by Lizzie Lane
Frank Miles’s wide grin exposed a number of missing teeth. He knew he looked ugly. He also knew that they could be replaced, though of course that cost money. Perhaps by the end of this war, if not sooner, he might be able to afford a gold tooth like those Eddie Bridgeman sported. The rate his bit of shady business was going, it wasn’t totally impossible.
Tonight even the moon was shining in his favour, giving him enough light to drive without even turning on the blinkered headlights. What with the white-painted kerbs, he could see his way well enough. Turning on the headlights meant others seeing him – especially the authorities – and he could well do without that.
Thanks to the cold weather, the meat of late had kept well and wasn’t stinking so bad that he had to wash away the green bits before selling it to his regular customers. A few of them had asked if he was the bloke flogging the bad meat reported in the newspapers. He’d asked them if they’d been ill, to which they’d replied that they hadn’t.
‘Then it can’t be me then, can it!’ he’d exclaimed. ‘I’m still ’ere and so are you!’
From what he knew, it was only one family affected and two kids had died, though he refused to believe it was down to him. Kids were susceptible to illnesses: measles, chickenpox and stuff. He’d had some himself as a boy, though couldn’t swear as to what diseases they had been.
In the meantime, he was doing pretty well, thanks of course to the day job. What a stroke of luck that had been, and in more ways than one. Few people could get hold of petrol, but seeing as the van was commercial and used in the transport of food products and likewise the lorry which ferried essential commodities such as bones for rendering down, he didn’t have too much of a problem. It didn’t take much extra to enable him to continue in his sideline of flogging off condemned meat. All he had to do was slot in his activities between visits by agents of the Ministry of Food and Agriculture, and so far in that aspect too, he’d been lucky. They were busy people.
The alley where he usually set up shop was untouched by moonlight, black as the Ace of Spades in fact. That too he decided was lucky, all the better to cloak his black-market and highly illegal shenanigans. He liked that word, shenanigans; it sounded a clever word and made him feel a bit clever.
The blackness was total, so for a moment at least he was obliged to turn on the headlights, the top halves of which were painted black to prevent them being seen by enemy aircraft.
Small pools of light picked out patches of ice and frost on the cobbles, plus stout shoes and up legs as far as the knees.
As he slowed, it occurred to him that the crowd were surging around and behind him. Faces, and to some extent, upper bodies were difficult to distinguish, such was the blanket blackness of the alley. Here and there he thought he detected the gleam of a brass button.
‘What the…’
Suddenly he was blinded by the glare of a flashlight.
‘Sod it!’ He used a few other choice words under his breath. He was rumbled. Caught in a trap. Somebody was out to get him.
The gears crunched as he attempted to slam the gearstick into reverse. The crunching noise increased to grinding. The van shuddered. Thrusting the gearstick forward coincided with the door being tugged open. A burly set of hands reached in, grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him out. Half in and half out, he tried to brace his hands against the door frame, kicked out and tried to hook his feet under the steering wheel.
‘Come on, Frank. Best for you if you comes quietly.’
The first burly hands were joined by another pair and he was passed like a parcel from one policeman to another until he was standing more or less upright.
‘I ain’t done nothing,’ he shouted.
The flashlight lit up the iron-hard features of an older man. ‘That ain’t what we heard,’ he said. The insignia of a sergeant was caught by the carefully focused light.
‘You can’t do anything and it ain’t my van,’ he shouted.
‘We are arresting you on suspicion of selling contaminated meat – might be manslaughter, even murder, so anything you do say will be written down and given in evidence…’
Frank burst into almost maniacal laughter. ‘You ain’t got no evidence for that. I works for the bloke who owns this van. It’s legit.’
He thought the accusation of murder or even manslaughter was a bit much and from past experience knew he could be off the hook on the other charge of selling rotten meat unless a witness could be found. He very much doubted anyone would step forward and admit to buying food on the black market. They had families to support and were unlikely to want to get involved.
‘We’ve got a witness,’ the sergeant declared and sounded mighty pleased about it. ‘You’re for the ’igh jump this time, Frank. You’ll be inside for the duration and for a long time after that.’
No matter what they said, Frank continued to protest his innocence all the way to Bristol’s Bridewell Station. Constrained with handcuffs, he was still protesting when they manhandled him through the big double doors of the police station. Though he dragged his legs, the toes of his boots scraping over the floor, their strong arms held him upright.
Being surrounded by coppers was the stuff of nightmares, but he hadn’t been prepared for what happened next. Shouting obscenities normally the domain of dockers or other rough men, a woman burst through the cordon surrounding him. In one swift move, she swung a leather shopping bag, clouting him on the side of the head. Whatever it contained it weighed heavy. His head spun and his eyes seemed to rattle like marbles inside it. His legs splayed in all directions when he stumbled over two or three large King Edward potatoes that rolled across the floor. That explained the weight of the shopping bag!
Somebody he did not recognise dived under the arms of the coppers holding him.
‘You killed my grandchildren and I’d like to ’ang you meself,’ she screeched, her long fingernails clawing at his face.
‘Now, now, Mrs Morland…’
Arms whirling like a windmill in a brisk breeze, even the uniformed constables found her a challenge.
As his vision cleared, Frank caught sight of the woman screeching at him; small and wiry, her hat sitting like a fat black crow on a nest of wiry grey hair.
Self-preservation in life was second only to making money. He drew back, wary of those sharp nails drawing more blood. ‘Get ’er off me!’
The stink of booze came with the sharp finger she pointed his way. ‘My daughter bought yer rotten meat!’
He looked helplessly at the coppers. ‘I don’t know this old cow. She’s mad. Get ’er away.’
Taking pleasure from Frank’s discomfort – a bloke they’d had occasion to run in before but never for anything as serious as this – the smug-faced bobbies smiled.
Encourage by their attitude, Edith’s mother lunged in anew.
‘I knows who you are and so did my Edith. She seen you before when you was attacking yer daughter outside Wills’s. A bit of asking around and I knew who you were, Frank Miles.’
The colour drained from Frank’s face. For the first time since being arrested, he was scared. ‘Did Maisie tell you where to find me?’ he said in a spit-curdling snarl.
She looked at him askance. ‘Who’s Maisie?’
‘My daughter…’ His words fell away.
The old crone looked puzzled. ‘I ain’t never met yer daughter. Told you, my Edith knew ’er.’ Her expression turned sorrowful as she addressed the station sergeant behind the desk. ‘My poor Edith. You ought to see ’er in that bed, all white and pale, barely able to talk she was, but she knew you. That she bloody well did.’
Their hour of entertainment over, the police began to push Frank towards the door that he knew from experience led down into the white-tiled cells of the clink.
‘Off to the cells for you, Frank me lad. Get used to it. You ain’t likely to be out for a long while.’
Grim of countenance, Edith’s mother left the Bridewell feeling satisfied, though still angry. Frank M
iles wasn’t to know that in one way he’d turned her life around. After what had happened to her family, she’d sworn that if the police brought him in, she’d give up the drink. She’d had her last brown ale earlier that evening.
Other customers in the pub had treated her promise to give up the booze with disbelief but, out of consideration for her terrible loss, kept their mouths shut.
Only one other woman had been there, the one who had primed her with the details of the man who had killed members of her family. She’d known Grace Wells for years; in fact, they’d been at school together. She’d also borrowed money from her, and it had come as something of a surprise when Grace said she would wipe the slate clean as long as she put the finger on Frank Miles. Even if Grace hadn’t promised she’d be debt-free, it would have been a great pleasure to do it anyway.
28
Phyllis
It had been some weeks since Phyllis had left York Street and moved into her new address. Numbed by her sudden eviction, she had walked as if in a dream to where she guessed she could move in right away.
The room in Stokes Croft with its dingy interior, hard-bitten landlady and a houseful of cats that she’d viewed with Maisie had still been available.
‘Five shillings a week,’ said the landlady.
Phyllis carefully counted out the money from what remained of her last wages, the beige suitcase that had once been her father’s sitting solidly against her leg. If only she still had her army pay book – or widow’s pension – whichever was appropriate – but that was locked in Hilda Harvey’s bureau. She was within her rights to go round there and demand she give it to her, but truth was, she shuddered at the thought. Better to work her socks off than find herself a virtual prisoner there.
It plagued her to wonder whether Robert was still alive or not. For his sake, she hoped he was, but either way she would never go back to him. For the first time in her life, she was free. She would not give it up easily.
Her rented room was some way from the soap factory and she would have stayed there if Hilda hadn’t also gone round there and made good her story. ‘She’s been carrying on with another man, and her husband away fighting.’
Her employers had let her go. That too was something of a relief.
Though Christmas hadn’t yet come, let alone New Year, Phyllis made resolutions that for now at least she intended keeping. The first one was that she would write to Sam at his last known army address before he was posted overseas. He was her first priority and she had to make the effort to explain why she hadn’t told him the truth. Hopefully the letter would follow him to his new posting. She only prayed that his reply wouldn’t be redirected to York Street, where Mrs Proctor would probably throw it onto the fire.
The news that Robert might very well be alive had come as a shock. Was Hilda Harvey telling the truth, or still clinging on to her dearest wish?
The other thing she didn’t yet want to face was telling Maisie and Bridget what had happened and her present dire circumstances. They’d gone out of their way to help her. She felt guilty but reassured herself that she hadn’t really let them down.
For a time, she wandered the city streets thinking through her options. She also wrote to Sam hoping against hope that he would get her letter.
As she assessed her options, she worked casually behind the bar of a pub, did a little waitressing in a coffee shop. One such coffee shop was directly opposite the devastation that had once been the series of streets where she and her friends had window shopped. All that remained was rubble, twisted metal and solitary second-floor doors hanging from crumbling walls, swinging windows from what remained of a frame.
She stared for a while, numb but determined to climb out of this hole she was in. Everything had changed or was changing and so was she.
Christmas was only a week away and people had done their best to decorate windows already plastered with gummed paper to prevent injury from flying glass.
Her spirits low, Phyllis plodded on, winding her way through crowds of uniforms and shoulders displaying the insignia of many nations.
It was surprising how jolly everyone sounded. She didn’t feel jolly, that was for sure.
Consumed by deeply depressing thoughts, she ignored friendly smiles and words and at first didn’t hear her mother’s voice calling out to her.
‘Phyllis. Phyllis.’
It wasn’t until a set of painted fingernails closed over her arm that she came to a halt.
For a moment she was tongue-tied. Her mother was wearing a leopard-skin hat that was most probably home-made, but elegant all the same. Her coat was black checked with big patch pockets and a fox fur, glassy eyes shining, was draped across her shoulders.
Beside her was a man. He had a kindly face and dark bristly black eyebrows, a thin moustache above his top lip and a few silvery streaks ran through his blue-black hair. He wasn’t tall but gave the impression of being strong, having wide shoulders and firmly placed legs.
Her mother smiled like a shy young girl, her eyes fluttering up at her beau. ‘This is Matthew Horsley. Matt, my fiancée,’ she said with a lisping sound, her cheeks turning candy floss pink. ‘Matt, this is my daughter, Phyllis.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Phyllis.’ A strong hand clasped hers, bright white teeth flashed when he smiled. There followed a slightly more serious frown. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your husband. Have you heard anything?’
Unwilling to disclose her mother-in-law’s visit to York Street and losing her job, she shook her head. ‘The news stays the same. Missing in action, presumed dead.’
‘It must be hard for you.’ Matt Horsley had kind eyes and sounded genuinely caring. She suddenly understood why her mother had fallen for him.
‘Yes. It’s the not knowing. I don’t know what to do until I know for sure.’
‘Mrs Harvey came round and said she had news of Sam. Insisted that you had to be told and where could she find you.’ Her mother frowned. ‘I directed her to York Street. Did I do wrong?’’
‘It was the worst thing you could have done. She came round and made a right racket and caused me to be evicted. I won’t go into the details. I had to get out of there dead quick. I managed to find a room and a temporary job, until something better comes along.’
‘Oh, Phyl. I’m so sorry. Surely there’s something we can do.’ There was a flicker of guilt on her mother’s beautifully made-up face before she addressed her handsome Canadian officer. ‘Do you have any suggestions, Matt?’
Phyllis inwardly groaned. She knew her mother was only trying to be helpful, but she considered her behaviour too sugary, like a young girl.
Matt Horsley took his arm from round her mother’s waist and adjusted his tie. ‘Well, seeing as you’ve got no kids, you could join up.’
It didn’t seem like much of an option to Phyllis. She’d seen some women who’d joined up clomping around in heavy shoes and thick lisle stockings. And all that marching about on a parade ground which although she had once considered the idea had put her off. ‘But I don’t know anything.’ It seemed a reasonable enough excuse.
‘You might know more than you think. You can write, can’t you? Clerical workers are always needed, and you might even be able to get some extra training – like typing for instance. The army, navy and air force always need typists and not just to type letters.’
Suddenly all the exasperation she’d harboured for quite some time exploded like a sky rocket. Perhaps, after all, something good had come out of her nights bashing away on a typewriter and falling for a man who said she was good at it. It was a far-fetched hope, but she might even end up posted close to Sam – wherever that might be.
‘Thank you,’ she said, her spirits climbing up to new and dizzying heights. ‘I’ve always wanted to work in an office. Do you have any idea who I might approach?’
Matt nodded in the direction of a large sign saying:
Recruiting Office – Women’s Auxiliary Airforce
There was a queue o
utside. Some women were clutching handbags nervously to their chest. Some looked very young. Others were replenishing their make-up, glittering compacts held aloft before their face, powder-puffs patting their cheeks, fresh lipstick applied.
Phyllis suddenly felt as though a door that she thought firmly shut had sprung open.
Both her mother and Matt looked surprised when she planted a kiss on his cheek before planting one on that of her mother and sprinting off to join the crocodile of girls and women waiting to join the war effort.
She suddenly felt desperate to let her hair fall free and put on a bit of make-up.
‘Excuse me,’ she said to a girl that was applying powder and lipstick. ‘I’ve left mine at home. Do you think…?’ She nodded at the make-up.
The young woman smiled. ‘Course you can.’
As she retouched her make-up, it occurred to Phyllis that serving with girls like these would be similar to working with the tobacco girls who never failed to help each other out if they could.
‘Quite exciting, isn’t it,’ said the pretty blonde who had let her borrow her make-up.
‘Quite,’ said Phyllis. Suddenly there were butterflies in her stomach. This really could be a new and exciting episode of her life.
Questions were asked by an officious woman wearing the smart uniform of the WAAF as the queue ambled forward. Mostly it was about where you lived and what you were hoping to do. Some were joining in the hope of being closer to their boyfriends. Others wanted to travel.
‘Any particular skills we might make use of?’
‘I can type,’ replied Phyllis.
‘Home or abroad? Not that abroad is an option – unless you’re an officer.’
‘I wonder whether I can be posted close to my fiancé?’
It was stretching the truth a little, but she decided it was worth it.
Names were called out. The queue shuffled forward.
A row of desks were lined up inside the recruitment office. Behind each one was a man in uniform.