She and Steve wrote to one another whenever they could, she every evening, he duties permitting, long detailed letters, discussing the report section by section and looking forward to the future they would build together ‘when this lot is over’. The buzzbombs and rockets went on, there was never a day without a difficulty of one kind or another and the weather grew worse and worse, with frozen pipes and icy roads at home and thick fog in Holland and Germany, but they had their dream to keep them going, and writing about it made them feel they would both survive. Even when the war suddenly took a turn in the wrong direction and the papers headlined the news that the Germans had thrust fifteen miles into liberated territory, they were undeterred.
‘It is a set-back,’ Steve admitted, ‘but it won’t last. We shall soon have them on the run again. They wouldn’t have got away with it, if it hadn’t been for the fog keeping the RAF grounded. Real Hitler weather.’
‘The papers say they’re trying to retake Antwerp,’ Barbara wrote back, ‘and split the British and American armies in two. That says this morning there is a twenty-five mile gap in the Allied line.’
But Steve’s confidence was justified. The campaign, which came to be called the Battle of the Bulge, was long and bitter but the Germans were driven back.
In the second week in December Sis had a letter to tell her that her flat was fully repaired and ready for occupation. She packed her ‘bits and bobs’ that evening, as soon as she got in from work, asking Barbara casually, when they were alone together in the bedroom, ‘You coming back with me then, kid, or are you stayin’ here?’
‘I think I shall stay here,’ Barbara decided. ‘Thass all right, hain’t it?’
‘Looks all right to me,’ Sis said. ‘See you at the meeting Thursday then.’
So Barbara stayed in Childeric Road, where she helped with the housework and shared the queuing and felt she was almost one of the family again. And although the peace between her and her mother-in-law was fragile, it was at least a peace.
Bob was delighted to have her back and said so happily, and even Heather approved, especially now she’d become a fully paid-up member of the Labour Party and spent so much time with Sis.
‘It’s not me that’s different,’ she said, when Bob teased her about her change of heart. ‘You’ve only got to look at her to see how she’s altered. Look how sensible she’s being. Oh no, there’s a lot a’ good in her now. She was ever so good writing to Steve like that when we was all in a state. An’ we don’t see anything of that Norfolk feller anymore, I hope you notice. We got that fly right out the ointment.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘What’ve we got?’ Victor said. The Skibbereen’s limousine had just pulled up alongside his Humber and as he and Phossie had been waiting at their appointed rendezvous for more than half an hour, he was impatient to get started.
‘Cloth,’ the Skibbereen told him as he and Phossie stepped out of the car. ‘Just arrived. Eight rolls. Marked with a black star.’
His driver, who doubled as look-out, was already in position at the corner of the street and the others were arriving now. Mog and Tiffany had parked on the other side of the road and were running across to join them. ‘You’ll have to cut the wire to get in,’ the Skibbereen said. ‘Cutters in the boot, Mog!’
Mog flicked his dog-end into the rubble of the nearby bomb-site and groaned. ‘Not wire again, Skibbers,’ he complained. ‘That’s death to a good suit, is that.’
‘Give ’em here,’ Vic said, taking the cutters. ‘I’ll do it.’ It wasn’t a job he particularly enjoyed but at least if he did it himself, he would make the hole big enough to get through in a hurry – and he’d got enough sense not to wear his good clothes.
It was a very cold night and a surprisingly quiet one. There’d been no rockets for nearly twelve hours and all they could hear were late-night trams buzzing in the distance and the occasional splash of a passing tug on the river below them. The warehouses were dark and unguarded, the streets completely empty and there was no traffic in the docks at all, but that was to be expected at this state of the tide and this time of the night.
Phossie held the torch and Vic started work on the wire fence, his breath streaming before him like white smoke. It was exciting to be breaking in like this but the quicker it was done, the less the risk.
It was a doddle. One of the easiest jobs they’d ever tackled. No guard dog, no police, rolls at the end of the line, clearly marked. They were in and out and the cars were being loaded in less than three minutes. But as he picked up the last roll, Vic saw a possible extra.
‘There’s two bales of stuff over there on the floor,’ he whispered to Phossie. ‘Looks as if they’ve fallen off the shelves. What say we roll them too?’
‘What are they?’ Phossie whispered back. ‘No good nicking stuff you can’t shift.’ They’d had a hard time with the last lot Vic had stolen on spec because it was army surplus and badly stained.
But this, as Vic discovered when he tore away the wrapping, was silk. ‘That’ll sell like the proverbial hot-cakes,’ he said. ‘Wait till the others have gone an’ we’ll come back for it. Go an’ keep cavey. I’ll wait here.’
Luck was still going their way. ‘They’re packing,’ Phossie reported from the doorway. ‘Mog’s off. The Skibbereen’s getting into his car.’
Vic could hear the cars being driven away. ‘Right!’ he said, picking up the first roll. ‘Cop hold! Now run for it!’
It isn’t easy to run when you are carrying a full roll of cloth between you but they went as fast as they could and reached the wire, where Phossie stood the roll on end and balanced it while Vic climbed through.
Then and without any warning at all, everything changed. The look-out hooted a warning, a police whistle shrilled, somebody was running, and the Skibbereen emerged from the shadows like a bad dream, took the silk and was gone without a word.
‘Christ!’ Phossie said.
But Vic was running towards their car, hissing at him to follow, ‘Scarpa! For Chrissake!’
Seconds of panic and frantic activity, struggling to scramble into the car, driving off with the door open and swinging, a vague impression of struggling figures at the corner of the street, one helmeted, no sign of the Skibbereen or any of the others, and then they were round the corner and heading for home along a blessedly empty street. Vic was aware that the sweat was running into his eyes, that his heart was beating in an odd lop-sided way, and that he was flooded with exhilaration and triumph. ‘Anyone after us?’
Phossie checked. But there wasn’t. They’d escaped. They’d got away. ‘We made it!’ Vic yelled. ‘We made it!’
‘Only just,’ Phossie warned. ‘An’ we’re not out the wood yet.’
‘Then I tell you what,’ Vic said, slowing down. ‘We’ll drive like good citizens from now on,’ he said. ‘No point speedin’. That’ud only draw attention to ourselves.’ He was thrilled to realise how competently he was handling this situation. ‘Oh there’s no flies on me, bor.’
But when they reached the house, the Skibbereen’s limousine was waiting by the kerb and the boss himself rose out of the driving seat and stood on the pavement, massively, barring their way.
They followed him meekly into the house, senses prickling, closed the door behind him, stood in front of the empty hearth and waited for retribution. It came at once.
‘Don’t you never do that to me again,’ the Skibbereen warned. ‘Not if you want to stay healthy.’
Vic tried to brazen it out. ‘Do what? We only took an extra roll. I mean, it was lying on the floor, asking to be nicked. You’d have said so yourself if you’d been …’
The Skibbereen pushed his face so close to Vic’s that they were almost nose to nose. ‘You do not’, he snarled, ‘nick nothing on your own account. You take what I tell you. Understand? No more no less. Just what I tell you. Is that clear?’
They agreed that it was, Phossie fearfully, Vic defiantly bold. ‘’Course.’
&n
bsp; ‘You damn nearly fucked everything up,’ the Skibbereen said. ‘My driver’s been nicked because of you, I hope you realise.’
‘He won’t grass,’ Phossie tried to reassure. ‘Not him.’
‘No, ’course he won’t. That ain’t the point. The point is I got to get another driver. You’ve broke up my team.’
Victor thought of a solution at once, a chance to make amends and earn a bit of extra cash at the same time. ‘I can drive,’ he offered.
‘You’, the Skibbereen said scornfully, ‘can keep your trap shut and do as you’re told for a change. I’ve had a damn sight too much of you.’
‘I only thought …’
‘I don’t pay you to think,’ the Skibbereen said, harshly. ‘I’m the brains behind this outfit an’ don’t you forget it. Ever. I give the orders, you do as you’re told. You’re just a gofor. Expendable, that’s what you are. Two a penny. Common as muck.’
‘I only offered,’ Vic said stiffly. But he was talking to his boss’s back.
‘We’re still working for you, ain’t we?’ Phossie asked. ‘I mean …’
‘If I want you,’ the Skibbereen said, ‘I’ll call for you.’ And left with a flourish.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ Phossie said.
Victor was burning with anger and humiliation. ‘Don’t you start,’ he warned. ‘I’ve had enough for one evening.’
But Phossie opened his mouth to speak again, ‘I told you there’d be trouble …’
‘Christ Almighty!’ Vic roared. ‘Hain’t I had enough? Shut your stupid fucking face!’ And he turned and stormed out of the house. He had to put a distance between himself and degradation, to get up and go. Anywhere. It didn’t matter where. The car was waiting by the kerb. There was petrol in the tank.
He was halfway to Ipswich before he could think coherently and realised where he was going. How dare he put me down like that, he raged. I’m the best worker he’s ever had, worth all the others put together. I ought to leave him, here and now. I would too, if it wasn’t for the money. It wouldn’t take much after being treated like that. I could set up a warehouse job just as well as he does. Better probably. Thass just a matter of getting contacts. Thass all ’tis. Getting contacts. Once I can do that there’ll be no stopping me. I know all the ropes. I hain’t green no more. Shan’t get conned a second time the way I was over them ol’ sheepskin coats. I learnt my lesson there. The road stretched before him, long and dark and full of possibilities. He wasn’t going to be put down like that, ever again. There had to be a brickworks somewhere that would sell off old stock. This time he’d search until he found one. And then he’d give the Skibbereen the heave-ho.
It was morning by the time he reached the first brickworks on his list and he was unwashed, unshaven and unfed. But he squared his shoulders, pulled up his coat collar to hide the grime on his shirt, and set off to find the foreman.
He was a total waste of time and effort. ‘Bricks?’ the man said, looking round at the piles in the yard. It was beginning to snow and the wind was lifting the little flakes and tossing them about, so that the space between the two men was speckled and full of confusion. ‘You’re joking, mate. We ain’t got enough to go round. Gold dust bricks are. Anyway it’s all government contracts now. We can’t sell ’em private, even if we wanted to. More than my job’s worth, that’ud be. Whatcher want ’em for?’
‘Build a house.’
‘You a builder then?’ the foreman asked, looking at Vic’s overcoat. ‘Don’t look like one.’
‘Buyin’ for a friend,’ Vic explained.
‘Try the dumps,’ the foreman said. ‘There’s plenty a’ them around. Where they put all the pieces. Bomb clearance an’ that.’
Vic muttered that he might well.
‘Tell you what though,’ the foreman said, flicking his cigarette end into the nearest unfrozen puddle. ‘Bricks is a thing a’ the past.’
Vic pricked up his ears. Something new. Something to supersede bricks. It could be just the thing he was looking for. ‘Yes?’ he asked.
‘Straight up,’ the foreman said. ‘Once this lot’s over, it’s all going to be pre-fabricated houses. You mark my words. They got ’em already. Delivered in cardboard boxes they are, straight from the factory, the whole kit an’ caboodle. ’Course you still have to dig foundations, plumbing an’ electrics an’ that sort a’ thing, but then you just open the boxes, fit it all together, and four hours later, Bob’s yer uncle, there you are, brand-new house, kitchen, bathroom, fitted cupboards, roof, every mod con, ready to walk in.’
It sounded wonderful. One in the eye for the Skibbereen. ‘Thass just my style. Where can I get them?’
‘You’ll have to wait a couple a’ years,’ the foreman warned, amused by his eagerness. ‘They ain’t come on the market yet. Still experimental. Try the dumps. That’s my advice.’
It was such a disappointment that Victor could feel his face freezing. ‘Well thanks for your time,’ he said, stiffly. ‘I ’predate it.’ And he trudged back to his car. His feet were so cold he couldn’t feel his toes and if he didn’t have something to eat soon his stomach would think his throat had been cut.
The snowfall was thickening. The Humber already had a white dusting and the apprentice standing by the bonnet was wearing a mottled cap and white tweed shoulders. ‘This yours?’ he asked, as Vic swept the worst of the snow from his windscreen.
It was a chance for Vic to vent some of his ill humour. ‘Hain’t you got work to do?’
The boy wasn’t abashed. ‘Don’t get shirty,’ he said. ‘I come to ask you sommink. You works for the Skibbereen, don’tcher.’
It was a statement, not a question and could be answered with a nod.
‘I seen you in the pub,’ the boy went on, gazing at the bonnet as if it were the font of all truth. ‘Last month. Blue Boar.’
‘So?’
‘My uncle’s got a few things might interest.’
A break. Could it be? Now and so easily. ‘Oh yes. What sort a things?’
‘Butter. Eggs,’ the boy said casually. ‘Side a’ bacon. Turnaround Farm. Two miles down the road. You can’t miss it.’
‘I’ll call in,’ Vic said, equally casual.
Which was how he drove back to London with a boot full of dairy produce and two sides of bacon, singing all the way. Now Mr High-an’-Mighty Skibbereen, sir, you’d better watch out.
It took him the rest of the day to sell off the goods. He knew there were plenty of restaurants in the West End that bought on the black market but he had to be careful to avoid the ones that were already supplied by the Skibbereen. It was past midnight before he got to bed and by then he was totally exhausted but he’d done a good job and made a healthy profit. There was no sign of Phossie so he had the house to himself. Despite the dust and dirt of the bedroom and the intense cold of the night, he slept the sleep of the justified.
The next evening, washed, shaved, dressed in his best suit, fed to capacity, and with his last half dozen eggs and half a pound of butter in the glove compartment, he drove to New Cross.
It was a clear night so the blackout wasn’t as much of a nuisance as usual, but, even so, he drove down the New Cross Road slowly and carefully, avoiding the tramlines so as not to crack the eggs. He hadn’t seen Barbara for weeks, so the food was something of a peace offering and had to be perfect.
A tram loomed past him, like a great dark ship, whirring and clanking, and it occurred to him, a bit late, that she might be at work. He ought to have sent her a letter or a postcard, to warn her he was coming and arrange things properly. Still not to worry, he’d knock on her door first and see if she was there and if she wasn’t he’d park outside the depot and wait for her there. He could handle it. Smiling to himself, he drove towards Woolworths and the flat.
Like everyone else, he’d heard rumours about the New Cross rocket but he hadn’t given them much attention. Rockets were two a penny these days. You heard them going off all the time but, of course, when yo
u heard them, they were over and they’d fallen on someone else, so you soon forgot about them. Suddenly being confronted by that huge bomb-site gave him quite a turn. Bloody hell! he thought, slowing to look at it. That was a bad one. It occurred to him that Spitfire must have seen it. Now he remembered that she’d moved to her aunt’s flat and looked along the road to see if the aunt’s flat was still standing, and was relieved to see it, with curtains at the windows, and smoke coming out the chimney, perfectly all right and perfectly normal. Bit close though, he thought, looking back at the space. I shall have to sympathise. And he parked the car and picked up his presents.
Barbara had had a bad day. It was dark and cold, there were more rockets than she could count, and her passengers had been full of gloom and depression.
‘Them things are beginning to get on my wick,’ one old lady confessed, after a particularly loud explosion. ‘Bleedin’ Jerries. Pardon the French, dear, but they just go on an’ on an’ on. Never any end to ’em. Just when you think you got ’em licked they come up with summink worse. An’ our poor lads out there fighting the beggars. It don’t bear thinking about.’
But how do you stop a thought once it’s in your head? Barbara remembered Steve all through the day, aching to have him home, racked with anxiety in case he was hurt, fraught with the terrifying knowledge that he could be killed just as easily as Norman and Betty and that there was nothing she could do to prevent it. The sound of those double explosions, echoing and reechoing across the London streets, pushed her back again and again to the nagging, brutal fact that she would rather have avoided – that good people were killed in this war every single day and in the most evil ways. She yearned for her brother, for Betty, for all the other dead and dying she’d seen on that November morning. By the time her morning shift was over, she was aching with grief.
Fortunately Sis came strolling in during her lunch break to tell her she’d be a bit late for the meeting that evening and to ask if she’d nip across to the flat to pick up her blue file. ‘You still got the key, ain’tcher?’
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