by June Tate
‘Now you’re being childish.’
His gaze was cold and calculating. ‘You’ve never ever had a moment of spontaneity in your whole bloody life. Certainly not in bed!’
She looked at him, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
‘It’s like making love to a board. No feeling, no nothing. Apart from that, nothing I do is ever good enough for you, Mary. You’re never satisfied.’
‘But how will we manage? I can’t go back to work, not now I’m pregnant.’
Tom’s mouth tightened. ‘I’ll earn money somehow. You’ve not married an eejit, you know.’
With a spiteful look Mary said, ‘I can always go to my father. He’ll give me some money.’
Tom’s bellow of rage filled the room. ‘You’ll do no such thing! No man has ever paid my way in life, not since me family left me here to earn a living, and they won’t start now.’ He glared at her. ‘You’ll just have to tighten your belt, woman. Learn how to live economically.’ He got unsteadily to his feet and with a certain drunken dignity, said, ‘You can always go home to your mother if you don’t like it here.’ Then he made his way upstairs and went to bed.
The following morning Tom, in a morose mood, left the house and made his way to the Board of Trade building in the hopes of finding work. To no avail. They told him the unemployment benefit had gone up from fifteen shillings to eighteen a week, which didn’t cheer him at all. That wasn’t enough to keep the wolf from the door for long. His confidence was sorely dented as he made his way home.
It was early evening a couple of weeks later and Sandy was sitting quietly having a drink in The Sailor’s Return, hoping there would be some business that night, when the door opened and Tom walked in. He ordered a half of beer and sat beside the pianist.
‘It’s quiet, isn’t it?’ he remarked.
Sandy nodded gloomily. ‘No one’s got any money, dear. By the way, I’m sorry to hear about your trouble. It’s hard to be out of work these days. Any chance of getting back to your job later?’
Tom shook his head. ‘That bloody foreman wouldn’t have me back at any price.’ He looked around. ‘Where’s Lily these days? I haven’t been in here the past fortnight.’
Now what am I supposed to say? pondered Sandy. He’s bound to hear about her soon – perhaps it’s best it comes from me. ‘She’s singing at the Club Valletta,’ he said quietly.
‘She’s what?’ Tom looked appalled. ‘What the bloody hell is she doing working for The Maltese?’
‘Well, dearie, she needs the work. She’s got to live.’
‘Yes – but there …’ grumbled Tom. ‘I hope she knows what she’s doing.’ He looked sideways at Sandy. ‘Singing, you say. I hope that’s all she’s doing.’
Sandy remained silent. There was no way he was going to tell Tom Lily was Vittorio’s mistress. No way. ‘How’s your wife?’ he asked, changing the subject.
‘Not a happy woman.’ Tom frowned. ‘Being out of work makes things difficult with the baby coming and all. But Knocker said he may have something for me. I was hoping he’d be in tonight.’
‘Maybe later,’ said Sandy. ‘Well, I’d best go and tinkle the ivories. Get the old fingers working.’ He got up from his seat and left Tom mulling over his news of Lily.
Sipping his beer, Tom McCann’s forehead creased with concern as he thought of Lily working at the Club Valletta. Why the hell had she decided to go there, of all places? Still, as Sandy said, she had to make a living. But Tom was worried. Who was keeping an eye on her, making sure she was safe? No one. Well, he’d not rest until he knew for himself that she was all right.
At that moment, Knocker Jones limped into the bar on crutches. ‘Thank God you’re here, Tom.’
‘What on earth has happened to you?’
‘I had a few bevvies the other night and tripped up coming out of a boozer. Broke my bloody toe! I can’t do my rounds like this, so will you do them for me? I’ll make it worth your while.’
‘Of course I will. Be glad of the money.’
‘That’s what I thought. You’ll have to take the horse and cart. Have you ever had any experience with horses?’ He sounded anxious.
Tom reassured him. ‘Yes, me old mate. When I was in Ireland we used to ride at the local farm. Me and horses get along fine.’
Removing his cap, Knocker vigorously scratched his head. ‘Thank God for that. Come around to the yard about eight-thirty tomorrow morning. I’ll give you your instructions. Now if you go to the bar for me, I’ll buy you a pint.’
It was the last week in March and the morning air was crisp. There had been a heavy frost and the lawns in the parks were still white. Tom McCann sat on the high seat of the cart, muffled against the cold in warm jumpers and an old coat. His flat cap was low over his ears. He held the reins of the old chestnut horse in his gloved hand.
‘Gee up, you lazy nag. Get a move on!’ The horse snorted, his breath hanging like a mist around his nostrils.
‘Rag and bone! … Any old rag and bone?’ Tom called as he traversed the streets of the Polygon area of Southampton.
These past three weeks Tom had enjoyed himself sitting behind Charlie, the old horse. It had given him a sense of purpose, a feeling of pride. Of being a man again. It had been hard for him to be out of work, but now he was content.
It never ceased to amaze him, the bits and pieces that people threw away. The more wealthy the client, the more bizarre their goods. On his cart now were a chamber pot, a brass bedstead, an old military uniform, a large drum and a hat stand, plus a selection of good-class clothes and a rather worn tiger rug. The creature’s head looked quite fearsome with its wide eyes and long, sharp teeth.
Tom enjoyed travelling around the tree-lined roads in this better-class area. With his Irish charm, he found he could sweet-talk his way into paying a pittance for the goods removed, and he enjoyed flirting with the parlourmaids, persuading them into giving him cups of tea and a sandwich occasionally, and now and then a stolen kiss. And sometimes he even could talk clients into paying him to take their stuff away – a talent that Knocker noted with approval when he accompanied Tom soon afterwards.
‘You’ve missed your vocation in life, me old flower!’ he said to his friend.
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Tom.
‘You with the touch of the blarney. You’re making more money than I do on me tod.’
Laughing, Tom said, ‘Then perhaps you’d better keep me on.’
Scratching himself, Knocker said, ‘I’ve just been thinking the same thing. How would you like to do this on a regular basis?’
‘You serious?’ Tom asked, in amazement.
‘Why not? Besides,’ Knocker gave him a dig in the ribs, ‘I’ve still got a few jobs we can do together, after hours. Until you get back in the docks of course,’ he asked hastily, knowing that was Tom’s dearest wish. ‘What do you say?’
Tom grinned broadly. ‘Why not? I’ll give it a go. To be sure, there’s no other jobs going at the moment, and it’s better than being out of work.’ Holding out his hand he said, ‘Put it there.’
That evening, Tom was eager to tell Mary his good news. He was not a stupid man and had seen for himself the potential for making a profit these past weeks. He would once again be bringing regular money into the home.
‘I’ve got a job,’ he announced with shining eyes as he entered the front door.
Looking at the happiness in his face, Mary felt a pang of guilt. Tom had been a generous husband when he was earning and since he’d been fired, she’d felt the pinch. It was difficult for her. She enjoyed being superior to her few friends, and having to lose her position of importance was hard.
She was thrilled at the news. ‘Oh Tom, that’s marvellous! When do you start back?’
He shook his head. ‘No, Mary. It isn’t in the docks.’
She looked puzzled. ‘Where is it then?’
‘It’s everywhere,’ he said with a chuckle.
‘What on earth are you on a
bout? Talk sense.’
Sitting opposite her he said, ‘From now on, I’m working full-time for Knocker Jones.’
There was a look of horror on Mary’s face. ‘But he’s a rag and bone man!’
The derogatory tone in her voice killed Tom’s enthusiasm. He immediately became defensive. ‘I’ve been doing it these past weeks. You haven’t complained before.’
‘Well, I thought it was just a temporary measure.’
‘It’s an honest occupation. What’s the matter, Mrs McCann? Think it beneath you to be married to a rag and bone man?’
She remained silent, but the expression on her face spoke volumes.
‘Not good enough for you, eh?’ He gave her a hard glare. ‘Well, listen to me, woman. I’ll be putting bread on the table and you’ll eat it and be thankful.’ Turning on his heel, he slammed out of the house.
Stomping along the road, Tom fumed. Was there no pleasing that woman? His Lily wouldn’t have looked down on him that way. Not her.
Unconsciously his steps took him to Bernard Street and the Club Valletta. In the darkness, he stood opposite the entrance, just as Lily had done months before. He watched the comings and goings of the clientèle and wondered where she was. He assumed she was still living in Fred’s house and wondered what time she finished work.
Taking out his pocket-watch, he looked at the time. It was seven-thirty; she would probably be working. He’d come back later and walk her safely home. He longed to see her again. It was as if a part of him was missing, like being without a limb.
Just as he turned away, a sound of laughter made him look back. There was Lily, dressed in an expensive claret-coloured coat trimmed with black fur, with a matching fur hat, walking out of the club on the arm of The Maltese. They stood and waited for a moment until a car pulled up in front of the entrance, looking at each other as they had an animated conversation. He heard Lily’s laughter and the deep throaty chuckle from her companion. He also saw the way Vittorio looked at her. And he didn’t like it. Not one bit.
Chapter Seventeen
Tom and Knocker Jones approached the dock-gates, pushing a large hand-cart loaded with second-hand clothes. It was dark, except for the street-lamps. The light was on in the police post by the gate and the docks policeman on duty was standing in front of it. He stepped forward. ‘Where do you think you’re going, Knocker?’
‘Let me do the talking,’ Knocker whispered to Tom.
‘’Ello, Len. I’m off to pick up some odds and sods from some of the crew on the tugs. They’re a bit short of cash. You know how it is.’
The man laughed. ‘You’d sell your own mother, given half the chance.’
‘You making an offer, mate?’
The policeman waved them through. ‘Go on then, you cheeky sod.’
Knocker doffed his cap. ‘Thanks, old dear. See you later. I won’t be long.’
Letting out a sigh of relief, Tom said, ‘That was easy, thank God.’
‘Nothin’ to it,’ laughed his friend. ‘I’m always in and out. I make a point of it. I bung them a bottle now and again. Keeps them happy.’
There was an eerie atmosphere within the dock-gates. The darkness was scarcely broken by the low glow from the street-lamps. Reflections of ships’ lights quivered on the water, moving with the tide. Figures emerged through the darkness, then disappeared as quickly.
Knocker headed towards a large warehouse which loomed out of the night. He parked the cart beneath an iron staircase, pushing it out of sight in the dark recess.
Sitting on the cart, he patted the space beside him. ‘Might as well sit down, me old flower. We’ll have some time to wait.’
From their vantage point, they watched a small cargo-ship dock. The hawsers were tied by a crew of stevedores. There was a loud rattling of chains as the anchor was weighed, then a gangway was noisily lowered. Voices carried on the air as the crew hurried ashore to catch the pubs before they closed.
There was a sound of footsteps coming closer, and Tom felt Knocker’s hand on his arm, drawing him further into the shadows. His heart pounded; every muscle in his body went rigid with tension. He held his breath as a policeman walked past them, unaware of their presence. As the sound of the footsteps faded into the distance, he felt perspiration break out on his forehead.
Within minutes there was a sound of rustling as a figure appeared from the dusk, a few feet away from them, making Tom jump.
A voice with a foreign accent called softly: ‘Knocker. You there?’
Getting off the cart, Knocker gestured to Tom. ‘Come on.’
The foreigner – a big man dressed in navy trousers, a thick navy jacket and peaked cap, looked suspiciously at Tom. ‘Who’s that? What’s he doing here?’
‘It’s all right, Dutchy – he’s a mate. Now, have you got the stuff?’
Hearing the name, and recognising the guttural voice of the stranger, Tom lowered his head, pulling his cap further over his face. Dutchy! The man he gave a thrashing to when he was threatening Lily and Amy. Christ – just his luck.
The seaman handed over a hessian sack. ‘Be careful.’
Knocker passed it on to Tom. ‘’Ere, put this on the cart.’
Tom left the two men together talking in low urgent tones, grateful to slip back into the anonymity of the shadows.
The rag and bone man returned and rapidly pulled some coats and old jumpers out of a bag. ‘’Ere, cover those over the sack. We don’t want any awkward questions asked. Keep your head down and say nothing.’
They walked casually back to the dock-gates, where the same policeman as before was on duty. Tom watched anxiously as Knocker stopped the cart and, picking up one of the coats, walked over to him.
‘Hey, Len. Got a nice bit of stuff ’ere might fit you. You interested?’
‘Get off with you before I run you in for trying to bribe an officer of the law!’
‘Would I do such a thing?’ asked Knocker in an injured tone.
‘Too bloody right you would!’
They cleared the dock-gates without further trouble, Tom breathing freely for the first time since they’d entered the area earlier in the evening.
He was concerned about Dutchy. He must warn Amy that he was around. Lily would be safe from the foreigner’s wrath while she was working, for he wouldn’t be allowed through the doors of the smart Club Valletta. But what if he found out Lily’s home address? Perhaps he’d better go round there later and warn her.
‘You did well, Tom,’ said Knocker, breaking into his thoughts. ‘Kept a cool head. Didn’t panic.’
‘You were pretty cool yourself.’
‘Bit of bluff fools a lot of people, me old flower.’
They headed towards The Ditches.
When Knocker drew up opposite Mrs Cohen’s secondhand shop, Tom looked at it and remembered how he’d first seen Lily there. He pictured her bright eyes, her cheeky smile, her laughter. The memory was painful.
Knocker tapped on the window of Abraham’s pawnbroker’s shop. Then looking around furtively, he rang the bell and waited.
Abraham’s bespectacled face peered out as he lifted the curtain, then he opened the door and beckoned to Knocker to come inside.
Lifting the sack off the cart, the rag and bone man told Tom to push it around the corner and wait for him.
Tom puffed on a cigarette as he waited, contemplating how he was forced to be involved with such matters, just because his foreman had sacked him. He thought of Lily – of Mary – and what a mess he’d made of his life.
Fifteen minutes later his friend joined him, a broad smile on his lips. He handed Tom a five-pound note. ‘Thanks, me old mate. I finally got a good deal after a lot of argy-bargy with that tight-fisted old sod. He’s hard as nails, but I like the old bugger.’
Tom folded the white note and put it in his pocket. ‘That was easy money. Thanks.’
Scratching his chin, his friend said, ‘Yeah, but it isn’t always so. I can do with a man who doesn’t lose his nerv
e. You interested if I need you again?’
Tom nodded his agreement. After all, what choice did he have? He had to earn every penny he could.
Stopping off at the nearest pub for a well-deserved pint, Tom waited until closing time then made his way to Lily’s house. He knocked on the door, but there was no answer so he leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette. He was too early. Time passed and still he waited until the man next door, returning home from a late shift, asked him what he wanted. Tom told him.
‘You’ll have a long wait, mate,’ the man said. ‘Lily doesn’t come here much these days.’ He winked at Tom. ‘Why would she? She’s living with The Maltese.’
Tom felt the blood drain from his face. For one awful moment he thought he was going to pass out. The man caught hold of his arm. ‘You all right, mate?’ he asked anxiously.
Nodding, Tom held up his hand. ‘Yes, thanks … I’m fine.’
He walked slowly down the street, wiping his forehead with his red neckerchief. How could she do it? He shook his head. Not his Lily. He didn’t believe it. He knew she was singing there, but living with The Maltese … Surely the man was wrong. Then he suddenly remembered the intimate look that had passed between Lily and her companion that night outside the club. He pictured the elegant clothes she was wearing … and he knew.
Amy let herself into her shabby room and sat in an easy chair by the fire. The embers were nearly dead, but she leaned forward and raked them, trying to coax a little flame. Something caught at last and she went to lie back in her chair, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw a movement. Turning, she stifled a cry of terror as she saw Dutchy sitting on the old settee. Although Tom had warned her of his return, she had been vigilant and, as she hadn’t set eyes on him, she had been lured into a feeling of false security.
He leered at her, his gold tooth gleaming. ‘Hello, bitch. Now you don’t run away. Now you stay with me. This time I don’t pay. You owe me for the beating I took. You pay good.’