by Lizzie Lane
Everyone knew better than to disagree with Aggie, hence a sea of hands shot up.
Maisie kept her spirits up all day, but by the evening back at the Llandoger, she fell a bit quieter than Aggie was used to.
Aggie gave her a nudge in the ribs. ‘Care to tell me what’s wrong?’
Maisie dipped the beer glasses into the warm water in the sink, kept her own problems to herself and referred to the thieving in the stripping room. ‘We could set a trap.’
‘And how do we do that?’ Her face brightened; Aggie was like a mother to Maisie.
Heads together, she outlined the basic plan. ‘We bring all our shopping in as planned, except one. That one we leave out in the cloakroom, but mark it with indelible ink.’
‘You got any of this ink?’ asked Aggie.
Maisie shook her head. ‘We’ll ask Bridget tomorrow.’
‘I do,’ said Bridget. ‘Our Sean had some. Mum was going to throw it out whilst he was down in Devon. Makes a right mess, it does, and it won’t come off. Ruined more than one of his pullovers.’
‘Tomorrow then. That’s when we’re doing it. Strike whilst the iron’s hot,’ declared Aggie, her fist coming down hard on the table and setting the crockery rattling.
The following morning, Bridget arrived with a small jar of ink and a fine paint brush. At lunchtime, Aggie sent the girls out to purchase something irresistible to bait the trap.
‘Something to make the thief’s mouth water,’ instructed Aggie. Her expression darkened. ‘I don’t like this thieving, not when we’re all in the same bloody boat.’ It was rare that Aggie swore but it had made her blood boil.
‘Something meaty?’ suggested Bridget.
Maisie looked thoughtful. ‘Something sugary. It’s sugar that we’re missing the most, ain’t it?’
‘Raywards,’ proclaimed Aggie with hardly a moment’s thought. ‘Pop in there and get a big bag of broken biscuits. If you can get some lardy cakes as well, all the better. Here. Take this carrier bag to put it in.’
‘Or all the butter,’ joked Maisie and despite the seriousness of their quest, they laughed.
The moment she pushed open the door of the biscuit shop, Maisie took a big breath and sighed.
‘Sugar and biscuits ’ave a smell all of their own.’
‘I know what you mean,’ returned Bridget. ‘You can taste it even before you take a single bite.’
They sniffed again and again as they went round lifting the glass lids on the big square tins ranged in rows from low-slung racks on the customer side of the counter.
Eventually they had a big bagful, mostly unbroken because Maisie had said they looked more tempting.
‘Good job they’re not on ration,’ Bridget remarked.
From there, they rushed to get a place in the queue outside the bakery, where they bought a mix of lardy cakes and teacakes.
‘I do feel a bit mean,’ said Bridget once they were back at the factory, the ink bottle in one hand and a wavering paintbrush in the other. ‘I mean, some of us are worse off than others.’
Maisie took the ink bottle, unscrewed the top, then gestured that Bridget should give her the paintbrush. ‘Give it ’ere!’
‘Not too much,’ Bridget said, the tip of her tongue tickling the side of her mouth as Maisie painted on the ink.
‘There,’ she finally said. ‘That should do it.’
She gave the bottle and brush back to Bridget who was as careful as she was not to get any of it onto her hands. ‘It’s a devil to get off if you do,’ she said as she wrapped both items up in newspaper and put it into her bag.
Aggie was waiting for them when they got back into the stripping room.
‘All done, is it?’ she asked in a quieter voice, one that hardly seemed to belong to her.
They assured her that it was and that the carrier bag was left on a window ledge rather than hanging from any individually named coat hook.
It was just before tea break when Aggie, being in charge, waltzed off. On seeing her depart, Bridget and Maisie exchanged knowing looks. Would the carrier bag be gone?
At tea break, Aggie was already sitting at a table, her cup of tea and an ashtray sitting in front of her, along with a couple of Huntley and Palmer biscuits.
‘They ain’t any of the ones you bought, me chicks! The carrier bag is gone.’
‘So what next?’ Bridget looked at Aggie for leadership. She’d gone along with the plan but couldn’t help being uncomfortable. It seemed so underhanded, so dishonest.
Maisie had no such reservations. ‘Find out who’s got inky fingers. That bag is now under the table inside somebody’s shopping bag.’
Bridget pointed out that they couldn’t look into personal belongings. ‘Only security can do that.’
She saw Maisie’s wicked wink. ‘You’re the one who brought in the ink. It’s hands we’re going to look at.’
‘Not you girls though,’ said Aggie. ‘You’ve done enough. I think that’s my job.’
There was something about her expression that was more thoughtful than usual. It suddenly came to Bridget that she already had a suspicion of who had taken it.
At the end of the working day, Aggie advised Maisie to go on home.
‘I’ll tag along later, after I’ve taken care of things.’
Maisie and Bridget left work together, though both harboured curiosity and felt just a little left out of this, the final conclusion of today’s goings-on.
Oblivious to all this, male and female workers surged out of the entrance, all off home, though some would be doing war effort tasks for a few hours before they finally turned in.
Bridget was as keen to hear from Aggie as Maisie was.
‘Doing anything tonight?’ she asked.
Maisie grinned. ‘I’ll be serving for a couple of hours behind the bar – if you’re up for it.’
Bridget pushed open the door of the Llandoger Trow with a feeling of apprehension. She wasn’t used to entering a pub alone, especially one that was full of men. Heads turned and male eyes followed her progress across the uneven stone floor. A few raised their glasses in salute or touched the brim of their trilby or cap. Some made comment.
‘Evenin’, Miss. Looking for someone?’
‘Me,’ cried Maisie as she pushed her way through from behind the bar, slapping anyone who got in the way.
The group of men parted.
‘Watch out! This one’s got a kick like a goat and a tongue sharp as a razor.’
Their laughter quelled once Aggie came through. Even the roughest seaman respected Aggie Hill.
‘Come through to the small room,’ said Aggie. ‘Curley and Gladys can manage to serve in the bar.
The two young women, both looking whip-smart in their best dresses, followed Aggie through to one of the many small rooms running along the front of the pub.
Aggie stood like a stone bulwark between them and the door they’d just come through. ‘Edith Jones. Don’t surprise me, though. Four kids, a ’usband that deserted ’er and a mother who drinks the money and rations that’s meant for food. She tried to deny it until I grabbed ’er wrist and ’eld up ’er inky fingers.’
‘Poor woman,’ said Bridget.
Maisie was more circumspect. ‘Now what?’
Aggie’s lips twitched before speaking. ‘She’s ’ad a warning.’ She hesitated before continuing. ‘I told ’er to keep the biscuits and buns, but ’ad ’er promise not to do it again.’
Maisie frowned. ‘You let ’er keep it?’
Bridget shrugged. ‘I don’t mind about that. I can’t help feeling sorry for her.’
‘That’s what I thought you’d say.’ Aggie turned to Maisie and her persistent frown. ‘You all right with that, Maisie?’
Maisie was not quite all right with it. She could still smell that biscuit shop, but…
‘If it’s all right with you two, I suppose it’s all right with me.’
‘Right. That’s settled then,’ said Aggie, clapping her big hands toge
ther. ‘It’s a nice evening, so how about you two going off for a walk? Make the most of it before we’ve got winter darkness and the blackout to contend with.’
Aggie’s cheerful expression waivered then disappeared once they were some distance off.
Sighing, she turned her back on the two young women and looked to the other end of King Street where the sun still penetrated between the gabled rooftops onto the shiny cobbles.
Even before she heard the car engine, then saw it sliding to a stop in front of her, she knew who it was and her stomach cramped with apprehension.
His driver opened the rear door and a black and white shoe appeared, flash and snazzy. The other appeared and there was a man in a pinstriped suit, a little less fleshy than when she’d seen him last, but she knew beyond doubt that this was Eddie Bridgeman.
He shrugged himself into the padded shoulders of his double-breasted suit and eyed her challengingly.
A young woman got out behind him, who instantly brought a sour taste to Aggie’s mouth and a hard look to her eyes.
‘How’s things goin’, Aggie?’
There was not a vestige of a smile on Aggie’s face. Her lips puckered. Eddie always brought a sour taste to her mouth, though not as much as the young woman he had with him.
‘What do you want?’
There was a cruel twist to his lips, a black stare from his eyes. ‘I’m back in town and back in charge. You owe me, Mrs Hill. You’ve ’ad a bit of a ’oliday since I bin inside. I’m in need of cash, Aggie.’
‘I got none for you.’ Aggie forced herself to sound firm and collected, though inside she was trembling with anger and fear. Tough she might be, but helpless when faced with this man.
Eddie Bridgeman shrugged his shoulders again and pulled in his chin as though she’d offended him and curled his arm round the pretty young woman at his side. ‘Come on, Aggie. You can’t begrudge me. After all I got your darling daughter ’ere to look after. She don’t come cheap,’ he said, shaking his head and smiling.
Aggie’s anger multiplied when Angela smiled. Her own daughter had fallen through the cracks in the pavement and ended up with the likes of a small-time gangster. She’d be feeling sick to her stomach if she wasn’t so angry.
‘She can fend fer ’erself.’ Never in her life would she ever have believed that she’d feel such ire towards her only daughter. As a child she’d doted on her. Perhaps, she thought, that was where she’d gone wrong.
Eddie slapped a kid glove over the palm of the other hand and shook his head. ‘Aggie, that’s a bit hard on yer own daughter. But there, if that’s the way you feel.’ His eyes hardened and he pushed the willowy blonde, so much like Aggie had been when she was young, away from him. He came close, his jutting chin only inches from her face. ‘If you want my protection it ’as to be paid for. Ain’t yer old man told you that? P’raps I’d better ask ’im. Right?’
Aggie held back a few choice expletives that came to mind. Arguing was futile and when she’d heard about him going to prison, she’d thought it was the last of Eddie Bridgeman. Whilst he was in prison, they’d sent one of his men packing when he’d tried to collect protection money. The thing was that since Eddie had gone inside his little empire had crumbled a bit and some of his gang had disappeared or at least been less reluctant to show their faces round the centre of the city where the police were always on the lookout for deserters or draft dodgers. Criminals were as likely to get called up as anyone else – and most of them were only a few feet ahead of the recruiting sergeants. Somehow, she couldn’t think how it had happened he was out and inclined to make their lives a misery once again.
Aggie knew she couldn’t win. ‘Cyril’s playing dominoes in the small room down on the left.’ Her tone of voice was as grim as her expression, not just because his visit had surprised her, but fear for Maisie’s safety. She knew the story of Maisie’s father betraying Eddie to the law and Eddie always bore a grudge. If he didn’t already know where Frank Miles was, it was pretty certain he had every intention of finding out. Whatever happened, he mustn’t find out that Maisie was living here.
Mouth clamped tightly shut, she said nothing when he brushed roughly past her, up the steps and turned left.
Angela glanced at her mother, a smug smile on her lips. Her clothes were of good quality but far too tight and hardly ladylike, clinging like a second skin to her body.
A bitter hardness came to Aggie’s face, but inside she was crying. She fixed her gaze across to the buildings on the other side of the road, wondering where the little girl she’d loved from the moment she was born had gone.
Everything about her daughter stabbed at her heart. Her hair had been softly brown when she was young. It was now peroxide blonde, almost white in fact. Even from a distance, she smelt of perfume – and not just any old perfume, but something expensive and doubtless stolen. Eddie Bridgeman was free to take advantage of the blackout and the black market.
Aggie was about to go inside, take off her slippers and put on a pair of shoes – dash off to find Maisie and hope against hope that Eddie wouldn’t question where she was going, when she suddenly saw a flash of fiery red hair and a figure she recognised, a bouncy walk a confident air. It had to be Phyllis!
Phyllis waved and Aggie took off down the steps and lumbered along the cobbles, slipping and sliding thanks to the fact that she was wearing her slippers.
Phyllis was about to shriek with joy, which changed quickly to surprise at Aggie’s headlong rush and the sense that something was wrong.
‘What’s the matter?’
Phyllis paled when a breathless Aggie explained what the problem was and what she wanted her to do. ‘I didn’t know you knew ’im,’ she said in a surprised tone.
Aggie nodded. ‘Maisie’s gone for a walk up Brandon Hill with Bridget. Can you go after her and tell her not to come back just yet?’ She jerked her head to the black and white timbered pub. ‘Eddie mustn’t know that Maisie’s living ’ere. Best she keeps away until he’s gone.’
Phyllis had been about to tell Aggie all about how her life had changed and that she was finally out of her in-laws’ place, how invigorated she felt, no longer a mouse but an independent woman. Mention of Eddie Bridgeman pulled her up short.
‘You’ll likely find them up by Cabot Tower. Please don’t bring ’er back ’ere, Phyllis me love. Not yet.’
Phyllis knew the story about Frank Miles shopping Eddie Bridgeman to the police and didn’t need Aggie to tell her that he’d be pretty rough with anyone likely to know where Frank was living. She shivered at the memory of being bundled into Eddie’s car.
‘But Maisie doesn’t know where he is. Nobody does.’
Aggie shook her head. ‘Trouble is, he’ll take some convincing.’
By the end of that evening, Maisie had made up her mind that she, just like Phyllis, had to move on. The question was where and could she keep a low profile before finding somewhere.
Bridget offered a temporary reprieve, one of the kid’s beds.
Maisie countered that it wouldn’t be wise. ‘I don’t want to bring trouble to me mates’ doors.’ Her eyes darkened with fear, then brightened again. She would not be daunted. She would not be beaten. ‘Something will turn up,’ she said at last. ‘Just leave it with me and it’ll be all sorted.’
‘I’m afraid I must insist,’ said Bridget. ‘Just until you find something safer.’
Maisie looked sad until a cheeky grin lit up her face. ‘At least there’s no fear of Hilda Harvey hammering on the door.’
20
Phyllis and Sam
Towards the end of the month Sam Proctor came home again.
Phyllis was coming out of the soap works gate when she heard his cheerful whistle and him shouting her name.
Bubbling inside fit to burst, she slowed her footsteps just enough to allow him to catch up. She pretended to look surprised when his long stride brought her to his side within minutes.
She ran her fingers through her hair, loo
king at him dewy-eyed from beneath a playful fringe that refused to be tamed.
‘Your mother will be pleased to see you.’
And she isn’t the only one, she thought to herself. For days she too had been looking forward to his arrival. They’d clicked on that first meeting, had gone out to the pub and the pictures during that first leave, chatting and laughing as though they’d known each other for years rather than a few days.
‘What’s the old lady got for dinner tonight?’
‘Fish pie with cheese – and a lot of vegetables.’
‘It’s always a lot of vegetables! Do you know how many tons of spuds the army gets through?’
She laughed. ‘I couldn’t say. You’ll have to tell me.’
‘Tons. That’s all I know. Bloody tons!’
‘Which means you don’t know very much at all,’ she responded coquettishly.
Throwing back his head, he let out a big throaty laugh. ‘So how was your day?’ Sam asked.
‘Smelly.’
He laughed. ‘Never mind. One day you’ll meet the man of your dreams and he’ll ’ave you out of there and down the aisle in no time.’
Phyllis laughed, a light hollow sound that just about hid the guilt his comment had aroused in her. The finger where she’d worn her wedding ring began to itch like a guilty secret that should be shared. The question was should she tell him she was married or widowed? As yet, she wasn’t quite sure which.
‘Phyllis, I’ve only got a week’s leave, so I won’t waste any time. Do you fancy coming out for a drink tonight?’
‘Got nobody else lined up to go out with you?’
‘I did phone Mae West, but couldn’t get through.’
‘So I’m second best to Mae West.’
‘No. You were my first choice.’ He took hold of her arm and off they walked back to York Street, talking all the way.