Late Night on Watling Street

by Bill Naughton

  Kitty knelt on the seat and glared at the clock: “Do you mean to say a thing like that is going to come between us?”

  “Aye,” sighed Alf, gazing at the road ahead, “unless we can do our courting with the wheels turning.”

  “Why not?” asked Kitty.

  Alf’s face brightened: “I never thought of it, because our little walk was stuck in my mind. But I suppose you could ride up the road with me for an hour or two, an’ I’d get you a lift back.”

  “Half a loaf—” said Kitty, settling herself on the seat.

  Then with a snooty glance at the clock she leant over and kissed Alf. Then he got his gear and the truck moved forward. He kept down to a nice steady speed, slipping the stick out of gear as often as he could, so that it would be quieter in the cab, and every time the road was clear she leant over and kissed him, and after an hour or more they came to a stop just beyond Stony Stratford.

  “It might be able to record every stop,” remarked Alf as he and Kitty strolled across a field, “but it can’t say whether I’m courting or eating.”

  When it was time for Kitty to be going back, Alf stood at the side of the road and stopped the first lorry that came along.

  “It’s one of our own day drivers—Slim Wills,” said Alf. “He’s one of them wide lads, but I fancy you’ll be all right with him.”

  Slim stuck his head out:

  “Anything I can do?”

  “Run Kitty here down to Dunstable,” said Alf. “Sure,” said Slim. “It’s the old ‘where-have-you-been?’ clock, eh?”

  Kitty climbed up into his cab.

  “See you Wednesday, love,” she said.

  “Goodbye,” said Alf.

  Slim raced up: “I’ll see she’s home before dark,” he said.

  Alf watched the lorry draw away with an uneasy twinge of heart: it didn’t seem right to him.

  Through the summer weeks Alf and Kitty rode together in the cab and then had their short walk through the fields. They missed their favourite spot in the wood, but the drive had a novelty to it. And it made the night journey seem much shorter to Alf. And Slim was nearly always there to pick up Kitty.

  “That fellow needles me,” said Alf, “he’s getting that regular.”

  “He’s an obliging bloke,” said Kitty.

  “A bit too obliging for my liking,” said Alf.

  Then one lovely evening Kitty said: “Let’s give the ride a miss, Alf, an’ go through the wood again.”

  “What about the clock?” asked Alf.

  “Give it the ‘spade’,” said Kitty.

  “Here—” Alf pulled her up. “What do you know about the spade?”

  She looked uncomfortable: “Slim told me,” she said. “He said that he heats a spade in the fire till it’s all but red-hot. Holds it close to the clock but not touching—and it melts the wax and blurs out the record.”

  “I know all about it,” said Alf, “and so does the gaffer.”

  “You could do it for once,” said Kitty.

  “I suppose I could,” said Alf, “but I won’t. I’m not the connivering sort.”

  “What—even though they put a clock on you?”

  “If they put twenty clocks on me it wouldn’t make any difference,” retorted Alf. “They can go their way, an’ I’ll go mine. Now you get up into that cab.”

  The following Sunday evening, as Alf was letting his engine warm up in the garage, before his drive to London, the transport boss called him to his office. He took his cigarettes out and gave Alf one, and Alf quickly got on guard.

  “Ever come across Wills on your run?” the boss asked.

  “Now and again,” said Alf. “Why?”

  “Well, it seems to me,” said the boss, “that he’s on some fiddle or other. Look, these are his running strips—an’ there’s always a couple of hours’ stop about there. That is, when he ain’t melted it out.”

  Alf looked at the strip and felt a strange uneasiness creep over him that almost made him sick.

  “Where does he stop?” said Alf.

  “I can’t say for certain,” said the boss. “It’s usually about the same time, and I’d think it was somewhere round Dunstable.” Alf felt a stab of jealousy that brought a bitter taste to his tongue. “Know anything about it?” said the boss.

  At once Alf felt that warning touch of loyalty to his fellow-worker that he had been brought up with.

  “No, I know nothing about it,” he said flatly. Then added: “Slim’s always regular so far as I know.”

  The boss laughed: “Maybe, he’s only doing a bit of square pushing.”

  “Maybe,” said Alf.

  The long night’s drive gave Alf time to think. I’ll make sure, he thought, before I do anything. But if she’s having me for a mug-

  Kitty was waiting for him next morning. She ran out to his cab with a cup of tea and a piece of toast. When he saw her sleep-touched face, so fresh and familiar, it was all he could do to hold back from sobbing out his pain and doubt on her breast. But Alf was a lad from Bury, and he would do what had to be done.

  “See you this evening,” he said, as she got out. Then through his mirror he watched her waving after him.

  That evening, Kitty seemed to discover a new and more interesting passion in Alf, and when Slim came tooting his horn she didn’t want to go.

  “Don’t forget I’ve this clock to contend with,” he said.

  “Slim doesn’t bother about his clock,” she said.

  “I’m not Slim,” said Alf. “See you Wednesday morning.”

  Slim gave him the thumbs-up sign. Kitty waved to him and threw a kiss. Alf got into gear. He moved off. Through the mirror he watched Slim’s lorry going south with Kitty in it. He felt a big weary feeling cloud over his heart. He continued to drive up the road until he came to a handy spot for turning. Then he swung his lorry round and went down the road after Slim and Kitty. I hate to do this, he thought, but it has to be done. I’ll give ‘em time, he thought bitterly, and he drove slowly.

  Slim’s lorry was parked off the road by the side of the wood. When Alf saw it he didn’t know what to do. She even takes him to our favourite spot! he thought. Blokes are right what they say about women. He wanted to turn his lorry up north again, and drive straight home to Bury. He waited a while, then he got out of the lorry and went into the wood. It was a dirty thing but it had to be done.

  He spotted them through the trees. He moved quietly along the path, and when he came up on them, Slim made a quick guilty move. But, to Alf’s amazement, Kitty came running up to him.

  “Alf! Alf love!” she cried. “What’s up? where’ve you come from?”

  Slim held back a bit. Then he looked relieved. “You put the wind up me for a minute, mate,” he said. “I thought it was the law.” He dived a hand under his raincoat and pulled out a couple of dead rabbits. “I allus reckon to do a bit of poaching when I’m round these parts. Kitty here knows all the spots.”

  Suddenly Kitty’s face changed:

  “You didn’t think-?” she began.

  “Nar,” said Alf, “I didn’t.”

  “Are you sure?” she said.

  “Of course I am,” said Alf. It was a lie, but it had to be told.

  “If I thought for one minute you didn’t trust me—” she said.

  “I came to warn you, Slim,” he said. “The transport boss is after you. He’s been checking up on your clock records.”

  Slim whistled: “Thanks for the tip. But I must say I like a bit of poaching.” He looked at the rabbits: “I reckon to get two or three a time—an’ they bring half a dollar a time.”

  “Your face,” said Alf, “is bleeding.”

  “Scratches,” said Slim, wiping a hand across, “from the bushes.” He gave a glance at Kitty: “They say there’s no pleasure without pain.”

  Then Slim turned to Alf: “Coming?”

  “Not yet,” said Alf, his arm round Kitty.

  “Sure you don’t want a rabbit?” asked Slim.

>   “No,” said Alf, “I’ll catch my own.”

  Slim looked at Kitty: “The gaffer being on my track,” he said, “I doubt if I can give you a lift again.”

  “You won’t!” said Alf. “There’s a house come empty in our street, so we’re getting wed. And anyway, a chap as let a woman loose round Watling Street would deserve what he got.”

  Slim, with the rabbits bulking under his coat, went out of the wood. Alf pulled Kitty down beside him on the tree trunk.

  “Alf,” she said in a worried voice, “what about your ‘telltale clock’?”

  Alf replied with two short, blunt words, and Kitty, who had never heard him talk like that before, bent her blushing face contentedly against his small hard chest.

  Cockney Mum

  My Mum had sixteen of us.

  To properly grasp that, what you’ve got to do is go back, look right back along her life, her Mum first picking up with the old man when she was a girl of eighteen, and then getting wed, and coming along a twenty-five-year stretch of her being pregnant more often than not, and of always having one child in arms. Yes, my old Mum’s life was well-studded with the capers of kids, born and about to be born, right to her finishing off with young Charlie at the age of forty-three.

  And it wasn’t just with her own either. From all round Bermondsey women used to send for Mum when they felt their pains coming on. They’d more faith in her than in any midwife. They used to call her a “Guy’s Gamp”, but of course she wasn’t a proper one. But she was very proud of her reputation. She was very particular about cleanliness too. She had a special white pinafore she kept for the job, and even if she came home from a case at midnight, the very first thing she would do would be to boil that pinny, scrub it, and hang it to dry. She always had it clean and ready whenever she was called for.

  I was about nine when I first went out on a case with Mum, and I went regular after that. The old man hated her going off, but that was one thing she wouldn’t give way about. And I expect he didn’t insist too much, because if it had got round the neighbourhood that he wouldn’t let his wife out to go and help a woman in labour, it would have given him a bad name of a kind he wouldn’t have liked.

  He was a docker was the old chap, and the least thing could set his temper off. Lots of the old dockers seem to be like that; I think it’s all the carrying they have had to do. Seems to get their nerves all on edge. Especially when they begin to feel the job’s getting too much for them.

  If any of the kids started a-squalling when he came in from work, he’d fly straight off the handle. “Shut your bleedin’ mouth!” he’d yell, “else I’ll choke the livin’ daylights outa yer!” I’ve only to hear somebody say “livin’ daylights” now and I get a ribby feeling come over me.

  Yet he could be very soft hearted once he’d let all the temper out of himself. He once hit young Bert a bit too hard across the mouth, brought his lip up, and when he saw him asleep at night, with his thick lip, he started crying.

  I’m not making excuses for him, but it do seem different to me now when I look back. I remember how on a hot day he’d come home and take his sweaty shirt off and stand in front of the fire drying it. His back and shoulders seemed all hunched and knotted up from carrying, and just below his collar-bone, his skin would be red raw, where the timber had been rubbing against it all day.

  But to get back to Mum.

  They often came for her in the middle of the night. Mum seemed to sleep with one foot out of bed, because she’d be up in a tick. I used to sleep in shirt, socks, and sometimes jersey, so I’d only have my pants and shoes to put on. She’d wrap the youngest baby up for me to carry, or we might take the two youngest. It was all according to how old they were, and if they cried much. The main thing was not to disturb the old man. Then she’d get her pinny, her basket, and we’d soon be off. The husband, or whoever it was that came, would have gone back to the woman.

  I always liked it once we’d got out into the streets. It was all so dark and quiet. I can still remember the different ways we used to go. Along Tooley Street was one way, and cut up by St Mary’s Church. Halfway up the wall there you could see a big Cross with Christ on it. I’d always see Him at night, looking thin and sore on that Cross, and a thought used to cross my mind that it was odd I’d never notice Him in the day-time.

  Sometimes Mum used to talk to herself. And sometimes her feet sounded weary. But she’d always perk up and make herself look bright and fresh when we got near to the house. Near the corner of the street there’d often be somebody waiting for us; trying to hurry us up. I know when we went into a house we were always very welcome. Most houses in those days seemed to have lots of kids. The older ones seemed to mix in more in those days with regard to doing little jobs around the place and helping. And the young ones seemed to stay up much later. They didn’t look as well as youngsters do today, but they were better for talking to. Like as not there’d be one or another crying. Now Mum could always quieten a crying child. Some women can. And she’d always brighten up the place, and make a joke or two. Of course she looked real good in that shining white pinafore she wore. Then she’d calm the kids after their laugh. Then she’d cheer up the woman who was expecting a child. Having had so many herself, it seemed she knew how to go about it. They weren’t usually in a very good mood before the child was born, the women, and you’d think they didn’t care whether they had it or not. But afterwards they were always real happy, and had plenty to say to Mum, but if the man came near they’d be narked with him. Funny how everybody gets happy when a child is born. Even I used to. But there were times when things didn’t go right. Then everybody was very sad. And even if the mother had ten children, she’d go on like it was her only child had died.

  At some time or other a midwife would turn up. And when things were bad, they would send for a doctor. But when anybody wanted anything, whether it was the doctor or midwife, or the woman in bed, they’d always turn to Mum. And at last when it was all over we’d go home.

  I remember it had often just come daylight when we went off through the streets. Sometimes a neighbour would come with us part of the way and help carry our child. I liked that because then I could hold Mum’s hand. Mum’s hand had very hard fingers and cracks across the middle. I knew it that well that it was like I could still feel it years after. Somehow my Mum’s hand seemed it had life and strength a-coming out of it. I still like those sort of hands.

  So my Mum went on with all kinds of childbirth and nursing work, through those struggling years. If a job had to do with human beings, it seemed Mum was good at it. She brought them in, and she laid them out. You’d get old neighbours send for Mum when they were ill and getting to the far end, to ask her to make sure she’d come round and do them up when they died. She had a very tender touch, they said, and they could trust and rely on her.

  At the same time Mum never neglected her own home. She went on having children herself and though she stayed in bed for ten days, they all used to line up beside the bed to have their faces washed. She could rinse the napkins, peel spuds and practically get the tea ready in bed. And we had all those illnesses and troubles that seem to plague a family in a poor home. Scarlet fever, measles, whooping cough, and other things, then on top of these you’d get scabies and nits. It seems that them little mites and vermin are harder to fight than any disease. But Mum fought them all and she won. Even with eight in a room and four in a bed. She kept us all alive, when it might have been easier to let us die. All the families around us had lost two or three or more. But when one of us was sick Mum gave that one all her care. She had a way of putting confidence into you. Somehow we all got better.

  After her sixteenth baby, Charlie, Mum must have known that she’d finished as regards having any more of her own. So she got herself a cleaner’s job in offices near London Bridge. She used to go off just after five of a morning and come home for breakfast about nine o’clock. Then she’d do her housework and cooking all day and go back to the offices for a cou
ple of hours at half past six. It was regular money and Mum didn’t mind the work, but it seemed to me it changed her. That office work made Mum go stoopy, and took that nice shine from her face. She had to use a big heavy floor-polisher, keep shoving it forward and dragging it back. She always came home white after she’d been doing that work.

  But Mum did like having a bit of money and being independent. The older end of the family were growing up by this time, and we had moved to a new council house. Two of the younger ones got into grammar schools and Mum was real pleased seeing them go off with school blazers and caps. She wasn’t called out in the night any more. But at times I could see she missed Bermondsey. She liked our new garden and she loved growing flowers but there was something about the street we used to live in that she missed. Then one day Mum bought herself a present.

  She hadn’t said a word to anyone, but I was in when the van drew up outside our front gate. Then two blokes carried in a new bed. It was a single bed in light walnut with a lovely new mattress, bolster, and pillow. I helped Mum to carry it upstairs and put it up there and then. Mum went across to a drawer and took out some sheets and blankets that she had hidden away.

  “He ain’t coming home drunk to me no more,” she said.

  Then I watched her make up her new bed. It was nice seeing her face as she smoothed the white sheets out. And when at last she had finished making it she stood back. “He ain’t going to like this,” she said. “But a woman has to have her self-respect. If he don’t drink less, I’m going to bed alone.”

  Not long ago one Saturday evening I went across to see Mum. I didn’t take the wife with me because I know Mum liked to have a chat with me on my own. As I got to the gate I could see someone leaning on it. “Mum, what’s the matter?” I cried.

  “Alfie!” whispered Mum. “I just had a pain. Give me a hand, will you.”

  I put my arm round Mum, took her bit of weight on me, and helped her indoors. The home was empty. I helped Mum to the couch. I had to lift her. She was that light I couldn’t believe it. Is that all that’s left of her? I thought.