Lizzie of Langley Street (6 page)

‘You sure you’re all right, gel? You look a bit pale.’

Kate nodded. ‘Right as rain, Lil. But I’d better get meself back indoors. Gotta think of somethin’ to give ’em for dinner.’

‘You do that.’ Lil Sharpe winked. ‘And don’t forget about Christmas.’

Kate picked up the sheet gingerly. She was relieved to find the movement caused her no discomfort. At last the pain was receding. Bloody indigestion. She began to mull over what she was going to
put on the table. Should she borrow from the rent or make do? There was nothing except spuds in the pantry. Well, she could boil the bones from yesterday that she’d saved from the mutton.
Yes, she’d do that just as soon as she sat down for a bit.

That evening Lizzie and Flo were in their bedroom. They were pretending to be nuns, with coats over their heads. Lizzie had a strong, husky voice and could reach any note she
attempted, high or low. Flo stayed in tune as long as she concentrated.

Babs had gone next door with Kate and Lizzie was trying to amuse Flo. Normally she would have died rather than let anyone see she was acting out a part in her old coat, pretending she was a
famous actress. But her mind kept going back to Danny and the one and only chance she’d probably ever have of going to the theatre.

‘I ain’t seen Mary Pickford being a nun,’ said Flo doubtfully. ‘A singin’ nun, anyway.’

‘We’re just imaginin’, Flo. Nuns have lovely voices, like what we heard on His Master’s Voice.’ Lizzie pulled her green coat firmly round her head, doing the button
up under her chin. She’d always taken the part of Mary Pickford when she was younger. But now it was Flo who had been given the honour. Charlie Chaplin was usually left to Flo, who was the
comic of the family.

Flo pushed back her straight brown hair and hugged her knees. ‘Is that real nuns singing the Nuns’ Chorus, Lizzie?’

‘Course it is. Or else it wouldn’t be called a Nuns’ Chorus, would it?’

‘How do you know?’

‘It’s written on the label of one of them shiny records that Pa got from the Seamen’s Rest, over Greenwich. If it’s on the label then it must be true.’

‘I wish we could listen to it now,’ Flo said wistfully. ‘Then we could join in with them.’

‘Pa ain’t gonna let us bring his gramophone up here, is he?’ It was from a battered black box that the strains of such music as Cavalleria Rusticana could sometimes be heard in
their parents’ bedroom.

‘Don’t see why not,’ Flo complained. ‘We wouldn’t ’urt it.’

‘Well, you ask him then,’ said Lizzie challengingly, knowing that would stop Flo’s questions. They had often lain awake in bed at nights listening to the gramophone downstairs.
Lizzie had an ear for music and it was not long before she had memorized each tune.

‘What do nuns do all day?’ Flo asked, ignoring Lizzie’s last remark.

‘They pray for people’s sins. To save the world.’

‘We ain’t been saved though,’ Flo spluttered. ‘Pa says that if God loved the world he would have stopped the wars and all them soldiers what’s been killed would be
alive today. And it’s God that them nuns pray to, ain’t it?’

‘Flo, d’you wanna be Mary Pickford or not?’ Lizzie was getting exasperated. She wanted to think about Danny, not answer all these questions.

Flo yawned. ‘I’m tired,’ she mumbled.

‘Then undress and get into bed,’ Lizzie told her. ‘I’ll tell you a story.’

‘What sort of story?’

‘Flo!’ Lizzie yelled. She’d had enough. Flo pulled a face, but she did as she was told. Lizzie removed the coat from her head and tidied away the tattered old clothes they had
used to dress up in.

By the time Lizzie had finished the story of a poor girl marrying a prince and having a ball gown to wear every day of her life, Flo was fast asleep. Lizzie went quietly out on to the landing,
closing the door behind her. She expected to hear Bert and Vinnie in their bedroom, but was surprised to hear voices downstairs.

She leaned over the banister as Bert came up the stairs. ‘We’re off out,’ he said, squeezing his cap down over his forehead.

‘Where you goin’? You ain’t going up the pub, are you?’

Bert looked awkward. ‘Only for a couple of beers.’

‘Bert, don’t go. Wait for Ma to come in.’

‘Vinnie’s kickin’ his heels doin’ nothing, gel.’

Lizzie knew what that meant. Vinnie had returned home in a foul mood that evening and was planning to drown his sorrows.

‘What will I tell Ma when she comes back?’

‘You’ll just ’ave ter say we won’t be late.’

‘Don’t go,’ Lizzie pleaded. ‘You’ll only get into trouble.’

‘Not on yer Nellie,’ Bert replied with a wink. ‘Leave Vin to me. I’ll see ’e comes to no harm and that’s a promise.’

It was all bravado on Bert’s part. But what could she do? She watched him go back down the stairs and heard the front door slam. The house was quiet again. When she returned to the
bedroom, Flo was still fast asleep.

Lizzie sat on the edge of the bed.

She couldn’t knock on Pa’s door. He wouldn’t want to know. There was nothing she could do except wait till Ma came in from Lil’s.

C
halk wharf was silent, save for the belly rumble of a foghorn somewhere on the river. The fog was yellow and visibility was poor. A walk on the
dockside was as perilous as crossing the river in a boat. The smell of oil, spices, wood and chemicals permeated the air. It clung to the two solitary figures that walked, with shoulders hunched,
through the murky night.

‘Don’t look like anyone’s about,’ Bert muttered, his teeth chattering.

Vinnie narrowed his eyes under the brim of his homburg. ‘They’ll be here all right. Mik said they was in a hurry to move the stuff. All we gotta do is see the china is gen.
Mik’ll send the boys to pick it up later.’

‘Why don’t Mik come ’imself,’ Bert asked doubtfully, ‘instead of sending you?’

‘’Cos this is the way ’e does business,’ growled Vinnie, wishing he hadn’t brought Bert along. He needed a bit of muscle, not a bloody gramophone. And lately Bert
was stuck in the same groove, a right whinger.

However, Bert had a point. Why had Mik sent him on this job? Vinnie didn’t like to think about it. You didn’t argue if you wanted to stay healthy. Vinnie clearly recalled his recent
reminder to toe the line; Mik’s boys had really gone to town on him that night at the Quarry. In a way, he understood. There were rules and you obeyed them. If you didn’t, you took your
punishment. He’d got himself nicked and Mik had to square it with the law; Vinnie knew another mistake like that and it would be his last.

‘Mik Ferreter ain’t into china, is he?’ Bert asked, puzzled.

‘I told you. He’s bought a job lot to flog up West, to the posh shops that sells antiques to the nobs.’

‘You’re sure it’s legit?’ Bert asked once more.

‘Course I am.’

‘Then why ain’t we doin’ this in daylight?’

Vinnie was getting angry. ‘Blimey, Bert, your memory’s like a bloody sieve lately. Look, watch me lips.’ He pushed his face into Bert’s. ‘The bloke who’s sold
the stuff to Mik wants it out of the way. The timber yard’s only agreed to store it till tomorrow. It’s all gotta be gone by the morning. All right?’

Bert was really getting on his nerves. He used to do as he was told. But lately he never stopped asking questions, and Vinnie was fed up having to answer them. Not that he ever told Bert the
truth. Take tonight, for instance. The warehouse was a doddle. All he had to do was make contact. See the booze was all there: twenty crates of gin destined for illegal gaming clubs. But Bert
wasn’t going to get near enough to the crates to see what was in them. It would all be over and done with in ten minutes. By nine, he’d be in the Quarry drinking with his mates.

Suddenly Bert’s six foot four frame stiffened beside him. Vinnie swung round. They peered through the fog and saw an eerie light. The halo wavered, sending out a glow that lit up the
structure around it.

‘It’s the timber yard,’ said Vinnie on a slow breath. ‘Someone’s hung a lamp out for us. See all that wood piled up?’

‘I gotta funny feeling about this, Vin.’

‘You and your funny feelings.’

Vinnie sighed to himself. It was at times like this he told himself life could only get better. He wasn’t going to be a bookie’s runner for ever. He wouldn’t always be a
messenger boy, sent out on piddling little jobs like this. One day, he’d settle the score. Do things his own way, see some real money.

‘See anyone yet?’ Bert whispered as they moved forward.

‘Nah.’ The lamplight flickered around the rafter it was attached to and the wood gave out a warm, comforting glow. The notice behind it was now visible,
Bennet’s Timber
Merchants.

‘You sure this is legit?’ Bert grunted.

‘For cryin’ out loud!’ Vinnie closed his eyes.

‘It just don’t feel right, Vin.’

‘It’s your daft ’ead that don’t’ feel right. You don’t use it, that’s your problem. And when you do, it ’urts. Vicious circle, that’s what
they call it. Might as well stick a bag over it. Be less painful and it wouldn’t make no difference to yer lifestyle.’

Bert dropped his big chin on his chest. Vinnie felt a wave of satisfaction. He revelled in humiliating people. It wasn’t often he got the chance. Mostly it was Mik humiliating him. But
Bert was a soft touch, a good target. Vinnie poked his brother in the shoulder. ‘I’ll tell you once more what we’re going to do. We’re walking in there, bold as brass. You
stay in the background, that’s all you’ve gotta do. I’ll do the all the talking. Just act the part. Flex yer muscles and look ugly.’

Vinnie turned to the door. He had a feeling he was going to enjoy this. He was glad he had worn his new overcoat. They would see he had style.

‘Door’s open,’ said Bert cautiously.

‘Yeah. Safe as ’ouses.’

They advanced into the dimly lit warehouse. High piles of wooden planks rose to the rafters and wood shavings littered the floor. Down at the end there was a light, another oil lamp hanging from
a beam.

‘What’s that stink?’ Bert asked hoarsely.

‘Tar,’ said Vinnie over his shoulder. ‘Don’t you know tar when you smell it? They use it on the wood.’

They walked slowly down the aisle. Vinnie’s heart was thumping. All he could see was the silhouettes of woodpiles and shadowy corners. When they came to the last stack of wood, he stood
still and craned his neck to look round it. He couldn’t believe his eyes. It was just like Mik had said it would be. In the light of the lamp, he could see the large wooden crates marked
FRAGILE. How many bottles of booze did that lot contain, he wondered? His pulse raced as he savoured the adrenaline rush.

He stepped forward slowly. Bert was right on his heels. Vinnie groaned and turned, hissing, ‘I told you, stay in the background.’

Bert stood with his jaw sagging. Vinnie gave his brother a long, hard glare. Then a movement in the shadows caught his eye.

Out of the gloom stepped three figures. They were dressed in overcoats and hats and none of their faces was visible. Two were tall, broad and muscular. The third and smallest figure walked
slowly towards the crates.

A potent mixture of fear and excitement filled Vinnie’s veins. His throat was dry, his palms sweaty. He told himself to stay calm. Mik’s instructions were to make certain the booze
was in the crates; Vinnie intended to follow them to the letter.

‘State yer business,’ the small figure said.

Vinnie swallowed. ‘Mik sent me. To inspect the goods.’

Vinnie wondered if Bert could handle the two goons. More importantly, could he himself match this man in front of him? This was the big league. The real McCoy. Mik had sent him on a serious
errand. If he lost face on this one he’d never live it down.

In silence, the overcoated figure leaned across one of the crates and lifted the top. Vinnie moved forward and looked into it. All he could see were bottle tops. He felt a flood of relief. He
moved to the next crate. His fingers clamped round the top. He felt the rough edge of the wood prickle his skin. The feeling of power was intoxicating. The smell, the atmosphere, the high he was
getting from doing the deal. This was what he was made for.

He jerked up the top. Dozens more bottles. He needn’t have worried. Everything was perfect. ‘How many crates?’ he demanded, his confidence returning.

‘Twenty.’

The crates behind were stacked in twos. Too high to reach the top ones. He looked around. No ladders. Nothing on which to climb. Odd for a timber yard. A jolt of suspicion went through him. He
tried to calm himself. If he panicked, he’d blow it. ‘Open them all,’ he said.

There was a long pause. ‘You ain’t very trusting.’

‘Why should I be?’

‘You saying them crates ain’t full?’

‘I ain’t sayin’ nothing. Not till I’ve had a butcher’s.’ Vinnie was getting nervous. He squared his shoulders. ‘Me boss is very particular.’

‘Your boss wants a bit bloody much,’ came the reply. ‘Ain’t you gonna take me word?’

‘I dunno who you are,’ Vinnie gulped. ‘Why should I do that?’

‘Seems to me you ain’t got much choice.’

‘Oh yes I have,’ Vinnie answered in a bolshie tone. He didn’t like this one bit.

‘Oh no you ain’t.’ The small figure stepped forward and Vinnie gasped audibly as his lapels were clenched. He stared into a pair of dark, dangerous eyes.

‘If you think I’m climbing over twenty bloody crates and taking off all them tops just for you, sonny boy, then you got another think coming.’

‘Get your ’ands off,’ Vinnie sputtered, intending to brazen it out. He had to keep his head. But already he was struggling with his natural instinct to smash his fist into the
unpleasant face in front of him.

‘You’re a big mouth, you are,’ growled his assailant as he thrust Vinnie back against the wood. ‘Personally, I don’t like the look of you or your mate.’

‘That makes two of us.’ Vinnie tried to force down his anger. ‘How do I know the other eighteen boxes ain’t full of bricks and not booze?’

The moment he said it, Vinnie knew he’d dropped a clanger. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bert. ‘You said it was china,’ Bert mumbled in a stupid voice. ‘For them
posh shops up West.’