‘Yer’ll ’ave ter come down, missus,’ he called out to her, ‘I can’t climb those stairs wiv me bad leg.’
The window was slammed down and Broomhead waited, taking the opportunity of rolling himself a cigarette. Soon a large woman emerged from the block and walked smartly up to his cart.
‘’Ere, I’ve got one o’ them there gramophone fings,’ she said, looking up at him and slipping her hands into the armholes of her stained flowery apron.
‘That’s nice,’ Broomhead said in his usual sarcastic manner.
‘There’s nuffink nice about it,’ the buxom woman told him. ‘My ole man come ’ome pissed last night an’ said ’e wanted ter listen ter a bit o’ music.’
‘I only wanna sleep when I come ’ome pissed,’ Broomhead informed her.
‘Well, you ain’t my ole man,’ the woman reminded him. ‘Anyway, what ’appened was, ’e puts this record on the fing an’ winds up the ’andle, an’ guess what?’
‘Go on, missus, surprise me,’ the totter said unenthusiastically.
‘Well, there was this almighty bang an’ the bleedin’ fing stopped dead right in the middle o’ the music. Luvverly song it was an’ all. It was fair bringin’ tears ter me eyes,’ the woman went on.
‘Look, missus, I don’t wanna be rude, but what the bleedin’ ’ell ’as this all gotta do wiv me?’ Broomhead asked with a deep sigh.
‘My ole man got upset an’ ’e told me ter get rid o’ the bloody fing before ’e got ’ome from work ternight. ’E works on the trams, yer see,’ the woman explained.
‘I can’t buy busted gramophones, lady,’ the totter said, drawing on his cigarette. ‘’Specially when they go orf bang. When that sort o’ fing ’appens it’s the spring, yer see. Bloody powerful springs they are as well. I knew one bloke who overwound one o’ those gramophones an’ the fing busted. Terrible it was.’
‘What ’appened?’ the large woman asked, her eyes bulging.
‘Well, the ’andle spun round an’ sent ’im flyin’ up ter the ceilin’. Poor bleeder split ’is ’ead wide open,’ Broomhead told her. ‘Like a bleedin’ patchwork quilt ’e was, by the time they finished stitchin’ ’im up.’
‘Oh my Gawd!’
‘I don’t fink the Lord ’imself could do anyfing about busted springs, lady. There’s nuffink at all yer can do when the spring goes,’ Broomhead said, grinning evilly.
The buxom woman’s face dropped noticeably. ‘Well, I’m in fer a right ’idin’ if I ain’t got that bleedin’ contraption out o’ the ’ouse by the time my Joshua comes ’ome, ’specially if ’e’s bin on the turps again. What am I gonna do?’
‘Why don’t yer chuck it down in the dustbin?’ he suggested.
‘I would if I could,’ she said, ‘but it’s so bleedin’ ’eavy. It mus’ go ’alf a bleedin’ ’undredweight.’
Broomhead’s artfulness was working like a treat, and for good effect he rubbed his leg. ‘Well, if this war wound stands up ter walkin’ up those stairs I might be able ter get it down ter the dustbin for yer,’ he said with a grimace. ‘Mind yer, I’m not promisin’ anyfink, yer understand.’
‘Would yer try?’ she implored him. ‘I’d be ever so grateful.’
‘Would yer now?’
The desperate woman’s eyes sparkled and she looked up at the craftly totter with new interest. ‘Well, I could make it werf yer while,’ she said fluttering her eyelashes at him.
Broomhead heard warning bells starting to ring in his head. It was bad enough having to make a detour around Page Street without some irate husband from Bacon Buildings being out to cut his throat. ‘I’m a married man, missus,’ he lied. ‘I don’t mess around wiv ovver women. It’s jus’ not werf it.’
‘Please yerself then,’ the woman replied, looking disappointed.
‘Tell yer what I’m prepared ter do,’ the totter said as he scratched his ear. ‘Give us a couple o’ bob an’ I’ll come up the stairs an’ carry the bloody fing down, even if it kills me in the process. After all, we can’t ’ave a nice lady like you takin’ a good ’idin’ from that ’usband o’ yours, now can we?’
The woman’s face brightened up considerably and she gave him a sweet smile. ‘I’ll get on back up the stairs then an’ put the kettle on. I s’pose yer’d like a cuppa fer yer troubles?’ she prompted. ‘Number 64 it is, on the top floor.’
‘Don’t remind me what floor it is, lady,’ Broomhead said quickly, jumping down and reaching for his horse’s nosebag which was strapped beneath the seat.
One hour later, after he had been refreshed and had listened patiently to his grateful client’s sad story about the awful life she was leading at the hands of a brutal husband, Broomhead was on his way. The gramophone was sitting next to the cabinet, and the totter thought they paired up admirably. He urged his horse on home, and for the first time that day it responded by breaking into a trot for a few yards, until it decided that it was more comfortable to walk.
Billy Sullivan felt worried as he waited by the Rotherhithe Tunnel entrance for his confederates. It was nearly five-thirty and still they had not arrived. Billy cursed his lack of sense in agreeing to take part in the robbery. It was too late to back out now, he realised. He would have to keep an eagle eye out for Freddie though. He was quite likely to forget the agreement they had made about the night watchman and, given the slightest excuse, batter the old boy.
The large clock over the pawnbroker’s in Albion Street was showing the half hour when Billy spotted the trio alighting from a tram. They hurried across to him. Freddie looked agitated. ‘There was a bloody ’old-up at Surrey Docks Station,’ he moaned. ‘A poxy tram broke down.’
The four set off along Brunel Road, following the tunnel wall until they passed the Labour Exchange then they veered left and picked up the road which ran alongside the river. It was quiet on that Saturday night, with all the wharves bolted and barred. Freddie the Nark led the way with Chopper walking beside him, and Billy followed behind with Frankie who was humming tunelessly. It was five-forty when they reached Clark’s Wharf.
Freddie turned to the others. ‘Now let me do the talkin’,’ he hissed, ‘an’ when we get in, follow the plan jus’ like we agreed. Don’t ferget now, we gotta ’ave the gates ready fer when Tony brings the lorry up at six sharp.’
Jack Price closed the office door behind him, sat down heavily in the large swivel chair and watched the tin kettle popping rings of steam. The Saturday shift always seemed to drag on endlessly for the elderly night watchman and he envied people who did not have to work at the weekends. Beggars can’t be choosers though, he thought philosophically as he got up, removed the boiling kettle from the gas ring and emptied it into a small china teapot. Being a night watchman had its compensations, he had to admit. There was no foreman to watch over him and he could please himself when he made his walk around the yard. He knew too that his job was important. Many of the wharves were just padlocked with no one to guard them but Clark’s Wharf was different. In the building and the big yard beside it there were cases of very expensive items. The manager had explained to him when he was taken on that the insurance people insisted the wharf was guarded at all times before they would agree to give cover. Jack’s only complaint was that the pittance he was paid hardly reflected the responsibility placed upon him.
Jack Price had never married, and he lived with his ageing sister who was also unmarried. He was sixty-four now, but as a young man he had been in the army and seen action on the North-West Frontier. He had been in many tight spots during his life, and guarding a warehouse did not trouble him unduly. He had worked for various firms doing all sorts of jobs, for he was nothing if not adaptable, and recently, just as he was approaching retirement, the firm he worked for in Deptford had become bankrupt. Jack had been worried. Who would employ a sixty-four-year-old man when there were thousands of young men struggling to find work? The ex-serviceman need not have worried. His employer gave him a glowing reference and spoke about him to a friend by the
name of Sir Algernon Clark, a fellow businessman who was having problems with insurance brokers over the size of the premium for insuring his wharf and its most valuable contents. Employing a night watchman was the solution to his problem, and so without delay Jack was sent to see the wharf manager, who felt that the sprightly-looking man who had served on the Khyber Pass would suit admirably.
Jack sipped his tea while he read a dog-eared wild west novel. It was a good way of passing the time, he thought. There was a long night ahead of him, and he would not be relieved until eight o’clock the following morning when Ben Thompson arrived. Ben too was an active man in his sixties and had served in the police force for years, rising to the rank of sergeant. The trouble with Ben was, he still thought he was in the police force and was constantly leaving scribbled messages about procedures for patrolling the yard and checking the padlocks and bolts.
Bloody old fool. Who does he think he is, anyway? Jack thought to himself as he poured yet another cup of tea and took it back to his comfortable swivel chair. It’s a good job Peggie’s not here, he told himself as he sipped the tea. She was always on about the amount of tea he drank. Poor old Peg. Shame she never married. She had never got over that chap who left her in the lurch all those years ago. Nevertheless she had been a good, kind sister and looked after him very well. She was breaking up now, though, Jack reflected sadly. Never mind, he’d buy her a nice bunch of flowers from that stall outside the infirmary on his way home. She’d like that.
A loud knocking on the wicket-gate made Jack start and he muttered to himself as he left the office and walked across the cobbled yard.
Chapter Five
The Kings Arms was a small, homely pub. It stood on the corner of Page Street at the Jamaica Road end, and was the favourite haunt of folk from the surrounding backstreets. The landlord Alec Crossley kept an orderly house and his buxom blonde wife Grace was always jolly and invariably found time to listen to the troubles of her customers, even when she was hard put to it behind the counter. On Saturday evening it was busy as usual, but when Sadie Sullivan walked in the public bar on the arm of her diminutive husband Daniel, Grace soon found herself listening to her troubles.
‘That bleeder ain’t bin in ’ere, ’as ’e?’ Sadie asked.
Grace shook her head. ‘No, luv. I ain’t seen nuffink of ’im. Anyfing wrong?’
Sadie leant on the counter and looked furtively right and left before putting a hand up to her mouth and whispering, ‘I fink ’e’s up ter no good.’
Grace smiled reassuringly. ‘Billy’s a good boy, Sadie. ’E wouldn’t do anyfing wrong.’
‘I would ’ave agreed wiv yer at one time,’ Sadie replied. ‘Since ’e’s bin in wiv that crowd from the Tunnel, though, ’e’s a changed boy. Me an’ Daniel’s worried sick about ’im, ain’t we, Dan?’
Daniel nodded dutifully and sipped his pint, wishing that Sadie would refrain from airing their private business to all and sundry.
‘’E went out at four o’clock an’ ’e was all nervy. ’E told me ’e might be late an’ not ter wait up,’ Sadie went on. ‘’E knows very well I can’t sleep till ’e’s in. It’s that bloody gymnasium. Since Billy’s ’ad that gym on ’is mind ’e’s bin like a cat on ’ot bricks. ’E said ’e needs a lot o’ money ter get it started an’ that’s what’s worryin’ me. ’E could be up to anyfink.’
Grace had seen the irritated look on Alec’s face and she patted Sadie’s hand. ‘Don’t worry, luv, Billy’s all right, mark my words,’ she said quickly as she moved away to resume serving.
When William and Nellie Tanner walked into the public bar Sadie found another ready listener, and Daniel breathed a sigh of relief. Now he had the opportunity to stand at the counter with one of his mates and talk about other things.
‘It’s a good job, an’ the money’s not bad,’ William was saying in answer to Daniel’s enquiry. ‘Trouble is, I miss workin’ wiv those ’orses. I ’ad a long stint wiv Galloway an’ I was gutted when I got the push an’ we ’ad ter get out o’ the ’ouse. Nellie was ’eart-broken. She misses that little ’ouse of ours. That bloody gaff we’re livin’ in now is gettin’ ’er down. Bacon Buildin’s should ’ave bin pulled down years ago, if yer ask me.’
Daniel nodded. ‘We brought our tribe up in that ’ouse of ours an’ I wouldn’t change it fer no ovver place,’ he declared. ‘It’s got a lot o’ memories too. After our two boys was killed I wanted ter move out but Sadie wouldn’t ’ear of it. She was right. I wouldn’t move now.’
William knew just how Daniel felt. It had been the same for him and Nellie when James, their eldest son, was killed in France. It was bad enough losing one son, but to lose two must have been almost unbearable. He sipped his pint and thought about his other two boys. Danny the youngest had settled down in his job as a lighterman and seemed to be popular with the local girls. Charles had been wounded in the fighting but had recovered and signed on as a regular at the end of the war. He was now in India, and judging by his last letter he appeared to be enjoying life out there. Charles had always been the quiet one, William recalled. He had always had his head stuck in a book and never allowed anyone to get him flustered. It was losing that young lass of his that made him sign on, William knew full well.
‘’Ave yer ’eard from young Charlie lately?’ Daniel asked suddenly, as though reading his old friend’s thoughts.
‘We got a letter from ’im only the ovver day,’ William replied. ‘’E seems fine. Nellie worries over ’im though. It broke ’er ’eart when ’e told ’er ’e was orf ter India.’
Daniel nodded sympathetically. ‘Mind you though, it was prob’ly the best fing, when yer come ter sum it all up,’ he remarked. ‘It was a terrible fing losin’ that young lass the way ’e did.’
‘Poor Charlie never could understand ’ow it come ter ’appen,’ William said quietly, staring down at his pint. ‘I’ll never ferget that night when we got the news she’d bin drowned.’
Daniel slapped down a florin on the counter and caught the landlord’s eye. ‘C’mon, Will, let’s ’ave anuvver pint an’ try ter cheer up. Sadie’s bin givin’ me the bloody ’ump the way she’s bin goin’ on about our Billy. She’s sure ’e’s gonna end up in prison the way fings are goin’. It’s that crowd ’e’s runnin’ aroun’ wiv. Mind you, they’re a nasty bunch, from what I can make out of it.’
The three young men stood a few yards apart from their confederate in the quiet empty street by the river and waited. The sound of Freddie the Nark banging on the small iron gate reverberated along the silent turning and Billy Sullivan winced.
Freddie was confident that the watchman would open up. He and Tony McCarthy had plied their unwitting accomplice with drinks that night in the pub and they had gleaned that Clark’s Wharf was guarded by a conscientious old-timer who was living with his frail and ailing sister. It had been enough to set Freddie’s agile mind working, and he grinned expectantly to himself as he heard the watchman’s voice.
‘Who’s there? What d’yer want?’
‘C.I.D. Paradise Street police station,’ Freddie called out in his most cultured voice, putting his face up to the closed wicket-gate. ‘Mr Price?’
‘That’s me,’ Jack answered.
‘I need to come in, Mr Price. It’s urgent,’ Freddie told him.
The watchman had been schooled in security and he had been told not to open the door under any circumstances. Should there be any emergency he was to phone Dockhead police station, or they would phone him if they had reason to call.
‘I ain’t ’ad a call from the station,’ Jack called out suspiciously. ‘Where’s yer warrant card? Slide it under the door an’ let’s ’ave a look at it.’
Freddie gritted his teeth in agitation. The old boy was being difficult, he cursed silently. ‘Look, Mr Price, I had no time to collect my warrant card. We were called out to Ship Street an hour ago. It’s your sister Peggie.’
‘What’s ’appened to ’er?’ Jack asked fearfully.
Fr
eddie rubbed his hands together and made a sign to his waiting friends. This would do it, he thought. ‘I’m afraid she’s had an accident,’ he went on. ‘One of the neighbours called us. They said they heard a scream and the sound of breaking glass. When we got there she was lying in the front room. She’s in the Rotherhithe Infirmary, Mr Price. I’m afraid she’s been badly cut. She wants to see you. We’ve got a police car waiting. One of our men will take over until we get you back here. Hurry, Mr Price, it’s urgent.’
The watchman stepped back from the wicket-gate. ‘All right, I’ll get me coat. You wait there,’ he called out.
Tanner Trilogy 02 - The Girl from Cotton Lane Page 6