Avalanche of Daisies

by Beryl Kingston

  Vic was brooding and incommunicative. ‘I dunno what you’re on about,’ he said, staring into his glass. That soldier must have been sent to France by now and yet she still hadn’t come home. Becky Bosworth had said she was in New Cross and she ought to know. Her little brother was telling everyone she was working on the trams in Greenwich and Greenwich was a huge place. He’d seen it on a map. Even if he went there, he’d have a hell of a job to find her. Needle in a haystack sort of thing. Still, that Jimmy was a stupid kid. What did he know?

  ‘Well, well, well,’ a voice said in his ear. ‘Victor Castlemain, or I’m a Dutchman.’

  A small, sharp, ferrety face, with a small, sharp, ferrety moustache, ferrety brown receding hair stuck to his scalp with brilliantine, watery grey eyes, new suit, white shirt, loud tie. ‘Good God! Phossie Fernaway. I thought you were in the army.’

  ‘Not no more,’ the ferrety face said happily. ‘Got out, didn’t I.’

  ‘How d’you manage that?’

  Phossie Fernaway looked meaningfully at the three glasses collecting pools of beer on the table. So Victor bought him a drink and introduced him to his companions, ‘This is Phossie, Johnnie Dent’s cousin, used to come down here for the holidays, didden you Phossie?’

  Phossie agreed that he did and when he’d taken the edge off his thirst, he preened himself ready to tell his story. ‘Got out, didn’t I,’ he repeated. ‘I said to mesself, you don’t catch me heading off to France to be butchered. Sod that for a game of soldiers. I got better things to do with my life.’

  ‘Very sensible,’ Spikey approved. ‘How did you do it?’

  Phossie launched into his story. ‘Went to the MO, didn’t I. Told them I couldn’t hardly see. So they set up this chart, didn’t they, and they said, read the fourth line from the top, they said. Couldn’t see it. Got it all wrong from start to finish. So they said, read the third line down, they said. Couldn’t manage that either, could I. Got one or two right. Didn’t want to overplay my hand. So they said, well try the second line then. And I thought I’d better manage that. So I just made one mistake. And they said, your sight’s very poor, do you know that? And I said, Oh dear, is it? And the upshot was they found me “unfit for active service”. Smart, eh?’

  ‘Did you get discharged?’ Tubby asked in awe.

  ‘No I didn’t,’ Phossie admitted. ‘That was the one snag. But there’s always ways round that. I waited till this lot got under way, didn’t I? And then I took off. Don’t reckon they’ll miss me with all this going on. Smart, eh?’

  Vic had been costing the suit and the white shirt, noticing the gold ring on his friend’s little finger. ‘So what are you doing with yourself?’ he asked.

  ‘Salesman,’ Phossie said.

  Vic sipped his beer thoughtfully. ‘What d’you sell then?’

  The answer was candid. ‘Bit of everything, me. You’d be surprised what falls off the back a’ lorries these days. Suits, nylons, coupons, bacon, sugar, tins a’ meat. Matter a’ fact, that’s why I’m here. Brought my old lady a hamper, didn’t I?’

  He’s a spiv, Vic thought, and he was full of admiration for the man. ‘You’re doing all right then,’ he said.

  ‘Not bad,’ Phossie preened. ‘I make a living. People are fed-up a’ rations, see. Well we all like a little bit under the counter, don’t we. Stands to reason.’

  They agreed that it did.

  ‘It’s better than slogging your guts out in a bank,’ Phossie said. ‘You should come an’ join me. I’ve just lost my last oppo.’

  ‘I might at that,’ Vic said, finishing his beer.

  ‘There’s always vacancies,’ Phossie told him confidently. ‘It’s a growing business.’

  He’s nowhere near as intelligent as I am, Victor thought and he’s making money hand over fist. If he can do it, so can I. This could be just the opportunity I’ve been waiting for, the chance to get away, to be someone, to find Spitfire. ‘You’re on,’ he said and held out his hand to seal the deal.

  Phossie shook the proffered hand and gave his old friend a sly grin. ‘I’ll be on the last train to London tonight,’ he said. ‘If you’re serious you’ll have a ticket. My round I think. What’s your poison?’

  So this is it! Victor thought. He was on his way at last! Won’t Ma be surprised!

  She was thrilled. ‘I always knew you’d get on my lovey,’ she said, smiling rapturously. ‘When you gotta go? Tonight? My dear heart alive! They’re keen! You got a case, have you? I’ll give you hand packing.’

  Which she did, producing an old carpet bag from under the bed and folding all his best clothes slowly and neatly before she packed them, while he found his identity card and his ration book, put his cherished snap of Barbara in his wallet and wrote a letter of resignation to the bank manager. Then he kissed her goodbye, took one last look at his reflection and left.

  It was cold and dark on the station but Phossie was waiting. He was so drunk that his eyes were puffy and he spent most of the journey sunk into a heap in his corner seat, fast asleep and snoring. But what did it matter? Victor thought. What did anything matter now? The die was cast.

  Phossie seemed puzzled when they reached Kings Cross, and asked Victor who he was, repeating the question several times as if he wasn’t satisfied with the answer. Then he announced that they would have to get a cab and staggered out into the traffic to find one, waving at every car that passed. His gait was so unsteady and his speech so slurred that Victor decided he would have to take command and having found a cab, bundled his reeling friend onto the seat and persuaded him to part with an address and a pound note. He had no idea what the fare would be and didn’t want to be caught without enough money to cover it.

  They seemed to be driving through London for ever but eventually they arrived before a small, soot-blackened, straight-fronted, terraced house where, after a lot of giggling, Phossie produced a key and let them in.

  ‘Gotta lie down,’ he said, leaning against the wall. ‘Worl’s turning round. Whole worl’.’

  They were in a small square living room, unlit and musty – horsehair sofa against the wall, rocking chair by the fire, rag rug on the floor – and facing them in the shadows, a brown door which obviously led to the kitchen. Beside it a steep flight of stairs divided the two rooms and rose precipitately to the two similar rooms above them.

  ‘Come on!’ Vic said and hauled his dizzy colleague through the darkness and up the stairs. There was an unmade bed in the front room, plainly Phossie’s for he collapsed upon it at once, and another in the back room which was stacked with cardboard boxes. They were piled on the floor, heaped on the only chair, even thrown on the bed. Vic had to remove them before he could get into the thing and then, just as he was settling to sleep, the air raid siren wailed and, to his horror, guns opened fire.

  He was very much alarmed, particularly as he didn’t know what he was supposed to do. You went into a shelter or something, didn’t you? Underground. Phossie would know. But when he’d pulled on his trousers and groped his way past the top of the stairs and into the front bedroom, Phossie was no help at all. He lay on his back, dead to the world, with his mouth open and earplugs in his ears and no amount of shouting and shaking could rouse him. By this time, the bombs were exploding and there was an eerie glow in the square of sky framed by the window. So there was nothing for it but to stumble back to his room again and sit it out. And very unpleasant it was. Not what he’d come to London for at all.

  ‘Did you hear the raid?’ he asked when Phossie finally came groaning downstairs at eleven o’clock the next morning. He’d been up for over an hour himself and having found a teapot, tea, and half a tin of condensed milk had made himself an approximation to breakfast.

  ‘Nope,’ Phossie said cheerfully. ‘Never listen.’

  ‘Well I did,’ Vic told him sternly. ‘It was pretty rough.’

  ‘Get yourself a good pair of earplugs,’ Phossie advised. ‘That’s what I do, don’t I. Sleep like a top then you will.’r />
  ‘You don’t stay here every night, do you?’ Vic hoped.

  ‘No fear. Only when there’s a job on. Most of the time we’re in Essex, aren’t we, at the markets, Romford, Chelmsford, places like that, buying up stuff from the farmers.’

  ‘Do you rent this place?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘The Skibbereen,’ Phossie said. ‘Some old girl used to live here. Got bombed out I think. Went somewhere else anyway. The Skibbereen took it over. Ain’t a palace, but it suits me. We don’t get redcaps down this part a’ the world.’

  ‘Redcaps?’

  ‘Military police,’ Phossie explained. ‘I don’t wanna get picked up, do I? Gaw dearie me, Victor! Do I need a hair of the dog or do I need a hair of the dog.’

  ‘Who’s the Skibbereen?’ Victor wanted to know.

  But Phossie was already out of the door.

  They had a pint of breakfast at the ornate pub on the corner and after burping his way back to comfort, Phossie outlined their plans. ‘We’ll hang around here till closing time, in case he wants us. If he don’t we’ll go to the flicks. Up West. Or take in a show maybe. Then we’ll get some grub – there’s some good restaurants up West. Cost a bit, natch, but worth it. Then we’ll get back here, in case there’s something on tonight.’

  Vic wanted to ask what sort of something it was likely to be but he didn’t get the chance. At that moment the landlord arrived at Phossie’s elbow.

  ‘Phone call fer you, Phoss,’ he said. ‘Usual place. Pronto.’ They had been summoned.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Victor asked as they left the pub.

  Phossie was off at a trot and hadn’t got the breath to be communicative. ‘To get the car,’ he said. ‘You’ll see, won’tcher?’

  The car was the black Humber which Victor had noticed parked outside the house. The back seat was covered with cardboard boxes.

  ‘Hop in,’ Phossie instructed. ‘We gotta rush.’

  And rush they did, through narrow streets, past bomb-sites and sooty terraces until they came to the cliff face of an enormous warehouse, a place of mean windows and grimy walls which looked as though it hadn’t been used for centuries. One side of it had been blown open, leaving a gaping hole, and two more black cars were parked beside the rubble, which was still piled in a hillock of broken bricks and spars.

  Phossie parked, scrambled out and climbed over the mound. And Victor followed, now very excited. He was vaguely aware that there was an explosion somewhere or other but it was a long way away and by now he’d learnt that you could ignore explosions when they were in the distance.

  There were half a dozen men in overcoats and black trilbies standing moodily by the far wall smoking cigars. They were talking in low voices and looking out at the river through the broken shards that were all that remained of the windows. But when they heard the crunch of Phossie’s approach they turned, as one man, and glared at him.

  ‘’Bout time too!’ the tallest said. ‘Where you been?’

  A suddenly subservient Phossie explained that he’d only just got the message. And there was another explosion, this one close enough to pepper the air with dust.

  ‘Who’s this?’ the tall man said, glaring at Victor.

  ‘Old friend,’ Phossie said and introduced them. ‘Victor Castlemain, the Skibbereen. You said you wanted another pair of hands. Remember? Well he’s them.’

  The Skibbereen considered the offer while Victor studied his face and tried to read his character. He was an impressive looking man and obviously used to getting his own way for he stood with his legs astride and wore his coat over his shoulders like an American gangster. And besides being the tallest man in the group, he was also the fattest, thickset and broad shouldered, with a bull neck, a solid belly with a gold watch-chain suspended across it, and white hands with banana-fat fingers girded with thick rings. His hair was thin and grey and carefully combed and his face so round you would have thought it bland until you looked at those sharp eyes. The boss, without a doubt, Victor thought. And he’s none too sure of me.

  ‘Can he keep his mouth shut?’ the Skibbereen said to Phossie.

  Oh no! Victor thought. If you’ve got something to say you can say it to me, and he spoke up quickly before Phossie could answer. ‘I can speak for myself,’ he said. ‘I got a tongue in my head and I know when to use it – an’ when not to. I hain’t a fink.’

  ‘Hmm,’ the Skibbereen said and he thought for a while, staring at Vic. ‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘You can come for the ride. See how you make out. Work hard, keep your trap shut and you might do. No promises mind.’

  On which terms and as a third explosion threw dust into the air, Victor was taken into the syndicate.

  The ride took them to the dockside in their three black Humbers and the work there was certainly hard and done at speed. The dockers were unloading sugar and the Skibbereen had arranged for a quantity to go missing ‘providing we can have it away in twenty minutes,’ as he told his team. ‘So look lively.’

  ‘Now what?’ Victor whispered as the first car sped away with their illegal load. He was glad to have the job done because the bombs had been much closer in the docks, close enough, in fact, for them to hear the ambulances and fire engines speeding through the streets, which had made him feel very uneasy.

  ‘Now we pay the Skibbereen for what we can sell and get rid of it pronto,’ Phossie told him, equally quietly. ‘How much cash you got?’ And when Victor told him. ‘Spend to the limit. That’s my advice. Nothing venture, nothing gain.’

  It seemed sound advice, so Victor kept half a crown for his immediate needs and spent the rest. Then he and Phossie transferred the sugar to their cardboard boxes and set out again to visit the local grocers. There was a lull in the raid so the streets were full of shoppers.

  ‘Stick with me for the first two or three,’ Phossie advised. ‘I’ll show you the ropes. Then you’ll have to find your own patch. Don’t worry. It’ll be a doddle.’

  He was right. The black market was everywhere. The very first grocer Vic approached on his own was only too happy to see him and asked if he could get him some eggs ‘later in the week’. The next wanted to know if he’d got any peaches, the third was after corned beef.

  By the end of the day, he’d made enough money to treat Phossie to a slap-up meal in a restaurant in the West End. And that was a revelation too, for although a five shilling maximum had been placed on restaurant meals in 1942, the rich obviously didn’t take any notice of it and the bill that evening ran to nearly five pounds.

  ‘Now thass what I call living,’ he said as Phossie drove him back to their dingy lodgings. ‘If that wasn’t for those ol’ buzzbombs that’ud be a great life. They’re the flies in the ointment.’

  ‘We’ll go to Chelmsford,’ Phossie decided. ‘They all been after me for eggs an’ bacon today. What say we travel overnight? I’ll show you how to drive an’ we can take it turn and turn about.’

  It was an admirable idea. The further they went from Hitler’s bombardment the better. And eggs would be sure to sell.

  It was a busy week and a highly profitable one. By the end of it Victor had learnt to drive the Humber – more or less – begun to carve out a nice little corner for himself and earned so much money that he’d dined out every evening, bought himself a new suit and some earplugs and decided to buy a car or rent a better flat.

  ‘I’d rather go on the razzle,’ Phossie said. ‘What say we go up West Sat’day night? Few drinks, grub, bit of a laugh. We could find a couple a’ tarts if you like. What you say?’

  Victor could just imagine the sort of girls Phossie would knock about with. ‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a girl actually. I don’t need to find one.’

  ‘Lucky dog!’ Phossie admired. ‘So that’s why you want a flat. Gettin’ it regular, eh?’

  Victor preened but didn’t elaborate. He had no intention of letting someone like Phossie know anything about his private life.


  ‘Oh well,’ Phossie cut in, ‘you’ll cut off and see her this Sat’day then.’ And he shrugged his shoulders, making the best of it. ‘Not to worry. I’ll find one of the others. Never short of company, me.’

  But in the event they spent Saturday night working for the Skibbereen. A call came through just as they were enjoying their first beer of the evening and within twenty minutes they were in Limehouse, watching as the Skibbereen concluded his negotiations with a couple of dockers.

  ‘You’re from Whitbreads if anyone asks,’ he informed his team and left the six of them to carry four dozen cartons of whisky out of the corner of the warehouse, where they were stacked and waiting, and into their cars.

  ‘Where’s he gone?’ Victor asked, as he and Phossie filled their boot.

  ‘To his club probably,’ Phossie said, sliding the last carton onto the back seat. ‘Too many buzzbombs about.’

  The words were barely out of his mouth when they heard the familiar tinny rattle of a buzzbomb on its way towards them. It sounded as though it was directly overhead. It couldn’t be, could it? But when they looked up, they suddenly saw the bright flame of its exhaust spurting into the little oblong of night sky between two warehouse walls, and before either of them had time to say anything, the engine cut out and they heard the awful rush of its fall. They flung themselves into the dirt, instinctively covering their necks with their hands, breathless with sudden terror. If the warehouse comes down, Vic thought, we shall be buried alive – if we’re not cut to pieces. And his heart struggled in his chest, like a bird desperate to free itself.

  The explosion rocked the ground they were lying on and the roar of it seemed to go on for ever. Then they heard a crash like a wall collapsing and the thud of tumbling debris, and that went on even longer.

  But the warehouse walls didn’t fall and presently the echoes died away and the debris stopped falling and they stood up and dusted themselves down and saw that they’d all survived and began to make obscene jokes to cheer themselves up.