The noise of the tram interrupted Billy’s thoughts as it drew up at the stop. He jumped aboard and climbed the steep flight of stairs to the upper deck. He realised that he had always ridden on the top deck of a tram. The rocking and swaying seemed more pronounced and he could see more from up there. He handed over his fare and watched as the miserable conductor clipped a ticket in the machine strapped around his middle. Billy was grateful for the man’s silence. He knew that tram conductors were well known for their line of small talk and banter and he did not want to get involved in any sort of discussion. The tram shuddered as it progressed slowly past the stalls in Tower Bridge Road and Billy leaned back in his seat.
What sort of a job would they offer him? he wondered. It would probably be factory work, for he had no trade. Maybe they would offer him some sort of outdoor job. That would be better, he thought. Being cooped up inside did not appeal to him very much. In any case, he must get something. He would then be able to go into the pub and buy Connie a drink. She might even like to go out with him if she knew he had a job. The tram squealed to a stop outside the bomb-damaged vinegar factory and Billy felt the hurt and anger welling up inside of him as he thought of his last visit to the Dolphin. Connie must be thinking he was a trouble-maker who couldn’t hold his drink. Even if he got a job and plucked up the courage to ask her out she would probably refuse. It was obvious she liked those smartly dressed people, like the crowd who started the trouble the other night. They were flash boys with money to burn and the dark-haired one must have impressed Connie for her to have left the pub with him like she did.
The tram swung around into Tooley Street and picked up speed. Billy closed his eyes and pictured her. Her hair was shining and she smiled at him. He saw her white even teeth and her pale-blue eyes which seemed to sparkle. He could see her clearly as she moved about the bar and he opened his eyes suddenly. He promised himself that if he got a job he’d get a suit and a new shirt. He could buy a pair of those shiny black shoes he used to wear and a new tie. He would have to try to ignore the taunts when he went into the pub though. Maybe if he smartened himself up the flash boys would leave him alone and Connie might be impressed enough to go out with him.
The thought of asking her out made him swallow hard. He would never be able to pluck up the courage. She would probably only laugh at him. As his thoughts raced Billy felt himself getting hot and uncomfortable. He fought to rid himself of the recurring vision and a cold sweat began to break out on his forehead. The plane was coming towards him, flying low, its wings spread out like a diving eagle reaching down for its prey. Gun flashes blinded him as bullets splattered into the sand and he clawed at the wet grit in an attempt to escape. He felt the bullet hit him and the burning pain in his back. Billy clenched his fists and breathed deeply as he tried to escape from the nightmarish images. He heard the conductor’s voice coming from a long way off.
‘Next stop the Tunnel.’
The tram shuddered to a stop and the white-faced young man jumped down. He walked briskly along Brunel Road, hoping his exertion would banish the dark thoughts that clouded his mind, and he was breathing heavily when he reached the labour exchange.
The week’s work had started as usual for the head barrel-washer at Hayden’s pickle factory. In the yard there was a line of empty, smelly hogsheads, and as he sat down on an upturned box and squeezed into his rubber boots Toby was feeling a little apprehensive. The sudden confrontation with the escaped prisoner in the shelter had been a shock to say the least, even if they had got on afterwards. But Marie had received a letter from the man, asking if she would consider taking him on as a lodger. It was that bloody interfering uncle of hers, Toby thought. Marie had told him about Dennis Foreman’s new identity and said there was nothing to worry about, but what about that bleedin’ copper? He was on the lookout for any new face in the area. Supposing he spotted Dennis and saw through his disguise? It would mean prison for the whole family. Marie would be sorry. She wouldn’t be able to nag those warders in Holloway. Then there was Lillian. She might take a shine to the lodger and find out who he really was. Lil was a good girl but she was apt to be talkative at times, Toby had to admit. Maybe he should put his foot down and firmly tell Marie he would not allow her to take in lodgers. That wouldn’t do any good, he reflected. Marie never took any notice of what he said. He might just as well be the lodger himself, for all the respect they showed him. It wasn’t as if he was still totting. He had a respectable steady job and he brought home his unopened wage packet every week. Some men wouldn’t stand for it. Some men would have upped and left long ago.
The factory manager was staring down from his office window. ‘What’s he doing? Is he on strike or something?’ he said aloud. ‘The bloody clown’s been sitting there with his hands under his chin for the last ten minutes.’ He leaned out of the window and cupped a hand around his mouth. ‘Oi you!’ he called out.
‘Who me?’ Toby said, getting up from the box.
‘Yes, you. Are you going to start work, or do you expect those barrels to get up and take a shower!?’
‘I’m jus’ gettin’ started, sir. Right away, sir,’ Toby replied, swearing under his breath.
The manager shut the window and Toby tied on his rubber apron which reached down to the floor. ‘Bloody ole goat,’ he mumbled aloud. ‘I’d like ter nail ’im up in one of those dirty barrels an’ roll the bleeder off Tower Bridge.’
By the time Iris Turner brought out his mug of tea at eleven o’clock Toby had made good progress. At least half of the barrels were cleaned and turned upside down to drain.
‘There yer are, luv,’ Iris said, giving him a beaming smile.
Toby grinned back and sat down on the box again. Iris stood over him and watched closely as he unwrapped his cheese sandwich, her large eyes unblinking and her full bottom lip hanging loose. Iris was a large middle-aged woman who had spent most of her adult life taking care of her ailing mother. When the old lady died Iris realised that she had left it a bit late to get married and, until Toby came on the scene, she was content to spend her time caring for her cats and going once a week to the women’s meeting held at the local church. Things had suddenly changed for Iris. She felt sorry for the inoffensive little character and for the way he was spoken to by the yard manager. All Iris’s mothering instincts came to the fore in the presence of Toby and it had become one of her little pleasures to take him his morning tea. Iris had realised with some surprise that strange feelings were manifesting themselves within her. She had even dreamed about Toby one night, and from then on she had decided to make a play for him. She soon found out by a tactful approach that he was married to a dominating woman who, according to the little man, frequently cracked the whip. Iris’s womanly feelings blossomed whenever she saw him and at every opportunity she was on hand to give him comfort and to make him aware that she would be a good catch, should he decide to leave the virago.
While Toby munched on his sandwich Iris took out a small package from her apron pocket and unwrapped it.
‘Would you care for a slice of Spanish onion, Toby? It’s nice with cheese.’
Toby took the slice of onion and slipped it in his sandwich. He was not too fond of Spanish onions, and he knew that Marie would no doubt have something to say about his breath when he got home that night. Nevertheless, he did not want to upset Iris. She had been nice to him, and those large jars of pickles she smuggled out from the dispatch department were proving to be profitable. Toby was also aware of her interest in him and he felt flattered. He had started using brilliantine on his thinning hair each morning, to the disgust of Marie. ‘It makes yer bonce look like a polished apple. Anybody’d fink yer was workin’ in a bleedin’ office,’ she moaned.
Toby ignored the taunts and continued his efforts to improve his appearance for the benefit of Iris Turner, and it did not go unnoticed.
‘Yer look smart this mornin’, Toby,’ she said. ‘Is that lavender brilliantine you’ve got on yer ’air?’
Toby nodded with a sheepish grin. ‘It ’elps ter keep the flies away, Iris. They swarm aroun’ those dirty barrels.’
‘Drink yer tea, Toby, it’s gettin’ cold,’ she said, sitting down beside him on the upturned box.
The head barrel-washer had succeeded in removing the slice of onion from his sandwich and depositing it behind the box. He picked up his still-hot tea. ‘It’s okay Iris, I like it cool,’ he smiled.
‘I’ll put more milk in it termorrer,’ she said. Then she added quietly, ‘’Ow’s yer wife?’
Toby wished he had kept his mouth shut. Milky tea made him feel sick, and so did the mention of his wife so early on a Monday morning. ‘She’s all right,’ he answered without enthusiasm. ‘She’s ’ad a moan about the smell o’ pickles on me clothes, but as I told ’er, I smelt a lot worse when I was tottin’ fer a livin’.’
Iris shook her head. ‘Yer ought ter get out more – on yer own, I mean. Yer should go fer a drink one night. There’s a nice little pub called The Green Man in Bermon’sey Lane. It’s near where I live. I go in there sometimes wiv me friend Audrey. I could meet yer outside there one night – if yer like?’
Toby wiped the back of his hand across his lips. The thought of taking Iris for a drink seemed a pleasant enough arrangement, providing Marie didn’t get to hear of it. The sudden vision of her chasing him around the house clutching a meat cleaver made him shiver. He glanced into Iris’s large friendly eyes and he decided there and then to take the chance. ‘It sounds a good idea. What about Friday evenin’? Marie goes out wiv ’er friend on Fridays.’
Iris rubbed her meaty shoulder against his bony arm. ‘We can sit in the snug bar,’ she said. ‘It’s quieter in there. They’ve got a nice pianer player in the pub an’ ’e plays all the ole songs on Friday nights. I’ll see yer outside about eight o’clock. Is that all right?’
Toby nodded. Marie usually left the house at seven o’clock. It should give him enough time, he thought.
The little meeting had been noted by the irritable yard manager from his office window. That barrel-washer is taking a bit of a liberty, he moaned to himself. It’s that Iris Turner encouraging him. I’ll have to get her transferred to another department. I can’t have her chatting to him every morning, it’s stopping him doing his work.
He opened his window and leaned out. ‘Oi! You down there!’ he shouted. ‘Have you finished all those barrels? There’s another dozen in the factory waiting to be cleaned.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
As April showers washed the dockland streets clean and watered the budding flowers in the backstreet window boxes, the local folk were beginning to feel that the worst of the air raids might have passed. The Luftwaffe seemed to be changing their attacks to other large cities. The London air raids had become more sporadic, and many people began to sleep in their own beds instead of the uncomfortable shelter bunks. Clara Cosgrove loved her own bed, and she gave the shelter warden and his helpers due warning that if there should be an air raid they were not to disturb her. It seemed that Mrs Cosgrove had been bitten by something or the other and she put it down to shelter lice.
‘It’s them there bleedin’ bunks, that’s what done it,’ she moaned. ‘I mean ter say, yer can’t expect anyfing else, can yer? Them bunks are made of bleedin’ sackin’. They ’arbour fings like lice an’ bugs.’
Joe Cooper tried to remonstrate with the irate old lady but she was adamant. ‘Listen ’ere, Mister Know-all. I’m covered in bloody great bites an’ it ain’t me own ’ouse what’s filfy dirty, an’ I ain’t bit meself. Them there bites are from lice. We all got bitten in the last war, when we was workin’ in the rag sorters’ yard in Bermon’sey Lane. Me an’ ole Daisy Mooney got covered in ’em an’ we ’ad ter be scrubbed all over wiv paraffin twice a day. Bleedin’ uncomf’table, I can tell yer.’
‘Now listen, Clara. I do them bunks out wiv insect spray twice a week an’ nobody else is complainin’,’ Joe retorted.
‘I can’t ’elp that, Joe. I tell yer I’m covered. I’ve even got’em on me . . .’
‘All right, girl,’ Joe butted in, not wishing to know the details. ‘Yer do as yer see fit. But I tell yer, if there’s anuvver bad raid don’t moan at me if yer ’ouse falls down round yer ears, an’ we ’ave ter dig yer out.’
Clara leaned on the door-post and crossed her arms in a gesture of defiance. ‘Well I’m jus’ tellin’ yer, that’s all.’
Joe wanted to tell her that she had probably been bitten by cat fleas. After all, she spent most of each day sitting with Mrs Adams in the cat woman’s little front parlour. But the look on Clara’s face stopped him saying anything further and he shrugged his shoulders as he walked away.
As the month slipped by the weather grew warmer and the days became longer. May started warm and sunny, and on the evening of the tenth the air-raid siren sounded early. Soon the guns were firing and explosions rocked the little backstreets. The raid developed into the worst one the dockland folk could remember. All night the roar went on as high explosives rained down all over London. Fires burned out of control. The docks and wharves were badly hit, and firemen were unable to pump water from the Thames due to a very low tide. The sky glowed dull red and black smoke hung in the air. All the London hospitals were crowded with casualties and queues of dazed victims waited at emergency dressing stations to be treated. Gas, water and electricity supplies were cut off and, as the shocked shelter-dwellers emerged at first light, the sight that greeted them was nightmarish. All around dockland the little streets which survived were strewn with glass and roof slates. High in the angry sky a huge cloud of smoke seemed to cover the whole of the capital and it reflected the flames of the many fires which were still burning out of control. The smell of cordite and burning timbers was stifling and fire bells sounded incessantly as the last reserves of fire fighters dashed to the raging blazes.
In Ironmonger Street, the raid had brought back painful memories of the night when the Dwellings had been destroyed, and the streetfolk felt a new sense of impending doom as they made their way home silently. Joe Cooper and his team of fire watchers had battled all night against the falling incendiary bombs, and they managed to save the little houses from burning down when they smothered a device which had fallen through Ada Halliday’s bedroom ceiling.
At the height of the air raid Joe and his team had banged on Clara Cosgrove’s front door but there had been no answer. They had been too hard pressed to return, but as soon as the raiders left they banged on Clara’s door again. Still there was no answer and they decided to force entry in case something had happened to the determined old lady. Joe leaned heavily on the door and pushed it open. There was a scorching smell in the passage which seemed to be coming from the back of the house, and when the fire watchers stumbled into the little backyard they saw a pair of Clara’s red flannel drawers smouldering on the clothes line. Beneath them was an incendiary bomb which had burnt itself out on the stone floor.
‘Christ!’ Joe gasped. ‘She’s a lucky ole cow. She could ’ave bin burnt alive.’
Clara was unrepentant. She woke with a start to see anxious eyes staring down at her. ‘What the bloody ’ell d’you lot want!?’ she blurted out, quickly drawing the bedclothes up around her neck.
‘Yer drawers caught light, Clara,’ Joe answered, grinning with relief. ‘We jus’ put ’em out.’
‘Gawd ’elp us!’ the old lady groaned. ‘They was me clean ones. I only washed ’em out yesterday.’
Joe stared down at her. ‘Yer sure yer all right, luv? It was a bad one last night.’
‘I didn’t ’ear a fing,’ Clara said, scratching the back of her head and yawning, ‘I must ’ave bin in a deep sleep. Well don’t stand there gawkin’. I gotta get up an’ sort out anuvver pair o’ drawers.’
Like Ironmonger Street, little Salter Street had survived, although the turning was littered with broken glass and roof slates. The adjoining street had not been so lucky, however. A bomb had landed on a row of terraced ho
uses and more than a dozen people had been killed. The nearby Old Kent Road had been badly hit, too. Shop fronts had been blown out by the blast of a high explosive landing in the middle of the road which created a deep crater that had rapidly filled with water. There was ugly devastation everywhere. Black smoke rose from many backstreets and the sickly smell of smouldering fires hung in the still air.
People appeared on the street and looked around in disbelief at the damage that had been inflicted. Road gangs were out pumping water from the crater and other men worked with oxy-acetylene torches to remove the twisted, mangled tramlines. Fire hoses criss-crossed the thoroughfare, and near the Bricklayers Arms junction a terrified, dust-streaked tom cat sat in a tree and watched the commotion. As evening set in, the beleaguered docklanders prepared for the worst. The shelters filled early and ears strained for the dreaded air-raid siren. But night fell and as the hours ticked slowly away it remained silent. Slowly the battered population drifted off to sleep, and when the new day dawned and the people roused themselves they rubbed their eyes incredulously. The morning was calm and the smoke had cleared.
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