Mad Dogs and Englishmen (The Brigandshaw Chronicles Book 3)

by Peter Rimmer

  The Italian had still been asleep when he closed the door of the room. The Italian worked the late shift which was why they shared the same room. He was still thinking of his cousin Mildred and hoped she was warm in her bed. There had been a cold east wind blowing through the streets of London when he walked to work over Vauxhall Bridge.

  While her brother Len was washing the breakfast dishes, his sister Jenny Merryl was walking down the gangplank of the SS Carmarthen Castle in Cape Town. London was not much kinder to Jenny than to her cousin Mildred. Most of the trained nurses were out of work two years after the end of the war. An officer she had nursed in France had given her a job as a maid. The job had lasted six months until the young man had brought home a wife. Jenny had lived in the young man’s family town house in Park Lane, not ten doors from where Len worked in his posh hotel. It had taken the wife two weeks to put Jenny out on the street. Young wives never tolerated pretty young maids in the same house as their husbands. Jenny was out the same day the young woman found out Jenny had nursed her new husband back to health in France.

  Jenny’s mother had told her from a young age that necessity was the mother of invention. The husband had slipped her a pound note behind his new bride’s back. Then she was on the streets of London with her suitcase, an old coat and a new pair of shoes that hurt her feet. The wife had given her the new pair of shoes as a parting gift that Jenny surmised was to salve the young woman’s conscience. The wife had not liked the shoes after wearing them twice. She was a size smaller than Jenny which caused Jenny’s feet the problem.

  That first morning she found a cobbler who stretched her shoes and gave them back to her wrapped in an old newspaper. After walking half a mile to find the cobbler she had taken her old shoes out of her case so she could walk. The cobbler said to leave the new shoes off her feet until the blisters went away. She had stuffed the wrapped up new shoes in her old suitcase and gone to look for a room. She still had the pound note in her pocket which was comforting.

  She found a room in Soho above a Greek restaurant. Twice she saw Cousin Mildred without being seen herself. It was apparent to Jenny the poor girl had become a whore to support her little Johnny. Jenny kept away to save her cousin’s pride. The first time after seeing Mildred soliciting, Jenny’s heart had thumped all the way home. In her mind she kept saying over and over again, ‘there but for the grace of God go I’. She felt guilty being in possession of the pound note.

  For two weeks she had looked for any kind of job that was not prostitution. She had not broken the pound note, living off the little she had saved as a live-in maid. The wife had magnanimously given her a week’s wages in lieu of notice. Everyone had to protect themselves in life and Jenny felt no grudge. In a moment of honesty she knew she would have done the same thing if their roles had been reversed. Life was tough at any level. She had liked the officer and mentally had wished him well in his marriage.

  Autumn had turned into winter and Jenny was still out of work when she took the new shoes out of their newspaper wrapping, the shoes that had caused her feet so much pain. When she tried them on she found the old cobbler was right. He had stretched the good leather perfectly to fit the size of her feet.

  Smiling to herself at even a small victory over life she bent down to pick up the old newspaper from the floor of her small room to find herself looking at the picture of a very familiar face grinning back at her. Quickly she read the name Jim Bowman. In a heart-stopping moment her own name leapt out of the paper making her plonk down on the bare boards of the floor next to the crumpled newspaper. Again she looked at the photograph taken by Solly Goldman in Meikles Hotel. There was no mistake. They were looking for her. Jim was a war hero. She was his sweetheart.

  Jenny Merryl had begun to laugh, hugging herself as she rolled around on the floor. Like Cousin Mildred, she had seen the sheep’s eyes but nothing had ever come of it. Jim Bowman had been too shy. They had never even properly spoken to each other, not even as friends despite having grown up in the same row of council houses. It was not the twenty-five pounds that was making her laugh. Ever since she had turned thirteen she had fantasized about Jim Bowman. When they made him an officer she felt so proud. She had wanted to tell him. To give him a big, fat kiss. Instead, she put her pretty little nose in the air and gave him the cold shoulder.

  When life for Jenny turned on its head, she no more thought of going to the newspaper for her twenty-five pounds than flying to the moon. There it was in print for the whole world to read. Jim Bowman loved her. She knew where he lived. She was going to Africa. She was going to find her Jim. And when she did she was going to throw herself into his arms and live happily ever after.

  Colonial Shipping, the holding company and the merchant shipping line owned by the Brigandshaw family from the time of Harry Brigandshaw’s grandfather, had taken over three British shipping lines during the war naming them the Empire Castle Line. The new ships of the line were all to be named after British castles. Only the older ships like the SS King Emperor retained their names. Just off Piccadilly in Regent Street, Empire Castle had opened an office. In the front of the office through a large plate glass window were models of all the ships of the line. Harry’s uncle, Sir James Brigandshaw Bart, had commissioned the works that showed potential passengers the ships they would sail upon in exact detail without having to go to the docks. Jenny had more than once passed the big window and looked at the model ships.

  In the new shoes that no longer hurt, Jenny had walked as quickly as possible, her excitement bubbling up inside of her. She had to take the cheapest berth in the boat, sharing a dormitory cabin with eleven other girls. The pound had just been enough to buy a ticket on the boat to Cape Town leaving enough for the third-class train ticket from Cape Town up through South Africa and Bechuanaland to Salisbury in Rhodesia. There she was going straight to the offices of the Rhodesia Herald. It was all in the London paper that came with her shoes from the cobbler. Even the name of Simon Haller who had written the syndicated story.

  When they had showed her Salisbury on the map in the shipping office, she had felt no fear. If Jim Bowman lived in Salisbury, there was nothing to be frightened about once she was there.

  At the bottom of the gangplank in her lucky new shoes that were now well used and scuffed at the edge, her old suitcase from Neston firmly in her right hand, it was a beautiful summer day. For the rest of her life the sun was going to shine. Everyone was helpful. The ship had docked on time. The train was due to leave on time.

  She walked to Cape Town station to save a penny. She would largely be out of money when she reached her destination which did not worry her. At the end of her journey was Jim. Nothing else could possibly matter.

  All thought of Cousin Mildred had gone from her head.

  Ever since buying her the port and lemon in the Elephant and Castle, Len Merryl had known the address of the room Mildred shared with the other two whores and the children. The week before Christmas when the weather was particularly cold his conscience overcame his fear. Many nights since finding her with one foot back against the lamp post, Len had dreams of big breasts. When he woke, he likened his lust to wanting his sister. Never once had Len allowed himself to think of his sister Jenny as a woman. Mildred was Len’s first cousin. They both had the same grandmother. Sleeping with Mildred would be incest in Len’s mind, even if he paid her a bob.

  From the warmth of the Elephant and Castle, and unseen by Cousin Mildred, he watched her until she went home. Then he followed at a safe distance. He wanted to be sure she was the only girl in the room even though he would not have time to walk back to Lambeth and get a night’s sleep. Len had deliberately left his meagre savings in his room, hidden in the toe of his spare pair of shoes.

  Cousin Mildred had gone off with one trick all the time Len sat in the alcove of the pub that gave him the view of the street and the girl in the flimsy dress that showed off her exposed leg and breasts. Len knew his cousin had to be freezing. He nursed each pint of bee
r for as long as possible. When she had gone off with her man, coming back half an hour later, Len had been sickeningly jealous.

  “What you doin’ here?”

  “I’ve got money for you, Mildred.”

  “You want to fuck me too!”

  “No, Mildred,” Len stammered. “It’s for little Johnny.”

  He had approached her at the front door of the seedy lodging house while Mildred was fitting her key into the door. The girl was visibly shaking and even though it was bitterly cold, Mildred’s brow was sweating. She had an old shawl over her shoulders she had not had before.

  When the door opened Len could smell boiled cabbage mixed with the stench of stale urine from the downstairs toilet with its door wide open to the badly lighted hallway. The old, three-storey house was at the back of Soho, away from the restaurants frequented by Londoners looking for good cheap food.

  “You’d better come up.”

  “Are you all right, Mildred? You’re sweating.”

  “No I’m not all right, Len. The girls think I’ve got pneumonia. The girls think I’m going to die. I won’t be the first Piccadilly tart to die in winter. Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.” She tried to laugh and ended up coughing violently, fighting for breath.

  “Why are you out then?”

  “And starve! Little Johnny starve!”

  “Couldn’t you get some help?”

  “Who bloody from? Fat lot of help you’ve been, Len Merryl. And us cousins.”

  “That’s the point. If we wasn’t first cousins, I’d have wanted to walk out with you, Mildred. We’re Catholics. You can’t marry a first cousin.”

  “But you can fuck ’em.”

  “Please, Mildred.”

  They had reached the third landing up the top of the stairs. The whore that took the previous eight hours in the bed had passed them on the stairs, giving Mildred a look that mixed despair with sympathy.

  Len had never seen a room more tatty, more sordid.

  Mildred was of little use to her son or the other two mites in the room that was as cold as charity. The oldest child in the freezing cold room Len guessed was six years old. All three children Len saw later had extended, bloated stomachs. All thought of sex with Mildred went when she opened the door to a room little bigger than a large, walk-in cupboard. One of the children was grizzling. All three were in one large bed. The room was filthy and smelled of urine. The light bulb was a red glow from a bad power supply. Len’s first impulse was to be sick. His second was to cry. The tears flowed down his face as he witnessed the human degradation. Just the single, naked bulb hung from the ceiling. Mildred got into the bed with the children, too sick to feed them. She lay on her back, her large, fever-filled eyes looking through the single source of weak light. She took her arm out from the dirty bedclothes and held out her hand to him, palm up. On the palm of the small hand was a shilling.

  “Can you help, Len? I can’t do no more. I’m goin’ to die. Mind my Johnny. I did do my best. Weren’t good enough.”

  “I’m goin’ for a doctor. Don’t you move.”

  “I can’t.”

  Mildred’s eyes were shut when Len closed the door and went in search of a doctor in the early hours of the morning. One of the children had begun to cry softly. Even in the minutes Len had been in the room he had seen there was no gas fire or any means for cooking. He had the shilling firmly gripped in his right hand. He would have killed anyone who tried to take it away. He just hoped the doctor would come for a shilling. Then he was going to get them hot food from his kitchen. The Italian was on duty. The walk to Park Lane would take him fifteen minutes. They would find a way to keep the food hot. One of the cooks had a thermos flask that he filled with coffee when he went off shift. They would fill the flask with hot soup.

  The Elephant and Castle was just closing. The barman gave him the doctor’s address.

  The old man was going to bed when Jim knocked. Jim tried to explain.

  “I know. It’ll be pneumonia. They can’t whore wearing overcoats. The weak die in the first winter. What’s her address?”

  Len gave the doctor the address and the front door key. He offered the old man a shilling. The doctor smiled thinly.

  “There is a law against making money out of prostitution. Go and get the food. I’ll wait with Mildred. You did say Mildred?…”

  “What will happen to the kid if she dies?”

  “You can have him. How the hell do I know?”

  “I’m sorry… Do they have orphanages in London?”

  The old man had on a thick overcoat and carried his doctor’s bag. They went out into the street together. Len was loath to badger the doctor again.

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “To hell with it! Why do they bother being born?”

  “That’s the easy part. Her boyfriend was killed in the war.”

  “That bloody war again. I was retired. Now look at me. If she survives, get your cousin out of London. Go home. For the likes of you, there’s nothing but pain looking for a new life here. Go to the colonies. Just don’t stay in London. Now bugger off and get that food. I’m sick and tired of young girls dying on me.”

  “You’ve done this before?”

  “Twice a week this time of year. And all that wealth just round the corner… We call ourselves civilised. First, we slaughter each other in the millions. Then allow this to happen.”

  The old man was still talking to himself as he walked away, his head bent down against the icy wind. Len watched him, to make sure he took the turn in the road to Mildred. Len walked as fast as he could to the hotel where he worked. He was not due to go on duty for five hours. All the people passing in the street knew nothing of his plight. He was only thinking of Cousin Mildred.

  The shop windows were full of Christmas cheer. There were fancy lights in the rich windows. Len was the only one walking really fast. He wanted to run but thought a policeman would stop him. A couple, arm in arm, got in his way. The girl had her head on her man’s shoulder.

  “’Ear! What’s your bloody ’urry,” she spat at him.

  Len still had the shilling clutched in the palm of his hand. He went on threading his way through the Christmas window shoppers. Carol singers were singing Silent Night. Len could not see them. The singers were somewhere in a group off Oxford Street. He would turn left at Marble Arch.

  Then he saw them. It was the Salvation Army in their uniforms, the women wearing Victorian caps on their prim heads. For a moment he thought of talking to the man with glasses who seemed to be in charge. The man ignored him. A young girl held out at a box. Len went round her.

  Len could hear the indignation mixed with righteousness in her voice as the sound of it was swallowed by the crowd. He could smell roasting chestnuts. A man was playing a barrel organ by winding the handle. Len had to sidestep the man’s monkey on its chain. Cars and carriages passed both ways on Oxford Street. Mostly they were cars. Two policemen rode on horses high above the heads of the crowd to have a better look at what was going on. Len slowed his pace to be inconspicuous. He was going to save her life. That much he had determined. He and the old man who was a doctor were going to save Mildred’s life.

  “She’s not even twenty,” he said out loud, quickening his pace.

  No one took any notice of him.

  When he reached his hotel, he passed the grand front entrance before going round the back to the tradesman’s entrance and the kitchens. All the guests had appeared to be wearing evening dress. They were likely to be back from theatres preparing to go for supper. The women were heavily jewelled as they stepped from the cars dropping them at the entrance.

  The Italian took charge. Ten minutes after reaching the kitchen Len was on his way out again with the food. This time he walked more slowly. He was more confident. Everyone in the kitchen had helped. There was always soup left over in the tureens when they came back from the dining room.

  Len had three large flasks full of hot soup. One was
full of lobster bisque. The other shark-fin soup. The third had been made from the flesh of a turtle. To add to the feast were half eaten chops, cut bread and dry toast the cook had called Melba toast. The swag was slung over his shoulder in a tablecloth with a black cigarette burn in the middle.

  Halfway to Soho a policeman stopped him. Len explained and showed him the half eaten chops. Dropping to his knees on the pavement to open the tablecloth the kitchen manager had thrown away.

  “You’d better hurry, lad, carry it over your arm. Less conspicuous. Like Christmas presents. No one carries presents slung over the shoulder. What made me suspicious like.”

  Len had never thought of it.

  With the tablecloth wrapped around the food again Len hurried on his way.

  When Len reached the lodging house, the front door was locked. Shut in his face. He looked up at the top floor and shouted Mildred’s name in panic. He had put the swag down on the top step. Twice he shouted at the top of his lungs. It was worse than ever. Now he couldn’t even get to his cousin Mildred dying in the bed with the children. Len banged on the door hurting his hand.

  The doctor himself opened the door.

  “Careful, laddie.” The man was a Scot. For the first time Len recognised the accent, he was so pleased to see the man.

  “Is she going to die?”

  “Probably not if you look after her. I gave her penicillin.”

  The old man pushed past Len with his doctor’s bag and walked down the steps into the street without looking back.

  “Where are you going?” called Len.

  “Home. She won’t be the only one wanting to die on a night like this. Christmas is a bad time for the lonely and destitute. Half of survival is wanting to survive. Look after her. You know my address wherever you take her. A good nurse can save her. The lungs are inflamed but not collapsed. Are you a good nurse, laddie? The children are starving. Why they have extended bellies. Good food and warmth for all of them. Can you manage that?… Good night.”