Rachel let her shoulders sag as she sat at the table. She felt at ease with Joe, she always had done, and she knew she could confide in him, tell him that she and Derek were lovers, but she knew by the look on his face that there was no need. He already knew. Did her mother know? she wondered. She and Joe would have talked about the trip to Brighton, and after all, they were lovers themselves. They would know the signs, see the looks she and Derek exchanged constantly.
Rachel picked up the pen once more. Joe closed his eyes and grunted as he stretched out in the armchair. Soon Derek would be home on end-of-training leave, and then maybe there would be a long separation. She would need him to love her, and not just during stolen moments alone with him. She would want to spend the nights with him, but she could not expect her mother to allow them that sort of freedom, however understanding she was. Being in love was so complicated, she sighed.
At eleven o’clock precisely the following morning, 24 August 1939, the funeral cortège left Page Street. Three horse-drawn coaches followed the hearse and almost everyone in the street saw it leave. Nellie and Maisie walked arm in arm to their carriage, closely followed by Sadie who was holding on to a very distressed Maudie. Old men stood silent at their doorsteps, their caps held reverently in their hands, and women wept into handkerchiefs. As the cortège turned into the Jamaica Road, Albert Lockwood emerged from his corner shop, cap in hand. Terry Gordon and his wife Patricia stood together at the entrance to the public bar, like the shopkeeper paying their respects to someone they had hardly known but nevertheless mindful of the respect and love Florrie Axford had gained during her long lifetime from the people of Page Street and many other parts of the riverside borough.
Billy Sullivan’s ring-scarred face was set hard as he watched Florrie’s body leave the street and tears welled up in his eyes as he stood alone at his doorstep. Sadness weighed heavily on him. He had returned from Paddington Station less than half an hour ago after seeing Annie and the children onto the Gloucester-bound train. Annie had shed a few tears as she clung to him, while the children stood subdued, not understanding the reasons for leaving their father. The station had been packed with women and children, many with labels pinned to their coats and all looking serious-faced as they boarded the trains for the West Country. Billy had stood sad-eyed as he waved Annie and the children off, and now his loneliness and sorrow threatened to overwhelm him.
Chapter Seven
On Saturday, 2 September, Joe and Carrie were married at the registry office in the Town Hall. They had decided to delay their honeymoon because of the exodus of evacuees and the transit of military personnel through the main stations, but they entertained their friends with food and drink at the house throughout the sunny Saturday. Nellie sat with her old friends in the parlour, while outside in the freshly washed cobbled yard a trestle table was set out with plentiful sandwiches and bottles of beer.
Sharkey Morris, Carrie’s yard man, had been in early that morning to hose the yard down, and he now sat in the parlour with a pint of ale in his gnarled hand. He was nearing eighty and still sprightly for his age, although his eyesight was failing. He sat talking to Rachel, who had become very attached to the old man since he first came to work for her mother.
‘I remember when yer mum was only a slip of a gel,’ he told her. ‘She used ter wear an apron that touched the ground when she worked in yer farvver’s cafe. Good ter me, she was. She knew I was watchin’ out fer ’er an’ she used ter give me free cups o’ tea. I wouldn’t let none o’ the customers take liberties wiv ’er, not while I was in the cafe. They all knew it too. They knew better than ter mess about wiv ole Sharkey.’
‘You an’ my gran’farvver were good friends, wasn’t yer, Sharkey?’ Rachel said.
Sharkey nodded his head vigorously. ‘Me an’ ole Will Tanner were the best o’ mates,’ he told her. ‘What I liked about yer gran’farvver was the way ’e stood up ter that ole goat Galloway. Will wasn’t frightened of ’im, not Will Tanner.’
Rachel sat listening for some time to Sharkey’s reminiscences and then, when the Page Street women drew Sharkey into their conversation, she made her exit. Outside in the yard, its cobblestones warmed by the sun, she sat with Danny and his pretty wife Iris on a wooden bench and watched the children running around and squealing happily. Danny was looking worried though, and once or twice he left the yard to seek out Billy.
‘I’m worried about that bloke,’ he told Iris when he returned for the second time. ‘’E told me ’e was gonna be ’ere fer sure, but there’s no sign of ’im.’
Carrie came out into the yard and looked around. ‘No Billy?’ she asked her brother.
Danny shrugged his shoulders. ‘’E’s missin’ Annie an’ the kids. I bet ’e’s proppin’ the bar up at the Kings Arms,’ he replied, looking at Iris for her sanction to go and look for him.
Iris gave Rachel a wry smile. ‘Yer’d fink the two of ’em were’usband an’ wife the way they worry over each over, wouldn’t yer?’ she remarked.
Danny leaned his back against the wall. ‘Billy can look after’imself,’ he said with feigned indifference. ‘It’s just that when’e’s ’ad a drink too much ’e’s inclined ter get a bit stroppy. I wouldn’t like ’im gettin’ inter trouble. Since that new guvnor’s took over the Kings Arms there’s a few strange faces in there. Some of ’em look a bit evil.’
Iris knew that her husband would be like a cat on hot bricks until Billy Sullivan showed up, especially after promising Annie that he would keep an eye on him. They were like two boys rather than grown men in their forties, she thought. ‘P’raps yer’d better go an’ see if ’e’s all right,’ she said with another wry smile.
Danny acted as though he was making up his mind. ‘Er, yeah, all right. I’d better go,’ he said, getting up as if it was a chore.
He let himself out through the wicket gate into the quiet street. A few women stood at their front doors chatting to neighbours and two small boys were playing marbles in the gutter. Above, the sky was cloudless and a hot sun blazed down on the dusty backstreet. Salmon Lane was a few streets along from Page Street and it took Danny barely five minutes to get to the Kings Arms. It was nearing two o’clock when he pushed open the door of the corner pub and saw the damage. The customers were all at the far end of the bar, standing away from the broken glass and sopping wet floor. The barman and a couple of helpers were busy clearing up the mess.
Danny groaned aloud. ‘What ’appened?’ he asked, dreading the reply.
The barman pointed to the shattered ornamental mirror behind the counter. ‘The dopey git chucked a bar stool at it,’ he growled. ‘Then it turned into a right free-for-all. Terry called the police an’ then ’e copped a bottle on ’is crust. I don’t think ’e was ’urt too bad but ’e’s gone ter Guy’s ter be stitched up. Mind you, it could ’ave bin a lot worse.’
‘Billy?’ Danny asked, knowing what he was going to hear.
‘’E’s at Dock’ead nick. ’E’s . . .’
Danny did not wait for the barman to finish. He rushed out of the pub, his heart sinking. ‘What a stupid idiot,’ he groaned to himself. What would Annie say? She’s only been away for less than two weeks and already her husband’s in trouble with the police and most likely facing a jail sentence for assaulting a publican.
At Dockhead he hurried up the steps of the police station and pushed open the swing door. ‘I’ve come to enquire about a Billy Sullivan,’ he said, looking anxiously at the station sergeant.
The officer carried on scribbling in a book for a few moments then he looked up with doleful eyes. ‘Billy Sullivan? Just ’ang on a minute. Fred, ’ave we got a Billy Sullivan ’ere?’
The police constable sitting at the back of the office pointed to a side door. ‘ ’E’s in there wiv the chief inspector.’
The sergeant turned back to Danny. ‘Jus’ take a seat, ’e shouldn’t be too long,’ he said with a wave of his hand.
Danny sat down on a long wooden bench beside the counte
r and stared down at his shoes. ‘Of all the stupid, inconsiderate, drunken idiots,’ he groaned to himself.
Suddenly he heard voices and he looked up to see Billy emerge from the side room followed by a familiar figure. Billy had what looked like the makings of a black eye and he was grinning widely as he shook hands with the detective. Danny stood up quickly, surprise and relief showing on his face as Billy walked over to him. ‘What’s goin’ on?’ he asked.
Billy slipped through the counter and put his arm round his confused friend. ‘Yer remember the inspector, don’t yer, Danny?’ he said, nodding over to the hefty figure of Chief Inspector Green. ‘’E was the one we saw over the business at the gym.’
The detective waved to Danny as he walked back into his office and Billy led the way from the station. ‘I’m glad that’s over,’ he said.
Danny stopped and turned to face his friend. ‘Well?’ he asked in an impatient voice.
The ex-boxer shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘It was like this, yer see,’ he began. ‘Yer remember after we got back from the weddin’ I told yer I ’ad ter pop ’ome fer a few minutes an’ I’d see yer later? Well, when I did what I ’ad ter do I decided to ’ave a couple o’ drinks in the Kings Arms before comin’ round ter the reception. Anyway, there I was ’avin’ a comfortable chat wiv Terry Gordon an’ that missus of ’is when these two blokes come in. They was total strangers ter me. Terry didn’t know ’em eivver. They both looked like they’d already ’ad a skinful an’ one of ’em was shoutin’ the odds an’ upsettin’ the customers. I didn’t take no notice at first, but then one bloke knocked against ole Fred Dougall an’ Fred told ’im ter mind what ’e was doin’. This bloke goes an’ shoves the ole feller in the chest. That’s when I jumped in.’
Danny had a smile on his face as he listened to Billy’s account of the fracas. ‘Yeah, go on,’ he prompted.
‘Well, I told the bloke ter pick on somebody ’is own age an’ ’e ’as the cheek ter tell me ter piss orf,’ Billy continued, ‘so I told ’im in no uncertain terms ter be’ave ’imself. Terry Gordon came round the counter an’ told ’em ter leave, an’ wiv that, one o’ the blokes picks up a bottle an’ crowns ’im wiv it. There was blood everywhere an’ Terry’s missus was screamin’ ’er ’ead orf. I grabs the bloke wiv the bottle an’ floors ’im, then the ovver one jumps me. Ole Fred clouts ’im wiv a bar stool an’ then the bloke grabs it from ’im an’ aims it at the mirror be’ind the bar. After that the bloke staggers out the pub an’ I couldn’t get to im, ’cos I was detainin’ the bloke I’d floored. The police came in an’ told me ter come down the station ter make a statement, but it’s all right, Danny, I ain’t in any trouble.’
‘Not unless those two come back lookin’ for yer,’ Danny replied.
Billy grinned. ‘We’ll be all right, Danny boy, we can ’andle’em,’ he said lightheartedly.
‘We?’ Danny queried.
Billy looked at his old friend with a bemused smile. ‘Well, I rarely go in the pub on me Jack Jones. You’re always wiv me,’ he pointed out. ‘I s’pose yer could always ’ide in the karsey if they do come back.’
Danny feigned to throw a punch and then slipped his arm round Billy’s shoulders. ‘C’mon, champ, they’ll all be wonderin’ where we’ve got to,’ he said.
On Saturday night the rain started again and quickly turned into a storm that once more had the streets running with water as thunder crashed and lightning lit the sky. Children turned restlessly in their beds and adults winced at the loud thunder rolls. In Salmon Lane lightning struck a chimney and sent it crashing down onto the cobblestones, and in Page Street Maudie Mycroft sat in her parlour and held a hand to her cheek. ‘It’s the Lord’s anger against the people who want war,’ she told Ernest. ‘The Lord’s very angry.’
Her husband sighed. ‘It’s a storm, nuffink more,’ he told her.
‘Ernest Mycroft, you’re a wicked man for disbelievin’,’ Maudie rebuked him.
‘Look, luv , I’m not sayin’ that the Lord ain’t angry. We’re all angry,’ Ernest said quietly. ‘What I’m sayin’ is, the Lord ain’t causin’ the storm. It’s yer actual elements. I don’t fink we need ter go out an’ build an ark.’
‘Gawd fergive ’im,’ Maudie said, raising her face to the ceiling. ‘My ’usband is a wicked man, but Yer must fergive ’im.’
Ernest tried to hide a grin. ‘I don’t fink the Lord’s too worried about me, Maud. ’E’s got ’is work cut out at the ’Ouses o’ Parliament ternight. The Cabinet’s still sittin’, accordin’ ter the nine o’clock news.’
Dolly Dawson climbed the stairs to see if the thunder was disturbing her children and found that the two boys were sleeping peacefully. Young Joyce must have been frightened, she thought, for she had curled up next to Leslie and was now sleeping soundly. Dolly went back down to the parlour and got on with her sewing, occasionally glancing over to where Wallace was sitting in an old armchair in his usual place in the corner facing the window. The drawn curtains were of a thick material but still the flashes of lightning could be seen through them.
The storm did not worry Wallace. He was engrossed in his weekly comic, his long legs drawn up under his chin as he stared wide-eyed at the coloured drawings of make-believe characters in a world of flowers and eternal sun. The looming war was not on Wallace’s mind, nor were the problems of everyday living. The young man could not read and his damaged brain could not grasp the fast talk or the implications of the news bulletins which his mother listened to, and for which he had to be very quiet on pain of a cuff round the ear. He was happy in his own little world. When he was hungry he was given food and when he was tired he slept in a warm bed or beside the fire. Natural and basic needs did not trouble him too much, for when he felt an urge he simply followed his instincts. Other, more confusing feelings sometimes touched him but they soon faded, and only when a girl looked closely at him and smiled in a friendly way did Wallace feel a strangeness that made his neck hair tingle and his stomach churn. He would smile back, his lips struggling to form the necessary shape, and the smile would change to a leering, drooling laugh that reached up from his stomach and made his shoulders rise and fall rapidly.
Wallace was twenty-one, tall and gangling, with rounded shoulders, a pathetically friendly face, out of which stared the palest of blue eyes, and a ruddy complexion. His full lips were never still, constantly exposing his large white teeth. He was backward, brain-damaged from birth, and in the opinion of some folk who knew his father well, the product of a bad seed. Josiah Dawson had sired three normal children between his periods of incarceration in His Majesty’s prisons, long after Wallace was conceived, and those same folk thought that it was quite likely they were not of his loins. Dolly would have been sorely hurt had she known what they were saying. She had only ever been with one man, and she had suffered his bouts of violence so as to receive the infrequent loving that he had to offer her.
Now, as she sat sewing Leslie’s school trousers, she was feeling optimistic that her man would soon be released from prison. Word had it that many prisoners who were nearing the end of their sentences would be released now that war was inevitable. She awaited news of Josiah and dreamed of a repentant soul who would provide for her and the children, and give her the love she had missed for so long.
A clap of thunder louder than the rest made Dolly jump and she looked over at Wallace. ‘C’mon, lad, it’s time yer was abed,’ she said, nodding her head towards the door.
Wallace put down his comic and unravelled his long legs from the chair. ‘Milk,’ he slurred.
Dolly was used to his simple way of speaking, and she had decided long ago that telling him off for not using courtesies would just confuse him. ‘I’ll bring yer some up,’ she told him.
The storm was abating and Wallace lay awake beneath the bedclothes, his mind concentrating on noises. He heard the front door bolts slide, the sound of clinking glass as the empty milk bottles were placed on the doorstep, then the sound of bolts again. He hear
d the clatter in the scullery, the yard lavatory chain, and the back door bolts slide. The noise he was waiting for was the creaking of the stairs and the sound of the front bedroom door shutting. It was nearly time, he thought as he eased out of the bed and dressed. From the back of his bedroom door he took down a thick, grease-stained overcoat and scarf. One more noise would tell him that it was definitely time. He strained his ears and then he heard it, the sound of the bedsprings creaking in the front bedroom. With animal stealth Wallace let himself out of his room and crossed the landing. He knew that there was one stair which creaked loudly and he stepped over it. The bolts were simple to undo, and in no time he was walking briskly along the wet street listening to his footsteps echoing and the water gurgling down the drains.
It did not take him long to reach the river wall and it was there that he stopped, leaning his arms on the parapet, his eyes searching the darkness for the small tugs and the sea-scarred ships that came and went on the night tide. Here it was peaceful and secluded, and Wallace’s mouth hung open as he saw the large dark outline of the Baltic freighter swinging slowly out into midstream from a point downriver of Tower Bridge. It was quiet tonight, but Wallace was not disappointed. He loved to watch the twinkling lights upriver and the red glow from the smelting works by Galleon’s Reach; the river sounds held him in thrall, the soothing swish of muddy water lapping against the stanchions and the gurgling sound of bubbling mud. Nights like this touched a memory buried deeply in his mind of a time long ago, a Christmas when his mother carried him in her arms and his father was there with them. They had gone to the West End of London, and they stood watching the brilliantly illuminated fountains in Trafalgar Square splaying violet-coloured water into the icy pools. The splashing water shattered the light into spangles of changing colour like tiny glittering gems, rising and cascading endlessly. At that moment everything had been perfect.
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