Rough Justice

by Gilda O'Neill

  Unfortunately, that hadn’t happened; they were still there, and if anything they were getting livelier.

  But he had to leave soon; his mum would be going mad as it was. Knowing her she’d already be convinced that he’d been crushed to death under a dray in the brewery yard, knocked down by a bus on the way home, or attacked down by the dock gates by a drunken mob off the ships. What with the way his dad had started acting lately, she had enough to worry about, so he didn’t want to do this to her as well.

  He took his hat off the rack. Right. What he’d do was this – he’d walk across the brewery yard, all casual like, then he’d get to the gates and nod his goodnight to the watchman as though everything was normal, and then he’d just step out onto the pavement, keep his head well down, and walk right past them. Easy. Just another bloke wandering along the Mile End Road.

  He looked at the clock again and then stared down at his boots.

  Maybe his father wouldn’t notice him.

  Yeah, there’d be some chance of that. He might as well have had an arrow pointing to his head with look this way written on it in big red letters.

  With his hat brim tipped down over his eyes, and his jacket collar turned up regardless of the heat, Martin reached the high metal gates with his blood drumming in his ears.

  ‘Night then, Mr Lovell,’ called the watchman. He spoke so loudly he might as well have been using a megaphone. ‘Make sure you mind yourself with that lot out there. Right song and dance they’ve been making. Bloody trouble-makers. Could turn ugly if you ask me. They should be moved on. That’s what I think. But where’s a copper when you want one, eh? That’s what I wanna know. You tell me that. Not like it used to be. Aw no.’

  Martin sighed wearily. It was as if the man’s words had attached some sort of a magnet to him, because without needing to look at them, he knew that the whole crowd had turned and that, as one, their gaze was now burning into him – and in that crowd was his father.

  The black-shirted orator, who had been addressing the crowd from a makeshift wooden platform created from beer crates appropriated from round the back of the brewery, pointed at Martin. ‘Look at him. Go on, look at him.’

  As if they needed telling. Was there anyone left who wasn’t looking at him?

  ‘The likes of him think they don’t have to worry. And why is that? I’ll tell you why. Because he thinks he’s doing just fine. Fine and dandy, because he’s got work, hasn’t he. And it’s well-paid work from the look of his smart suit and his trilby hat. But let him wait, let him wait until the Jews and all the other foreigners step forward and offer to do his job for half his wages. You wait and see where he is then. I’ll tell you where that’ll be, shall I? He’ll be out on the streets like the rest of you, with no job, no money and not even any pride left because he didn’t act before it was too late – because he couldn’t see it coming. So let’s explain the facts to him, shall we?’

  The crowd roared its approval.

  The Blackshirt pointed at Martin again. ‘Come over and join us and listen to a few home truths. Come and learn how you can protect what you’ve got while you’ve still got the chance. Stand up for your rights like a man; stand up and be heard like every decent Englishman should.’

  Martin turned down his collar and ran his finger between his neck and his shirt, letting the air circulate around his blood-flushed throat. ‘No, thanks all the same,’ he said as he edged his way past the now jeering crowd. ‘I’m off home.’

  ‘Think you’re too good for us, do you, because you’ve got a job and this lot haven’t? These men –’ He looked about him like a field marshal surveying his troops. ‘These men have worked hard all their lives. They’ve worked in the docks, and in the factories, working to build up this once great country. Abandon them to poverty, would you? Find them too embarrassing for your posh taste, do you?’

  Martin’s father was now only a few feet away from him, but Martin didn’t meet his gaze as he replied as calmly as he could, ‘No, they don’t embarrass me, they don’t embarrass me at all. But do you know what? You do, because me, I’ve never thought I’m too good for anyone. Not foreigners, not Jews, no one. So, if it’s all the same to you, like I said, I’m off home.’

  ‘Off home, eh?’ shouted someone from the thick of the crowd. ‘Well good for you, moosh. You with your office-wallah job, you can afford to pay the rent on a wage like yours.’

  Martin guessed that it was probably the same person who shouted at him who then threw the stone that hit him on the side of his face. But Martin didn’t react to the taunts or the violence, he wouldn’t let them get to him, not with his dad standing there amongst them. Any other time he’d have been right in there, but he wouldn’t let them set him against his own father. All he wanted was to get away from there, with, preferably, his father by his side. Joe had only been to a couple of the meetings, so maybe it wasn’t too late to make him realise that these people were wrong, and that the men who were putting these ideas into the heads of otherwise decent citizens were nothing more than muck-stirring yobs.

  Martin raised his hand and waved at Joe. ‘Dad. How about you coming home with me, eh?’

  ‘Dad?’ a voice repeated. ‘Dad? Bloody hell. He’s some sort of a geezer, this one. He won’t even hang around to support his own old man? That’s the type he is – a right two-bob merchant.’

  ‘Ignore him, Dad. Please. We can stop off at the pub on the way home if you like. Yeah, that’d be good; let me buy you a pint.’

  His mum would just have to suffer for another half-hour or so; anything would be better than this.

  ‘Maybe get in a couple, eh? Anywhere you fancy? How about the Hope, that’s only just up the road?’

  ‘No thank you.’ Joe’s voice was brittle. ‘A man of my age should have enough money in his pocket to buy his own pint. My place is here, with this lot, with blokes who are in the same boat as me. Blokes who’ve got the guts to do something about this fucking disgusting situation – a situation where a man can’t even afford to put food on his own dinner table, where he can’t afford to treat his own bloody wife.’

  ‘But, Dad, can’t you see what’s happening here? You’re a good man. Not like them.’ Martin jerked his head in the direction of the speaker on the platform. ‘They’re just a bunch of – I don’t know – bullies.’

  ‘Bullies?’ roared the Blackshirt, his eyes blazing and his finger stabbing the air. ‘You just wait until the day the Jews finally take over. You mark these words, and mark them well. They are going to swamp us. They are going to flood over us like a wave. They are going to take our jobs and our homes from us; steal our sisters and our daughters. That’s when you’ll find out what bullies really are. As for us and what we are, we are just ordinary men, men standing up for ourselves and our families. And if you were half a man you’d be doing the same by joining us. Joining us and your own father.’

  Martin was about to say something more to Joe, but his father had turned his back on him.

  It was time to give up – for now at least. Martin took a moment to gather himself and then threw out his chest and barged his way through the openly hostile crowd.

  A voice, even louder than the baying mob, shouted over them, ‘Why don’t you hooligans go and do something useful, like getting yourselves some work?’

  The sneering question came from a slightly tipsy, very smartly dressed passer-by, who had an equally well-dressed companion walking along unsteadily beside him.

  Martin turned to see what was going on, and closed his eyes with a moan of despair. It was only one of the senior managers from the brewery. He didn’t recognise the other man, but from the look of both of them they’d been making a good fist of sampling the company’s products. Martin was sure as hell not going to let either of them recognise him. He started moving away again, faster this time.

  ‘There are plenty of jobs out there for all of you,’ the senior manager went on, ‘if only you’d be bothered to shift yourselves to go and look for them,
instead of hanging around together on corners like a crowd of street arabs.’

  ‘What jobs would they be then? Working in offices like you two toffee-nosed bastards? Some chance we’d have of getting cushy little numbers like that.’

  ‘Why not go and build more cars for toffee-nosed bastards like us?’ The man smirked as he opened the door of what appeared to be a brand new Austin tourer. ‘I could do with a little run-around for the wife. Or how about becoming a tailor? Make me a new suit. I don’t think a gentleman can ever have too many suits, do you?’

  ‘Why don’t you fuck off back where you came from?’ someone called out from the back of the crowd.

  ‘What,’ the man laughed, easing himself into the car, ‘Bow?’ Then he added snootily, ‘Tredegar Square, of course. Nothing but the best for me.’

  ‘No, fucking Russia, you Jew bastard.’

  Martin broke into a run, not wanting to hear either what he was sure would come next from the enraged mob or any more taunting from the manager and his companion, who should have known better than to flaunt their wealth in front of such desperate men. As he ran he could only hope that they wouldn’t be having a meeting there again tomorrow evening. Their yelling and their abuse disgusted him, and the thought of his father being caught up in such venom was too much for him to stomach. He knew Joe wasn’t a bad man, just a frightened one, but it was still no excuse. He had changed so much, it was like living with a stranger sometimes, and now having witnessed him being part of the mob, with his face contorted by hatred, he began to wonder how much more he could bear.

  In the past Joe had always encouraged Martin to do the right thing, telling him to care about people and their feelings, and never to judge them because of what he thought they were, but to give them a chance to prove their mettle. In other words, he’d taught him that it was important to treat people as if they were worthwhile, unless or until he learned otherwise. And he’d persuaded Martin to read the newspapers, to listen to the wireless, to take an interest in politics – to decide what was fair and what was just. But if this was what his father had become – no matter for what reason – he wasn’t that same man any more, and Martin didn’t know how much longer he was prepared to stay under the same roof as him.

  He heard a yell followed by a huge roar of fury from behind him.

  Martin started running faster, wanting to leave the mob and their filthy ideas far behind him. And if that meant leaving his father behind too, then that was the way it would have to be.

  Chapter 26

  ‘Don’t usually see you in here at this time of the morning, Nelly darling.’

  As Sarah Meckel spoke she did her best to act light-heartedly and not to stare at the cut on Nell’s lip and the swelling on her jaw, but it wasn’t easy – Nell’s face looked as if she’d challenged a speeding, out-of-control bus to a fight and had come off exactly as you’d have expected.

  ‘I thought you were always one to get your clearing up done of a morning before you did your errands,’ Sarah smiled.

  ‘Can I have an envelope and paper, please?’

  Nell’s voice was so low that Sarah struggled to hear what she was saying. Had she heard her right? Envelope and paper? It wasn’t the sort of thing her customers usually requested.

  She leaned across the counter, her face screwed up in concentration. ‘Envelope and paper, did you say?’

  Nell nodded, hardly moving her head, but still the pain ran through her, making her eyes sting with tears.

  ‘Sorry, darling, I don’t sell anything like that.’ Sarah looked about herself for inspiration – how could she help the poor girl? ‘I know, I could let you have a few sheets out of my receipt book, if you like. It’s nice thin paper, you could write on that. But envelopes, no. I don’t think I can help you there. But let’s think where you could try. Here, I know, how about that big stationers up on the Commercial Road? Their windows are always full of all sorts, so I’m sure they must do packets of envelopes. And I bet if you ask nicely they’ll let you have just the one if that’s all you want.’

  Nell said nothing, she just turned slowly, with her head bowed, and began to walk away.

  Sarah wasn’t leaving it at that. She dodged round the counter and rushed after her. ‘Nell. Nelly. Wait, darling. Hang on. I’ve just remembered – I’m sure David’s got some writing things up in the flat. He was a great letter-writer at one time. Used to keep in touch with his family back home as regular as clockwork, before . . . Before . . . Aw, that doesn’t matter. Anyway. You come back in the shop with me and sit yourself down and I’ll nip up and see what I can find.’

  A few minutes later, Sarah was back down in the shop with two sheets of crackly lined paper and a yellowing envelope. ‘Not exactly smart, as you can see. David hasn’t done much writing in some time, but I think it’ll do the job. And see there, look, I found a stamp in the drawer and I stuck it on for you as well, so that’s something you don’t need to worry yourself about.’

  Nell got up from the chair, holding onto the counter to steady herself. ‘Thank you, Sarah. I appreciate it. How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Nothing. And you’re not leaving quite so fast, young lady. You sit yourself back down. You’re having a cup of tea with me. And you know how I like my cuppa.’

  ‘Sorry, Sarah. I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but I can’t. I’ve got to get back.’

  Yes, thought Sarah, of course you have, because you’re scared that Stephen will find out you’ve been in here asking for paper and an envelope. Who would she be writing to? And surely even he would be ashamed for people to see her walking about looking like that. Sarah had never seen her quite so bad.

  No, that beast of a man wouldn’t give a damn. He was a genuine pig.

  ‘If you can’t have a cup of tea with me, then at least let me give you a few biscuits. You can have them with a cuppa when you get home.’

  Sarah took the glass lid off the first of the row of biscuit tins and picked out half a dozen chocolate creams.

  Nell opened her bag and took out her purse.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ said Sarah, wishing she could give Stephen Flanagan something a lot more than a few biscuits, but getting involved would probably only make it worse where that man was concerned. He couldn’t have any conscience if he was capable of such behaviour. ‘Take them. They’re a little present from me. And I’ll pop in a few strawberry wafers for the little ones. I know the kids all go mad for them.’

  At that moment Florrie Talbot, the prostitute who lodged in one of Sarah and David’s upstairs rooms, walked into the shop. Her heavily made-up face was smudged and smeared and her hair poked out from under her hat like electrified wire wool. It looked as if she’d had a very lively night.

  ‘Blimey, girl,’ she said, pulling a disapproving face at Nell. ‘I have to deal with some rough customers, but I’d never let them do that to me. You wanna look after yourself a bit more. You don’t have to put up with that sort of shit, you know. No one does.’

  ‘All right, Florrie,’ said Sarah. ‘That’ll do.’

  ‘Well, look at the poor kid.’ She waggled a scarlet-tipped finger at Nell. ‘You stand up to him. That’s what you have to do with his type.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Nell gasped through her pain. ‘I hit my face on the cupboard door.’

  ‘Course you did,’ Florrie called out after her, as Nell hurried off along the street. ‘We’ve all seen women with cupboard doors like that. Trouble is, some of them doors start hitting their kids.’

  Chapter 27

  ‘Get your newspaper all right then did you, Joe?’ Mary Lovell didn’t look at her husband as she made her usual enquiry on his return from the paper shop. Not looking at him wasn’t her way of punishing him for his behaviour of the day before – storming out and upsetting her like that – she wasn’t that sort of person. It was just that she was too busy fussing around her son.

  She reached across the table and put her palm flat across his forehead. ‘You can
’t hide it from me, you know, Martin, I’m your mother. I can tell something’s wrong with you. You’ve not eaten a mouthful of breakfast and you’ve hardly said a word since you got out of bed.’

  Martin pulled away from her.

  ‘And I know why you overslept,’ she went on. ‘You couldn’t drop off last night, could you? And it’s no good you saying otherwise. I heard you tossing and turning in there for hours on end. Proper restless, that’s what you were.’

  ‘I told you, Mum: there is nothing wrong with me.’

  ‘If you don’t feel well, Martin, you know you shouldn’t go in to work. There’re some nasty things going round and you’ll only be spreading it about. Ada said her granddaughter’s been ever so poorly for over a week now, and if that old trout’s handing out sympathy then that little love must be feeling really unwell. You’re better off looking after yourself before it gets worse. You take my word for it.’

  ‘I was a bit bilious, that’s all. It’s nothing, Mum, nothing at all.’

  Mary stood up. ‘I’m going down to the phone box and I’m going to call your manager for you. Tell him you’re feeling bad.’ She couldn’t resist stretching across the table again and touching her son’s forehead one last time. ‘It won’t take me two minutes. I can do it on my way in to work. You must have the office number written down somewhere.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake woman, leave him alone can’t you?’ Joe slammed his newspaper down on the table.

  Mary reared up like a spooked horse. ‘Don’t you raise your voice to me, Joe Lovell.’

  ‘Don’t raise my voice?’ Joe was now speaking ominously quietly. ‘Don’t raise my sodding voice? He’s a grown man, not a bloody child.’

  ‘And would you mind watching your language? This is not the public bar of the Turk’s Head.’