The Camberwell Raid (31 page)

‘At the bank?’ said Sammy, reading the report a second time.

‘No, with Boots and Polly Simms, helpin’ to guide the police to Tommy’s coal cellar.’

‘I happened at the time to be dead ignorant of what was goin’ on,’ said Sammy.

‘Well, phone Boots and ask him why he didn’t let you know,’ said Susie.

‘Susie, you’ve just said you’re glad you didn’t know.’

‘He could’ve told you,’ said Susie. ‘Tell him that for the first time ever I’m cross with him. Phone him now.’

Sammy rang Boots. Boots said that under no circumstances would he have let Sammy and Susie know what was going on. Sammy said he was much obliged, that he understood why, but that all the same Susie was going to dot him one in his mince pie when she next saw him. Boots said he’d take it as manfully as he could, and would like to leave it at that. He was in a hurry, he said, to get everyone out of the house before any reporters arrived, and that Tommy and his family were also going to vanish.

‘Well, I can understand that,’ said Sammy, ‘but—’

The phone went dead. Boots had rung off. That’s what I get, thought Sammy, for trying to talk to the family’s Lord-I-Am when he’s in a hurry. One day I’ll have to make it clear to him I’m not the office boy.

Informing Susie of what Boots had said, he pointed out that it meant it was no good her going to see Vi as she’d draw a blank. Susie said she’d go tomorrow, in that case, she wanted Vi’s own version of the horrible happening.

Lizzy and Ned had also seen the report in their morning paper, and had read it in utter amazement. Lizzy then immediately rang Boots, but couldn’t get through. The line was engaged, or something. It was ‘or something’. Boots had taken the phone off its hook in case any newspaper reporters thought of ringing him. So Lizzy then rang Tommy, although she felt he and Vi were probably still in too much of a state to want to talk to anybody. Vi answered the phone, let Lizzy know everyone was much better, thanks, but that she couldn’t talk because they were
all
going down to Cuckmere Haven to join Boots and his family there. Lizzy wanted to know what for. So we can dodge newspaper reporters, said Vi.

‘Oh, yes, you’ve got to, Vi, or Mum will have fifty fits,’ said Lizzy.

‘I know,’ said Vi, ‘so excuse me, Lizzy.’ She rang off. Not long after she and her family were away in the car. The van, of course, had been removed by the police last night.

Boots and his family were on the road too, heading south, with Eloise thinking life had never been more dramatic or exciting, Rosie thinking the atmosphere of university not quite like that of home, and Tim thinking his dad wasn’t just a good cricketer.

By departing in haste, both families escaped the hordes of reporters and photographers who arrived at their respective homes before Big Ben had struck nine o’clock. The eager gentlemen of the Press failed to understand why the birds had flown, for it never occurred to them there were people who actually didn’t want to be featured in newspapers. Of course, the source of this reluctance was Chinese Lady. As far as she was concerned, nearly every person whose name appeared in any lurid or sensational newspaper story suffered incurable damage to their respectability, particularly if the
News of the World
took an interest.

Wise were the birds to fly the coop, for Chinese Lady would have plucked more than a few feathers if they hadn’t. She herself had left the house with Mr Finch well before nine.

In Walworth, plump and placid Mrs Brown’s objections to Freddy being in the newspapers related mainly to the effect this could have on the double
wedding
. When she opened her front door at a little after nine, a dozen strange men were clustered on her step. She had seen her daily paper, so had Mr Brown, Sally and Freddy, and they’d all read every line of the report with breathless interest. Mrs Brown had said well, it’s done now, there’ll be a mob of people at the church. But a mob of strange men at her door, men who turned out to be reporters and photographers, was something else. Still, it took a lot to fluster Freddy’s mother, and since the story was out, anyway, she invited the men in and made a large pot of tea while answering their questions about her younger son. Yes, she said, it was Freddy who’d been felled by one of the robbers, but had managed to help the police in a chase of the escaping pair, and been responsible later for locating the van. In answer to one question, she said yes, she had to admit that Freddy had been both heroic and clever. She modestly put it down to him taking after his dad, who’d been a soldier in the war and had medals. She wasn’t brave or clever herself, she said, just a wife and mother, but didn’t have any complaints about it. As the reporters were all very nice to her, she told them where Freddy worked, and then gave Cassie such a memorable mention that it sent some of the reporters to a certain florist’s shop in Kennington while the rest made tracks for Sammy’s Southwark brewery.

At the florist’s shop, the reporters asked if a young lady name of Miss Cassie Ford could be interviewed and photographed. Cassie, with the permission of the owner of the shop, allowed herself to be photographed holding a bridal bouquet after letting it be known she was to marry Freddy on Saturday. She also allowed herself to give a very
imaginative
description of her beloved fiancé and his heroic endeavours. It was the kind of description that more or less invited the reporters to believe Freddy had something in common with King Arthur of Camelot. Of course, said Cassie, that was due to the way she had brought him up.

‘Brought him up, Miss Ford?’

‘Well, not exactly like his mum has,’ said Cassie, ‘more like givin’ him needful advice on how to be alert, brave and chivalrous so that he’d make the kind of husband I deserve. I’m not someone ord’nary, you know.’

‘Perish the thought, Miss Ford,’ said a reporter. ‘I’d say you were both out of the ordinary.’

‘Oh, what we did last night anyone else would ’ave done,’ said Cassie modestly. ‘Anyone else out of ord’nary, I mean,’ she added. ‘Are you goin’ to take photographs of Freddy as well as me?’

‘There’ll be reporters at the brewery doing that.’

‘I don’t know I want him photographed in his leather apron,’ said Cassie with a slight frown. ‘He won’t look very heroic in that.’

‘It’ll probably be head and shoulders only, Miss Ford.’

‘Oh, I won’t mind that, Freddy’s got lovely shoulders,’ said Cassie, ‘and I daresay the lump on his head has gone down a bit since yesterday. Well, I’ve got to get back to my work now.’

‘Thanks for talking to us.’

‘Oh, my pleasure, I’m sure,’ said Cassie.

‘Good luck for your wedding, Miss Ford.’

‘Yes, we’ll both be there, Freddy and me,’ said Cassie.

As for Freddy, the brewery manager did his best
for
him by announcing to clamouring reporters that young Mr Brown wasn’t at work today. Unfortunately for Freddy’s modesty, some of the cunning swines entered the brewery by way of its loading bay, and with the assistance of a grinning employee they cornered and surrounded Freddy.

‘Mr Freddy Brown, we presume?’

‘Beg pardon?’ said Freddy.

‘We understand that’s you.’

‘No, I’m Charlie Cook,’ said Freddy.

‘So’s my Aunt Daisy,’ said the grinning fellow-worker. ‘It’s a fair cop, Freddy, speak yer piece.’

So Freddy was interviewed and photographed, his dad coming to listen. While Cassie had let her imagination run riot during her interview, Freddy kept his answers and comments simple, but the reporters liked him, all the same. When he was asked who downed him by hitting him with the revolver, the man or the woman, Freddy said much to his regret he reckoned it was the woman, seeing the one who did it was a thin character. The other crook was too big and burly to be the female.

That over, Freddy resigned himself to being in the evening papers, and at midday on the advice of his dad, he gave up his dinner break to go to the bank again with the cheques. Recognized, he was given a welcome by the cashiers and the chief clerk, then taken to see the manager, a well-dressed upright bloke with a manly handshake and a sense of appreciation. He congratulated Freddy on being primarily responsible for the recovery of the stolen money.

‘Kind of you,’ said Freddy, ‘and can I open me
account
with you now? I’ve brought two cheques for fifty pounds apiece.’

‘A pleasure, Mr Brown,’ said the manager. ‘You’re depositing a hundred pounds?’

‘For saving,’ said Freddy.

‘Then, Mr Brown,’ smiled the manager, ‘the bank will be delighted to add a further hundred to the deposit.’

‘Pardon?’ said Freddy.

‘A reward in a case like this is the usual thing, Mr Brown.’

‘A hundred quid?’ said Freddy.

‘In token of you locating the van, Mr Brown, which led to the recovery of the money.’

‘Well, bless my soul,’ said Freddy, ‘you mean me and my fiancée, Miss Cassie Ford, will ’ave two hundred pounds in your bank to start our married life with?’

‘In your name, Mr Brown.’

‘In that case,’ said Freddy, ‘someone can hit me over the head again, and I’ll ’ardly notice.’

‘I hope that won’t happen,’ said the bank manager.

‘To be honest, so do I,’ said Freddy. ‘At least, not until after the ’oneymoon.’

‘Freddy, oh, I can’t believe it,’ cried Cassie in transports of delight that evening. ‘Two hundred pounds! Oh, ain’t you glad you always wanted to marry me?’

‘Did I?’ said Freddy. ‘What for?’

‘What d’you mean, what for? If I hadn’t let you get engaged to me you wouldn’t have had two cheques to take to the bank, nor have got that lump on your head
that
made you go lookin’ for the van and the rotten beasts that did it. Freddy, two hundred pounds, oh, you love.’

‘All ours, Cassie,’ said Freddy, ‘and I daresay the bank manager will let us spend a bit on some summer outfits for you, and leave the rest as savings. I’ve got a cheque book.’

Not for the first time lately, Cassie’s brown eyes went all misty. With her low wage, she’d never had a lot to spend on herself, and if her dad hadn’t treated her frequently she wouldn’t have had much of a wardrobe.

‘Oh, you’re sweet really, Freddy,’ she said.

‘Good on yer, Freddy,’ smiled the Gaffer, ‘you’re a bloke after me own heart, and you’re doin’ Cassie really proud, blowed if you ain’t.’

‘Yes, we’ll go round to our house in a bit,’ said Cassie, ‘and you can do me more proud there, Freddy, by helping me finish the parlour wallpapering.’

‘Who’ll be up the ladder?’ asked Freddy.

‘Me,’ said Cassie, ‘in me dad’s boiler suit.’

‘Blow that for a lark,’ said Freddy.

Reporters had also appeared in Dulwich that day. General Sir Henry Simms, having seen
The Times
and the
Daily Telegraph
first thing, had made tracks for the War Office immediately after breakfast. Lady Simms, after some quizzical exchanges with Polly about the slightly Bohemian nature of her stepdaughter’s friendship with Boots, departed in haste to one of her orphanages, while Polly disappeared at speed in her sports car for her last day at West Square School before the Easter holidays began.

Thus did these other reporters find one more
bird
had flown, together with her parents. They considered the flight unfriendly, for an interview with the daughter of a well-known general of the Great War wasn’t something to be sneezed at. Polly wasn’t having any of it, however. She knew the reporters might find it irresistible to link her too intimately with Boots, which would make Emily fume.

As it was, the reports in the evening papers covered only interviews with Mrs Brown, Freddy and Cassie. The reporters representing morning papers waited around all day outside Tommy’s house and Boots’s home in the hope of catching them, but when darkness fell, neither of the families had appeared. Boots and Tommy, fully aware of the attitude of Chinese Lady, kept themselves and their families well out of the way until late, by which time the reporters had given up. Chinese Lady felt enough damage had already been done by what had appeared in this morning’s papers. Anything in addition to that would, in her opinion, give her the feeling that the end of her ordered world was nigh. She and Mr Finch did not go home when he had finished his office stint. They met by arrangement in Whitehall, dined in town and went to a theatre.

Mrs Lilian Hyams had seen the report in her morning paper, and she too was staggered. Tommy and his family at the mercy of crooks all last evening? Tommy, the factory manager, and as nice a bloke as one could meet? My life, I can’t wait to see him and get the full story out of him.

But Tommy failed to put in an appearance, so she rang Sammy at his office. He told her why Tommy was absent. Lilian asked if the family had come through the ordeal unscathed mentally. Sammy said yes, they
had
, according to Boots. Lilian then informed him about the part played by her milkman, who had taken note of the van one day, and informed the police yesterday evening. She’d gone with him to Scotland Yard.

‘Did you say your milkman?’ said Sammy.

‘He’s after me,’ said Lilian.

‘Your milkman?’

‘Yes, my milkman,’ said Lilian.

‘What’s he after you for?’ asked Sammy

‘Not my gramophone records,’ said Lilian.

‘Is he synagogue?’ asked Sammy.

‘No, but he’s still after me. God knows what Rabbi Solomon’s going to say if he gets me.’

‘Are you talkin’ about your milkman treating himself to a little bit of what he fancies?’ asked Sammy.

‘I’ve got hopes,’ said Lilian.

‘Lilian, did you just say what I think you did?’

‘Yes, but I’m not myself lately,’ said Lilian, ‘I’ve just done a quick preparatory sketch for an evening gown and it’s come out looking like me being carried off in a milkman’s float, with the milkman whipping the horse into a gallop.’

‘Lilian, I’m suffering a bit meself today on account of what happened last night to Tommy and his fam’ly,’ said Sammy, ‘but I don’t think I feel like you do. Go home early and lie down with an Aspro.’

‘My life, be caught lying down by my milkman?’ said Lilian. ‘I should ask for it?’