Tom was drinking a cup of tea when the main race began. He did not have binoculars like many of the better off people, but he was able to hear a commentary over the crude loudspeaker system. Pearl Diver won and the final odds were 40 to 1. Tom was stunned. He now found himself with £200 and walked off the racecourse trembling with excitement. For one very brief moment he thought of his winnings in terms of 2002 prices, but soon remembered that in 1947 most people had wages of between £5 and £10 per week and a house in London could be found for less than £1,000 freehold. He took the greatest of care with the money and did not let go of the bundle inside his pocket. He gave £10 to Fred Yardley, saying that he would have liked his friend to have been with him and in his absence had placed a five bob bet in his name. Fred and Enid were delighted with their new found wealth. Tom did not tell them how much he had won and planned to go to the bank at lunchtime the following Monday. That evening, Tom and Fred enjoyed a couple of pints in their local pub and bought fish and chips from the chip shop at the end of the road. “Ask for a bag of scraps Tom.” Fred said as they went into the chippy. “What on earth are scraps Fred?” Tom soon discovered that the little pieces of batter that drip off the uncooked fish as it is put into the deep fat fryer are collected frequently and usually given away to young boys “on the scrounge” as Fred explained. “Sometimes, when I start me night duty, I nip in and get a bag of scraps and put ‘em in me pocket as a bit of a snack. I usually give ‘em away though most of the time to some poor beggar or kids who shouldn’t be still on the street.” Fred added. When they sat down to eat their piping hot fish and chips Tom asked for some tomato ketchup. “You must be joking,” Enid said, “I haven’t seen ketchup since before the war. Here, put some vinegar on it, Tom.” Tom followed the instruction and enjoyed the taste.
Life with the Yardleys was very simple. There was no television in their house although there was an embryonic TV service in operation. Radio was the live media for the masses and it had helped to inform, organise and sustain the morale of the population during the difficult war years. Their evenings had a routine depending on Fred’s particular duty timings. When he was at home they would eat “tea” at 5.30pm and listen to the Home Service for an hour from 6 until 7pm. Enid would always have some jobs to do, mostly mending clothes or preparing food for the next day. They would usually have time for a game of dominos or cards before going to bed by 9.30pm. Enid had been an ambulance driver during the war and continued this until the end of 1946. She was paid quite badly, but she felt that she was doing her duty towards the war effort and it had meant a slightly better ration allowance. She would not dream of looking for work now, not that much was available, besides having Tom as a lodger was quite a good help.
One Saturday, Fred had been at work until midday and whilst they shared a plate of sandwiches for lunch he said, “I did a patrol past the Pali this morning. They’ve got a detective film on with that Robert Mitchum chappy, and your favourite Enid, Kirk Douglas.” Enid knew Fred only too well, “and which of your young ladies is starring in this one then Fred?” Fred was a little sheepish as he said, “I think it’s Miss Greer, nice but a bit fancy really. How about it, Tom? Fancy an evening at the flicks?” Tom said that it would be his treat. It only cost 3s 6d for all three of them to have quite comfortable seats in the Palace Cinema. Tom was fascinated by the Pathe News which ran for 10 minutes before the main feature. Items covered included the work to rebuild Germany, the damage caused by the severe winter and how Britain was making a full economic recovery. It was obvious that there was still a strong propaganda element to the news and the government message was only thinly disguised by the rather enthusiastic news reader. Tom enjoyed the black and white film and was impressed that everyone stood to attention at the end as the National Anthem was played. Enid had bought a couple of bottles of stout earlier in the day and so they sat up late, in the kitchen, putting the world to rights.
Fred talked about his work. “My Chief Inspector is a marvellous bloke. He’s a bit of a toff but he’s clever and doesn’t let those old and bold sergeants and passed over inspectors pull any wool over his eyes. He went to a Grammar School and he knows French and Latin as well. I was taught some Latin by a chap I knew.” Fred looked across at Enid, lowered his voice and leant towards Tom. “If someone has a fart and you don’t know who did it you say, ‘Qui Ventilato’, and the first bugger that asks you what you said is always the one that’s done it.” Tom laughed, but Enid appeared not to have heard although there was a trace of a smile on her face.
“Is there any chance of promotion for you Fred?” Tom asked. “Nah. Not for me Tom. I was told I had reached my ceiling, 10 years ago.” Fred glanced across at Enid. “Well, Enid and I talked about it and decided that we should thank our lucky stars that I managed to get into the Force in the first place. The Chief Inspector said I was a good steady bloke and that the Force needed chaps like me. We’re ‘appy Tom.”
Tom reminded Fred how his prompt action outside the Union Jack Club had saved his life. “Don’t you be silly, Tom. I was only doing my duty. Mind you, I was glad that Corporal chappy didn’t have a go at me. He was a big bugger, that’s for sure.” Then Fred surprised Tom. “He went too far with you that night. He’s a hard man, but he has been brought up to be tough in a tough world. I bet there are a lot of blokes on the straight and narrow because of him. Maybe he just flipped. He shouldn’t have hit you like he did though.” Tom thought it better to change the subject and so they talked about football.
Julian Gaskin was fascinated with the old man’s story. “With your inside knowledge I assume that you are now a very wealthy man.” Tom smiled. “I am certainly comfortable, but I could not go over the top in case my story was exposed.” Waverly was captivated. “Did that dreadful man Baker give you any more trouble?” Tom’s smile was wiped from his face.
Tom continued to live with the Yardleys until the beginning of May 1948. He had cleverly spread his bet on the FA cup final, held on 24th April, amongst 5 different bookmakers in order to not have too great a stake with one in particular, and to reduce the impact of any double cross which was not entirely unknown amongst the illegal bookmakers and their runners. By the end of April he had more than enough money to buy a small house in Christchurch Street, just south of the Kings Road in Chelsea. It was in a run down area which had seen quite a bit of damage due to bombers trying to hit the nearby power stations south of the river. “Chelsea is a bit rough, full of no good artist types and the further west you go the worse it gets. In the station we get to hear about the gangs in Fulham beating people up and robbing houses.” Fred had warned. Tom noted the warning. “I am sure that all this will sort itself out once the war damages are sorted out and we get back to full employment,” He assured his policeman friend.
Just after Tom had moved house, a visitor had arrived at Fred Yardley’s police station and asked questions about Trevor Shaw and he also enquired if PC Yardley was still based at that station. The man was in civilian clothes and had not given a name but, when Fred was told what he looked like, he put two and two together and guessed that it was almost certain to be Corporal Baker. Fred and Enid had been invited to Tom’s new house and he was told of the visitor then. “He won’t find me. You don’t need to worry Fred, that man is just full of hot air and is bound to cool down sooner or later.”
Two weeks later, Fred was on night duty and patrolling a street near Waterloo station. There were no street lights as they were switched off due to the energy crisis, but a nearly full moon on Saturday 22nd May gave a fair amount of light; sufficient for Fred’s attacker to choose his moment, but not enough for the unsuspecting policeman to prepare for the viciousness of the attack. Fred was hit hard in the diaphragm and went down gasping for breath. His attacker then knelt down beside him and prised his right thumb back against the joint. “Where can I find that bastard, Shaw?” his attacker demanded. Fred was badly winded and not a particularly fit man. He was unable to reply fast enough for Baker. His ri
ght thumb was broken and despite his breathing difficulty, he cried out. Baker grabbed the other thumb and made the same demand. Fred Yardley tried to reply, his voice was a breathless whimper, he mouthed an answer which did not please his attacker. The left thumb was broken and Fred fainted. The 15 stone bully then lost his temper and kicked the helpless policeman before walking calmly away. The attacker had been wearing heavy Army issue ‘Ammo’ boots.
Fred was found by a milkman the following morning. He was alive but in a pretty bad way. He had been kicked in the head with such force that his left eye socket had collapsed. He was taken to St Thomas’ Hospital and was operated on straight away. Enid was taken to the hospital and waited anxiously by her husband’s bedside. He regained consciousness and was able to whisper a few words to Enid. “Tell Tom, big Corporal after ‘im.” He said as he struggled to turn his head to see his wife more clearly through his one good eye. “I love you Eni. I’ll be waiting for you, but don’t come too soon love. Tell Tom.” And with that he died. The actual cause of death was a blood clot on the brain but the reason for his death was the unnatural hate of one man for another. Enid told the police what Fred had said before he died. They interviewed Tom, and soon after a warrant for the arrest of John Baker was issued. Tom was warned by the police to be on his guard.
Tom could not imagine how Baker could possibly find him at his new address in Chelsea. What Tom had not realised was that Baker had found out about Fred’s funeral and had been watching nearby, before eventually following Tom to Chelsea. Tom was just opening his front door when he heard the noise from behind. He turned and was just able to step aside avoiding the crushing blow to the diaphragm, which was Baker’s trademark form of attack. Tom reached out and managed to grab the old brick that the previous owners of the house had used to keep the note to the milkman safe in the wind. Baker was preparing to try another blow when Tom managed to catch him with a blow to the side of the head. Tom was aware that he could easily be taken by the darkness, but managed to keep control. Baker was down and struggling to get up. Tom stepped past him and shouted for help. Tom’s house was close to the Church from which his street takes its name and the vicar heard Tom’s cry. Between them, Tom, the vicar and a passer-by managed to subdue Baker until the police arrived. Baker was arrested for the murder of Constable Fred Yardley and everyone expected him to be found guilty and taken to the gallows.
Baker was acquitted of murder as Enid Yardley’s evidence of what Fred had said on his deathbed was considered to be a warning for Tom and not evidence of the assault. The police had not prepared a case of serious assault against Baker for the subsequent attack on Trevor Shaw as they were so confident that the murder charge would produce a guilty verdict. Matters had not been helped when the defence were able to show that Baker had received a savage beating whilst in police custody. Tom had been in court throughout the trial staying by Enid Yardley’s side. On his acquittal, Baker pointed his finger at Tom and mouthed, “I will get you” as he was released from the dock. Tom had an idea of what was driving him on. The Army had put Baker on a warning for bullying and when the letter from the police about Tom’s beating outside the Union Jack Club had arrived, he had been discharged.
Tom knew what to expect but he did not know when the next attack might come. The police also suspected another attempt on Tom’s life and agreed to provide him with protection. He was told not to leave his house before 8am by which time a police officer would be outside his door. He was to ensure that he returned to his house by no later than 4pm when the police cover would end for the day. Needless to say this plan provided no real protection for Tom and the police could not foil any attempt on Tom’s life.
Fred and Enid had lived in a rented police house and after Fred’s funeral Enid was expected to move out, but she had nowhere to go. Tom bought a modest house in Victoria and let Enid live there, rent free, so that she could remain near the many friends that she and Fred had made over the years. Tom resumed his gambling and continued to accrue his fortune. The police protection ended within a month and after 6 months, Baker was forgotten.
Tom had been unable to go to Aintree for the 1948 Grand National, but had managed to place several modest bets through bookies’ runners in London. He was determined to be at the race in 1949, but travelling from London to Liverpool and then out to the race course at Aintree was nowhere near as easy as it might have been for the young Tom in 2002. Tom took the underground to Kings Cross Station and, because of a power cut, queued for 20 minutes to get a ticket to Liverpool. As a result he was unable to get on the “breakfast train” and found himself eating a day old cheese sandwich in the station café. He finally boarded his train just after 9am. Progress to Liverpool was slow that day due to endless speed restrictions on the line. His fellow passengers bemoaned the growing backlog of faults and failures throughout the railways despite unemployment being so high.
At Liverpool Lime Street Station, Tom had expected to find signs to Liverpool Central Station. He went off in the wrong direction for almost 10 minutes and only realised his error when he stopped to ask directions from a policeman. “You really are lost, Wack.” The policeman said in his thick Scouse accent. The level of war damage and destruction in Liverpool seemed far worse than London. It had been a frequent target for the German bombers as it was a major port and lifeline to America. It seemed that there was less effort going into the clearing of damaged buildings compared to London and, as a consequence, there seemed to be only a very modest regeneration programme in hand.
Finally at 1.45pm Tom entered Aintree racecourse and was able to get a feel for the layout and decide which of the bookmakers he would use. He checked his crib sheet several times to make sure that he had the right name for the winner, Russian Hero. He wanted to use six bookmakers and bet £50 with each but neither of the first two was prepared to take so much money. The odds had started at 100 to 1 but by the time he reached the third bookie the odds had dropped to 80 to 1. “Fifty Quid,” the bookie had exclaimed. “You must be bleedin’ bonkers. I’ll take twenty.” Tom handed over the money and immediately the bookie started waving his arms as he signalled other bookies around the course. Tom discovered that the bookies’ sign language was called “Tic-Tac” and allowed them to communicate changing betting patterns and adjusted odds. Eventually, Tom had managed to get 9 bookies to accept a total of £210, a long way off his plan of £300. His betting had probably not altered the odds by very much and Russian Hero came in at 66 to 1. Tom won a total of £13,860 and he got his £210 stake back as well. He had travelled prepared and had sewn four large pockets into his coat, even so, he felt very conspicuous. He intended to stay to enjoy the atmosphere but he felt vulnerable. A fight had started not far from him and the police seemed to be everywhere. Having so much money was a liability and so he made his way back to London as quickly and as discretely as he could.
During the latter half of 1949 Tom met a wonderful girl with whom he fell madly in love. Tom’s lifestyle revolved around just a few gambling events each year and so he had a lot of time in between to enjoy himself and indulge his closest friends. Mary was a very close friend, but not a lover. Try as he might, Mary played hard to get but finally, after 6 months of effort, their relationship entered a new more intimate phase. Tom wanted her to marry him but she wanted to remain single. This led to some tensions, but never a real argument. Then, one day Mary announced that she was pregnant and agreed that they should marry. Despite being a methodical administrator and keeping his various files in order, Tom had lost his birth certificate or rather the duplicate of Trevor Shaw’s birth certificate. He had to produce his birth certificate in order to get a marriage licence.
He remembered the routine and off he went to the Strand to get another duplicate. He paid his 6 pence and was about to get the duplicate birth certificate when he was told by the assistant, “If you want a duplicate of your marriage certificate the two together are only 4 bob instead of half a crown each.” Tom was speechless but gathered his t
houghts quickly and asked for both. At least then he would know whom he was supposed to have as a wife.
He made his way slowly back to Christchurch Street and wondered what to tell Mary. If he told her the truth, then all hell could break loose that there was a time traveller in London. If he ignored the problem and hoped for the best then he could so easily be arrested for bigamy and still risk his whole identity being uncovered. The real wife of Trevor Shaw would probably have a right to the property and savings that Tom had accrued under the name of her husband. What else could he do? Tom was deeply troubled and did not go to visit Mary that evening as planned. The following day Tom had made up his mind that he could not marry Mary, but would ensure that she was well provided for. He realised that the child would have a difficult start in life and Mary would also find it difficult, but he had no choice. He had to think carefully how to present this to Mary. He decided to tell a version of the truth. “I am already married and try as I might my wife will not grant me a divorce. I am not prepared to put you through the purgatory of a divorce trial, where you would almost certainly be named as correspondent, and so we will never marry.” Tom was slightly surprised but relieved that Mary accepted the situation. They planned to live together and tackle the detailed upbringing of the child in two or three year’s time.
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