The Bells of Bow (5 page)

‘What you mumbling about now?’ demanded Bernie, looking up from his calculations.

‘Nothing, Dad. What d’you take me for?’

‘Stupid, that’s what.’ Bernie tapped the side of his head with the tip of his index finger. ‘Yer don’t use yer brain, that’s your trouble.’ He shoved the money deep into his trouser pocket and then, putting on a broad smile, strode back to his companions. ‘Right, chaps,’ he said to them, rubbing his hands together enthusiastically. ‘We’re in business. Who wants how much on what dog?’

As Bernie noted down the wagers being thrust at him by the group of gamblers, all only too eager to part with their wages, the dog owners, the men who earlier had been drinking with Bernie, went over to their cars and vans to fetch the dogs. Albie and Chas got on with their job of setting up the lure.

‘Mind out, Chas, for gawd’s sake,’ yelled Albie. ‘Yer’ll get oil all over me suit.’

‘Sorry, Albie,’ Chas apologised, and flicked the rope he was clumsily attempting to tie clear of Albie’s trousers. ‘I can’t get this end to hold right.’

‘Give it here.’ Albie snatched the rope from Chas and wound one end round the metal drum of an old car wheel mounted on a wooden frame. ‘I dunno why I didn’t do it meself in the first place,’ he complained. ‘Bloody useless, you are, Chas. Completely hopeless.’ Being reprimanded by his father in front of Chas had made Albie really tense. ‘Yer don’t use yer brain, that’s your trouble,’ he added in spiteful imitation of his dad. He fastened the rope with a firm double knot, pulling it much tighter than he needed to. The effect was not just to make the rope secure, it also made the rabbit fur lure on the end bounce jerkily across the grass. The six highly-strung greyhounds yelped with excitement and strained at their leashes in the struggle to get at the furry prize.

‘Now see what yer’ve done,’ Albie snapped at the totally baffled Chas. ‘Yer’ll wear ’em out before the first race. And me dad’ll just love that.’

‘But I—’

‘Shut it, Chas.’

Chas shut up and stood watching Albie check his handiwork. The wheel drum to which Albie had attached the end of the rope was itself attached by a belt to a little petrol-driven engine which, when it was set in motion, would wind up the rope and drag the artificial hare along to get the dogs moving at full stretch.

Satisfied that he had set up the contraption properly, Albie straightened up. He went to brush down the knees of his trousers but looked with disgust at his oil covered hands. ‘Get us a rag,’ he commanded Chas. Chas opened his mouth to speak but Albie interrupted him, ‘No, I don’t know where from, Chas. Just find one.’

While Chas went round asking anybody and everybody if they had a cloth he could borrow, Albie went over to Bernie. ‘Ready when you are, Dad,’ he said flatly, still preoccupied with the state of his hands.

‘With you in a mo, son,’ Bernie answered him pleasantly – he was always pleasant when he was with punters who were handing over their money, especially when the bets were as big as the ones he was taking.

‘Might as well blow the lot,’ one man said, and laughed sardonically to his pal as he emptied his wallet and handed the contents to Bernie. ‘If this war breaks out and we all get gassed to death, what’ll be the use of money then, eh?’

Bernie joined in with the laughter as he pocketed the cash. Finally satisfied that he had taken all he could from the punters, he closed his notebook and pointed at the dog owners. ‘Line ’em up, lads.’

The men grasped the greyhounds’ collars, doing their best to steady the dogs before the off, while keeping one eye on the handkerchief which Bernie held high above his head.

Bernie dropped the handkerchief and nodded at Albie – the signal for him to start the machine and get the hare moving. But Albie didn’t see his father’s signal. Chas had moved in front of him, blocking his view.

‘Here y’are, Albie,’ he said. ‘I got yer cloth for yer hands.’

‘You stupid great bastard!’ screamed Bernie from the starting line but Albie couldn’t hear him; the noise of the punters, the dog owners and the dogs themselves, almost hysterical at not being released, drowned Bernie’s furious hollering.

‘What’s going on?’ demanded one of the South London punters. ‘We come all the way over the river for this? It’s a bloody joke innit?’

Albie threw the rag to the ground, shoved Chas out of the way and ran over to Bernie to try and explain.

‘Look, Dad, I’d asked Chas to get me a cloth to wipe me hands, that’s all. I had grease on ’em.’

‘You what?’ The man who had emptied his wallet sneered incredulously at Albie and looked round at the other punters for confirmation that he hadn’t heard wrongly. ‘You was worried about a bit o’ grease on yer hands? What are yer, a bleed’n Mary Ann or something?’

‘It’s a new suit,’ said Albie drawing himself up to his full height. ‘Some of us don’t like walking about like bloody tramps.’

‘New suit?’ the man said scornfully, turning to speak to the man at his side. ‘I’ll show him new suit.’ With that he spun round, his fist drawn well back, ready to let Albie have it full on the chin.

But Albie was too quick for him. He grabbed the man’s arm and stopped his swing dead. ‘Don’t make me laugh.’ This time it was Albie who sounded disdainful.

‘I don’t wanna be difficult or nothing,’ said one of the dog owners sarcastically, ‘but are we gonna have this race or are we gonna stand about chatting like a load of old women?’

‘All right, all right.’ Bernie was wild, but he was doing his best to keep his voice calm in front of the punters. ‘Just give me a minute.’ He took Albie by the arm and led him a few feet away from the others. ‘Yer don’t wanna start nothing with that mob, do you hear me?’

‘Them? They couldn’t knock the skin off a rice pudden. None of ’em. They won’t hurt me.’

‘I didn’t meant that, yer stupid great sod.’ Bernie spat the words at his son. ‘Now just shut up. There’s a lot of money riding on this race and I don’t wanna have to go giving it all back, now do I?’ Bernie poked his finger hard into Albie’s chest. ‘You mess it up again, boy …’

‘I’ll give him mess it up.’

‘Shut up, I said.’

‘No one talks to me like that. No one.’

‘He’s right, Bern.’

Bernie turned round to see Chas standing behind him.

‘That bloke’s a right mouthy bastard. You ought to hear what he’s saying about Albie over there now.’

Chas was nearly twice as broad as Bernie but it didn’t matter, Bernie grabbed hold of his lapels and started hollering at him to keep his nose out of it.

Albie took his chance and, pulling off his jacket as he ran, he sprinted over to confront the man who’d dared question his masculinity. He had surprise on his side and his first punch hit the mark, catching his opponent squarely on the side of his face, sending him reeling backwards, blood spurting from his mouth.

‘I’ll show you who’s a Mary Ann.’ Albie’s breathing was rapid and his eyes wild as he shaped up and bobbed before the momentarily stunned man. ‘Come on then. Let’s have yer.’

‘Albie,’ Chas called to him, chastened after his ‘chat’ with Bernie. ‘Listen to yer dad. Yer don’t wanna do that.’

‘Why not?’ one of the South Londoners jeered. ‘We might as well bet on that great Jessy instead of them mangy-looking dogs.’ He turned to his friends. ‘Even if the bloody dogs are prettier!’

At the sound of the men’s laughter, Albie’s temper snapped and he lunged at his opponent.

Chas tried to stop him, but Bernie wouldn’t let him.

‘You’re all right, Chas, leave him.’ Bernie, with his infallible instinct for a willing punter, noted the eager faces of the men; they’d be just as happy to lose their wages on the outcome of a fist fight as they would on the speed of a dog.

Albie’s opponent shook his head as though to clear his thoughts and then wiped the blood from his face with a sinewy forearm. ‘Yer don’t wanna get that pretty face of your’n messed up, do yer?’ he said, bending slightly at the knees as he weighed up his chances of landing one on Albie’s nose.

With a sudden lunge, the two men laid into one another. The others formed a ragged circle round them, hollering for blood, while the dogs yelped hysterically and Bernie calmly offered odds on the outcome.

The South Londoner was big but he was no match for Albie and he was soon curled up on the grass trying to protect himself from Albie’s vicious blows.

‘That’s enough,’ said Bernie shoving Chas forward, the only one brave, or stupid, enough to get close to Albie to stop him. The punters had had a good show for their money but Bernie didn’t want to antagonise the loser’s mates by having him get too bad a beating.

‘Time to stop, Al,’ Chas said, standing behind Albie and wrapping his arms round him. ‘Come on, mate.’

But Chas’s pleas didn’t get through to Albie; before he knew what was happening, he felt as though he had been shot out of a cannon. He exploded backwards into the crowd as Albie threw his arms wide and got back to his task of finishing off his opponent. It eventually took three men to pull him off his now unconscious victim.

Albie stood, his chest rising and falling, his face covered with sweat and splashes of blood, none of them his.

‘That temper of your boy’s, Bernie,’ said Jack, an elderly man who was squatting down next to his greyhound, trying to soothe the quivering creature by fondling its silky, brindle ears. ‘It’s gonna get him in trouble one of these days if he ain’t careful.’

Bernie laughed. ‘Yeah, takes after his old man, Jack. In lots of ways.’

Albie took the cloth from Chas that had earlier caused all the trouble and wiped his face. Then he straightened his tie and threw his jacket over his shoulder ready to head back to the Riley.

Chas nudged him and nodded over at a young couple who were walking towards them in the now bright morning sunshine. ‘Better warn yer dad. Hold up, lads,’ he called out to the little crowd huddled round Bernie who was sorting out the winnings. ‘Strangers about.’

‘Here they all come.’ Jack took his watch out of his pocket. ‘All out for their Sunday morning stroll.’ He wound the watch and put it back in his pocket. ‘Time we was off, anyway. It’s getting on for half past eight already.’

‘What, no racing?’ complained a disappointed punter.

‘None today. No time. Anyway, I dunno what yer complaining about. Yer all did all right out o’ my boy winning that fight.’

‘Yeah, but we know you, Bern,’ someone else chipped in. ‘Yer let us win a few bob one week then rob us blind the next.’

All the men except the two who were seeing to their badly beaten mate joined in the good-natured ribbing. ‘Yeah, you and that old woman of your’n must be loaded. ’Bout time yer let us poor mugs have a few weeks’ luck in a row, ain’t it? How ’bout a few wins next week and all?’

‘Yer’ll just have to wait till then and see what happens, won’t yer?’

‘If the Germans don’t get us first,’ one of the men laughed. They began to move away from the secluded corner of the Hackney Marshes, back towards their cars and vans and to whatever they were intending to do with the rest of the bright Sunday morning. Two of the dog owners called their goodbyes and then disappeared behind a thick clump of gorse with their hounds. The hissed shout of ‘Go fetch ’em’, followed by a sudden squeal, told the others that the men were rabbiting.

Albie curled his lip contemptuously. ‘Who’d be bothered with rabbiting?’

‘If it’s gonna be anything like the last war,’ said old Jack, pulling his cap firmly down on his head despite the growing heat, ‘we might all be glad of a few rabbits.’

‘Yeah, right, about as glad as that idiot I give a walloping to,’ smirked Albie.

Jack shrugged and strode away at surprising speed for an old man, easily keeping up with the loping gait of his dog. ‘See yer next week then,’ he called back to them. ‘Gawd and the Jerries willing.’

Albie laughed. ‘Yeah, see yer, Jack. If war ain’t broke out.’ He turned to Chas and shaped up like a boxer. ‘I’d have finished him off proper if them mates of his hadn’t been there to pull me off.’

‘That why I stopped yer, son,’ Bernie said. ‘Old Jack’s right, that temper of yours is gonna get yer into right trouble one of these days.’ He pulled the now rather thinner wad of money from his pocket and handed a couple of notes to Albie. ‘You earned that – they’ll all be back for more and bring plenty of mates with ’em. You and Chas go and get yerself a bit o’ breakfast.’

‘Ta, Bern,’ Chas said politely. ‘Appreciate that.’

Bernie ignored him. ‘And there’s yer mother’s takings.’

Albie took the money and put it in his inside pocket. ‘Yer driving, Dad?’

‘No, Barmy Bill brought me in his shooting break with his greyhound.’

‘Cor,’ grinned Chas. ‘Way he drives, yer’ll wanna lift with us if yer wanna get home in one piece.’

‘No, yer all right,’ said Bernie. He nodded towards the hare-dragging gadget. ‘You boys just make sure yer get that gear back for me. I’ll be home later, I’ve gotta bit o’ business to attend to first. So I’ll love yer and leave yer, boys.’ He winked and tipped his hat to them, then walked off in the direction of Clapton.

Albie shook his head. ‘And he’s got the cheek to moan at me about going out birding.’

‘Yer’ve gotta hand it to him though, Alb. Even at his age he’s still getting all the birds he wants. Wish I knew how he did it.’

‘It’s obvious,’ grinned Albie, studying the grazing on his knuckles. ‘It’s the old Denham charm, innit? Kills ’em every time.’

Chas nodded thoughtfully, or what for him passed for thoughtfully. ‘I think I did all right with that twin last night, Al, what d’yer reckon?’ he asked as they loaded the racing equipment. Before Albie could give his opinion, Chas continued, ‘I could murder me breakfast, couldn’t you? I’m starving.’

‘Yer gonna have to wait a bit longer, Chas. We’ve got an errand to do first.’

Chas got into the Riley without complaint and waited patiently to see where Albie was taking him. Huge as he was, he was used to following where Albie led without question, but he couldn’t hide his surprise when Albie drew up in Grove Road at the top of Darnfield Street. ‘Here, ain’t this where the twins come from?’ he blurted out as their destination dawned on him.