by Ian Porter
“So what are you doing home?” was eventually repeated.
“Well, I am on strike would you believe.”
She had expected a wide-eyed reply from the recipient of the news. But she was disappointed. Nash assumed his wife must have downed tools for a good reason, which could well be an unpleasant one.
“Why, what’s happened to you?” he said, with a concerned frown, looking her up and down, inspecting her for a sign of injury.
Ruby immediately realised he had misunderstood.
“Nothing. I’m all right you silly sod,” she reassured. “It’s not just me. It’s the lot of us. The whole bloody Met Police and loads of prison screws have all gone on strike! Well the majority of us any way. Twelve thousand they say. And by all accounts we’ve also got six hundred what they call mobile pickets who are organised to move about to trouble spots as and when, to keep the strike solid.”
The wide-eyed response now came.
“Blimey! Good times! What shall I go out and nick first?!” he said with a broad grin on his face.
“Oh yeah, as if there being coppers about ever stopped you from doing anything you wanted, you old villain,” Ruby countered. “And besides we’ve already heard the government are rushing in soldiers to guard public buildings, and no doubt the Specials and Gorgeous Wrecks will be asked to do more hours. But, dear husband, wouldn’t you like to know why we’re on strike?”
“Go on then.”
“Some bolshie police and prison officer union rep called Tommy Thiel got the sack over at Tower Hill nick. He’s a right East Ender by all accounts. Don’t take any flannel from anyone. They gave him the boot off the force because he was kicking up a storm about our conditions. Pay and pensions and the like. Well, you’ve got to admit, we are paid terrible.”
“You’re getting paid more than Sylvia used to pay you,” said Nash with a whiff of effrontery which betrayed his lifelong antagonism to all things police.
“That’s different, that were charity work. And besides, when working for Sylvia I didn’t have to run through the streets of Whitechapel chasing and apprehending all and sundry in the early hours did I?”
“One fourteen year old lad who can’t be more than seven stone soaking wet, don’t make up all and sundry,” said Nash, putting his wife in her place as far as he was concerned.
But before he received a volley of well-earned abuse and an elbow in the ribs from said wife, he wisely became more conciliatory. He held up a hand.
“But I get your meaning girl. Looking after them ambulances and soldiers and the like should pay decent. I’m proud of what you did there.”
“Saved by the bell,” she said, looking up at him with a knowing smile.
The mention in passing of their new fourteen year old lodger, who was having his second sleep of the day in the scullery, brought the conversation around to their most pressing problem.
Ruby believed the police strike was an ideal time to get the boy away somewhere but her husband surprised her by saying he was not so sure about that.
He told her that a company of Scots Guards had just arrived in the East End as a show of force against picketing rail workers because the police were not the only ones on strike at the moment. The area was already teeming with soldiers, and within the day no doubt they would be joined by every jumped up little stickler for law and order that the Special Constable and Gorgeous Wreck fraternities could muster. And these stand-ins were likely to be more officious than regular police officers, at least in the short term, when they would be keen to impress and would have the twitchiness of the raw recruit.
Throughout the war Nash had heard stories of Specials arresting people in the vicinity of bridges, tunnels, canals and water & gasworks, in the belief London was being overrun by spies and saboteurs. And the problem was Nash and Ruby’s part of the East End was full of such infrastructure. Nash had also heard that a Bethnal Green tailor with a German name had got six months in prison for being caught by a Special three yards from a pigeon! The suspicion being that the bird could have been used to send a message to the enemy. As far as Nash knew, there had not been a single act of sabotage in the whole war, but that hadn’t stopped officials looking for it. All this considered, Nash had already suspended taking on any new objectors for the time being, and had sent Bert out to warn all his existing objectors that they should keep their heads down even more than usual for the moment.
He thought it would be safer, not just for Freddie but the two of them, to keep him under their wing. Nash also had to admit he had been rather taken with the boy. He remembered how, on leaving the workhouse when he himself was fourteen, he had vowed never to return. He could appreciate how the lad was determined not to go back to the trenches. In many ways Freddie reminded Nash of his fourteen year old self, with the exception that when he was that age no slip of a woman copper would have been able to get the better of him. Not that he would ever tell his wife that.
“No, let’s keep him here with us,” said Nash. “He can help young Bert. That poor sod can’t cope with the work I’m giving him, if truth be told. You need a proper set of lungs to hop backwards and forwards to Shoreditch. Trouble is I have to pass him some work, otherwise he’ll think the money I’m giving him is charity, and he won’t take that. Pride’s the only thing the government ain’t taken from the poor little bleeder.”
“That’s good of you, Nashey,” said Ruby softly. “And Freddie being fourteen, and to look at him you’d think he were even younger, there’s no reason for any Special, Wreck or soldier to take a blind bit of notice of him. We’ll have to be careful though, his description went out to every copper before we went on strike. And I suppose the Specials and the rest will have it too.”
“Can’t be helped. I had a talk with the lad whilst you were at work. Told him what I had in mind for him. Told him about my name being Smith as far as the conchies are concerned. He was all right with it. I told him you’d be really for it if we all got pinched. I think he’s got a bit of a soft spot for you. He promised me if he got buckled he’d keep his trap shut. Reckon he will an’ all.”
“Soft spot indeed,” said Ruby dismissively. She knew her husband all too well. “More like you told him what they did to informers in the East End. And you had your scariest Victorian villain face on when you told him I’ll wager.”
“I’m telling you he’s got a soft spot for you,” repeated Nash in protest.
Ruby noticed that her husband had not denied threatening the lad.
“Never mind all that,” she said. “We’ll have to get a message to his mother to let her know he’s all right, but he daren’t come home, even for a visit.”
“He told me he were from Hoxton,” replied Nash. “It’s only up the road from Shoreditch. Next time I’m there on conchie business I’ll go and tell her.”
Ruby nodded. She wondered what else Freddie had told her husband.
“Did he tell you anything new about the war?”
“Yeah. He says as how our boys are dropping like flies with the Spanish flu. All kept on the q.t. of course. But the Germans must have it just as bad otherwise we wouldn’t have been able to push ‘em back like we have. That’s why we’re shipping so many walking wounded back here. Patch ‘em up proper while the Germans are in retreat, ready to send the less injured ones back when needed.”
“Spanish flu?” queried Ruby.
“That’s what they’re calling it now,” said Nash. “Remember Sylvia told us as how Spain had the flu bad. There’s thousands dead there by all accounts.”
“And remember how she told us Spain couldn’t be the only ones,” reminded Ruby sagely. “And now she’s being proved right. And if there are so many dying of it in the trenches, there must be even more of the injured being shipped back here with it. There must have been thousands just in the convoys I’ve seen, and that’s just to one hospital. We’ll be like Spain soon enough, you mark my
words.”
******
Ruby was back at work within forty eight hours. An emergency meeting of the Cabinet had brought about a pay rise and improved pensions for the police.
She had expected to be quizzed further by Sergeant Granger about the incident with the soldier but on walking through the doors at Leman Street she was told there was no need to worry about it because the Met now had bigger fish to fry.
Cities and towns throughout the country were now competing with each another to see who could raise the most money for the war effort from their ‘Tank Bank’ weeks, during which huge numbers of government war bonds were being sold. Tanks were being deposited in main squares as a means of publicising the event, attracting large numbers. London was not in competition with anyone given that its huge population would obviously raise the most, but crowd control on the narrow old streets of the capital was a concern. There had already been a dangerous crush at one London war bond event that had ended with casualties in Fleet Street and Ludgate Circus. And the Selfridge’s war bond scheme had been such a success that the resultant throng had brought the whole of Oxford Street to a claustrophobic squash.
Consequently, all the East End divisions of the Met Police had been asked to provide assistance to their Westminster colleagues. Ruby was told that as from next week her presence was needed up at Trafalgar Square to help control the crowds for the forthcoming ‘Feed the Guns’ war bond event. The square was apparently being turned into a mock-up of a ruined French village. And in the middle of it, as the centrepiece for the event, was to be a tank. It was going to be quite a sight. And no doubt quite a crush.
In the mean time she and her volunteers were to carry on escorting the ambulances for a couple of nights. She would get Friday off, as she needed to transfer onto days, not just in readiness for Trafalgar Square but because on Saturday afternoon she was required to help out on crowd control at a women’s football match. Granger had heard through the grapevine that she was something of a local women’s football expert, so her expertise might be useful.
The best, most renowned women’s football team in the country, Dick Kerr’s Ladies FC, were going to play at West Ham’s Boleyn ground. A record attendance for a women’s football match was expected, so it would also give her some useful crowd handling experience before tackling the Trafalgar Square hordes.
******
Freddie and Bert had started their partnership. Freddie was staying at Bert’s, sleeping in a chair in the parlour. This way Nash had been able to get the No Conscription League to increase Bert’s wages to compensate him for the cost, inconvenience and danger of housing the lad.
The two ex-soldiers could not have been more different. Years apart in age; single and married; lively and quiet; able bodied and disabled. Like all teenagers Freddie would never stand when he could slouch somewhere, whereas Bert was always on his feet, his bullet ravaged lungs being much better when they were in a vertical position. He even slept sitting up at night.
The man and the boy had quickly formed a successful symbiotic relationship. Nash had put the older man in charge, which had given him the most sense of self-respect since being invalided. For his part Freddie enjoyed being the stronger of the two. Having been a boy in a man’s world while in France, he was now able to regain some of the confidence he had once had as a brash young East End tearaway eager to go to war. And both of them were, if they were honest with themselves, rather afraid of Mr Nash, so they found some comfort in no longer having to deal with him on a one to one basis.
The two of them sat in the parlour awaiting, with their usual trepidation, a visit from their boss. Nash still retained his old villainous ability to move silently across cobbles when it suited him. He arrived at the back of Bert’s house without making a sound. Bert’s wife Elsie came out of the scullery and almost leapt out of her skin when she saw a huge man standing at her back window, looking at her. Nash gave her a grim smile and a wink. She quickly recovered her composure and beckoned him in with a wave.
“Hello Nashey. You gave me a right old start there you did, and that’s the truth.”
Nash didn’t want to stand and listen to Elsie ramble on so he cut in.
“They through in the parlour are they Else?” he said, walking past her.
“That’s right Nashey, you go on through and I’ll get the kettle on. They’re gasping. I wouldn’t make them a cuppa till you arrived. I told ‘em I’m not making you tea and then have to make another lot when…”
At this point Nash closed the door to the parlour behind him, having just previously given Elsie a wink down the passage so she did not think him rude. He looked down at his two seated cohorts. He was always terse with them. Nash was abrupt with any men he did not know well, and being ex-soldiers he thought they would probably respond best to being told with fierce certainty what was required of them. He also believed that it was good to make Bert feel that he was still a soldier of sorts, and it was always best to keep fourteen old lads up to the mark otherwise they might take any sign of kindness as weakness. The first time they had met, Freddie had been petrified when Nash had shouted at him to come out from skulking in the scullery. And the boy had been kept on his toes ever since. Thus there was no word of greeting from Nash, just a nod, before he went straight to business.
“What you two got for me?” he barked. “And hurry up before Else comes back in with the tea. I ain’t got all day.”
Freddie jumped out of his chair to speak with the enthusiasm of youth.
“You’re never guess what Mr Nash. One of the conchies has heard on the grapevine that the government’s only gone and put four battleships in the Thames! But that’s not the all of it. The rum thing is as how they ain’t for no military purpose. What do you reckon to that eh Mr Nash?”
“They ain’t conchies, they’re conscientious objectors to you boy,” corrected Nash morosely.
He then considered for a moment before answering the lad’s question.
“Sounds like one of four things to me. First, there’s so many people doing time now, what with all the aliens interned, people caught nicking stuff for the black market, objectors and the like, prisons are full up so they’re gonna go back to having prison ships in the river. I heard they did something like it with ocean liners down in Pompey harbour for the aliens at the start of the war. Prison hulks they were called back in the old days. Terrible things by all accounts. Worse than Victorian East End slums if you can imagine. I can’t. They got rid of ‘em about the time my mother had me.”
“Back in Oliver Twist days eh?” said Freddie, his earnest interest being greater than his historical or literary knowledge.
There had not been any hint of sauciness in his question but he got a cuff round the ear for his trouble in any case. And a cuff from Nash was a painful one.
“I’ll give you Oliver bleeding Twist! Now, second reason might be ‘cause the flu’s got worse. Suppose they might be going to have ‘em as hospital ships. Quarantine ships to stop it spreading see. Like they used to in the old days.”
Nash looked at Freddie pointedly, silently asking him if he wanted another cuff round the ear for his trouble. Freddie might have been as thick as two short planks but he was not completely stupid. He kept quiet, so Nash continued with his theorising.
“Third up. The papers keep telling us as how our army has driven the Germans back across the Marne River, got back most of the territory we lost in their Spring Offensive and we’ve taken loads of prisoners. If that’s true, perhaps these battleships are going to be prisoner of war camps. Same sort of thing as hulks were to start with.
“Last and by no means least, the government’s lost their arse. Police and screws on strike, mobile pickets, rent strikes, munitions factory strikes, army rebellions in France. They’ve already sent troops here to the East End. And I know this cove called ‘the bolshie’ who tells me there’s trouble brewing down at the docks
an’ all. Russia’s gone. The papers tell us they’re looting and all sorts in Germany. Perhaps people all over have just had enough. Maybe them ships are full of soldiers ready to shoot at us if we get like the Germans.”
There was the sound of chalk scratching on blackboard. It was Bert.
When Nash had first taken Bert on board he had asked Sylvia’s toy factory to make a mini blackboard and supply him with chalk, which he had passed on to his new recruit so they could communicate more securely. Nash believed this was a safer option than notes being written all the time. They could always burn whatever he wrote, but such a chore could easily be forgotten, and who knew who might end up scavenging through the screwed up paper in a bin.
‘Its number 2 I say. Feller down the frog just passed away’, said the chalk.
“Better getting the flu than getting shot at Bert,” interjected Freddie. “Let’s hope you’re right.”
Nash wasn’t so sure about that but kept his thoughts to himself.
Chapter 27
“I had a little bird, Its name was Enza, I opened a window, And in-flu-Enza”
Children’s Skipping Rhyme 1918/19
Ruby reported to Leman Street prior to starting her final night on ambulance protection duty. Sergeant Granger had some news for her.
“Your duties have changed. You will be staying on nights for another twenty four hours. The Boleyn ground can’t hold Saturday’s football match. The lease of the ground is owned by the church and they have complained about the match being played by women….
“Bloody cheek! It’s for wounded soldiers! Who do they think they….”
What was about to become a rant, which would have betrayed both Ruby’s feminist credentials and her less than enthusiastic views of the Church, was cut short by her superior officer.
“WPC Nash! Less of your lip! I’ve told you about this sort of behaviour before. It’s not your place to comment on orders. We are public servants. Ours is not to reason why. And you do not swear in this police station! Or anywhere else for that matter when you are wearing that uniform. You must respect your office. Do I make myself perfectly clear my girl?!”