King Dido

by Alexander Baron

  “And the band played believe it if you like.” Her glance fell on the parcel; then quickly at him. “What’s that getup for?”

  He started to pull on the big boots. “I’m goin’ out.”

  “To start a business? In that rigout? Some business!”

  “Lookin’ for work.”

  “What sort of work?”

  “What does it look like?”

  “I know what it looks like.” She stooped and lifted the baby. Its clear blue eyes gazed in hurtful innocence at Dido. Grace said, “Look at your father.”

  “Shut up,” Dido shouted. “It’s ’ard enough.”

  “Why? Don’t you want your baby to see you?”

  “I got to make a start. I must earn something. I’m goin’ down the docks.”

  “Look at your daddy. A common workman in dirty boots and a cap and choker. He’ll come home stinking with ale like the rest of them. Clay pipe in his mouth. Spit on the floor.”

  “What do you want me to do? I’ve got to make a start. Save something.”

  “Oh, sing me another one, do. We’ll be here ten years while you’re saving. A dirty common labourer. And I’ll turn into a shabby drudge. And my child a ragamuffin.”

  “Shut up!” He heard his own thick shout and his fist flew up.

  “Ha! That’s the second time you’ve raised your hand to me. You don’t know anything else.”

  He let his hand drop. “What do you want? What do you want of me?”

  “I want to get out of here.”

  “I’ve told you —”

  “Now.”

  “Be reasonable.”

  “I’m reasonable. You’ve done enough to me and my child. I’m telling you now. I won’t wait.”

  “You’ll ’ave to.”

  “There’s no have to. If I don’t go with you I shall go without you.”

  “You’ll what? You’ll —? With her?” He pointed at the child.

  “You don’t think I’d leave her.”

  “I’d kill you first.”

  “Oh no you wouldn’t.” She faced him in a silence that seemed to read him. “What good would that do baby?”

  After a moment he said, “Where would you go?”

  “Back to the hostel. Matron would help me. So would the reverend. They’d find a good home to take me in. — I do mean it.”

  “What can I do?” His voice was weary. “They say there’s fifty thousand out of work in the East End this month. If you won’t wait what can I do?”

  “Don’t ask me. You’re the man.”

  “Look, I’m standin’ ’ere, Grace. Say what you want an’ I’ll do it.”

  “You’re the man. You haven’t lacked ideas in the past. Some fine tales you spun me. Use your brains. Do something. Or are you all blow and no show? You’ve got a wife and child and if you want to keep them you’d better do something. Don’t stand there. Go and do something. Go on.”

  Blakers called from his doorway, “Hey! Dido! Come ’ere a minute.”

  Dido paused. Blakers said, “Come in ’ere.”

  Dido followed him into the shop. “’Aven’t seen you in them togs for a long time,” Blakers said. “You’re not goin’ out labourin’ agen?”

  “Work’s work.”

  “Wicked shame, smart feller like you go labourin’”.

  Dido had no strong purpose to look for work. Numbed by Grace’s attack he had continued to dress automatically in the clothes at hand; and he had wandered out into the street without aim. “My friend all of a sudden, are you?”

  “Don’t like to see a smart feller wasted. Sooner use a smart feller meself. Well, in my own interest, ain’ it?”

  “I know your sort of jobs,” Dido said.

  “Well,” Blakers said mildly, “they do say beggars can’t be choosers. After all I done you a good turn already. Keepin’ quiet.”

  “About what?”

  “Merry’s arter puttin’ you away on a charge of money with menaces. I only ’ave to tell ’im ’ow you threatened me that time for a sov’reign in front of witnesses, an’ you’re inside. Well —” He spoke hastily at the glitter in Dido’s eyes. “I’m only sayin’. Shows I’m your friend, don’ it?”

  “You reckon you got the drop on me,” Dido said. “What d’you want?”

  “Nothin’, Dido. I’m just sayin’ it pays you to play ball with me. Might pay us both, come to that. What you want now is a job. They’ll be watchin’ you, you know. You wanna box clever long as they’re watchin’. Git down to a reasonable job. They see you workin’ steady, they’ll get tired in the end.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Well I tell you, Dido, I been thinkin’. You’re ’andy feller. I got a lot to do in this shop. New shelves. Cab’nets. Cost less to take you on than a shopfitter. Why don’t you come in, ’ave a go at it? You can ’elp stocktakin’ as well. My Stanley’s busy with exams, young ’un’s workin’ for a scholarship too. I could do with an honest man on the premises. Not all that common, honest man in these parts.”

  Dido, after a moment, said, “All right.”

  “Start termorrer then. ’Ow are yer fixed for the oof?”

  “Couple o’ sov’reigns left, I reckon.”

  “Yer know where to come if yer short. Always oblige a chap like you.”

  As he passed the kitchen his mother called, “I’ve got a nice plate of ham for you, dear,” and he hated her. He found Grace in the sitting-room. He said, “I’ve got work. With Blakers.”

  “What will you earn?” Her voice was neutral.

  “It’s not what I’ll earn. ’E lends money. Soon as I’ve done his job I’ll borrow enough to move.”

  “Dido,” she said conversationally. “Where do you think of moving to?”

  “I don’ know. Anywhere. You said you knew some nice parts round Dalston an’ Islington.”

  “Dido,” she went on patiently. “Do you realise the police have got their eye on you?”

  “Merry?”

  “Not just him. There’s thousands and thousands of police, and they’ll all have their eye on you. They won’t forget.”

  “What can I do?”

  Her sigh was quite maternal. “I’ve been thinking. Someone’s got to think for us and I can see it won’t be you. Do you really want to make a fresh start?”

  “Don’ ask silly questions.”

  “Well see who’s silly. Because if you do, there’s only one way. Emigrate.”

  “’Emigrate?”

  “He thought I was silly, too. That Mr Merry. Promising me a fresh start. He stood there and he said I could just move away and change my name and no-one would know I’d had a husband hanged. He said himself my baby would be a murderer’s git and then he expected me to tell him. As if I didn’t know about newspapers and photographs and all that. If you’d been tried I could never have hidden my face anywhere.”

  “And that’s why you never told ’im?”

  “Well I’m not a fool, am I? Whatever some may think.”

  “An’ I thought it was on my account.”

  “I wasn’t so simple as he thought, was I?”

  Dido chuckled. He couldn’t help it. He said, “You want to go to Australia?”

  “Australia!” She was maternally petulant. “You’ve got no ambition, have you? You’ll be nothing without me. Australia’s common. Labouring work, that’s all you get there. South Africa is where people get rich. It’s the golden land.”

  He said, “All right.”

  “You won’t just get there by saying all right. It’ll cost at least fifty pounds. Besides what I get for the furniture. I shall keep what I can, of course, I love my home. I don’t mean to go out there like a pauper. If we want to travel decently and have something to start with when we get there, we shall need every penny of fifty pounds. Well?”

  “All right,” he said at length. “I told you. I’ll borrow it off Blakers.”

  “Fifty pounds? And you going half across the world? Why should he risk that?�
�

  “I’m a man of my word. He knows.”

  “We’ll, he’d better look sharp,” Grace said. “I don’t know why I’m giving you a chance. Because we’re married, I suppose. And because of baby. But I shan’t wait for ever.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Towards the evening ten days later Blakers lounged in the doorway of his shop. He took in the everyday scene with his everyday casual gaze; but his eyes searching among the scatter of loafers and children missed nothing. They weren’t here today. They — the police watchers who had been in evidence day and night for a week after Dido’s return. He had kept an eye open at all hours for the last three days. He was not easily fooled; and he hadn’t seen them. It was a bit early in his view for them to call off the dogs; too early to take chances.

  He turned into the shop. Dido was hanging a glass door on a wall cabinet. It was a nice job, it gave the shop class. Odd fish, Dido. You might almost know by looking at him that anything he turned his hand to he would do well.

  Dido said, “Can I ’ave a word with you?”

  “Nice work that is. Fire away, friend.”

  “You said you’d advance me some money.”

  “That’s right. Trustworthy chap.”

  “I want fifty quid.”

  Blakers took this in. He had been calculating when to make the next move and Dido had made it. He had not turned the screw any more since their first talk. No need to — Dido was sharp enough to see the situation. He decided to probe. “Lot of money that.”

  “You’ll be paid back.”

  “I’m not sayin’ I wouldn’t.”

  “Well then — long as I’m trustworthy what’s the odds how much?”

  “What do you want it for?”

  “Need it, that’s all.”

  “That much, entitled to ask what for.”

  “My business.”

  Blakers sighed. “You don’t ’elp. Lot of money. Five, ten, I can whistle that up any time. What you’re askin’ for ain’t so easy.”

  “Go on, you got it in the bank.”

  “That’s my business, old feller. You don’t know what calls I ’ave to meet.”

  “It’s no, is it?”

  “Don’t rush me, Dido. Gi’ me a chance to think.” He paced into the shop. He opened the rear door. “Maria, come an’ mind the shop.”

  His wife came out. He said, “In ’ere, Dido. We can talk quiet.”

  When they were both in the kitchen he closed the door and let down the square of striped linen that was rolled above the lace. “Don’t like nosey parkers,” he said. He poured beer into two glasses from a bottle. “Cheers.”

  Dido raised his glass. “Fifty. You know you’ll get it back.”

  “It’s like this,” Blakers said. “I can’t lend fifty. Honest to God, if you knew what calls I got to meet — it’s more than I can do. What I’m thinkin’ of, though, I might put you in the way of something.” He saw Dido’s look sharpen with suspicion. He said, “Depends how much you need the money. I’m givin’ you work. You can always save up for it.”

  “I need it quick.”

  “Well then,” Blakers said and sipped his beer.

  “What is it? You want some fags nicked for you?”

  Blakers chuckled. “With Woods ’olesalin’ at fourteen-an’-eight a thousand? Not much in that for a chap that needs fifty quid. Or for me. ’Ow bad do you need it, Dido? Shall I go on?”

  “I’m listenin’.”

  “Spirits.”

  “Spirits? You don’t sell spirits.”

  “You don’t see all my merchandise on my shelves. Wouldn’ do, would it? Well, I can see you’re not shocked. You’re takin’ it very calm.”

  “Is there fifty quid in it?”

  “More, I’d say. You’re interested, are yer? Well, it’s this friend o’ mine. ’E ’as very sharp eyes, this friend. ’E gets about. Wonderful nose for an easy job. Now there’s this merchant in Mare Street, Jeffery, Wines and Spirits. Near the Town ’All. Got that? Now my frien’ says that Jeffery sends a lad out with ’is deliveries every day. With a plain van — no name on it — mark that, I’m tellin’ you for a reason. A plain grey box-van with a pony in the shafts, ’ardly bigger than a postman’s ’andcart. But there’s a fair bobsworth o’ liquor in it every mornin’ when that boy sets out. Now look, Dido, this is in confidence. I don’ wanna go on if it’s not your lay.”

  “Go on.”

  “I thought you would. Man of spirit, you are. No burglary or breakin’ in ’ere. I wouldn’ touch that sort of lay. You mustn’t be afraid of short cuts if you want ter get on in business. I’m not. I’m glad ter see you’re not. Well this lad loads up an’ starts off round eleven every mornin’, an’ this is the point, before ’e gets on with it ’e always runs down to a coffee-shop in ’Ackney Road — Union Jack Dinin’ Rooms. There’s ’orse-trough outside. ’E ties ’is nag up there, shoves a nosebag on it an’ goes inside for ’is own feed. Well then — you can ’andle a nag, can’t you? Even one that might jib with a stranger up be’ind?”

  “Trust me with ’orseflesh.”

  “There you are then. You’re there. Lad goes inside. You jump up, whip ’er away, turn sharp left into Mansford Street an’ arter that there’s such a bleed’n’ maze o’ back streets Sherlock ’Olmes ’isself couldn’t find yer. Plain grey van. No one’ll notice it goin’ by. That’s why I mentioned it. Now, you’ll be safe in five minutes. My friend’s seen ter that. There’s some sheds under the railway arches, not four blocks away. Rented out to tradesmen an’ costers. You can get one o’ them couple o’ bob a week. You just trot the van in there, lock up an’ walk away like a gentleman.”

  “This shed — you want me to rent it?”

  “Not my affair, Dido. I’m only passin’ this on. You get the merchandise an’ I’ll talk business. I’ll see there’s no risk taken movin’ the stuff.”

  Dido took a long time to think it over. “Fifty quid in it, you say?”

  “Go an’ see for yerself. ’Ave a dekko at the shop, reckon up what the van’ll ’old. Same time you’ll get ter know the driver’s face. After that dinner-hours, you can ’ave a stroll round this Union Jack Dinin’ Rooms, get the ’ang of ’is ’abits there. Well Dido, what’s it to be?”

  Dido said, “Fair enough.”

  “Good feller. There’s no ’urry. You wanna box clever for a while yet. Wait till the law’s busy somewhere else.”

  “I reckon they’ve packed up.”

  “You wait till you’re sure. I’ll tip you the wink when it’s safe. Ah —” And he could not help chuckling in a friendly way. “I can’ ’elp thinkin’ o’ you. All these years. The chap that wouldn’ thieve.”

  “I’m left no option,” Dido said, “am I?”

  “I reckon he’s taken the hook,” Weldon said. “Twice now in the dinner-hour he’s been up by the dining-rooms. He loafs around reading a racing edition.”

  “He never was a racing man,” Merry said. “It paid to cancel the street watch.” The friend to whom Blakers referred, who had very sharp eyes, got about a lot and had a wonderful nose for an easy job was Albert. He had gone to Blakers with the plan after it had been reported to Merry that Dido was working in Blakers’ shop.

  “We might get Blakers, too,” Weldon said.

  “I doubt it,” said Merry. “Nice bonus if we do. But the old chap’s fly. Myself I don’t think he’ll let Dido budge for a while. And when he does, you’ll find there’s no proven connection with Mr Blakers. Unless Dido coughed. Which he wouldn’t. No. I’ll be satisfied with Dido. Best have both points watched from now on — the wine shop and the dining-rooms. I’ll see the Chief. Is everything set up in Rabbit Marsh?”

  “It’s all ready.”

  “Right. That’s on from now.”

  There was no-one watching him. Dido was alert in the street and spied for long periods from windows. He was sure that they had gone away. Too busy elsewhere no doubt, as Blakers had forecast. He would wait for months if B
lakers had his way. The old fatguts was scared for his skin. Dido could not wait.

  Life at home was calm. It was as if the catastrophe a few weeks back had never happened. Grace was tranquil and coolly amiable but Dido felt that at last he knew her. Every hour of her even talk, her long placid silences, the matter-of-factness with which she cooked and sewed for him, made him feel more the cold implacable purpose which looked out through her eyes. He had no illusions that she would get over it if left alone. His heart skipped with relief every time he came home and found that she was still there — she and his daily more beautiful child. Inside him an ultimatum was rapidly running out. At half-past three one Thursday morning he opened the street door cautiously. Through a narrow aperture he surveyed the street for a long time in the hazy darkness. It was empty. He slipped out, closed the door quietly and set off at a rapid walk.

  He strode through the back streets until he reached Hackney Road. He continued through back ways and missed Mare Street; for his destination was not the wine merchant’s. He was bound on his own errand. He did not trust Blakers. Blakers had enough on him already and if he did Blakers’ dirty work he would be altogether in the man’s hands. He continued northwards.

  The windows of Rabbit Marsh were all dark. But behind one of them, on the opposite side to Number 34, there were wakeful eyes. The window was so filthy that no-one could see in from the street even by daylight; but there were random smears in it through which those inside could look out.

  It was in a house that had access from a builder’s yard at the rear. The room had been rented by a group of road labourers who dossed there on a box and cox basis, day and night; not an arrangement to arouse notice in these parts.

  There were two men in the room when Dido left. Both were fully dressed, in labourers’ garb. The man at the window said, “He’s making for Bethnal Green Road.”

  “Merry’s on tonight,” the other said. “I’ll go and report. You stay on watch.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Mr Owen did not mind getting up in the early hours. It was Thursday, the milkman’s payday. He had been getting up early ever since he was a mite of ten in a Welsh village, helping to clean out a cowhouse for a shilling a week. He had got on a bit since then but he still did a full day’s work in his own flourishing dairy. It was worth working for, what he had achieved: a house like a mansion with a white portico and grounds all round it, looking out over the common in front and the pretty park behind that sloped down to the River Lea. Like a house in the country. And driving his own Daimler.