by Louise Hare
‘Derek!’ His mother nodded towards the large crucifix that watched over them from the wall opposite, brought over on the boat from Cork not quite twenty years before, though they all went to the local C of E these days.
‘Self-employed’ was how Derek described himself. A businessman. He ran a stall on Brixton Market and at least half his income was legit. A spiv, Evie called him, and Lawrie could see that he looked the part. His luxuriant moustache was as styled as his hair, worn parted on the side and greased down. He wore more cologne than was welcome; it made Lawrie’s nostril hairs twitch.
Don’t trust him, Evie had warned Lawrie. He’ll say he’s doing you a favour but he’ll ask for double in return.
He wasn’t so bad, Lawrie had decided, and there had been benefits to living with a petty criminal. Derek was generous enough to share his ill-gotten gains. A whole extra block of cheese last week, a pound of bacon the week before. Arthur and Lawrie usually went halves on their monthly bottle of rum, which Derek gave them a good price on. They were still one of the few houses on the street to have a telephone installed, a lifesaver for Lawrie. A last-minute booking could only be accepted if the club could actually get hold of you. And, of course, running deliveries for Derek was adding to Lawrie’s savings. He had almost enough saved up for a small wedding and a honeymoon – Mrs Ryan had reckoned on him needing seventy pounds plus a bit extra for spends. Except that because of Derek, Lawrie had been on Clapham Common at the worst time possible and he couldn’t marry Evie if he was sent to gaol. Or the gallows.
The fritters had gone hard in the heat of the oven, their undersides wet with grease that turned Lawrie’s stomach. He tried to force down some of the mashed potato instead, washing it down with hot tea.
‘Well, I heard something scandalous,’ Mrs Ryan announced. ‘I was at the butcher’s earlier, trying to get a bit of beef so we can have a decent roast this Sunday. But no, they’d run out they told me. I tell you, I swear they keep back the good stuff. He’s a mason, Fred Yorke, you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if the best cuts go to his little friends from down the lodge. Them and their funny handshakes…’
‘I tried to join once,’ Derek reminded her. ‘Bastards blackballed me. Can you believe the cheek of it?’
Lawrie could well believe it but he kept his mouth shut.
‘While I was queuing, there were two women in front of me. Talking about a body being found up on Clapham Common. In one of the ponds. A child! And one of them had the ridiculous notion that it might have been there since the war. Kept hidden by the weeds. You do hear of it, people clearing away the rubble and finding people buried beneath, but not a child. The parents would have been going wild! Though the woman was ever so snooty with me when I pointed that out to her.’
‘It wasn’t a child. It was a baby.’ Lawrie’s voice sounded strange in his own ears, as though someone else was speaking through him.
‘A baby? You heard about it on your rounds then?’
‘No.’ He tried to smile, wanting to reassure her, but his lips trembled and he pressed them together until they stilled. They’d find out soon enough. Better it came from him. ‘I found it. I found the baby. In the pond.’
Mrs Ryan stared at him oddly, as if she was struggling to comprehend his words. ‘Dear God.’ She looked to the crucifix and crossed herself. ‘Lawrie, you poor love! So is that why you’re so late home?’
‘I had to give a statement to the police and you know what they’re like.’ He tried once more to smile, still not entirely successfully. ‘I was just glad to get out of there in time. I need to be in Soho for eight o’clock.’
‘What? No, you can’t, Lawrie. You’ve had a terrible shock and you’ve not slept since yesterday. You can’t possibly go and play tonight. Your mother would never forgive me for letting you out in this state.’
Mrs Ryan was a similar age to his mother and they shared several things in common: both widows, regular churchgoers, recovering slowly from a war that had left their families irreparably damaged. They exchanged letters frequently, a few thousand miles of ocean unable to prevent them from finding a sympathetic friend in one another.
‘I have to. Johnny’s expecting me. I’ll see Evie and then head out. I should be home by midnight so it’s not all bad.’ And then up at half four again to serve the Post Office. ‘Besides, it’s better to keep busy. Stop me thinking about it.’
‘I don’t know how you do it, I really don’t.’ Mrs Ryan shook her head. ‘Well, at least clear your plate first. A good meal’ll sort you out. Gosh, what a shock! You just never know what each day will throw at you.’
With that he had to agree. The only thing he did know for certain was that playing his clarinet, immersing himself in music for a few hours, would take his mind away from the day’s events. He just couldn’t dispel the prodding fear that he was going to be facing DS Rathbone again. This wasn’t the sort of thing that went away with only slashed tyres to show for it.
Extract from the Clapham Observer – Monday 21st June 1948
‘WELCOME HOME!’: SONS OF EMPIRE DRAW CLOSE TO THE MOTHERLAND
Today, 492 men, women and children, from Jamaica and other parts of the Caribbean, will land at Tilbury in Essex, setting foot on British soil for what, for some, will be the first time. Others are returning from leave to rejoin our armed forces after fighting for their mother country during the most recent war. In preparation, the Evening Standard sent up a plane to greet them yesterday as their ship, the Empire Windrush, entered the Thames: ‘Welcome Home!’ its banner proclaimed.
What is unclear yet is where these men, for it is understood that the majority of the passengers are men of working age, are to be housed. The Colonial Office were unwilling to talk to this newspaper but an unofficial rumour indicates that a number of new arrivals are to be bussed to the Clapham area. Government officials appear to be unsure exactly why these men have been allowed to travel when no plans have been put in place for them. The Ministry of Labour has assured concerned MPs that all men who are not already bound for Air Force, Army or the mines will be interviewed and assisted in finding work. Suitable accommodation will be provided for them until they are in a position to find their own.
A Lambeth council representative had this to say: ‘It is my understanding that these men are British subjects, invited here to help rebuild our great nation. Let the people welcome them into our community and be grateful that Lambeth has been chosen to benefit from a few more good, strong pairs of hands.
1948
Lawrie waited patiently, leaning against the rough brick of the pillbox wall and trying to look as though he belonged. He occupied his time by watching the people walking past, staring down the curious glances of the pale-faced Clapham locals as he tried once more to calculate how far his money would go until he found work. If the bus was four pence from here to Coldharbour Lane, then how many journeys could he make until he was broke? How much would he have to pay out for rent, and how much was a loaf of bread? Not to mention the expense of clothing. He was all right for now but once the seasons changed he’d freeze to death unless he invested in jumpers. He was already cold.
They called this summer because they knew no better. God help him when winter did come; he was shivering in the sunlight. People hurried along in their coats, umbrellas in hand, hats firmly pushed down and pinned into hairdos that had never been vexed by humidity like his mother’s each Sunday as she fixed it up for church. Lawrie wore both the new jumpers she’d bought him as a leaving present, the arms of his jacket tight, unused to the bulk. He had thought of buying a scarf earlier in the day, only the shop assistant had made him feel anxious as he followed him around Menswear. Just as well.
Almost all of his savings, thirty pounds, had been spent on his ticket to England. On the dockside his mother had waved him off, pretending that it was a sneeze that sent tears scattering down her cheeks. As the boat was tugged away, he’d already had second thoughts, looking down into the water and knowing he was quite
capable of swimming that short distance back to dry land. But then Aston had slung a loose arm around his shoulders and suggested they both go below deck and seek out some entertainment, by which Aston mainly meant gambling and drinking. If there had been more than a handful of women on board he’d have meant them too.
Here was the man now, Aston, his jaunty walk unmistakeable as he came out of the tube station, pausing to light his cigarette. Lawrie lifted a hand in greeting as his friend crossed the road.
‘Where you been all day, man? I just come from the labour exchange and Moses said you never showed your face.’
Lawrie jabbed his right thumb upwards, indicating his injured eye, now swollen and ripe, a nasty cut below. ‘I won’t get me a decent job looking like this. I can leave it a day or two, go down there when I don’t look like trouble.’
‘Up to you, only don’t be complaining if you end up cleaning out toilets or some such low-paid nonsense. You gon’ miss out on all the good jobs,’ Aston warned. He took a lengthy pull on his cigarette, as if he was trying to inhale all its nicotine in one lungful, then dropped it beneath his foot. ‘Let’s go. The boys are heading out into town tonight and I need to change me shirt.’
Lawrie had no intention of going out drinking again, not after the night before, but he followed his friend to the entrance of the shelter. He hated the place, hated that they’d been shoved down into the bowels of the city, unexpected guests that no one knew what to do with. His mother had said that Britain was an orderly place, that everything ran like clockwork compared to back home, but from what he had seen, this country was anything but organised. A plane had greeted them as they sailed up the Channel, Lawrie and his friends crowding onto the deck to look up in wonder. He had thought it an impressive gesture, excitement growing, until they’d arrived in Tilbury the next day to discover that nothing was ready for them.
One hundred and eighty steps led them down, a twisting helter-skelter; it could have been the entrance to Hell and he’d not have felt more terrified. It was getting easier, though. The day before, the first night down there, Aston had abandoned him, frustrated by Lawrie’s slow two-footed progress as he clung to the railing, men flowing around him like a stream around a rock, the babbling of water replaced by the kissing of teeth. He still felt relieved when they reached the bottom, trying to forget about the tonnes of earth above his head and the rumble of the tube trains that passed close by, bringing commuters back from the city at the end of the working day.
The woman they’d nicknamed Rita Hayworth was carrying a pile of clean sheets along the corridor as they walked towards Fremantle, humming a popular song that he knew would be stuck in his head for hours. All the bunk rooms were named for naval captains, laid out like they were still at sea. Her heels clipped the concrete floor and he could barely see her face over the tower of linen.
‘What on earth happened to you?’ she asked, seeing Lawrie’s eye.
‘Oh.’ Lawrie touched his wound gingerly. ‘This? You’ll think badly of me.’
‘You were fighting?’
‘Sort of.’ He looked at Aston who shrugged and began to walk away. ‘More like I got hit and didn’t get back up. I wasn’t expecting it though, the fella caught me by surprise. Mistook me for Aston. Since we all look the same…’
She looked him up and down: half a foot taller than her, lean and clean shaven. Then she looked over at the departing figure of Aston who was stocky with a neat ’tache. ‘But you look nothing alike.’
‘No,’ Lawrie agreed, his face brightening into a wide grin. She blushed as she realised he’d been joking. ‘The fool who hit me could barely stand, let alone see who he was hitting. I’m embarrassed, tell the truth, getting knocked over by a drunk.’
‘What had Aston done to him?’
‘Talking too much, as usual. To the girl behind the bar. This fella decided he didn’t much like it is all.’
‘And you took his punishment.’ She nodded. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’
‘Mine? Lawrie.’ He shook the hand she held out from beneath the sheets. ‘Sorry, miss, I should be helping you with that load you got.’
‘Call me Rose.’ She let him take the bundle from her. ‘If you could just pile them up over there. When I’ve finished later on I can take a look at that eye if you want. I’m not a nurse but we’ve got a first aid kit. You need that cut cleaning properly.’
Lawrie smiled and left her to it, dumping the sheets where she’d indicated before finding Aston, already on his bunk and reading that evening’s Standard.
‘What’s news?’ Lawrie climbed up to the bunk above.
‘Maybe I should be asking you that.’ His head poked out, grinning up at his friend.
‘I was just being friendly.’
‘Yes, well you shoulda checked her left hand first. You too late, my friend. But in more general news rain is forecast for tomorrow. Though that is an everyday state of affairs in this country, I must warn you. Buy an umbrella, you’ll get some use out of it.’
Lawrie’s head was beginning to ache as he rested it down upon a pillow that was barely thicker than a folded piece of cardboard. Damn that fool Aston, getting him into strife before they’d been a full day on dry land. He’d known as soon as they’d walked into that pub that it was a bad idea. They weren’t welcome, no matter what that newspaper article said.
Sonny stopped by. ‘You comin’ out tonight, boys?’
Aston laughed. ‘You only just met me?’
‘No thank you,’ Lawrie replied. ‘I had enough excitement last night.’
‘Boy, don’t be like that. Come on out. We goin’ to Soho. Johnny say there might be work there. They lookin’ for musicians.’ Sonny reached up and poked Lawrie in the side, making him squirm.
‘You serious? He’s still on about forming a band?’ Lawrie sat up.
Sonny shrugged. ‘Worth a look. If not then we go back to the labour exchange tomorrow, nothing lost.’
It was tempting. To earn a living from playing music… well, it was a dream that Lawrie had never thought might come true.
‘Let me get my eye fixed up first but yes, then I’ll come.’
‘No problem.’ Sonny winked as he saw Rose walking towards them. ‘Man, I wish I get punched in the face if I get a woman like that tending to me.’
Lawrie ignored their sniggers and followed Rose into the first aid station, set up in what had been a makeshift infirmary during the war. Rose told him this as she sat him down on a wooden stool, turning to grab her standard issue first aid kit.
‘Did you come down here then?’ he asked. ‘During the bombing?’
‘No. We were living on the other side of the Common back then. We had our own shelter out the back, before we got bombed out. Not a direct hit, thank goodness.’ She tilted his head up to the light. ‘Did you make any attempt to clean this? It’s a right mess.’
‘A little.’ His head had been throbbing and it had been so late when they’d arrived back the night before that even the rickety bunk had been too enticing. A splash of cold water after using the lavatory had been the extent of it.
‘You could have fooled me. Hold still.’ She held onto his head as she applied iodine to the cut.
‘Jesus Christ!’ That innocent ball of cotton wool felt like a poker straight out of the fire. ‘What the hell is that?’
‘Language! My mother would have given you a right piece of her mind if she’d heard you talking like that.’
‘Mine too,’ he admitted. He took a deep breath and held it as Rose carried on, making sure that the wound was clean before releasing him.
‘So where were you last night?’ she asked. ‘Not round here surely.’
‘Yes, actually. Just in that pub down the road, on the left.’
‘I know the one. What did the man look like? The one who punched you.’ She dabbed cool cream on his eye, the chill of it making him jump once more.
He thought about it for a moment. ‘Shorter than me but not by much. Dresse
d pretty smart. Black hair. Sort of like Cary Grant in The Philadelphia Story. And he wore a ring on his right pinkie. That’s what cut me.’
‘Cary Grant, eh?’ She busied herself tidying the supplies away. ‘I don’t know about him but there’s quite a few chaps with dark hair round here.’
‘True,’ he agreed. ‘And you lot all look the same to me.’
She laughed. ‘Yes, well, I shall remember that when you walk past me in the street next week and don’t give me a second glance.’
‘As if that could happen!’ Was he flirting with her? He’d never been much good at it before but she was smiling. Maybe some of Aston’s charm was rubbing off on him.
‘Have you found anywhere to live? After you leave here, I mean?’
‘Not yet. I need to find a job first.’
‘What job did you have back home?’
‘Nothing. I mean, I was studying.’ He glanced up at her, wondering if she thought him just a child. He wasn’t sure how old she was. Probably older than his nineteen years if she was married. ‘My mother wanted me to go to university but money was tight so, you know, here I am. Come to London, seeking my fortune.’
Rose giggled. ‘You sound like Dick Whittington. And I’m sorry but these streets are more likely paved with rubble than gold.’
‘I noticed.’ He sighed. ‘Still, a few of the fellas think maybe we can actually get a band together and earn money from it. I play clarinet. My father always wished he’d become a professional musician instead of working in an office. I suppose I’d like to fulfil his dream now that he’s gone.’
‘You’re lucky,’ she told him, ‘to have something like that, something you love. I worked in a factory during the war, believe it or not, and I loved it. We had a right laugh and I felt like I was doing something proper, you know? Something useful. But Frank, that’s my husband, he wanted things to go back to normal when he came home. Married women don’t work, he says, not unless they need the money, it’d look bad on him. He doesn’t even like me doing this only I insisted. So long as his tea’s on the table when he gets home from work I reckon he can’t really complain, and he’s in the pub most nights anyway.’