by Joanna Toye
‘They’re playing our tune,’ she snuffled as ‘Red Sails in the Sunset’ wavered from the cinema’s crackly loudspeakers.
‘Have a wine gum,’ said Lily helplessly, taking a couple herself.
Gladys took one, but before long, the screen was filled with more shots of the sea, two tin-hatted soldiers scanning the horizon anxiously before repairing to the pub, where they joined in a sing-song with ‘We’ll Meet Again’ accompanied by a Scotsman on a ukulele.
Gladys gulped noisily and Lily took another wine gum. Good job there wasn’t really any wine in them: she’d be blotto by the end of the evening.
Lily was exhausted when she got in – being a literal shoulder for Gladys to cry on was both upsetting and wearing. Her mother’s door was closed and her light off – an evening unravelling old sweaters and carding the wool in the company of Cousin Ida’s drippy friends was tiring too, in its way. Jim, of course, would be sleeping at the ARP post. Hopefully he – and all of them – would get some rest. The Luftwaffe hadn’t mounted any serious raids on Britain for a long while, though the RAF’s campaign against industrial targets in Germany had been going on since the summer, so everyone was braced for the retaliation they knew would come.
Lily fell gratefully into bed. As she dropped off, she almost thought she heard the latch on the back gate click. But it was so faint and she was so sleepy she simply turned on her side, tucked her legs up under her and gave a huge yawn. The next thing she knew, or rather didn’t, she was asleep.
Chapter 24
Jim had a reasonable night on the ARP camp bed too, and at work next day, was further heartened as he examined a newly delivered Utility sideboard. For once, the drawers slid in and out quite smoothly.
‘Mr Goodridge?’ The voice was hardly above a whisper, breathy, with a pronounced local accent. ‘Mr Goodridge? There’s a telephone call for you … sir.’
Jim stifled a laugh. Sir! It had to be one of the juniors – and a very junior junior, who hadn’t yet had her vowels smoothed out by exposure to Marlow’s required standard of speech. That’s what happened to everyone, over time, Jim and Lily included.
He turned around. There were only two telephone extensions on the first floor, so incoming calls to Furniture always ended up on another department. This time, it must be Ladies’ Fashions, because as Jim had suspected, the messenger was Bessie, just a month into her job as a junior there.
‘A telephone call? Is it a customer?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Bessie sounded even more terrified. ‘Miss McIver took it. She said something about a sleigh.’
‘A sleigh?’
Jim’s heart took a dive, then another. Barry ‘Jingle Bells’ Bigley! If he really wanted to talk about Father Christmas and his sleigh, then Jim was the Flying Dutchman.
‘I’ll be right there.’
Bessie scuttled off on some other task and Jim sped across the sales floor. Miss Wagstaff, arranging the folds of a petrol-blue evening dress on a mannequin, glared at him malevolently as he passed. She didn’t approve of men. In her view they were belligerent aggressors who liked to keep women in their place, though it would be a brave man who tried it with her.
The telephone in Ladies’ Fashions was on a flimsy gilt table next to a fire bucket. The receiver was off the hook and Jim snatched it up.
‘Hello? Jim Goodridge speaking.’
‘Jim!’ Bigley’s voice boomed down the line. ‘And how are you this morning?’
‘Very well, thank you,’ said Jim stiffly. ‘You?’
‘Never better!’
Enough of that, thought Jim.
‘I don’t imagine this is really about the sleigh?’
‘Nah, of course not,’ said Barry dismissively, ‘you can sort that out with the foreman at the yard. No, this is a word to the wise. Take a look in the coal shed when you get home.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Just take a look,’ said Barry smugly. ‘You might find something to your advantage. And that of your landlady. Oh, and your girl. To warm the cockles of your hearts.’
Jim felt his throat constrict.
‘In the coal shed?’
‘That’s right. Just a little gesture – as we’re going to be working together. Now I must get on! But don’t worry, I’ll keep in touch!’
Before Jim could say anything more, the line went dead. Jim replaced the receiver at his end as carefully as if it were a stick of gelignite. It might as well have been for what Bigley had thrown into the mix.
Thankfully, it was Wednesday and half-day closing, because Jim could barely concentrate on anything for the rest of the morning. As soon as all the lights under the clock on the sales floor were lit up, meaning the staff were free to go, he hurried down the back stairs, snatched his things from the cloakroom and sped off to Brook Street. Lily was again doing her bit to keep Gladys occupied, taking her for something to eat at the ABC tearoom before they joined Dora to pack Red Cross parcels for POWs. After that, it was the early show at the Gaumont. Jim had sympathised – it sounded exhausting – but now he was grateful that Lily wasn’t around.
Along the familiar streets, through the park … the mile or so home passed in a blur until Jim clattered down the entry and through the back gate. At the back of the house was the brick-built privy and a store that was used for coal – coal which was rationed and strictly controlled. Every household received its allocation in time for the winter – never this early in the year. Jim wrenched open the door. The shed should have been empty – they’d used the last tiny scraps, and even the coal dust, long ago, in a cold week in the summer. But instead, Jim saw two hundredweight sacks of coal, the contents glinting evilly in the smoky light, along with a sack of kindling wood and a can of paraffin.
He slammed the door shut and leant against it, feeling sick. How had Bigley got it here in broad daylight? Even if Dora had been out at the shops, surely one of the neighbours would have seen? Then Jim remembered. Lily had mentioned at break that when she’d left for work that morning, the back gate hadn’t been properly latched. She’d said she’d thought she’d heard it click last night before she fell asleep. Jim had offered to have a look at it: the fault was probably with the hinge – the gate had slipped again. He’d agreed they didn’t want it banging through the winter when the wind got up, but now he had a different theory. A pound to a penny that had been Bigley’s ‘little gesture’ arriving – sneaked in under cover of darkness.
Jim glanced at the house. The back door was shut; everything looked quiet. Dora must have already left for the Red Cross depot. Thank God, he had a bit of time. But to do what exactly?
‘What are you doing there, Jim?’
Jim spun round, screwdriver in hand.
Sam was standing at the back gate with Dora beside him and Buddy on his lead.
‘Ah! You’re back,’ said Jim, stating the obvious. ‘Yes, I’m – well, I’ve been thinking. There’s so much thieving going on … we won’t get a delivery for a while, so we don’t need it yet, but I’m thinking ahead, putting a padlock on the coal shed.’
‘Oh Jim! What a good idea!’ Dora came forward. ‘You are a good lad.’
Knowing what he was concealing, Jim felt anything but good and he waved away the praise. He’d been to every ironmonger’s in Hinton to get hold of a padlock. He’d had to pay a ludicrous price when one had finally been produced from under the counter, not to mention the cost to his conscience of engaging in criminal activity in order to cover up someone else’s criminal activity. But it was worth every penny if it bought him a bit of time to think.
‘Sam met me from the Red Cross and we’ve had a lovely walk home, haven’t we?’ Dora went on blithely.
She was a different person these days, much more open. Buddy agreed with a short ‘ruff!’ and Sam hooked his lead round the post he’d driven into the corner of one of the veg beds. Otherwise Buddy tended to signal his approval of Jim’s runner beans and carrots by lifting his leg on them, which might be nutrients
of a sort, but didn’t exactly boost your appetite.
‘I’ll get him a bowl of water,’ said Dora. ‘And put the kettle on for us.’
She moved off into the house and Sam came to inspect Jim’s handiwork.
‘I looked in at Marlow’s the other day,’ said Sam conversationally. ‘Looking for a propelling pencil.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Jim. ‘Any luck?’
‘Nope,’ said Sam. ‘I guess you must get through a lot of coal there, though. It’s a big old place to keep warm.’
‘The heating’s turned right down,’ said Jim, trying to stop his hand shaking as he twirled the screwdriver. ‘But it’s a fine balance, we can’t have the customers shivering.’
‘And who brings it, Marlow’s coal?’ Sam continued. ‘You need those deliveries to keep coming. Got a decent haulier?’
Jim’s synapses snapped to attention. Was Sam just making conversation or was there something more to it?
‘Bigley’s have got the contract,’ he replied cautiously.
‘Oh, have they? They deliver to us at Nettleford as well!’
‘Really?’
Jim’s already attentive synapses presented arms. Sam had always seemed a thoroughly good bloke. From the way he’d described his work in the stores, he’d made it sound as if he dealt mostly in boring necessities – soap, toothpaste, gas masks, boots and battledress, with occasional forays into small arms. But maybe there were other forays – into fuel, for example. And into cahoots with Bigley.
‘You must get through a lot of coal at the base too,’ he ventured.
‘Sure do. Here, let me hold that straight for you.’
‘Thanks.’ Sam held the hasp while Jim fumbled in the final screw. ‘And you’re happy with Bigley’s, are you?’
‘As far as I know – no reason not to be, is there?’
‘No,’ faltered Jim. This wasn’t getting him anywhere. The screw in place, he stopped work. ‘I was just … do you know the man? Barry Bigley himself?’
‘I’ve seen him around, yeah.’ Sam tested the strength of the hasp. ‘You’ve done a good job there, Jim.’
Still stuck in the mire. It was no good, Jim thought, he’d have to ask straight out.
‘Do you have any dealings with him directly?’
Sam took a step back and looked at him sidelong, genuinely puzzled.
‘No, not my area, like I’ve said, I do the small stuff. Sergeant Hudson sees to the coal deliveries.’
‘What’s that about Sergeant Hudson?’
Dora had reappeared and was putting an old crock dish of water down for Buddy, who thanked her by drinking lustily and splashing it all over her shoes.
‘He takes in the coal up at Nettleford,’ Sam explained.
‘Does he? It must be the only thing he does do!’ She turned to Jim but nodded her head towards Sam. ‘He’s always going on about him. Says he’s a right shirker.’
‘Well,’ said Sam, ‘he thinks it goes with the rank – why have a dog and bark yourself, kinda thing.’ Then he paused, thoughtful. ‘But now you mention it … it’s a bit odd. There’s times when he’s even changed his duties and his leave to be around when there’s a delivery due.’
‘It doesn’t sound like him to get his hands dirty!’ retorted Dora. ‘Idle as the day is long!’
The kettle was whistling and she returned to the house. Jim was left wondering just how dirty Hudson’s hands might be – and whether he dared to take Sam into his confidence. He was desperate to talk to someone. But there might be no funny business going on anyway – there was still one thing that might exonerate Hudson.
‘Your coal,’ Jim began. ‘A big establishment like yours … it must go over a weighbridge at an outfit like that?’
‘OK, enough,’ said Sam. ‘I’m not stupid. What are you getting at?’
Jim glanced at the house, but Dora was well out of earshot. Even so, he kept his voice low.
‘Bigley’s on the fiddle,’ he said. ‘He delivers short weight, gets the full weight signed for, sells the difference on the side and he and his contact split the profit between them. He tried it at Marlow’s last winter, he wants to do it again with us, and I’m wondering if he’s up to the same trick at Nettleford.’
‘Jeez!’ Sam’s mouth couldn’t have gaped wider if he’d been having his tonsils inspected. ‘You really think – in English law that’s treason, right? The guy could hang! And as for Hudson … our Military Police are no marshmallows either. He’d be – well, I don’t know …’
‘It’s serious all right.’
‘But, Jim … if you know all this … have you been to the police?’
Jim looked towards the house again, but Dora was busy arranging cups on a tray.
Quickly he explained exactly what had gone on between Bigley and Robert Marlow, how Jim had reluctantly got involved in getting Bigley off Robert’s back, and the lack of success in bringing Barry to justice over the scrap metal at Tatchell’s. He followed that with his horror that Bigley wanted to repeat the coal dodge at Marlow’s this winter, with Jim as the contact, and with the ‘little gesture’ now reposing in the coal shed as a bribe.
‘It’s no good whatsoever going to the police,’ Jim insisted. ‘Barry’s bunging them all the time. That’s how he wriggled out of it over the Tatchell’s thing. And heaven knows how many other rackets he’s paying them to turn a blind eye to.’
‘Well, this is where the blinkers come off!’ Sam sounded truly appalled. ‘I’d better take this to someone way above Hudson’s head. We’ve got to stop the pair of them!’
‘I don’t want you to get into trouble,’ Jim urged. ‘There’s no evidence – not even hearsay – it’s all suspicion and assumptions. Your Sergeant Hudson sounds a pretty crafty operator and, as I found out with Robert Marlow, you don’t know how high up the tree the rot goes.’
‘True. Which is why we can’t let it spread!’
‘Jim’s not got you worrying about potato blight as well, has he?’ Dora was back with the tea tray. She balanced it on the little wall round the veg bed. ‘He’s always fretting about something attacking his precious veg!’
Jim flicked a look at Sam. If only that was the only worry, he thought, as Dora handed them their cups.
‘I’ll keep you posted, OK?’ Sam muttered to Jim later, as he left. ‘It may take some time. I want to think it through.’
‘We haven’t got long. I’ve got the schedule from Mr Marlow. Bigley’s will be making the first delivery to us next week. And I’ve still got to get out of being Bigley’s stooge somehow.’
Sam put on his forage cap. ‘Leave it with me,’ he said. ‘You can trust me, Jim.’
Chapter 25
‘I hope we can – trust Sam, I mean.’ Lily had wanted to get the bus to work (‘Look at my shoes! Nearly worn through!’) but now she understood why Jim had insisted on walking – they could talk without being overheard.
‘Oh, why didn’t I get out of bed when I heard that wretched back gate!’ she cried. ‘I might have seen what was going on!’
‘Oh yes, and what would you have done?’ retorted Jim, taking her arm as they negotiated a pile of rotted sandbags which were spilling their contents on the pavement. ‘Gone down, grabbed the poker, and set about the bloke dropping the coal off?’
‘Probably, yes!’
‘And another fine mess we’d have got ourselves into!’ said Jim, borrowing from Laurel and Hardy. ‘Anyway, you didn’t. I’ve told Sam now, we’ll have to hope he comes good.’
‘Do you think he’ll try and set some kind of trap? Like you tried to at Tatchell’s?’
‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Jim. ‘In the end … like he said, we have to leave it to him.’ He gave a deep sigh. ‘I’m sorry, Lily. Maybe I should have faced Bigley down in front of my uncle. Then we wouldn’t be going through this.’
Lily squeezed his arm. They were at their best, she often thought, when they were united against a common enemy.
‘Don’t be sorry,’ she sa
id. ‘You were only thinking of him and trying to spare him. You were in a horrible position.’
Which was about to get worse.
Jim was so keyed up all morning, he thought he’d go mad if he had to sit in the canteen surrounded by the usual fruitless speculation about the course of the war, the prospects for someone’s racing pigeons and the unidentifiable contents of today’s fishcakes. Lily had enlisted Brenda from Books in her quest to keep Gladys entertained, and invited him to join them at dinnertime, but Jim politely declined. Instead he got a pass out and headed for the park. Perhaps some fresh air would clear his head.
He’d just turned onto Hinton’s main shopping street when a car drew up at the kerb. The driver leant across and wound down the window.
‘Jim! This is a bit of luck – I was coming to find you! Hop in!’
Barry Bigley.
Jim did as he was told. When this happened in films, the innocent party would be driven out to some remote spot and have some sense knocked into him by one of the villain’s heavies. Jim doubted the reality would be quite as dramatic – there was no thug whose neck disappeared into his shoulders sitting in the back, for a start. Still, it was his chance to say his piece and tell Bigley straight he wanted nothing to do with his schemes – before the painful arm-twisting began.
Bigley put the car in gear and they shot away from the kerb. It was a Rover, practically new, with real leather seats and a walnut dashboard you could have combed your hair in – a very nice motor. Jim wasn’t in the least bit religious but the phrase ‘the wages of sin’ sprang to mind.