The Ebenezer Papers

by Dawn Harris

  I went back into my study to find the second post had brought a letter from my solicitor. Opening it I saw it concerned my father, who’d died last year. Thinking of him, I sighed; I still missed him so much. Probate had been granted on his Will, and the letter contained full details of the land he’d left me. He’d lived in Devon all his life, yet the land was in the east end of London, and I couldn’t recall him ever mentioning it to me.

  Fortunately the solicitor’s letter explained everything. It seemed one of our ancestors had won the land in a game of cards back in 1794, and no-one since had bothered to sell it. My solicitor suggested I might wish to, there being several buyers interested. The price offered was considerable, and it looked likely to go for housing. It seemed a sensible arrangement, but then I remembered my father saying in his Will that I would know what to do with it. Which might mean selling it, yet I thought that unlikely, or he would have done so himself.

  I decided to take a look at the land, and wrote to my solicitor to that effect, saying I would let him know my decision shortly. Puzzling over what my father had meant, I decided to go in the morning. And hoped Al would not have any trouble finding his way to the east end.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Monica arrived that evening as arranged and told me her father was shutting up their London house on Friday. Pleased she wanted to stay with me, I helped her unpack in my best guest bedroom, which overlooked the small courtyard garden at the back of my house. I kept up an endless stream of idle chatter, about Tim, the weather, and the Princess Royal, who was taking a long time to recover from her bout of measles. ‘Must be awful to get it at thirty-nine,’ I sympathised. She nodded and let me ramble on, saying nothing, half smiling now and again, while she hung up her clothes. Only when I paused for breath did she blurt out what was on her own mind.

  'It's a damn good thing I went back to work, Liddy. Oscar may be a genius but he’s useless at running a business. He hasn’t paid the bills, sent out invoices, ordered new materials or answered any letters. He says he’s been too busy with his designs. It’s taken me all day to sort things out.’ She hadn’t really taken in a single word I’d said. Dealing with the pain of going back to work, where she and Peter had been so happy, had taken all her strength. Yet, her decision to give Peter’s last collection the prominence it deserved had given her something concrete to focus on.

  Her eyes glittered with determination. 'I’ve told Oscar this show is going to be perfect. And, to that end, we’ll work night and day, if that’s what it takes.’

  Hanging up a particularly glamorous evening gown, one of Peter’s creations, I asked, 'Can I do anything to help?’

  That made her smile; as she knew, I enjoyed choosing and wearing new clothes, but I wasn’t really interested in the design or business aspects of fashion. ‘Thanks, but we’ll manage.’

  She showed mild interest when I told her about Al, but only said, ‘Could he look after my car too while I’m here?’ She’d left it by the garage, as usual.

  ‘Of course.’

  Monica was concentrating solely on her own life, not because she was extremely selfish, which she wasn’t, despite her father’s indulgence, but it was the only way she could cope with her loss. Her generous spirit would return in time, of that I was quite sure. She helped me bath Tim and read him a bedtime story, after which we spent a quiet evening listening to music on the wireless.

  In the morning, we went out to the garage to find that Al had already cleaned her car, and was happy to look after it for her. They talked for a few minutes, discussing the car’s finer points, and once she’d driven off to work, I told him about the land my father had left me and that I wanted to go there this morning. As I’d expected, he hadn’t been to the east end before, but said he’d work out a route. I asked if he was happy with his flat, and he beamed. ‘I sure am, Mrs. York. Best place I ever had by a long ways.’

  ‘Good. Is there anything you need?’

  He shook his head. ‘Everything is just dandy.’

  'How are you getting on with Lang?’

  He gave a slight shrug. 'I expect he’ll come round in time.’

  ‘I do not doubt it,’ I said, smiling at his lack of concern. A man who could deal with the brute his previous employer had been, wasn’t going to be troubled by Lang's disapproval. Jean could be more of a problem, I mused ruefully. She was great fun and I liked her, although our widely differing views often led to lively and heated debates. Which my employing Al would certainly do, but I didn’t dwell on it, having more important things to think about. Like, finding out all I could about George Crawleigh, and whether the Greenes really had gone to France.

  I spent some time playing with Tim before leaving for the east end. He already loved cars and wanted to come with me, but I didn’t know how long I would be, or what I might find when I got there. Later, I thanked God I’d left him at home.

  Al drove along the Strand heading east, and through Cable Street towards the area around the Docks, with its depressing dark alleys and row upon row of narrow streets, where children in ragged clothes, some without shoes, played where they could.

  Soon we turned into a cul-de-sac, lined with old factories and warehouses. Passing these dreary buildings, Al drew up at the far end, beside a boarded up factory. ‘I think your land is at the back of this building, Mrs. York.’

  It seemed sensible to take him with me, and we walked down a well-worn path by the side of the closed factory, at the end of which was a very large field. This, I later learnt, was the only patch of green in this deprived area. There were about thirty older boys, kicking a ball about, or playing cricket with makeshift bats and wickets. Which told me exactly why my father had not sold it, and why he’d said I would know what to do with it. Far too many children in the east end had to play in the streets. If I sold this field for housing, that’s what these youngsters would have to do too.

  'You could get three football pitches on here,’ I said, thinking aloud.

  'You sure could,’ Al drawled.

  I turned to him in amusement, wondering what he, as an American, could possibly know about football. 'Have you ever seen a football match?’

  'I saw Arsenal play twice,’ he grinned. 'And I know they won the Cup.’

  Before I could say any more, the football bounced in our direction, and Al kicked it back. The boy who collected it ran over to him. 'Yer don’t wanna play do yer, mister? We ain’t got no goalie.’

  ‘I can’t,’ he said kindly. 'My uniform would get dirty.’

  The boy’s jaw dropped at the sound of Al's Boston accent. 'Yer American.’

  ‘Sure am,’ Al agreed with a wide grin.

  ‘Gosh,’ he whispered in awe. ‘Wish I could go ter America. Bet they got plenty of jobs.’

  ‘Sorry son. You’d be wrong. It’s the same there as it is here. Worse in some places.’

  That silenced him, if only for a moment. 'Do yer know any film stars? James Cagney or........?’

  'Never met one,’ Al said, laughing.

  By this time several others boys had joined us, all looking at Al wide-eyed with curiosity, and the questions soon came. Polite ones at first, but when things got more personal Al dealt with them in his usual calm way.

  ‘Are yer black all over?’

  Al gave a great shout of laughter. ‘I am. Every little bit of me.’

  'Don't yer mind? Bein’ black, I mean?’

  'No. That’s how I’ve always been. Can’t change it, so why worry.’

  'Cor, wish I ‘ad a black neck,’ said a fair-haired boy. ‘My mum wouldn’t be able ter see if it was dirty then. I bet yer mum couldn’t tell.’

  Al grinned. 'Oh she could tell, all right. Mothers always can.’

  When they finally finished with their questions I asked them about the field, and learnt that lots of other children came here after school and at weekends. These boys had all left school, but couldn’t find jobs. ‘And we ain’t gonna ‘ave this field much longer either.’

  '
Oh,’ I said in surprise. ‘Why is that?’

  'The geezer wot owns it is sellin’ it,’ a tall boy muttered in disgust.

  'Who told you that?’

  'Me dad. ‘E says they’re gonna build ‘ouses on it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ another one declared. 'Me mum says landowners only care about money.’

  ‘Not this landowner,’ I assured him. 'This landowner won’t sell. And that’s a promise.’

  ‘’Ow d’yer know that?’ he scoffed.

  'Because I’m the owner,’ I said, smiling.

  His eyes grew as round as saucers. 'No kiddin’?’

  'No kidding.’

  ‘Yer really ain’t gonna sell? Not ever?’

  ‘No. Not ever.’

  They all stared at me as if nothing like that had ever happened to them before, and I realised, sadly, that it probably hadn’t. They were used to knocks, and unused to benevolence. In awe, they asked me my name and I told them.

  ‘Yer ain’t a Duchess or.....?’

  'No,’ I said, laughing, and suggested they carried on with their game. 'I'll come back and see you soon.’

  They went off chattering excitedly, gathering round a man who’d come onto the field from another direction. Watching them relate their news, Al said, 'You’ve made their day, Mrs. York.’

  As the man headed straight for us, leaning heavily on his walking stick, I said, 'It's only a small thing really, Al. People here have so little, and this won’t help much. The dockers never know from one day to the next whether there will be any work for them. Those in a steady job are all right, and things are slowly getting better, but there are still too many people, like those boys, who can’t find work. What with that, and those wretched Nazi Blackshirts stirring up trouble --- well, how these people survive, and remain so cheerful, is beyond me.’

  The man, Jack Finch, was almost as excited as the kids when I talked to him about putting the field in good order, with proper football and cricket pitches and perhaps a tennis court. I thought I might also buy that boarded-up factory and turn it into a pavilion. After much discussion he promised to set up a small committee of parents to look after things, and to get quotes for all the equipment we would need. I thanked him and said. ‘I’ll come back next Monday.’

  On the way home I was still bubbling with excitement over the project, when we entered a small square. As we drove round the edge of it, past some shops and a couple of pubs, I saw a man on a soapbox addressing a small gathering, emphasising his words by repeatedly thrusting his fist into the air. His clothes told me he was a member of Oswald Mosley’s British Union of Fascists, and I hated everything the Blackshirts stood for, but having never seen them stirring up a crowd, I decided to see how they went about it.

  ‘Drive down the next street, please Al, and park the car.’ He did so and I jumped out quickly, directing him to open the boot. Taking out an old raincoat I kept for emergencies, I put it on, and removing the silk scarf from my neck, I used that to cover my hair, tying it under my chin. 'You stay here and look after the car. I want to see how these monsters work.’

  His eyes widened in horror. 'If you must go Mrs. York, let me come with you.’ He was deeply troubled, but I gently, yet firmly, refused his escort. The long list of people the Blackshirts considered inferior to themselves, and wanted to get rid of, included those with a black skin.

  'I won’t be long,’ I promised. 'And I’d like to have a car to come back to.’

  In the square the speaker was still ranting on. The local men stood listening, one or two leant against lamp-posts smoking, but there weren’t any children, not even older boys, which puzzled me. A few women stood near the front, but most were at the back, in front of a church. When I joined them, a beefy woman wearing an overall apron and a headscarf shaped into a turban, looked me up and down and sniffed. 'Yer not from round ‘ere.’

  'No,’ I said, with a smile. ‘I just happened to be passing.’

  ‘Fond of these ‘ere Blackshirts are yer?’ she demanded with considerable belligerence, as the speaker continued to blame the Jews for all Britain’s problems.

  ‘Me? God, no. I hate their guts.’

  Her face relaxed and she warned, 'In that case, best ‘op it, while yer can. It’s gonna get rough round ‘ere any minute now, and them bodyguards don’t care who they beat up. Men or women, it’s all the same to them. But we’ve ‘ad enough see, an’ this time it’s gonna be different.’ A man appeared and quietly put a box beside her. It was full of little bags of flour. She looked at me and gave a hearty chuckle. 'That’s just fer starters.’

  I hesitated, thinking it might be wiser to leave, and I even took a step towards the road where the car was; then I stopped. These women had nothing, yet they meant to stand up to this kind of scum. Whereas I had riches they could only dream of, and I was about to scurry back to the safety of my car. What sort of woman was I?

  I turned back. ‘I’m game,’ I said. The woman gave me a vigorous approving slap on my back, which almost sent me sprawling. A man began yelling abuse at the speaker, the signal it seemed for people to throw the bags of flour, and I quickly joined in. These people were poor, and some were out of work, but they hated these Fascists as much as I did. The Blackshirts grabbed a woman near the front, but as they raised their coshes, the church doors behind us burst open and dozens of men ran out brandishing weapons of their own.

  'Go on,’ hollered the woman beside me. 'Give them bastards a taste of their own medicine.’

  The speaker instantly took fright and tried to run away. But the men soon caught him and when they threw him into the horse trough, the women cheered.

  It was then a man, dressed like the others in rough working clothes and an ancient cloth cap, took my elbow and demanded in a voice that did not belong to any docker I’d ever met, 'What the devil are you doing here, Liddy?’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  This man looked like all the others in the crowd, and I spluttered indignantly, ‘Who the......?’ Then I looked into his eyes and gasped, ‘Johnny?’

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, my shocked reaction made him grin. 'I'll explain later, Liddy. Right now, I want you to go home. This is a dangerous situation, and if the police come, you could be arrested.’

  'What about you?’

  'I'll be fine. Please go,’ he begged. The fight was virtually over, so I did as he’d asked. These brave, very ordinary people were rightly triumphant, and I hoped it would help turn the tide against Mosley. Usually it was those who stood up to these bullies who suffered, but at this meeting, for once, the Blackshirts had come off worst. These Fascists were trying to change Britain in the same way that Hitler had changed Germany. Regrettably not everyone with influence in Britain was against Fascism. Certainly one popular daily newspaper had been a strong supporter of Hitler, Mosley and the Blackshirts until a couple of years ago.

  I did see Johnny later, but not at home. We were both invited to a party at the Ritz that evening, to celebrate Jean’s twenty-fourth birthday. The King, a friend of Jean and Arthur’s, would be there, and wanting to look my best I wore a new evening gown, created by Peter, in a shade of green that he said was perfect for me. Before leaving home I went into the drawing room to say goodbye to Monica, and the instant she saw me in that dress, tears sprang into her eyes. 'You look absolutely stunning,’ she whispered. ‘I wish Peter could see you.’

  'So do I,’ I murmured, swallowing the lump in my throat. Life without him still seemed unreal. Jean had invited Monica too but, unsurprisingly, she couldn’t face that sort of celebration yet, preferring to stay in listening to the wireless.

  Earlier I’d told her about the playing field and the children, and what I hoped to do. ‘Poor things,’ she’d said. And, ‘Good for you, Liddy.’ It was the most she could manage at present, she was still too numb to think of anything but how to get through each day.

  The party was fun; the dance band played all the popular songs, and the champagne flowed on this rather sultry nigh
t. The King arrived with a group of friends, including Mrs. Simpson, and a little later I saw him whirling Jean around the dance floor, but he did not dance with me. He knew who I was, but I wasn’t part of his inner circle of friends. Jean was in great spirits, and Arthur watched her in quiet adoration. Although he was twice her age, his boyish good looks made him appear a good ten years younger. Later, observing them together I thought how fortunate it was that Jean had married a man who adored dancing as much as she did. Something I commented on to Johnny when he invited me to dance.

  'But you like dancing too, don’t you?’ he asked as we executed a waltz, correctly but without the flair shown by Jean and Arthur.

  ‘I love it, but I’m no good at it. I don’t have their sense of rhythm.’

  'That makes two of us,’ he grinned, as the song came to an end. ‘But at least I haven’t trodden on your toes.’

  I laughed up at him. ‘Well – not yet, you haven’t. There’s plenty of time.’ The band began to play “Blue Moon,” one of my favourite songs, and slipping into his arms again, I said, ‘But I’m willing to risk it.’

  When the music ended we returned to our seats and he asked how I’d come to be at the Blackshirts’ meeting.

  'Actually I came across it by sheer chance. Which is more than can be said for you. What were you doing there? Organising that revolt?’

  He shook his head. 'It was their idea. They were sick of Mosley's Blackshirts breaking shop windows, beating up the Jews and trying to drive them out. I simply suggested they hid in the church and rushed the Blackshirts together. And I did provide the flour.’

  I laughed. 'So this is why you were brought home from America. To help sort out the Blackshirts.’

  'It’s one of the reasons.’

  'And the others?’

  'I can’t say. Hush-hush and all that.’ And he asked why I’d stopped to listen to the Blackshirt speaker.

  ‘I wanted to see for myself what happened at these meetings. I was coming home from.......’