got to stay here, if only for a few days.’
The father-in-law stands and places himself in front Charlie. ‘You don’t recognise me, do you boy?’
Charlie shakes his head. ‘No, sir, sorry.’
‘You did meet me once. I’m your great-uncle John. John Joseph Milstein. Can you stand u
p?’
Charlie levers himself cautiously out of the couch, still unsure of his balance. His great-uncle John walks around him, noting the broad shoulders and thick neck. ‘He’s strong, Jacob.’ He lifts Charlie’s arms and feels his biceps. ‘He’s got your build. Do you exercise boy?’
‘I box. At the Rupert Browning.’
Charlie sees an approving glance on his great-uncle’s face and a look passing between him and Conway.
‘We could do with another pair of hands, Jake, since we took over Milton’s barges,’ says Milstein.
‘But what’s he know about the work?’ replies Conway.
‘He can work with me,’ offers Milstein.
‘Jonjo, you ain’t had an apprentice in twenty years!’
‘About time I had another one, then.’ He turns to speak directly to Charlie. ‘Do you want to stay in London?’
‘If the alternative’s going back to Wales, yes. Definitely.’
Milstein looks over at his son-in-law. ‘All right?
Conway shrugs his reluctant assent. His formidable wife and her father making common cause? He knows when he’s outgunned.
‘Right, Charlie Horowitz,’ says Milstein. ‘It’s hard work, and there’s people being killed all the time. It’s not a cushy number. Your cousin Milton was cut in half by a load of Russian timber last month, and we’re a sitting target for the Luftwaffe. We can’t run for the shelters like everyone else; we work through it. So we can’t afford passengers. Still want to stay?’
Charlie nods. ‘Yes please.’
‘So, where’s he gonna sleep?’ asks Conway.
‘He can bunk up with me,’ says the seventeen-year-old, speaking for the first time. He steps forward, hand outstretched. ‘I’m your cousin Izzy. But on the River everyone calls me “Merlin”.’
Charlie looks up into the wide brown eyes of an extremely good-looking young man with fair hair. He’s three or four inches taller than Charlie and stands with a slightly stooped posture, as if he had recently shot up in height and is still resolving the resultant self-consciousness. His smile is warm and genuine, although Charlie detects something slightly mocking about it.
The Lighterman: The Kray Twins are out for revenge... (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 3) Page 10