He could hear the rumble of the Jerry bombers overhead. There must have been dozens of them. The searchlights began to rake the sky and he saw planes unload their bombs, which twisted and turned as they fell, as if they were light as sticks. The thwump, thwump of the ack-ack guns sounded loud and powerful. The barrage balloons, like huge silver fish, shivered on their tethers, and he saw one break loose and collide with some electric wires, bursting into dazzling flames. He had run then, fear propelling him.
Brian rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. His Aunt Eileen had used the word concussed. The Cowans had been concussed by the force of the bomb blast. There was a knitting bag on the floor next to Mrs. Cowan like the kind his gran had, and Mr. Cowan had a newspaper spread across his knees. Brian wondered at what point Mr. Cowan had taken his wife’s hand, and if in those last few moments of life they had known what was happening.
He shoved aside the coverlet and swung his legs out of the bed, realizing he was wearing blue flannel pyjamas that were too large for him – must be his granddad’s. He stood up and walked carefully to the wardrobe where the chamber pot was kept. He hated the fact that he had to use it and leave it for his gran to empty in the outside lavatory, but there was no help for it. He daren’t go outside.
The linoleum was cold beneath his feet and he shivered as he went over to the window and cautiously lifted a corner of the blackout curtain. The clock said it was nine o’clock but it could easily have been late afternoon. Outside, the backyard looked dreary and dank; the sodden bushes along the path drooped. The fog had lifted but its presence lingered in the dampness and the grey feeble light.
He heard the sound of the front door and his aunt calling goodbye to her parents.
He replaced the chamber pot in the wardrobe. Then he went out into the hall. As he was crossing the landing, his gran’s voice came from the bottom of the stairs.
“Bri? Are you up?”
She was standing looking up at him, and her worry came at him like a blow.
“Yes, I’m up, Gran. I’ll be right there.”
“I’ve made you some breakfast. Granddad says you can use his razor if you want to.”
“That’ll be super, thanks.”
He continued on to the bathroom. His image in the mirror was shocking. Deep shadows underneath his eyes, a heavy growth of beard, greasy hair. He shaved quickly and scrubbed at his face with a flannel. His clothes weren’t anywhere to be seen, but there was a striped terry cloth dressing gown hanging on the back of the door that he guessed was for him.
He went downstairs to the living room. His granddad was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper, his foot on a stool. His gran was in the kitchen.
“Morning, Brian,” said Joe. “You’re up earlier than I expected. I thought you’d be sleeping round the clock.”
“I’m a bit too het up at the moment, Granddad. No work today?”
Joe hesitated. “There was a bad accident at the factory yesterday. An explosion in one of the danger sections. We’re closed down for today.”
“Good Lord. Was anybody hurt?”
“I’m afraid so. Three of the girls were killed and two badly injured. Two men hurt as well.”
Brian stared at him. “Not Vanessa. You’d have told me if it was Vanessa, wouldn’t you?”
“Course we would. But you would know one of the girls. Tess Deacon – she lived down the road.”
“Tess! My God, that’s terrible. She was such a sweet kid.”
“She was indeed.” Joe indicated the chair closer to the hearth, where a good fire was burning. “Here, sit yourself down.”
“Does anybody know what happened, Granddad?”
“Not yet. There’ll be an investigation, but it’s dangerous material we’re dealing with. One slip is all it takes.”
His gran came bustling in with a tray, which she put on the table. When she saw Brian’s bare feet, she stopped.
“Oh my goodness, we’ve got to get you some slippers. You’ll catch your death walking around like that. I know how cold it is upstairs. We can’t afford to light the fires up there.”
“I’ll be all right. Granddad was just telling me about the factory.”
Beatrice nodded. “Dreadful thing, simply dreadful. They’ve closed down for today but Eileen has gone in. I wish she hadn’t but you know how she is. She wanted to make sure everything had been cleaned up as could be cleaned up.”
“She had to deal with the mess,” said Joe grimly.
“And then to add to her troubles, I came into the picture,” said Brian.
“Aye, lad. That you did.”
“I’m sorry, Granddad. I didn’t know where else to turn. You know how Vanessa’s parents are about me. And Mum and Dad … well, to tell you the truth” – he tried a chuckle – “you know how Dad is. As a member of His Majesty’s postal service, he would probably feel it was his duty to turn me in.” Brian was afraid he would start to cry. He was aware that his hands were shaking, and he tucked them under his legs.
Joe cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with such emotion. “We had a bit of a talk after you went to sleep, your gran and your aunt Eileen and me. Nobody in this family is going to turn you in, you can be sure of that.”
“Thanks, Granddad.”
“However – and there is a however – we thought it might be better for you in the long run if you did go back.”
Brian burst out, “I can’t, I –”
“Calm down, son, calm down. Fact is, you weren’t on the front line, so they won’t shoot you like they did in my day. You’ll get some time in the glasshouse but at least you won’t be on the run for the duration. And the sooner you return the better.”
“No, Granddad. If they throw you in jail, they make sure you get bad treatment. I know – I’ve heard all about it. They’d probably put me in solitary. I can’t go back.” He jumped up, knocking over the chair. “I understand if you can’t hide me. I can fend for myself if I have to.”
“Don’t be daft, our Brian,” said Beatrice. “You’ll be caught in no time. What’ll you live on?”
“Trust your gran to pick up on the important things,” said Joe calmly. “Come on, sit down, lad. You’re worse than a dog with fleas.”
“Finish your tea, there’s a good boy,” said Beatrice. “Don’t forget it’s rationed nowadays. You can’t waste it.”
“And if you’re not going to eat that toast, I will,” added Joe, pulling the plate towards him.
Brian with some reluctance righted the chair and sat down. His grandfather nibbled on the toast.
“We’ll have to find some way to keep you hidden.”
“Hidden how?” His voice was high and tight.
“We’ve got the room, no problem with that. You can stay in the spare, but there is the question of ration books. We’re going to have to tell your parents. They’ll have to help.”
“What about Dad? Does he have to know?”
Joe continued to munch on the toast. Beatrice had taken the other chair at the table and automatically picked up a piece of mending she’d left there. Repairing one of Joe’s shirts by the look of it.
“If we put the fear of God into Ted he’ll go along with us, I’m sure,” said Joe. “Among the lot of us we should be able to support you.”
Brian frowned. “I notice you didn’t include Vanessa. She is my wife, after all.”
Beatrice lowered her head, concentrating on her sewing. She didn’t say anything, but Brian knew what she was thinking.
Joe answered. “Like you said, son, her parents have never taken to you. Do you think the lassie could keep a secret from them? She’s young, is Vanessa.”
“And a bit on the giddy side, if you don’t mind me saying so,” added Beatrice, unable to resist.
Brian did mind. But he held his response in check. “I was hoping to see her soon,” he said, twisting his fingers around each other.
“I wouldn’t recommend that right now,” said Joe. “Why don’t we
wait a bit? You need to get yourself back on track, mentally and physically. Let’s take it a day at a time.”
“Your granddad has thought of a good hiding place if – if you need it. Tell him, Joe.”
“I was looking at the airing cupboard. I can put in a false back. There’ll be just enough room for you in there. We’ll pile the towels in front and nobody’ll be able to tell.”
“But Granddad” – Brian struggled to keep his voice level – “you know I’ve never been too good with small spaces. Remember the doctor that time said I suffered from what-you-call-it – claustro something or other? How’ll I breathe in there?”
“Air holes. I’ll drill some air holes for you.”
Beatrice put the mending back in her sewing basket and got to her feet. “Look at the time. I must get to the shops while there’s still something left on the shelves. Your granddad is going to drop in at the hospital.”
Brian caught her hand. “Gran, I had a bottle of pills in my pocket. They’re good for the nerves. Do you know where they are?”
“No, I don’t. I put all your washable clothes in the copper – they had a terrible pong. I didn’t see any pills. Eileen must have put them somewhere.”
“When will she be home?”
“Four-ish. But she’s going to fetch your mum and dad and we’ll have a family talk tonight.”
“How are you going to get them over here without them wondering what’s up? Dad’s sure to be suspicious.”
“Eileen will tell them it’s a surprise birthday party for your gran,” said Joe.
Brian slapped his hand on his forehead. “Oh Gran. How could I forget? Many happy returns of the day.”
“Thank you, Brian. And don’t fret about not remembering. When you get to my age, you want everybody to forget, especially yourself. We won’t be more than an hour. Will you be all right?”
“Course I will, Gran. Be careful how you go. Don’t bump into a bloody lamppost.”
“Watch your language in front of your grandmother,” said Joe.
Brian hadn’t even realized he’d uttered a rude word. Swearing was so commonplace among army lads.
“Sorry, Gran.”
“I’ve heard worse,” she said with a smile.
“You should lock the door behind us,” said Joe. “You don’t want anybody wandering in. We’ve always kept an open hearth, as you know, and Mrs. Swann drops in regularly. She’s a good old soul but she’s always wanting us to contribute to some cause or other. The latest is the Peace Pledge Union. Better if she doesn’t see you.”
“I’ll knock when I get back,” said Beatrice. She hesitated. “Perhaps we should have a signal. Three knocks means it’s one of us.”
“Good.”
“You should stay upstairs,” said Joe. “Keep the curtains drawn. We’ve got good neighbours, so they’re likely to come over to warn us if they see a light shining.”
“I’ll be careful.”
He was twitching with agitation, finding their slowness unbearable.
Joe wrapped a muffler around his neck and put his cap on. Beatrice had to trot back to the kitchen to get her shopping bag, then she couldn’t find her gloves. Brian wanted to scream but he clamped his jaw tightly and stayed in the chair.
Finally they were gone.
Alf was right about the breakfast at the station being nothing to write home about, and Tyler saw no reason to linger. The fog had mostly dispersed but the sky was grey and lowering, the air chill. Leafless, bedraggled trees drooped and dripped moisture onto the slick pavements. There were few people on the streets.
When he’d worked in Birmingham previously, Endicott’s had been making sporting guns for the gentry. However, even this early in the war, the War Office was commandeering every factory it could find that could convert its machines relatively easily to munitions work.
The original owner, unlike many Victorian manufacturers with pretensions, had made no attempt to prettify the building. The factory was dull brick, low and square, no folderols, no grand entrance. It was situated at the end of a cul-de-sac among equally plain small businesses and cheek-by-jowl rundown houses.
Tyler showed his identity card to the guard, a wizened man whose red-tipped nose was holding on to a drop of mucus. He was wearing some kind of dated gatekeeper’s uniform that didn’t look warm enough. He greeted Tyler with some enthusiasm.
“Morning, Inspector. We were told to expect you. Get this thing sorted out. Everybody wants to get on with work. We can’t let the Boche get a lead on us, can we.”
“Indeed not.”
“I’ve had instructions from Mr. Cudmore to tell you he’ll be waiting inside. Just go along to those double doors.”
Tyler entered the lobby. A large clock with its unforgiving stamper dominated one side and there was a glassed-in cloakroom on the other. Only the fine wooden floor and the bevelled glass of the cloakroom gave any indication of the previous age.
The double doors the guard had referred to opened directly onto the factory floor, which held about a dozen machines. A conveyor belt circled the area.
A flight of stairs to his left led up to another glassed-in section, this one contemporary. He could see the tops of tea urns. The canteen, presumably. The rest of the section seemed to be offices. Suddenly he had a brief glimpse of a portly, bald-headed man watching him from the window. As soon as he realized Tyler was looking in his direction he jumped back. At the same time another man, small and neat, in a dark suit, came hurrying down the stairs and trotted towards Tyler, his hand outstretched.
“Good morning, Inspector. I’m Lester Cudmore, Mr. Endicott’s secretary. Mr. Endicott sends his sincerest regrets, but he is unable to attend to you at the moment. He has had to leave on other urgent business. He asked me to act in his stead and to make sure you have everything you need.”
He covers his employer’s tracks very well, thought Tyler. The disappearing man had to be Endicott, a man who, according to Alf, avoided trouble like the plague.
“May I offer you a cup of tea? It’s a blamed dismal morning.”
“Perhaps later. I’d like to get right down to it.”
“Of course. Let me show you where you can work while you are here.” He indicated an area that had been partitioned off underneath the stairs. “I do apologize for its smallness but I’m afraid that’s all we could do at such short notice.”
He opened the door. Tyler had seen larger pantries. There was a table shoved against the wall and two straight-backed chairs. A coat tree. A poster from the War Ministry exhorting everybody to buy war bonds was pinned to the door. That was it.
“I’ll hang your coat and hat, shall I, sir?”
Tyler handed them over and waited, looking over the deserted factory floor while Cudmore hung up his things. He probably would have brushed them down, given half a chance.
The secretary came out of the pantry. “I have made myself available if you need me, sir. I am a competent shorthand typist, if you have need of that also.” He tapped his coat pocket. “I have a complete list for you of all of Endicott’s employees. All those who were present yesterday are in red ink. I have indicated beside each name which shift they were on, where they were working at the time, and so forth.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cudmore. Very, er, competent.”
The secretary turned pink. He was probably in his late fifties and his face was deeply seamed, as if he’d shouldered too much responsibility from an early age. Everything about him was neat: his smooth, sparse blond hair, his dark, conservative suit and tie. He put Tyler in mind of an undertaker, an impression accentuated by the black arm band he was wearing. But his eyes were shrewd and there was something about him that Tyler liked.
“Where would you like to begin, sir?”
“Perhaps you can explain the usual working procedures first. What happens here on the floor, for instance?”
“This area is where the shell casings are calibrated and buffed. Probably doesn’t look like much compared to the big
factories, but we keep three shifts running seven days a week. We do our bit.”
“The casings are made elsewhere, I presume.”
“That’s right. They’re delivered to the loading dock that you can see in that far left-hand corner. From there the crates are placed on the conveyor belt and carried to each operative. When their particular task is complete, the crates are again put on the conveyor belt and, er, conveyed to the far end. From whence they are all taken to the next stop, which is Section A.”
“Keeps everybody busy, I imagine,” said Tyler.
“Most of the time, things run along smoothly,” said Cudmore with a quick nod. “If anybody does slack off on their part of the job or a machine malfunctions, there is a log jam, of course. Tempers can get a bit frayed when that happens, but I do have to say, Inspector, our workers are for the most part hard-working and conscientious. We’re fortunate.” He glanced at Tyler. “I do let them know whenever I can. People appreciate a good word now and then, don’t you think?”
“I certainly do.” Actually, Tyler thought, he himself could do better in that department with his own constables. He should keep it in mind.
“This is not a dangerous area as such,” continued Cudmore, “but all workers, even the office staff, are expected to leave any contraband in the cloakrooms when they clock in. That is, cigarettes, matches, lighters, and so forth.”
“And do they?”
“I would say so. Everybody is aware of the necessity for these rules.”
“Could something get by?”
The secretary frowned. “It isn’t likely but I suppose not utterly impossible. Young women being what they are, the supervisor has to keep a close eye on them. Unimportant things to their minds – a hair grip, a piece of jewellery – but potentially dangerous if they work in the danger sections. Anything metal that might create a spark has to be excluded.”
“Have you ever had an accident on this floor?”
Beware This Boy Page 6