by Andy Conway
They banged their fists on the table but no one else in the room seemed concerned that they might fight.
“It’s not often we’re honoured with Henry’s presence,” said Manny. “Now that he’s one of the upper class Moseley Jews, not the genuine ghetto Jews from here.”
“Pah! I live in Kings Heath. And I was here on Sunday.”
They were kind of acting up for her, performing a comedy double act. Manny ordered a bottle of pálinka and three glasses and they sat at a table. Rachel was worried the chair would break under him.
“Great boxer,” said Henry, as if reading her thoughts. “I keep asking him to make a return to the ring, with me as his able manager, of course. But he won’t listen.”
“Easy for him to say. He’s not the one getting punched in the head.” Manny tapped his temple. “I have a brain to protect.”
“Listen to him,” Henry tutted.
An old woman brought what looked like a slim bottle of water to their table with three shot glasses.
Manny poured. “I have intellectual pursuits,” he said. “I’m taking courses in management and accountancy. I want to be the guy counting the money at the end of the night, not the guy being bandaged up.”
He raised his shot glass. So did Henry. Rachel dutifully followed.
“Egészségedre,” said Henry.
“L’Chayim,” said Manny.
“Bottoms up,” said Rachel.
The two men knocked it back so Rachel did the same. There was a moment of nothing, and then it was as if someone had fired a flamethrower into her open mouth. She coughed, choked, eyes watering.
Henry and Manny chuckled. Many poured another round.
“Be that as it may,” said Henry, resuming the conversation. “It’s your muscle we’re interested in regarding a certain event this Saturday.”
“You want me on your door for Benny Orphan? That’s a disappointment. I was rather hoping to be on the dance floor with a handful of warm girl. No offence there.”
Rachel smiled through the pain. It was cute what men thought might be offensive here.
“Might be a little more than just you working the door,” said Henry.
“Oh really?”
“The event has come to the attention of our friends in the B.U.F.”
“Blackshirts?”
“We got into a disagreement with them last night while putting posters up.”
“And you think they might take that disagreement to the dance floor?”
“It’s a possibility.”
Manny nodded and thought about it. “You’ll need five on the door, and another five or more inside just in case they get past the door and start trouble inside. That’s ten men for the night. Including me.”
“We can afford ten,” said Henry confidently.
“And tuxedo hire. Make them look non-threatening for your more discerning clientele.”
Rachel looked to Henry.
“I’ll have a word with Rosen. He’ll do us a deal.”
Manny named a figure. Henry accepted it and the two men shook hands. They raised their glasses again. Rachel joined them, knocked it back and tried not to cough this time as the fire hit her throat. It was now warming her whole face and she was worried she looked like a traffic light, the red about to turn to yellow and then green.
“You know Jimmy Connor?” said Manny.
“Of course,” Henry smiled. “Another suburbanite Jew who’s deserted the stetl.”
Manny laughed. “I was forgetting. Another Hunk like you.”
Henry translated for Rachel’s benefit. “Jimmy Connor would be known as János Konrád back home. Family from Debrecen, Hungary, like mine. But he was born here. Total Brit.”
“He knows all about the Blackshirts out your way. He can give you names.”
“What’s he doing? Spying on them?”
Manny chuckled again. “Turns out there’s one in the factory he works. Braddock’s is it? Whatever. Anyway, there’s some young kid, Harold something, works there and never stops blabbing about Oswald Mosley this, the Jews that. Course, he doesn’t know Jimmy’s a Jew. And Jimmy never lets on, just lets him talk away.”
“Why doesn’t he punch him on the nose?”
“Keep your enemies closer.”
“I think this Harold was there last night,” said Rachel.
“Oh, the ferret-faced wretch,” said Henry, remembering. “He was called Harold?”
“I heard someone say his name. Makes sense.”
“Well, there you go,” said Manny. “If anyone knows their plans it’ll be Jimmy. Harold the Ferret’s probably told him everything already. He’s practically our hotline to Blackshirt central office.”
The two men laughed again and Manny set up another round. Rachel went along with it again but almost cheered when Henry suggested they stop drinking pálinka and have a meal.
— 22 —
WHEN THEY GOT BACK to Moseley and Charlie came home, he suggested they move their operation to the Prince of Wales. He’d asked Mr Hollis if it was fine and the old man had said yes. He didn’t mind him turning the snug into an office during the quiet hours. A couple of free tickets to see Benny Orphan had lubricated the deal.
So the following mid-morning, Henry and Rachel sat in the snug and plotted the publicity campaign while Charlie saw to the running of the pub.
They had stacks of handbills and a variety of young men in suits called in to collect them, Henry paying them with coins. Rachel noticed they all looked rather smart until you checked their shoes and saw how much the heels were worn down. Some even had split soles. They were all grateful for the money and walked out with stacks of handbills and a spring in their step.
“We should make a press release for the Birmingham Post,” said Rachel.
Charlie and Henry looked at her, puzzled.
“It’s a news story. Benny Orphan’s a famous crooner. Lester’s band are a big novelty. They’ll write a story about it, surely?”
“I like the way this girl thinks!” cried Henry, jumping up and kissing her. “You’ve found a real gem here, Charlie.”
She blushed and shoved him away. “You’d better write it, Henry,” she said. “I’d get it all wrong with my Americanisms.”
He took out a fountain pen and started jotting in a notebook. Charlie went back to the front bar. Rachel suggested a few phrases but left most of it to Henry, sensing that the tone of a press release in 1934 would be much less zippy than one in 2013.
Charlie popped his head in a little later and indicated Rachel should come through. She left Henry writing and joined Charlie in the back corridor at the bottom of the stairs.
“What is it?”
“The chap I told you about — the one who takes bets. He’s here.”
He nodded his head towards the front bar. Rachel peered through to the sunlit bar and ducked away.
He hadn’t seen her.
“What?” said Charlie, puzzled.
“That’s Bernie Powell,” she said.
“How do you know that?”
“Let’s just say we’re going to meet one day.”
She gripped Charlie’s arm and huddled in the shadows where he wouldn’t see her. “He’s dangerous, Charlie,” she whispered.
“What? Bernie? He’s harmless. He’s just a bloke who takes bets.”
“He’s going to be dangerous. One day.”
“Really?”
It sounded like Bernie Powell was the nicest man in Moseley. But she knew he would one day turn into the kind of man who’d threaten to slice up her face. She wondered how it would happen: how he would change from a harmless bloke in the pub with a sideline in dodgy bets, to the most powerful gangster in the city by 1966. She shivered all over. He quite literally made her flesh crawl.
“Go on, then. Ask him. I’ll get the money. But don’t let him see me.”
Charlie nodded and lifted the flap up to the front bar. Rachel scooted into the snug and collected her purse. Henry was still writing in his note
book, tongue sticking out. She went back out and stood against the wall, listening to the conversation in the bar.
“Only there’s a little wager I’m interested in. Tonight’s games.”
“Your money’s good with me, Charlie.” Bernie’s voice, only thinner, weedier. “Who’ve you got to win?”
“Not wins,” said Charlie. “Results.”
“Results?”
“Both games to finish 4-1 to the home teams.”
There was a pause and then a little laugh. “No chance. Never happen.”
“So you’d give me good odds, then?” She could hear Charlie’s cheeky smile.
“Funny kind of bet. You ain’t got some insider tip have you?”
She heard Charlie laugh it off and then say almost with embarrassment, “I had a dream.”
Another laugh from Bernie: louder, rounder. “A dream, eh? Go on, then. I’ll take your money.”
“Let me just get my wallet.”
Charlie came through the flap and was surprised to see her there. She shoved a note into his palm and pulled him close, whispering.
“Change your bet. Get one of them wrong.”
“Why?”
“You’re going to sting some people who could one day turn very nasty. Don’t sting them for too much. Always make them think you’re just a regular loser who occasionally hits a big one.”
Charlie thought about it, looked at the crumpled note in his hand, nodded.
He lifted the flap and walked back in. “Here you are,” he said.
“Blimey, Charlie. That’s a big stake. You ever dreamed right before?” Bernie was laughing, but it was a nervous laugh.
“That’s what I’m worried about,” said Charlie. “Tell you what. Give me Accrington and Rotherham. Both to win 4-1. Separate bets though.”
“You said both home wins.”
“I know, but I fancy Rotherham to beat Darlington.”
“Never happen, mate.”
“You’ll give me good odds then, won’t you?”
“Go on then. Fool and his money and all that.”
Rachel walked back into the snug. It was quite possible that Bernie Powell had seen her back but he would never remember her, not by the time he met her face to face in 1966.
She sat by Henry, looking pleased with himself, and tried to smile encouragingly, but she felt sick inside.
She had just set in motion a massive con on the city’s illegal bookies. They’d threatened to kill them all in 1966 when they were legal.
What would they do now?
— 23 —
AMY PARKER OPENED HER front door and looked up and down Newport Street. She quailed, scared to walk to the gate and step into the street. It wasn’t the fact that the ghost of Danny Pearce might materialize before her. It was much more mundane than that. She felt scared because she had taken two days off work and thought it would look bad if she was seen strolling about on her own two feet.
It wasn’t right that your employers might not accept that you could be ill without being bedridden; that sometimes illness was inside your head. But there were plenty of other women who could type and would gladly take her seat at the police station. That was the fact of the matter.
She shouldn’t be out there. But she had to know.
She shuffled up Newport Road and turned into Kingswood. Only a short walk. No one would see her. It was almost dark already. She reached the house and rang the bell.
Little Amy answered and was surprised to see her. “Hello Auntie Amy. My mum’s out.”
“That’s all right. It was you I wanted to talk to.”
“Me?”
It was the strangest thing in the world to call on a teenage girl. But not as strange as seeing ghosts.
“Can I come in, please?”
Little Amy remembered her manners and showed her through to the parlour, the spotless front room that was only ever used for guests. Little Amy sat awkwardly on the edge of the sofa as if she had no right to be in this room. Amy wondered if it was the first time someone had ever called just for her.
She looked her over: a teenage girl, much like she’d been herself when Danny Pearce, her own personal ghost, had appeared in her life. “I wanted to talk to you about Sunday,” said Amy. “About what happened.”
Little Amy squirmed and looked at the carpet.
“About this man you saw.”
“I don’t want to go back to that house. There’s something not right about it. A feeling I get.”
“Are you sure you’re not imagining it?”
Little Amy looked up. She seemed to sense that Amy was not just another adult who would dismiss it as her over-active imagination, despite what she’d just said.
“I know what I saw.”
Amy nodded. “Yes. I’m sure you do.”
A part of her had hoped the girl would deny it all. She felt as if she’d dived in to save Amy from drowning, and was now being pulled under with her.
“Still. I’m sure if you go again you’ll be fine and you won’t see any strange men.”
“Why?”
Amy shrugged. She had no answer. “Let’s go to the concert on Saturday night,” she said with sudden optimism. “You can dance with Harold. Let’s just see what happens there.”
Little Amy smiled and her eyes lit up, more at the thought of the concert than of Harold, it had to be said.
“Do you like Harold?” Amy asked.
Little Amy bit her lip. “He’s a nice chap, I suppose.”
Amy nodded. “Yes. He is.”
Neither of them really believed it, but it seemed the right thing to say. Some unseen force was drawing them together till they collided in a church aisle and it seemed no one could stop it.
“The thing about Harold,” said Amy, “is he’s real.” She stood up suddenly. She had to get back before anyone saw her. “I’ll let you go,” she said. “If you want to come round and talk to me about what dress you want to wear, feel free.”
Little Amy smiled and led her to the door.
Amy turned on the doorstep and squeezed Little Amy’s arm. “I believe you,” she said.
She marched off and was round the corner quickly, wondering if she was the best person to be offering Little Amy support at the moment. She was quite possibly the worst person, seeing as she was clearly insane herself.
She looked up and her heart skipped a beat. There was a policeman at her door. He turned and saw her.
Constable Davies.
She cursed herself. Caught out.
Harold was at his door too. He said something to Davies and retreated inside. Had he told him about Danny’s calling? And if Harold had truly seen him, it meant that she wasn’t mad after all. It meant that the Danny who had called at the door was real. Not a ghost.
Davies shuffled on the doorstep, took his helmet off and tucked it under his arm, seemed sheepish.
“Hello, Amy,” he said. “Just called to see how you were.”
“I’ll be back in work tomorrow.”
She opened the door. He was right next to her. Almost touching. The door flew open and she was down the hall, taking her coat off and hanging it on the mahogany stand.
“Come in.”
He looked at his boots as he crossed the threshold and she knew this was going to be agonising. Still she said, “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“No, no, no. This is just a fleeting call. I really don’t want to impose.”
She led him into the parlour.
He took an armchair seat across from her. He was sweating. “I didn’t mean to impose,” he said. “I thought I would call by and enquire after your health.”
He was talking like he was writing a police report for her to type. And he still hadn’t looked at her.
“I’ve been... well, just a little under the weather. I’m on the mend now.”
“You do look awful. That is... I mean ill. You look like you’ve been ill.”
“It’s fine,” she said, as gently as she could
.
“Your neighbour. He said you’d had some... bother. A caller.”
She breathed out and a landslide of worry avalanched from her shoulders. Harold had seen Danny Pearce at the door. And if Harold had seen Danny that meant he wasn’t a ghost. He was real. She wasn’t insane.
“Are you all right?” He half raised himself from the armchair, wondering if he should come to her aid.
She waved him back and couldn’t hide her smile. “I’m absolutely fine. I’m so much better in fact. As you can see.”
He smiled himself, although he couldn’t know why.
“It was just someone I knew a long time ago. I didn’t want to see him again.”
“Is he giving you trouble?”
“Not at all. Everything’s fine. I was ill and didn’t really want to answer the door.”
“Oh. I see. Because if he was, I’d...’ He stared at his boots some more. This was the moment he should kiss her, confess his feelings for her.
“You don’t need to do anything, Constable Davies.”
“You needn’t call me that,” he said. “Well, outside of the station.”
“And what should I call you?”
“Well, my name.”
“I don’t know it. You’ve never told me.”
“Oh. No. I haven’t.”
He seemed to want to say something, swallowed a thought, shrugged his shoulders. It was as if he was talking to himself. Talking to himself, instead of to her.
“Very well,” he said, as if in answer to something she’d said. He bristled and nodded and stood up suddenly. “I’ll be on my way.”
He walked out and she followed him down the hall, held the door open for him, watched him clumsily put his helmet back on.
“I shall see you tomorrow, Miss Parker.”
He saluted, then clenched his fist, and blushed and marched down the street.
She closed the door and held it shut for a long time, in case he might come back.
He was a coward.
She thought now of how Danny Pearce had pursued her. Climbed to her window, demanded to see her, begged her to run away with him somewhere safe. But her father had discovered them. Danny had fought him. Danny had protected her. Danny had thrown himself in front of a tram to save her.