Backstreet Child (32 page)

‘I was surprised ter see yer ’ere,’ he said, leaning on the bar counter. ‘D’yer come ’ere often?’

‘I used to,’ Rachel told him. ‘What about you?’

‘This is the first time fer me,’ he said. ‘As a matter o’ fact I’m on compassionate leave fer forty-eight hours. Me mum’s ill in’ospital an’ me friends dragged me out ter cheer me up.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Rachel replied. ‘Is she very ill?’

He nodded. ‘Yeah. I was ’opin’ ter get a longer leave but it looks like our lot are gonna be movin’ off very soon.’

‘That’s a shame,’ Rachel said, feeling sorry for him.

Suddenly the young soldier touched her arm. ‘I gotta go,’ he said quickly. ‘The girl friend’s jus’ bin excused. Talk ter yer later if I get a chance.’

Rachel watched him walk away with his pronounced swagger and while he was chatting with his friends she stole a few furtive glances his way. He was certainly good-looking. His dark hair tended to curl and his square features were open and friendly. He had a charming smile, too, and his relaxed way of talking had made her feel at ease with him and almost forget that he was a stranger.

Amy had returned, and during her constant chattering Rachel still took the odd moment to look over at the group. The soldier occasionally glanced over towards her too and once or twice their eyes met very briefly. The girl he was with giggled a lot and seemed flighty, appearing to be out to impress the whole group with her loud talk. Rachel took an immediate dislike to the young woman and began to wish that the soldier would come over and ask her to dance. He had not gone onto the dance floor at all, she noted, and it seemed as though he was not really interested in the dancing.

Rachel was asked to dance by one or two young men, however, and when at last she had managed to encourage Amy to go for another drink at the bar she was disappointed to find that the group were no longer there. Amy was bubbling, though, as she had made a date with her new-found dancing partner.

The two friends finally left the dance hall and caught the tram back to Dockhead, and all the while Rachel thought about the soldier at the dance. He was the first man she had found herself remotely interested in since Derek, although she had attended a few camp dances where there were many opportunities for her to date young men. She told herself that it was just as well things had turned out the way they had. The soldier was going off to fight and she would be posted somewhere, maybe miles away from London. To get involved now with anyone would be unwise, and she leaned back against the tram seat and tried to put the brief encounter out of her mind. There were other things to think about.

Maurice Salter had enjoyed the evening and was feeling very hopeful. It had not been easy for him to form an attachment with a woman after his wife died and he had concerned himself with bringing up his three daughters to the best of his ability. Now he had new interests.

Lily had been the one who suggested to him that it was about time he found himself a nice lady friend who would make him happy. Brenda and Barbara, too, had agreed that it was a good idea for him to have some pleasure instead of moping around the house. Maurice knew full well that the girls loved him and wanted him to be happy, but he knew also that his choice of lady friend would be a subject of discussion among his daughters. He knew that Brenda Massey was not their idea of a good companion for him and they had told him so in no uncertain words. Brenda thought that her namesake was a man-eater and Barbara thought that she was flighty, and likely to cause him pain before long. Only Lily gave him her unqualified approval. ‘She seems a nice woman, Dad. Good luck ter yer,’ she had remarked.

Maurice had been very careful not to rush Brenda into getting between the sheets, although she seemed keen to progress with their courting. The fly in the ointment, as far as Maurice was concerned, was Granny Massey. She was a nasty, interfering old battleaxe, for his money, and she had made it plain to him that he wasn’t her choice of a suitor for her daughter. Brenda told him he should not take any notice of her ageing mother’s attitude and at forty she was old enough to make up her own mind about the men she went out with. Granny Massey did not share her daughter’s opinion, however, and she did all she could to thwart the courtship. Tonight was no exception. As Maurice and Brenda travelled back to Dockhead on the late tram, Granny Massey was ready and waiting.

‘I enjoyed the film, Brenda, didn’t you?’ Maurice asked.

‘Yeah, an’ the fish an’ chips went down well,’ Brenda told him. ‘The pub was a bit packed though,’ she remarked.

‘Still, we got a seat, eventually,’ he said.

Brenda slipped her arm through his as they sat on the upper deck of the tram and leaned against him provocatively. ‘I wish we ’ad somewhere ter go where we could be really private,’ she said in a husky voice.

Maurice pulled a face. ‘We can’t go ter my place, the gels are always poppin’ in an’ out,’ he groaned.

‘I can’t relax at my place,’ Brenda frowned. ‘I’m always frightened Mum’s gonna come down an’ walk in on us.’

Maurice had thought about tying a rope across the banisters or maybe connecting Granny Massey’s bedroom doorknob to the electricity supply, but he felt that Brenda wouldn’t take too kindly to it. After all, the old witch was her mother, bad as she was. The alternative was to cosset the old girl and win her over; hence the flowers.

Brenda let herself into the house and immediately sensed that all was not well. Her usual greeting was not answered and she gave Maurice a worried frown as he followed her into the passage. ‘Mum never goes ter sleep before I get in,’ Brenda remarked.

‘Don’t I know it,’ Maurice mumbled.

As she entered the parlour to hang up her coat, Brenda gasped. Granny Massey was sitting back in the easy chair beside the empty grate, a blanket thrown over her frail shoulders and a handkerchief held up to her mouth. On the table there was a glass of water, a bottle of smelling salts, and the flowers Maurice had given her. All the blooms had dropped from the stems, which were laid out as though for inspection.

‘Whatever’s wrong?’ Brenda asked, kneeling down at her mother’s side.

‘I came over queer as I was turnin’ in,’ Granny whispered. ‘I came down fer a glass o’ water an’ must ’ave fainted. When I come round I dragged meself inter the chair an’ all I could see was those bloody fings there on the table. That’s what made me ill, them,’ she croaked, pointing to the withered flowers.

Maurice would have gladly strangled the old lady there and then, but he knelt down beside Brenda and gave the old woman a cheery smile. ‘I’m sorry, luv,’ he said. ‘They was lovely when I bought ’em.’

‘When was that, last month?’ Granny chided him.

‘I’m sure Maurice couldn’t ’ave known they’d die off so soon,’ Brenda remarked.

‘Oh yes ’e did,’ the old lady replied. ‘ ’E did it on purpose.’E’s never liked me. I’m only in ’is way. I know.’

Brenda had wanted this evening to be special; she had been prepared to allow Maurice into her bedroom, as soon as her mother went to sleep. Now, though, she felt that it had all been spoilt because of her mother’s unreasonable behaviour. ‘Maurice wouldn’t do that, Mum, ’e really likes yer,’ she said with feeling. ‘’E wanted ter please yer wiv those flowers.’

‘Please me?’ the old lady croaked. ‘’E done it on purpose, I tell yer. Just smell ’em. ’E’s put some poison on ’em. Go on, smell ’em.’

Brenda reached for the stems and sniffed them. Her face suddenly darkened and she turned to glare at Maurice. ‘’Ow could you?’ she said with passion. ‘Of all the dirty, wicked tricks. Maurice Salter, I never want ter see yer ugly face again as long as I live. Get out!’

Maurice sadly made his way home, feeling that he should have stuck to his ducking and diving instead of dabbling with the unfamiliar pastime of chasing the ladies.

Gloria Simpson took a pocket mirror from her handbag and studied her face once more, her thoughts centred on the meeting she had had with Frank Galloway a couple of nights ago. The Horse and Groom public house was filling up and she felt a little less conspicuous. Being conspicuous normally never troubled Gloria, in fact it aided her in her profession, but tonight she had good reason to want to blend in with the surroundings. Since Frank had come into her life, things had changed for the better. It was in this very pub that she had solicited him when he called in looking very sorry for himself. He had allowed her to approach him and he had bought her a drink before he realised that she was a professional woman of the streets. Taking him back to her seedy flat in Rotherhithe for the night was the best thing she could have done. Instead of wanting to climb into bed as quickly as possible like all her other clients, Frank Galloway seemed more inclined to talk. He was very drunk and obviously feeling very miserable. He had wanted a sympathetic ear and Gloria did not mind in the least. Her house rule was that men paid her on entry to her flat and Frank obliged without question. The fact that he spent two hours talking to her was no problem for Gloria, and when he had exhausted himself with his ramblings and fallen into a drunken sleep on her sofa, she covered him with a blanket and went off to bed. Next morning he could hardly remember any of the evening and she played her part very well. The bruises on her arm and leg had been caused by a previous client who took pleasure in brutalising her and Gloria used the marks of violence to good effect. Frank Galloway was full of apologies for being so rough with her and asked to see her again.

The chance encounter had worked out very well for her, and Frank had now become a regular visitor to her flat. Recently he had taken her home to his smart house in Ilford and arranged a job of work for her. The payment was more than Gloria could have hoped to earn in a full week on the streets and Frank Galloway was very pleased with her performance. Now he had given her another job to do and she was eager to make a success of it, after he had promised her a handsome reward.

The public house in a little backstreet near the Surrey Docks was frequented by merchant seamen from Scandinavia and Russia who crewed the timber ships, as well as the local dockland folk. Frank Galloway had gone there that first evening to talk business with a prospective customer who had not shown up, and he had met Gloria instead.

She gazed casually round the bar and sipped her gin and tonic. Her friend was late and she did not want to attract the attention of a prospective client before she arrived. Gloria operated from the Horse and Groom and would have preferred to have the meeting elsewhere but her old friend knew the whereabouts of the pub and had insisted that they meet there.

A couple of the customers who knew her were sniggering at one end of the bar and a middle-aged man in a dark pinstripe suit occasionally lifted his head from the evening paper and gave her an inquisitive glance. Gloria looked up at the large clock at the back of the counter and decided to give her friend another ten minutes.

It was exactly eight minutes later when Lola Fields walked into the Horse and Groom. She looked flushed and out of breath and as she spotted Gloria she sighed with relief. ‘I thought I’d missed yer, Gloria,’ she said, sitting down heavily in the chair.

‘I was just about ter leave,’ Gloria replied a little irritably.

‘There was a tram breakdown an’ the bleedin’ fings were lined up all along as far as the tunnel,’ Lola told her. ‘I ’ad ter walk most o’ the way.’

‘Anyway, yer made it,’ Gloria smiled, taking an envelope from her handbag and putting it down on the table. ‘Now listen,’ she began. ‘I want yer ter get me some information. I know yer work the Ole Kent Road pubs, so yer shouldn’t ’ave much trouble gettin’ me what I want. There’s money in there fer yer trouble, an’ if yer do a good job there’s a bonus ter come.’

Lola’s eyes lit up and she reached for the envelope, but Gloria stopped her by placing her hand over it.

‘Before yer take this job on, there’s one or two fings yer should know,’ she said in a low voice. ‘First of all, nobody, an’ I mean nobody, must know what yer doin’. Is that understood?’

Lola nodded her head vigorously, beginning to feel excited.

‘Next, I want yer ter memorise the address an’ instructions then get rid o’ the paper,’ Gloria told her. ‘I don’t want the police askin’ questions if they pull yer in fer solicitin’. Is that clear?’

Lola nodded again, and then Gloria handed her the envelope. ‘Put that in yer bag, an’ I’ll get yer a drink,’ she said.

‘What’s it all about?’ Lola asked as they sipped their gins.

Gloria gave her old friend a steely look. ‘Survival, Lola.’

Chapter Twenty

On Friday evening, 10 May, Fred Dougall hobbled down Page Street holding the
Evening Standard
in his hand. ‘They’re on the move!’ he told Maudie Mycroft as he passed by her front door and saw her cleaning the windows.

Maudie went in and woke up her husband Ernest who was snoozing in his favourite armchair. ‘They’re on the move!’ she told him.

‘Who are?’

‘I dunno, somebody must be.’

‘Who said?’

‘Fred Dougall.’

‘Well, ’e should know,’ Ernest mumbled.

Fred’s wife Maisie was standing at her front door talking to Sadie and when she saw Fred approaching with a serious look on his face, she nudged her friend. ‘Somefink’s up,’ she said.

Sadie, like Maisie, was now in her mid-seventies and not easily excited by trivalities, but she too could see by Fred’s serious expression that something important was happening. ‘Wonder what’s goin’ on,’ she said.