Tuppence to Tooley Street (28 page)

The idyllic weather continued, and Sunday was bright and warm. The revelries began at lunchtime and The Globe was packed with back–slapping customers who threatened to overwhelm John Mitchell with their offers of drinks. The proud father had to refuse all but the first pint. The christening was at three o’clock, and for him the party would begin after the naming of Heather Louise. The landlord of The Globe was also being cautious. Biff Bowden was in full swing following Shady Lady’s narrow victory at Catford and Eddie was watching out for the arrival of Bonky Williams. He was aware of the hostility between Biff and Bonky and realised that he would have to take on the role of peacemaker.

At one o’clock Bonky Williams walked in the pub, and as soon as he saw Biff Bowden standing at the bar his face became dark. Eddie did not miss the omen, and he hurried to serve Bonky. ‘’Ow the bloody ’ell are yer, me ole mate?’ he cried.

‘I was all right till I see that ugly bastard,’ Bonky replied.

Eddie poured the stout carefully. ‘It’s a shame yer feel that way about Biff.’

‘Why’s that?’ Bonky asked, eyeing the landlord suspiciously.

‘Oh, nuffink.’

Bonky was hooked. ‘C’mon, Eddie, why is it a shame?’

Eddie leaned over the counter in an exaggerated gesture of secrecy. ‘If I tell yer somefink, can yer keep it ter yerself?’

‘You know me, Eddie, I’m as tight as a drum.’

‘I know that, Bonky, but can yer keep a secret?’

Bonky Williams puffed and slapped the counter in frustration. ‘You gonna tell me or not?’

‘Right, now listen carefully, ’cos I gotta whisper,’ Eddie said, trying not to laugh.

Bonky gave the landlord a sideways glance. ‘Look, I might be short on eyes, but me poxy ’earin’ ain’t affected.’

‘Okay, Bonky lad. Biff Bowden’s dog’s goin’ inter retirement soon.’

‘What d’yer want me ter do, go roun’ wiv a bleedin’ collection fer it?’

‘Now don’t get all shirty, Bonky, jus’ listen. Biff told me in confidence that Shady Lady is goin’ fer breedin’, an’ when she’as ’er first litter, Biff’s gonna name the first pup “Bonky’s Gem”. What d’yer fink about that?’

Bonky Williams looked over to where Biff was standing, then back to Eddie. ‘Cor! That’s decent of ’im, ain’t it?’

Eddie turned away and fiddled with the spirit optics until he had regained control of his facial muscles. ‘I fink it’s a nice gesture, Bonky. Ole Biff reckons yer a good sport.’

‘Did ’e tell yer that, Eddie?’

‘Sure did, mate.’

‘Well I’ll be! I fink I’ll buy ’im a drink.’

‘That’d be ’an’some, Bonky.’

‘“Bonky’s Gem”,’ ruminated Bonky ‘Now that’d be somefing ter drink to!’

Eddie winced noticeably. ‘Don’t let on I told yer. Biff’ll do’is nut.’

‘Don’t worry, Eddie. Mum’s the word.’

Bonky walked over to Biff and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Wanna drink, Biff?’

Biff, slightly the worse for drink, looked at the one–eyed character, his face contorted. ‘Fanks, Bonky, I’ll ’ave a pint of ale.’

Eddie stood at the counter, his fingers crossed behind his back, and when Biff looked in his direction he saw the landlord winking at him urgently. Old Arthur Smith saw the gesticulations too. ‘’Ere, Eddie,’ he said, ‘when yer get rid o’ yer affliction can yer pour me anuvver pint? I’m dyin’ o’ thirst.’

 

Before The Globe had shut for the night, the Mitchells’ christening party was in full swing. Charlie Perkins sat beside the crates of ale, his bony fingers tapping in time with the wheezing concertina, Granny Bell was doing a soft–shoe shuffle with her skirts held up to her knee, and the street folk clapped in unison. All the children were allowed to stop up late while the guest of honour, Heather Louise Mitchell, slept peacefully in her bassinet. All around her the merriment went on: Frank Sutton took his wife Alice out onto the cobblestones and held her firmly as he whisked her around; Joe Copeland was talking to John Mitchell, a pint glass clutched tightly in his large fist; and Maggie sat with Lucy and Connie. ‘My two would ’ave loved this,’ she said sadly.

Connie put her arm around Maggie’s shoulders. ‘I fink yer did the right fing, Mag. I got a feelin’ it’s gonna get really bad before long.’

Lucy nodded her agreement. ‘It’s only a matter of time. The children are much better off being out of London. I feel sorry for the little mites here, they’re going to be in the thick of it.’

Maggie sighed. ‘I ’ope I did do the right fing. It caused a right ole barney between me an’ Joe.’

‘Ain’t you an’ ’im talkin’?’ Connie asked in her usual forthright manner.

‘We’re all right now,’ Maggie replied. ‘’E soon got over it. I fink deep down ’e knew I’d done the right fing. ’E didn’t like admittin’ it though.’

Danny Sutton walked back from The Globe to the street party, his thoughts centred on his pal Tony. He felt ineffectual and useless, and it worried him. The two of them had run the streets together as kids and got into the usual scrapes. Now, when Tony asked him for help he was unable to do anything. The pints he had drunk were beginning to take their toll and Danny felt he was well on his way to getting drunk. Maybe he should sink a few more pints and blot out the depression that was gnawing away at his insides and tightening the base of his skull like a vice. Maybe he should tell the bookmaker to poke his job, and tell Jack Mason to get stuffed. Perhaps he could find rooms and move Kathy in with him. At least she would be away from that bullying bastard. He would have to give it some thought, but first he was going to join the party and drink himself into a state of sublime intoxication.

The young cockney heard the sound of the concertina before he turned the corner. Dusk was settling down around the merrymakers, and he could see the outlines of people dancing in the light that shone out from the gas–lit passages of the tumbledown houses. All the front doors were open, the black–out regulations apparently forgotten, and the street warden Archie Madden was waltzing around with the aged Mrs Jackson who owned the little sweetshop on the corner of the turning. Bernie Wright the concertina player was grinning widely as he stamped his foot in time to the melody he was squeezing out from his beloved instrument.

Connie came up to Danny and grabbed his arm. ‘C’mon, bruv, I’ve bin waitin’ fer yer. Let’s ’ave a dance.’

John Mitchell and his Janie were passing among the guests, filling their glasses and exchanging pleasantries. Their pride and joy, Heather Louise, slept on as the music got louder and the raucous laughter filled the street. Charlie Perkins was rocking in his chair, with a pint glass in his hand and a toothless smile that infected everyone who looked at him. The war and the troubles that might come were far from the minds of the Dawson Street folk on that balmy Sunday night. They toasted John and Janie and their baby, they drank the health of each other, and they remembered absent friends. The music rang out again, and the strains of ‘Roses of Picardy’ drifted through the backwater of dockland. John Mitchell felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him, and he remembered the Somme and Ypres. Danny was transported back in his mind to more recent battles. He thought of the young soldier who died at his side on the beaches, and the imperturbable gypsy Oggy Murphy who held him safely in the dark, freezing water off La Panne, and his eyes filled with tears.

The drinking carried on as the midnight hour came and went. Old songs were sung and the strains of ‘Alice Blue Gown’ and ‘She’s Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage’ carried down the turning and echoed through the railway arch. Sleepy, happy children were hauled off to bed and their parents rejoined the revelry. Two lovers sat close together in the shadows and kissed tenderly. The girl was happy to be sharing the secret, and her beau was a little overcome.

‘Tell me, Ben, are you happy for us? Are you really happy?’ she asked.

He tried to answer but the lump in his throat prevented him, and he nodded, his glowing eyes answering her fully. She snuggled up to him and felt a slight shiver run down her back. He was fearful for the future, but the night was magical.

 

She could see the river from her bedroom window. The dark sky held no magic, only a foreboding. She had been happy that morning but the feeling was shortlived; the future held no happiness, only sorrow. She saw the days ahead as too burdensome to bear. Her head ached, and the dark swelling below her eye was tender to the touch. She raised her hand to her forehead and stared out into the night. It seemed that her whole life had been one of constant unhappiness; there were very few occasions when she had felt really happy and wanted. She could count the times on one hand. She thought about the young man who had brought her brief happiness and tears welled up in her eyes. It was too late. She could have gone to him, but the baby inside her would soon come into the world and be a constant reminder of her past. There would always be secret thoughts which would eat into his mind and destroy any true happiness.

It was too late for tears. If only, she rued. If only there had been more time with Danny before he left. Maybe things would have been different. Maybe he would have realised just how much she cared for him and wanted him. Her anger and pride had led her into an impossible relationship with a man whose thin veneer of respectability and decency had peeled away so quickly to reveal the true character beneath. Why had she been so blind? Why had she been attracted to a man like Jack Mason? Why had she succumbed to his surface charm and not seen the real man beneath? Had she gone with Mason to punish Danny? Or to punish herself ? It didn’t matter now . . .

It was all too late.

The room became dark and Kathy drew the curtains. She turned on the small bedside lamp. The letter was still lying on the dressing table. It would not have been so bad had he tried to excuse his actions or say he was sorry. Instead the confrontation had been violent. She had found the letter quite by accident. It had fallen out of his pocket when he threw his coat over the back of a chair that morning. She had noticed it when she was tidying up, and now she wished that she had never read it. It was from a woman she knew slightly. She was a barmaid in one of the pubs in Deptford which Jack Mason used. It was a passionate letter, referring to the happy times they had spent together, and went on to say how she was missing him while on holiday, and how she looked forward to seeing him once more. Kathy recalled the shock and blind fury she had experienced as she held the letter in her shaking hands. There were many things she had endured with him–the beatings and the rough, inconsiderate way he made love to her –but there was one thing she would not endure. She would not share him with another woman. She was having his baby and she tried to make him see that he owed her his loyalty. His answer was to tell her that he never wanted the kid and that she should have got rid of it like he told her. Her anger spilled over and she tore at his face with her hands, only to be sent sprawling by a cuff. He had stormed out in a vile temper at lunchtime and had not returned. Kathy had spent the rest of the day crying hysterically, but now, as the night drew in, she had composed herself.

With calm deliberation she went to the bathroom and filled a tumbler full of water and then placed it beside the bed. Next she undressed and put on her nightgown. She filled her palm with the contents of a small glass phial and swallowed the lot between gulps from the tumbler. She turned off the light and pulled open the curtains. The bed felt cool as she closed her eyes. The cold, distant stars twinkled through gaps in the cloud bank. After some time the soft moon shone into the room and lit up the prone figure on the bed, then the stars faded and the moon was covered once again by clouds. The pin–points of light went out, and a velvet blackness smothered her heavy eyelids.

 

Sadie Comfort sat in her comfortable front room listening to the evening service. Boss, her red setter, lay at her feet and looked up with large, doleful eyes. Sadie Comfort felt uneasy, and the hymn–singing on the wireless did little to relieve her. Maybe Albert was right when he said she should mind her own business and not get involved. After all, it was nothing unusual to hear banging and shouting next door. The man who lived there was a pig, in Sadie’s estimation, although she thought the girl was very pleasant and polite. They seemed an odd match; he was a lot older than her, and was always going out alone. He was prone to raise his hand to the girl and there were often tell–tale marks on her face. Albert said they had to sort things out for themselves, and as long as they didn’t interfere with anyone else there was nothing to be done, but Sadie could not get rid of her uncomfortable feeling; something was wrong. Since that morning when she heard the row the girl had not made an appearance, which was unusual. The man had gone out though, and Sadie’s horse–brasses had rattled as he slammed the door violently.

Sadie Comfort’s eyes dropped, and the sing–song voice of the minister reciting the evening prayer sounded far away. Boss put his head on Sadie’s foot and made her start. She looked down at the dog and saw the large eyes staring up at her enquiringly. Sadie yawned and looked up at the clock on the mantelshelf: ten past ten. Albert would be in from the pub soon and then she would feel better. Being left alone didn’t normally worry her; Boss was a good house dog, and Albert was rarely gone for more than an hour. Tonight though was different, though Boss seemed restless, too. He had had his walk and his supper, and by now he should have been curled up asleep on the hearth rug. Albert would no doubt think she was being silly, but Boss knew there was something wrong.

At the sound of a key in the door Boss stood up and growled. Albert walked in and took off his coat. ‘’Ello, Boss, ain’t yer asleep?’ he said.

Sadie glanced at the clock. ‘There’s not bin a sound from next door, Alb. I’m sure there’s somefink wrong.’

‘We gonna start all that again, Sadie? I told yer, it’s not our concern.’

‘But there ain’t bin a sound since ’e went out. I usually ’ear’er movin’ about, an’ she nearly always goes out some time durin’ the day. ’E could ’ave killed ’er fer all we know.’