Tuppence to Tooley Street (30 page)

‘What about the lorry?’

‘I fink it was a red ’errin’, sir.’

‘That’s what the villains want you to think, Stockbridge. While I’m wasting manpower turning over the thousand and one likely sites in Bermondsey, they’re knocking the stuff out in another area. Think about it, man. I’d be a bloody fool walking into, say that timber yard opposite, and telling them I’m looking for some corned beef! I’d be a laughing stock. No, Stockbridge, the stuff’s being sold in the East End. What we’ve got to do is apprehend the thieves. Tell me, Stockbridge, you must know the local villains, have you got any suspects?’

Fat Stan thought hard. Tony Allen would be the most likely person among the local criminal fraternity to be involved, but Tony always played ball. His name had to be kept out of the frame. There was no way he was going to cut off his own private source of income by nailing Tony Allen. After all, no one had got hurt, and Sullivan was probably well insured against that very eventuality. Fat Stan realised, too, that he would now be able to put the squeeze on Tony Allen for a little more security against being named as a suspect.

‘Well, sir,’ Stockbridge began, ‘there’s a nasty little team tryin’ ter put the clamps on the shopkeepers in Bermon’sey Lane. Me snout tells me they’re not from this area. ’E reckons they come from over the water. Maybe they was involved in the robbery?’

Flint banged his desk. ‘Cobblers! The other side of the water used to be my manor. The East End villains don’t get involved outside their own patch. Take my word for it, Stockbridge, they’re local villains who clobbered the warehouse, and they’re local villains operating in Bermondsey Lane. Now you get out there and bring back something. I want action! Understand?’

Fat Stan understood only too well. His feet were already reminding him of the rigours of walking the beat.

Ginny Coombes spread margarine over a thick slice of bread and then smeared a thin coating of strawberry jam over the top.

‘Now take that an’ get out in the street wiv yer bruvvers an’ sisters,’ she said to her son. ‘And mind the road.’

Joey Coombes grabbed the slice of bread in his grubby hands, a grin breaking out on his dirty face. ‘Cor, fanks, Mum. Is Danny comin’ roun’ terday?’

‘’E comes round every day ’cept Sundays. Now get out from under me feet.’

Joey bit into the bread and a blob of jam stuck to his nose. He looked up at his mother with large blue eyes and said, ‘’Ere, Mum, ’ow much d’yer like Danny?’

Ginny glanced at her son enquiringly. ‘What d’yer mean,’ow much do I like ’im?’

‘Well, Billy Brightman’s mum said it’s on the cards you an’ Danny could get really friendly. What cards she talkin’ about, Mum?’

Ginny hid her smile. ‘Look, Joey, yer get out an’ keep yer eye out fer yer bruvvers an’ sisters. Don’t stand there askin’ stupid questions. I’ve got a lot o’ work ter do.’

Joey took another bite from the slice and jam dripped onto his tattered pullover. ‘Are we gonna ’ave anuvver dad one day, Mum?’

Ginny felt the question strike into her insides and she wanted to hug the child, but instead she swallowed hard. ‘Your farver’s dead, Joey. Yer can’t ’ave two dads,’ she said.

‘I know that, Mum, but we could ’ave a pretend dad if yer got married, couldn’t we?’

‘Look, Joey, I am not goin’ ter get married. I was married ter yer farver, an’ I don’t wanna get married again.’

‘I wouldn’t mind Danny fer a pretend dad,’ Joey said as he made for the door.

Ginny felt tears welling up and she dabbed her eyes with the apron. Sleep had come slow last night, and she had been troubled by her guilty thoughts. Her lad had caught her off balance, and she was worried about the rumours. There was obviously gossip going around about her. She would have to be careful not to fuel the fire, but she knew that the backstreets did not allow for much privacy. Everyone lived in each other’s pockets, the slightest impropriety was discussed and disseminated at one end of the houses until it became scandal at the other end of the row. News travelled fast in the backstreets. Word of Kathy Thompson’s suicide attempt had spread around in minutes. The terrible news added to Ginny’s own sadness, and she tried to blot out her dismay by working about the house. She got so involved that she forgot the time, and when Danny knocked on her door the kettle was not yet over the gas. When he walked in Ginny expected him to say something about Kathy, but he was cheerful.

‘’Ello, Ginny, I saw yer brood outside. School ’olidays started?’

Ginny pulled a face. ‘I’ve got six weeks o’ this. “Mum I fell over” an’ “Mum gi’s a slice o’ bread”. It’ll be Mum this an’ Mum that. It’s a wonder I ain’t grey.’

Danny smiled. ‘Ginny, yer don’t look a day over firty–five.’

Ginny suddenly became serious. He can’t know she thought, he would have mentioned it. ‘Danny, ’aven’t you ’eard about Kathy?’

Danny’s face took on an anxious look. ‘’Eard what, Ginny?’

‘She took an overdose.’

Danny’s face went white. ‘Bloody ’ell! Is she . . . ?’

‘They took ’er ter Guy’s ’Ospital, Danny. ’Er next door neighbour found ’er. That’s all we know.’

‘I wanna go an’ see ’er, Gin.’

‘It’s no good, they won’t let yer in. ’Er muvver’s up there wiv ’er, but they won’t let anybody else in yet. Please Gawd she’ll pull frew.’

‘When did it ’appen, Ginny?’

‘Last night. The police came round. I ’eard a commotion when I was puttin’ the milk bottles out. It must ’ave bin well after twelve. I’m normally a–bed by that time, but last night I fell asleep in the chair. The kids wore me out yesterday.’

Danny sat down heavily in the chair. ‘Did yer know she was carryin’?’ he asked.

Ginny nodded. ‘It was no secret, yer could tell anyway. That was why ’er ole man kicked ’er out, wasn’t it?’

Danny nodded. ‘What’ll ’appen ter the baby, Ginny?’

‘Gawd knows. If they manage ter pull ’er frew it’s quite possible she’ll lose the baby. It ’appened ter that girl in Tooley Buildin’s only last year. She took an overdose. She was all right, but she lost the baby. Four months gone she was.’

Danny ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Kathy’s gonna be all right, ain’t she, Gin?’

Ginny smiled. She had noticed how he reacted when she told him the news. She sensed there was something between them, it showed on the lad’s face. ‘She’ll pull frew, Danny. If she gets over this okay it might be a blessin’ in disguise. She can make a clean break from that ’orrible bloke. I knew all along no good would come out of ’er goin’ wiv ’im. Did yer know ’e left ’is wife an’ kid?’

‘No, I didn’t,’ Danny jumped up, his face dark with anger.

Ginny picked up the teapot from the table. ‘I’ll make a cup o’ tea, you look like yer could do wiv it.’

Danny suddenly felt drained, and sat down again. ‘You ain’t seen anyfink o’ Johnny Ross, ’ave yer, Gin?’ he called out, brushing his fingers through his hair.

‘Not since yer spoke to ’im last Friday. What’s ’e done now?’

‘You know Rossy. ’E’s upset Mason, an’ I told ’im ter stay out the way fer a few days. If Mason or Tony Allen asks yer ’is whereabouts, Gin, yer don’t know, all right? Cor, what a bloody mess.’

‘Don’t worry, Danny, I know Rossy’s a bit of a cow–son, but I wouldn’t wish that bastard Mason on me worst enemy. I won’t let on.’

The morning punters walked up to Ginny’s door with their ‘tanner each–ways’ and their ‘shilling win doubles’, and the backstreet rang with children’s happy voices. Trains rumbled over the railway arch and the din of traffic carried down Clink Lane from the Tooley Street end. Women came in and out of the turning carrying shopping baskets, and the street knife–grinder treadled his whetstone and sent sparks flying. Joey grazed his knee and tears ran down his sticky face. Cigarette cards changed hands at the turn of a playing card, and another egg–crate was carried into the street by two youngsters ready for the weekend ‘wood–chop’. Up above the grey slates and the crazily leaning chimneypots the sky was blue. Lazy clouds drifted on the summer breeze, and cooking smells wafted from open doorways. The midday sun warmed the flagstones and children, tired from their exertions, sat in the shade and talked of the coming hop–picking season.

‘Bodiam? Where’s Bodiam?’

‘It’s in Kent.’

‘Is Kent very far?’

‘It’s ’undreds o’ miles from ’ere. Takes hours on a train.’

‘What’s it like, ’op–pickin’?’

‘It’s smashin’. We go scrumpin’ an’ the gypsy kids show us where the rabbits are. We go crab–apple pickin’ as well.’

‘What’s crab–apples?’

‘They’re tiny apples, an’ if yer eat ’em yer get poisoned.’

‘What yer pick ’em for then?’

‘To aim at the rabbits.’

‘Cor! Wish we went ’op–pickin’.’

‘We sleep in ’uts, an’ we ’ave straw beds. Fousan’s o’ spiders though.’

‘Ugh!’

‘Spiders can’t ’urt yer–not like bugs.’

‘We ’ad bugs. My mum got rid of ’em wiv a burnin’ stick. They suck yer blood, bugs do.’

‘There was a stag beedle down ’oppin’. They can sting yer dead.’

‘Cor!’

They were interrupted by calls to dinner, and the street was quiet once more. Joey Coombes dipped a chunk of dry bread into his lamb stew.

‘’Ere, Mum, why don’t we go ’oppin’?’

‘We’ve never bin, that’s why.’

‘All the kids go ’oppin’. We never do nuffink.’

‘Yes we do. We went ter Soufend once.’

‘There’s no stag beedles in Soufend.’

‘Eat yer dinner, Joey.’

For three days and nights Kathy was in danger. On Thursday, as the first August dawn broke, she drifted from a misty greyness into the starched white of the hospital ward. Her eyes hurt, the pressure around her hand tightened, and the uncertainty was over. The pressure that had prevented her from floating away, that had kept her clinging on at the edge of death, became warm and comforting. Kathy blinked and focused her eyes. Tired, worried eyes stared back into hers, and she began to understand what had happened. She tried to speak but her mouth was parched. Gentle hands lifted her head and bitter liquid was held to her lips. Hearing words whispered and feeling a cool hand on her forehead, she sank back into a peaceful sleep that was free of dreams. The crisis was over at last.

Mrs Violet Thompson left the ward and walked wearily down the wide, stone stairs and felt the cool morning air rush at her face. The chapel door was open, and inside the quiet and solitude seemed to lift her spirits. The early rays of the sun hit the stained glass arched window and played on the tiny altar. For a time Violet prayed, then she raised her head and sat deep in thought. The heartbreak was not yet over. Soon she must go back and tell her daughter about the baby, though for the moment Kathy must sleep and recover her strength. It had been agreed with the doctor that Violet should break the news. She had also impressed on the doctor and nurses that no one else should visit her daughter, at least for the present. She was adamant that Jack Mason should not be allowed in under any circumstances, and when she’d explained her reasons they acquiesced.

For three days Mrs Thompson had walked back and forth from the hospital in a daze, but this morning there was a spring in her step. The usual band of neighbours would be waiting by their front doors. This morning she would be able to smile at them, and the good news would soon spread. Her only worry was Jack Mason’s reaction. She had never spoken to him, but someone would no doubt pass on the news. Violet knew that her husband would not take Kathy back, and it was useless to argue any more, but she hoped that when her daughter left the hospital she could go to stay with her aunt in Ilford for a couple of weeks until the fuss died down. Violet decided she must write to her sister that very day.

As she turned the corner and walked into Clink Lane, Violet met her neighbours’ solicitous looks with a huge grin. Pinched, morning faces beamed, and their hugs and tears caused the passing dockers to wave as they hurried to the call–on.

‘She’s gonna be all right, Fred. Tell Bill, won’t yer?’

‘Fank Gawd fer that, Vi.’

‘We’ll ’ave ter get ’er some flowers.’

‘’Ere, there’s a tanner. Put me in.’

Violet looked anxiously down the street. ‘I mus’ go, luvs,’ she said, ‘I’ve gotta tell my Charlie ’fore ’e goes off ter work.’

Beaming faces grew serious and pitying looks followed Mrs Thompson down the turning. ‘She’s ’ad enough on ’er plate, what wiv one fing an’ anuvver,’ someone said.

‘You’re right. I ’ope this pulls ’im to ’is senses.’

‘It won’t alter the ugly git. ’E’s disowned ’is own daughter, the rotter!’

‘Well it might quieten ’im down fer a bit.’

‘Yeah, fer a couple o’ weeks, then ’e’ll get pissed an’ take it out on poor Vi, yer mark my words.’

‘If that was me I’d open that Charlie Thompson. ’E’s a no–good whore–son.’