Beware This Boy

by Maureen Jennings

  The moonlight was bathing the houses, softening the shabbiness of this stretch of road. Number 220 was a narrow, tall Victorian house squeezed in between two newer houses. He knocked on the door, and after a long time it was opened by Mary Ringwald-Brown herself.

  She looked the way she had when Tyler had first encountered her at the hospital, a woman under duress. She was dishevelled, her print frock unironed. However, when she saw who it was, her expression immediately became guarded and hard. “Inspector Tyler. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m just following up on a few matters to do with the explosion at the factory. Do you mind if I come in?”

  She hesitated. “I’m, er, I’m expecting guests.”

  “Nice. I won’t keep you.”

  She glanced over his shoulder, then stepped back so he could enter.

  “I’m on the third floor. I hope you don’t mind stairs.”

  “Good exercise.”

  She led the way up the dingy staircase. At the second landing, a door opened a crack and Tyler glimpsed a beady eye looking out.

  “It’s all right, Mr. Merrick. Just the meter man,” said Mary.

  The door closed at once. “He’s so nosy I wonder he doesn’t get stuck in the crack,” said Mary, not bothering to lower her voice.

  Her room proved to be as Tyler might have expected. Ugly furniture, probably belonging to the landlady, no softening pillows or personal touches. The walls were plastered with posters, all of them communist propaganda. Hefty workers with fists raised as they slogged towards their salvation. The air was permeated with the smell of cooking fat. Mary didn’t offer him a chair, nor did she sit down herself. Tyler sat down on the sagging couch anyway.

  “Miss Ringwald-Brown, I won’t beat around the bush. There is no doubt in my mind that you were the one who locked the doors to the women’s change room. I can’t charge you with mischief as I don’t have enough proof, but it might help my investigation if you would tell me the truth. One less thing for me to pursue.”

  An ugly flush spread across her face. “I’ve already told you I had nothing to do with that incident. How many times must I repeat myself?” Her voice had got higher and even more shrill.

  “I don’t think the delay caused by the locked doors directly contributed to the explosion,” said Tyler, choosing his words carefully. “It may have put the workers under pressure, but as far as I’m concerned it was an accident that could have happened at any time.”

  Mary sat down on the wooden chair across from him. “Inspector, I have never hidden my involvement with the British Communist Party. I know that many people think it strange that I, who have been more privileged than most, should feel so keenly for the working classes, but I do.”

  “I share your sentiments, Miss Brown. Everyone deserves a break in life.”

  She viewed him with suspicion but he revealed nothing. “Sometimes good has to be wrested from evil, even if the cost is high.”

  “Sounds like our reason for going to war, if you ask me.”

  “I don’t mean that exactly. If you were afflicted with a cancer, for instance, you would endeavour to cut out that cancer before it spread and destroyed your life. The surgery might be painful but it would be worth it, don’t you think?”

  “I’m glad to say I’ve never been in that dilemma, Miss Brown. But is that how you justify your actions on Sunday? You were intending to promote the greater health of the factory?”

  That struck a nerve, and she got to her feet abruptly and went to the door. “As I said, Inspector, I will not be held responsible for what happened on Sunday. It was an accident. Now if you don’t mind, I am expecting a guest and I should tidy up a little.”

  Short of handcuffing her and taking her to the police station, there was nothing he could do. He stood up. “If you do happen to change your mind about helping me to resolve this tragedy, Miss Ringwald-Brown, I would greatly appreciate it. I am at the Steelhouse Lane station.”

  She glared at him. “That will not happen, Inspector. I have said all I am willing to say.”

  As soon as he was outside on the landing, she slammed the door behind him. He made his way downstairs. The door on the second floor opened a crack and the eye of the unseen occupant followed him on his way out.

  Brian was staring at the ceiling. It needed plastering – there was a fine maze of cracks that had been there for a long time. He was playing at make-believe the way he had when he was a boy and had slept in this same room. In those days he was riding on a horse, a tireless black stallion. He’d have to travel along the London Road, gallop on the narrow, twisting path to the castle – top right-hand corner of the ceiling. There he would kill the wicked sheriff, save the princess, and be the hero of the land. He was forcing himself to play that old game, but it wasn’t working. He couldn’t remember when he’d felt calm. Felt normal. He’d forgotten what it was like to sleep.

  Robin Hood didn’t kill old ladies who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Robin Hood wasn’t a deserter.

  There was a tap on the door. “Brian, there’s a letter for you.”

  He sat up at once. “Come in, Gran.”

  Beattie entered. She handed him an envelope. “Somebody dropped this through the letter slot. I don’t know what time. I only just noticed it.”

  One look at the handwriting and Brian knew it was from Donny. The large scrawl was like the boy himself: barely literate, rough, aggressive, taking up most of the front of the envelope. He tore open the flap and took out a note, a single sheet of torn-off paper.

  Put another fiver in the Kowan house. or the deal is off. I’ll tell you when.

  “Who’s it from?” asked Beatrice.

  “The bloke who’s bringing the ID papers. He wants another five pounds.”

  Beattie’s face crumpled. “Oh no. I don’t know if we can come up with that much more money. Not right away.”

  He looked at her. He’d already made up his mind what he was going to do. “Don’t worry, Gran. I’ll take care of it.”

  “How? How will you?” Her normally soft voice was shrill.

  “I’ll talk to him. You can’t get blood out of a stone. He’s being well paid as it is.”

  “What if he won’t go for it? What if he won’t wait? Oh, Brian, what are we going to do?” She sat down on the edge of the bed as if her legs wouldn’t hold her up any longer.

  Brian folded the note and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. “Don’t worry, Gran,” he repeated. “I’ll get the necessary and I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I can, I promise.”

  Her eyes were filled with tears. “I just want you to be safe.”

  He put his finger on his lips. “Shush, no more crying. I will be all right.” He flexed his arm so that his biceps swelled. “See? Me strong man.”

  He came around to where she was sitting. He dropped a kiss on her head. “Why don’t you go downstairs and make us some tea. I’ll come down in a minute.”

  Beattie got stiffly to her feet. As she left, she was wiping at her eyes.

  How dare that little son of a bitch think he could wring more money out of them?

  He went over to the wardrobe. His granddad had bought the wardrobe some years ago, then found that one of the boards was loose. He’d reinforced it, not worrying about how it looked, as it was in the back of the wardrobe. When he was living with them, Brian had discovered there was a small space between the old board and the new. He hid things there. Nothing much – a packet of fags when he was supposed to be too young to smoke; a couple of dirty pictures a boy at school had sold to him. Then, before he left to go back home, he’d hidden a switchblade that he’d picked up in the market. He knew his gran would never find it – the hiding place was too good. As soon as he’d taken over the room this time, he’d checked the spot, and there the knife was, waiting like an old friend.

  He took it out and flicked the spring. The blade shot out, sharp and deadly. Frigging Donny Jarvis was taking on more than he bargained for. It wasn’t an extra five pound
s that Brian was going to give him.

  Tyler decided to head back to the police station, where he could look over his notes and start writing his report. There wasn’t any more to do at the factory for now, but as he passed he stood for a moment at the gate. It was already blackout time and he could see a few dimmed torches bobbing as people made their way home. A tram rattled by, headlamps low, no lights showing inside. He felt he was in a city of ghosts.

  “Inspector. Inspector Tyler.”

  It was Lev Kaplan. “I’m going your way. I’ll walk with you partway,” he said.

  At that moment the by now familiar wail of the siren started. Searchlights immediately sprang into action, fingering the sky. The barrage balloons gleamed as silver as fish when the beams caught them.

  “Damn,” said Kaplan. “I was afraid they might take advantage of the moon, and they have.”

  Tyler could hear the bang of high explosives. They must have landed only a few streets away. Immediately the sky was aglow as fire leaped into the air. The ack-ack guns spat, the searchlights criss-crossed, trying to pin the bombers in their sights. A warden, his tin hat askew, was frantically blowing his whistle.

  “We’d better get to the shelter,” said Kaplan. “There’s one down the road. Come on, follow the arrows.”

  He set off at a trot. Tyler followed close behind him.

  They heard the clanging of the fire engines. More thwumps. Even closer this time.

  The warden stopped blowing his whistle long enough to wave them into the shelter. “Hurry, get inside. It’s going to be a bad one.”

  They went into the shelter. The walls, floor, and ceiling were concrete, the benches that lined the walls had wooden slats. The space was permeated with a stale, unpleasant smell: too many people engulfed in fear and sweat had been forced to sit in here. The only light came from two oil lamps hung from hooks in the ceiling. A dozen or so people were already seated on the benches and they eyed them curiously as they entered. Six men, similarly dressed in cloth caps, mufflers, and tweed coats, were sitting together on the opposite bench. One of them slid over and patted the place next to him.

  “Here you go, then,” he said. He had a Welsh lilt to his voice. Kaplan sat down and Tyler took the remaining space opposite, next to a woman with two young children. The girl, who looked about three, was clinging to her mother like a little monkey and crying frantically. The other child, a boy, was struggling to be a big boy, but he too pressed close. The girl was wearing a red pixie hat and a matching coat. Her brother and mother also looked as if they were in their good clothes. God knows where the woman had been going when the raid started. Seated next to her were two young women, sisters by the look of them, who flashed friendly smiles in Tyler’s direction. The door opened again and a man and a woman scrambled in. He was well dressed – dark formal overcoat, trilby, a white silk scarf around his neck. She was wearing a lush fur coat and matching hat. The man smiled politely at the gathering. “Good evening. Looks like we’re in for a bit of a bashing.” His voice was cultured, educated.

  “Evening,” murmured the rest of the little group, and the mother with the children moved to make room. The newcomers sat down, and the woman, who was perhaps in her forties, stared into space as if by ignoring everybody she could make the whole unpleasant situation disappear. The steel door opened again and the warden poked his head in.

  “That’s it for now; we’re full. Stay here until you hear the all-clear. If it’s urgent that you have to do your business, there’s a bucket behind that curtain, but nevertheless, we prefer it if you can hold on until the all-clear.”

  He disappeared. Lev said cheerfully, “I appreciate how considerate the English are about bladder relief.”

  That drew slightly embarrassed smiles from the rest. Then there was a horrendous crash, so close they could hear the patter of debris on the roof. Tyler stood up and squatted on his heels so he could be on a level with the little girl.

  “Those bangs are very scary, aren’t they. But you know what? We’re safe in here, and they aren’t nearly as scary if we make some noise of our own. Why don’t we all sing together? I bet you know some good songs.” The kiddie stared at Tyler as if he were utterly barmy, and he thought for a moment he might have made things worse. But at least the surprise of a strange man talking to her had temporarily stopped her howls.

  “Answer the nice gentleman, Muriel,” said the mother. “You know some songs, don’t you.”

  “I do,” interrupted the boy, not to be outdone, even in extremis.

  “What songs do you know?” Tyler asked.

  His bluff called, the lad hesitated. “ ‘God Save the King.’ ”

  Tyler glanced around the shelter. All eyes were upon him, none of them looking particularly partial to singing the national anthem at this moment. Then one of the Welshmen spoke up. “Look you now, little fellow, what’s your name?”

  “Fred.”

  “I tell you what, young Fred. ‘God Save the King’ might be a good song for later on. In the meantime, why don’t my mates and me give out a bit of a singsong. You can join in if you know the tunes. All right, lads?”

  There was a rapid consultation in Welsh among the six of them. The first man gave them the note and they plunged into a vigorous rendition of “Men of Harlech.” Even when another bomb landed nearby, the men were so lively they managed to distract everybody, including the two children. When they finished, the man in evening dress grinned broadly. “Oh, I say, jolly good.” Even the woman beside him dragged up a smile. Lev led the applause. The Welshmen immediately started another song.

  And so it went on for the next several hours. Whenever there was a bit of a lull, the Welshmen would sing. The unrelenting noise of explosions and guns continued.

  The people in the shelter, initially complete strangers, eventually got to know each other. The Welshmen worked together in Nichol’s, a local factory that was making uniforms. They were part of a church choir and had been singing together for years. They had come to Birmingham because the wages were better there than back in Aberdovey, where they were from. Tyler asked them if they knew his mate Jones, who played on the police soccer team. They didn’t know that particular Jones, look you, but there were lots of others.

  The woman with the two children was Mrs. Doreen Latimer, on her way home from visiting her mother when she’d got caught in the raid. The two sisters, Josie and Irene Meadows, had been at the pictures and thought they could get home in time but had been caught by the raid.

  The well-to-do couple completely melted and became quite human. He was Aubrey Wilson, who worked for Lloyd’s. She was Blanche, his wife. They had been on their way to attend a concert put on by the Birmingham Jewish Association. “Quite marvellous what those people can do in the area of music,” said Blanche. She actually allowed the child, Muriel, to stroke her fur coat, which the girl loved.

  As for Lev Kaplan, to Tyler’s mind he was the hit of the night, in spite of stiff competition from some champion Welsh singers and a fur coat. First of all, he was a Yank, something never encountered before by any of the others. Even the upper-crust couple confessed that, whereas they had met two or three Canadians, they were not previously acquainted with an American. Not only that, Lev turned out to be an expert with sleight-of-hand tricks. He made pennies appear and disappear into ears and hair. The children weren’t the only ones who loved it – Tyler laughed with everybody else. Who’d ever have thought sitting on an uncomfortable hard bench for hours while bombs dropped all around could be enjoyable, but it was.

  The noise of the attack went on relentlessly. The children had to use the bucket behind the curtain, and then, in spite of the noise, they fell asleep. Muriel slumped against Tyler’s shoulder and he stroked her hair gently. Janet had often slept like that when she was a child. Everybody finally fell silent and tried to get some sleep. The Welshmen did, but the others were constantly being startled awake by another series of explosions. Tyler dozed off and on. This was what the cities had
been dealing with ever since August.

  At the first sound of the siren, Beatrice and Joe automatically gathered together what they called their shelter kit, an old cloth bag of Beatrice’s that she kept packed for a long stay in the shelter. A flask of brandy; a large Thermos of water; a bag of sweeties, jealously guarded to be eaten only under these circumstances; her leather purse with the special papers they might need in the event they were bombed out of their house. Everything else – blankets, extra clothes, books, and games – was already in the shelter.

  Beatrice went to the bottom of the stairs and called to Brian. He appeared on the landing.

  “Get down to the pantry, Bri. We’ve got to go out to the shelter.”

  “Will do, Gran. Don’t worry about me.”

  The ack-ack guns had opened up, and they could hear the thud of exploding bombs. It sounded as if a heavy raid was already beginning. They hadn’t got very much notice.

  Joe appeared beside her. He too looked up at Brian. “All right, son?”

  “I’m fine, Granddad. Get out of here.”

  Still Beatrice hesitated. Joe nudged her. “Come on, old gal. We’ve discussed all this.”

  Brian had put on his coat and was coming down the stairs. He gave his grandmother a kiss on the cheek. “Is there anything in the pantry I shouldn’t touch?”

  She managed to smile. “Have whatever you want. I wish there was more.”

  Joe picked up the shelter bag and they went to the back door. Fires were already blazing, not too far from their street by the look of things.

  “Let’s make a run for it,” he said, and they scurried off.

  Brian stood at the window, watching them through the crack in the curtain, until they were safely inside. He couldn’t bear the thought of hiding in the tiny, dark pantry. Joe had fed electric light in there, but what if there was a direct hit and he got buried, or the light went out, as it often did if the lines were hit? Even thinking about it made Brian break out in a sweat. He peeked out the window again. The sky was lit up from the fires and the searchlights fingering the sky. He could see the outline of the Jerry bombers as the lights caught their underbellies. He felt no hatred for the men inside. There were men in those planes as afraid as any one of ours. They might be married as well.