by Andy Conway
And now he was back, calling at her door, begging to see her again.
And Constable Davies couldn’t even tell her his first name.
She rushed out to the back yard and yanked the tin lid off the dustbin with a clank.
An envelope sat on top of loose potato peelings, crumpled newspapers and jagged tin cans.
An envelope with her name on it.
— 24 —
CHARLIE HURTLED THROUGH the side door at the Prince of Wales exactly on the dot, give or take twenty seconds. With relief, he lifted the flap and was about to go through to the front bar when he saw Mr Hollis on the stairs.
“Charles. Could you come upstairs, please.”
He watched Mr Hollis walk back to his parlour and cursed himself under his breath.
Stupid. He’d pushed it too far. Spent too much time planning this concert and even using the snug as an office, and now he was going to get the sack for being a minute late.
He trudged up the dim stairs and walked into the parlour and was surprised to find a policeman sitting with Mr Hollis.
“Charles. This is Constable Davies, whom I hear you’ve met recently.”
The light through the window fell on Mr Hollis’s spectacles so it was impossible to read his expression. But as there was no chair for him, and Mr Hollis had made no indication that he should sit with them, it was unlikely that his boss was in the best of moods.
Mr Hollis held up an envelope. “We’ve received this today. I wondered if you might know anything about it.”
Charlie read the letter, scanning the words, a lump rising in his throat. It was written in a barely legible scrawl, full of spelling errors. A page of threats and vitriol.
“I see,” said Charlie.
He was aware that Rachel and Henry were about to call to start work in the snug, and was hoping that Constable Davies wouldn’t bump into her. Rachel had seemed quite keen that he shouldn’t see her because of some future meeting they would have.
“Do you know what it is, Charles?”
“I think I do, Mr Hollis. It looks like a threat to burn down the Prince of Wales if we proceed with the concert on Saturday.”
“Ah,” said Mr Hollis. “I rather hoped it wouldn’t be about that.”
He took the letter back and handed it to Constable Davies. The policeman was finding it rather difficult to hide the smug grin on his face.
“Quite serious, I’m sure you’ll agree, officer.”
“Very serious, sir.”
“So what are we going to do about it, eh?”
Davies puffed his chest out and appeared to be about to make a speech out of it. “Well, sir, if I might suggest that this concert, which I know is being organized by Mr Eckersley here, is immediately cancelled. I think the problem might go away.”
“I’m sure it would,” said Mr Hollis.
Charlie felt his blood boiling. Don’t let them stamp you down. Fight them back. Put the concert on and to hell with them. If it had happened a day earlier he would have been scared. It had been difficult enough to get the job, and it had kept him from falling into the abyss of unemployment, but now he had winnings to collect and a guarantee of more to come.
“Now. Is it true you’ve been arrested for brawling in the street, Charles?”
“No, it’s not true, Mr Hollis. We were putting up posters for the concert when we were attacked by a group of Blackshirts. The same men who sent this, I’ll bet.”
“But you were arrested?”
“Constable Davies did take myself and my colleague, Henry Curtis, into custody for the night.”
“Standard procedure with a street brawl,” said Davies. “Especially outside a public house.”
“I don’t like the sound of this at all, Charles.”
“We were not charged. I’m sure Constable Davies can confirm that?”
Davies shifted uncomfortably. “Well, that is true, no charge as such, but—”
“As we hadn’t done anything wrong,” Charlie continued, “other than raise the ire of some unsavoury characters who, quite frankly, object to us staging a harmless musical concert because they don’t like the nationalities of the performers.”
Mr Hollis looked back at Davies, and Charlie sensed that the inquisition had swung in his favour.
“So he wasn’t actually charged with any offence, Constable?”
“No, sir. Not as such.”
“Well, this won’t do. This won’t do at all.”
“No sir,” said Davies, brightening up. “I’m sure it won’t.”
“You’re bloody well right it won’t.”
Davies’ mouth fell open. So did Charlie’s. He’d never heard Mr Hollis swear before.
“I tell you what I’m going to do now, Constable Davies. I’m going to lodge a very firm complaint with your station sergeant.”
Davies’ face turned a light shade of purple.
“I’m going to tell him that I take a very dim view of my staff and I being threatened by two bob bullies while going about our lawful business. And if I hear of any further occurrences where this happens and they walk away scot free, while my man here gets locked up for the night, I’ll be writing a very strongly worded letter to my friend, the mayor.”
Mr Hollis stood up.
Davies jumped from his chair as if he’d been electrocuted.
“I’ll be along to the station later to make a statement,” said Mr Hollis, snatching the letter from Davies’ hand. “And I shall expect some serious effort to be expended in tracing the culprits responsible for this filth.”
“Yes sir. Of course, sir.”
“Now thank you for your time.”
Davies plonked his helmet back on and headed down the stairs.
Charlie cringed and rushed to follow. Don’t let Rachel be down there.
“Just a moment, Charles.”
Mr Hollis waited for Davies’ boots to clump down the stairs and the side door to slam shut before he turned to Charlie, anger blazing in his eyes.
“Charles, I’d just like you to know that if you need anything from me, anything at all, in connection with this concert. You just ask. That’s all.”
“Why, thank you, Mr Hollis. You’ve been very generous already, letting us use the snug.”
“If you need money to make sure it happens, anything.”
He was taken aback by the old man’s ferocity. “That’s incredibly generous, sir.”
Mr Hollis nodded, dismissing him. “I can’t abide bullies, Charles. You can’t ever give in to those vermin.”
“No sir.”
He hesitated at the door, not sure if he should leave or not.
“And those Blackshirts give me the creeps. I saw enough of their sort during the General Strike. Bloody bullies and vermin, the lot of them. They’ll not win this time.”
Mr Hollis had almost screwed the letter up, his fists white with rage. He came to himself and smoothed it out, placing it on the sideboard.
“Thank you, Mr Hollis.”
Charlie left him and skipped down the stairs, looking for Rachel.
— 25 —
RACHEL HAD HER HAND on the brass door handle, about to push and enter the pub, when it flew from her grasp and a policeman barged out, shoving her aside.
He snarled a ‘Sorry’ that was more growl than apology and stormed off.
She watched him duck out of sight and felt her heart thumping in her throat. Constable Davies. If he’d stopped to apologize he’d have seen her. Then he would surely have recognized her again when she met him in 1940.
Or perhaps he wouldn’t. Just a random girl he’d bumped into six years ago. Would you remember that? No one would.
And perhaps it didn’t matter what she did and whether he saw her or not. The fact was that in 1940 he’d not recognized her from any previous time, and that meant that he wouldn’t have any meaningful interaction with her now in 1934.
But the past can change. It changed for you. It wiped out your whole life.
She walked into the pub. No one seemed to be around. She stood awkwardly in the T-junction of the back corridor. Voices upstairs.
Someone came skipping down the stairs. Charlie. He was grinning ear to ear. He took her arm and led her into the snug.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“Something wonderful just happened,” he said. “Old Hollis gave Constable Davies a rollicking. He’s backing us to the hilt over the concert and wants the police to investigate the Blackshirt threats.”
“Threats?”
“Oh, yes.”
The door opened and Henry walked in with a bulging briefcase under one arm and a wreath in the other. He plonked the wreath on the table.
“What’s that?” asked Charlie.
“It was on my front door this morning.”
Rachel looked at Charlie. He didn’t seem to understand it either.
“It’s a wreath,” said Henry, handing them a postcard. “There was a card attached, addressed to Jew Henry. Not quite the valentine I had in mind from dear old Julie Hickman but there you go.”
Charlie read the card and his smile melted. He passed it to Rachel.
We are the coming storm.
“I don’t get it,” she said.
“Another threat,” said Charlie. “They wrote to Mr Hollis here too. Threatened to burn the Prince down if the concert went ahead.”
“They’re all hot air,” laughed Henry. “All dressing up and marching and puffing out their chests. They won’t see out any of their threats.”
Rachel shook her head. “You don’t understand what they’re capable of, Henry.”
He wouldn’t, of course. Even though he was Jewish. Everyone in Europe was trying to believe there wasn’t a coming storm, and they would go right on believing it until it blew their houses down.
Charlie looked at her with wonder. He knew now that she was pretty much an expert on what the future would bring and he could clearly see the fear in her.
“We’re not cancelling the concert,” said Henry.
“Good God, no,” said Charlie.
“Never,” said Rachel. “But we do need to be prepared for them, because they will try to hit us hard, and they are very dangerous people.” She gave the card to Charlie. “You should give this to the police as well. And tell them we know who’s behind it all.”
It was only when she said it that she thought of Danny, hiding away in that hotel. Was he the one behind it? Go to him. Go to him now and confront him with it.
“Ah, the police don’t care,” said Henry, slumping into a chair and digging out a ledger from his briefcase. “They’ll line up alongside the Blackshirts every time.”
Rachel took stacks of handbills and sorted them into neat blocks ready for the distributors to collect. She decided she would slip away to confront Danny at the first opportunity.
“That may be so,” said Charlie. “But Mr Hollis is right. You have to complain about their bullying and force the police to take action against them. Force them to apply the law.” He checked his wristwatch and noticed a face appear at the glazed door. “They’re here.”
A skinny teenager entered, wearing a shabby suit, holes in his shoes, shoulders hunched trying to make himself as small as possible.
“Take a seat,” Rachel said, smiling kindly. “We’ll be as quick as we can.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he muttered.
It nearly cracked her heart in two. These men, so young, so broken. She knew there were millions of them. A generation on the skids. Poor, hungry, desperate.
Henry took a pen and ink bottle from his briefcase and wrote down in his ledger the names of them all and the amounts they were paying them.
Charlie went to prepare the bar for the day. More men arrived and sat awkwardly, waiting to be given handbills and a few coins that changed their entire world. Their clothes were damp and musty.
Mr Hollis walked in and stopped short, surprised at the crowd of people in there.
The men all stood up, as if he were a minor royal.
“Good day, Mr Hollis,” said Henry. “We’re just giving these men their handbills to distribute and then they’ll be on their way.”
Mr Hollis stared at the sorry band of humanity cluttering his snug and seemed appalled. “Charles!” he called.
Charlie came through. “Mr Hollis?”
“This won’t do at all,” he said.
“No sir. Of course not.”
“These men are in no fit state to go tramping the streets of Birmingham,” said Mr Hollis. “Serve every man a pint of bitter. And get round to Luker’s and buy a couple of loaves.”
“Yes sir,” said Charlie, beaming.
Mr Hollis turned and addressed the band of now smiling men. “I don’t have any proper food at the moment, gentlemen,” he said. “But tomorrow — they will be working again tomorrow, Charles?”
“Yes sir. And Saturday morning, too.”
“Good. I’ll make sure there’s hot soup for you to send you on your way tomorrow and Saturday. And a beer. And the same when you return. In fact, are they returning today?”
“The men are paid in the morning and again when they return and tell us where they’ve distributed the handbills, Mr Hollis.”
“Then I’ll make sure there’s soup for you all when you come back today.”
The men chorused a hearty, “Thank you, sir!”
“And thank you,” said Mr Hollis. “You just make sure you get lots of people to come to this concert.”
Rachel offered to get the shopping, and Mr Hollis told her to buy four loaves from Lukers, and root vegetables and a chicken from Shufflebothams.
“I’ve got some jam and butter upstairs they can have with the bread. But for now let’s pour those beers.”
He walked out to the front bar with Charlie, leaving a room full of humanity.
Rachel put her coat on. Danny would have to wait until the men had gone and she could slip away.
— 26 —
ONCE SHE’D RETURNED with the shopping and the men had drunk their beer, wolfed their bread and jam, and set out with their handbills, each man grinning, Rachel made her move.
She left Charlie running the bar and looking forward to the call of Bernie Powell with his winnings. Henry set off to the printers to get more handbills and Mrs Hollis was making a giant pot of chicken soup in the pub kitchen.
Everyone was too busy to ask where she was going and she didn’t volunteer the information, just put her coat and hat on and announced she’d be back in a mo.
She walked through the village, wondering how Mrs Hudson, Mitch and Kath were getting on with their half of the mission. When they’d left her to make sure the concert happened come what may, she felt she’d been given the house to tidy while everyone went on an adventure, but now she was worried the whole thing might be beyond her and had several times wondered where the hell they were.
She found the Alcester Lodge Hotel, its white painted frontage promising and failing to deliver seaside air and candy floss.
She walked into the dull reception area and found no one there. She waited a while, taking in the shabby chintz pallor of it, before noticing the brass bell.
An old woman came through and seemed surprised to see her. Suspicious even.
No, not old. She was young. As young as Rachel even. She just dressed like a grandmother.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Mr Pearce.”
“Mr Pearce?”
Was he using a pseudonym? Perhaps she’d simply have to wait outside and hope he eventually showed his face. “Yes. Mr Pearce. He is staying here, isn’t he?”
Sheila Sutton stared at her for a while, as if she’d asked her something in Greek. Then she made a show of consulting the register. “Yes, Mr Pearce,” she said.
She stared again.
Rachel pointed at the stairs. “Which room?”
Sheila Sutton’s mouth fell open with shock. “I’m afraid we do not allow our guests to h
ost women in their rooms.”
She said women the way someone in 2013 would say pigs.
“Could you call him then?”
“And whom shall I say is calling?”
Again with the implied disgust. Rachel felt her fingers itching to slap her. “Tell him Miss Hines is here to talk to him. Miss Rachel Hines.”
“Wait through there. In the guest bar.”
The young-old woman stuck her nose in the air and let it lead her to the stairs. It looked like an invisible farmer was pulling her to market.
Once she was alone, Rachel gazed at the keys hanging behind the tiny reception desk. Only one was missing. She turned the ledger and read Danny’s signature, checked the dates. He was the only guest in the hotel.
She wandered through to the guest bar, which looked like someone’s front room: a sofa, a few easy chairs, a couple of coffee tables and a ghastly stand-up cocktail bar in one corner: the type people bought at junk shops when they wanted their home to have a kitsch, ironic feel.
She wondered why anyone would come to stay at a hotel like this, in Moseley, and choose to drink here instead of any of the pubs in the village.
Someone who’s hiding.
“I wondered when you’d show up.”
Danny looked every bit the 1930s chap, even down to the hungry, haunted look she’d seen on most of the men this morning. He looked like he hadn’t slept much. Like he was on the run. Like he wanted to look over his shoulder every few seconds.
“I was going to say the same,” she said. “Except I saw you arrive.”
“Are you sure you didn’t follow me here? You seem to do that a lot.”
“It’s not all about you, Danny. I was here first. Then you showed up. Then everything started to go wrong. As usual.”
He smirked and went to the window, peered out. “Isn’t that strange. How people who have it in for you always think they’re the victims?”
“I am the victim, Danny. I lost everything. Because of you.”
He chuckled. “You seem to be quite happy. You and your friend Charlie. Quite busy. Quite relentless in your attempts to poke your noses into my business.”
“I’m trying to get my life back, Danny.”