Cockney Orphan (22 page)

‘And has it?’

‘Nothing out of the ordinary.’

Pat sank to the floor and waggled the little dog’s tail. Lucky gurgled and perched his fat bottom on her knees. ‘I’ll be seeing her tomorrow, so don’t worry.’

‘Will you tell her about Laurie’s call-up?’

Pat nodded and Connie put her hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s no consolation, but I’ll be around to help you.’

Pat smiled sadly as she looked up. ‘I know you will.’

‘You’ll miss him something rotten.’

Pat’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Especially with the baby coming.’

‘What!’ Connie gasped.

‘The doctor confirmed it yesterday.’

Connie hugged her friend. ‘Congratulations, Pat, to you both. And I’ll say it again – I’ll be here for you, and the baby.’

Pat’s cheeks grew wet and she took out her hanky.

Lucky came up to her. ‘Auntie Pat crying.’

‘No, ducks, I’m laughing,’ Pat assured him, giving him a big smile. ‘Now, how would you like a drink of orange juice? Hold my hand and I’ll take you out to the
kitchen. I’ll make Mummy a nice cup of tea too.’ Pat glanced at Connie and smiled through her tears. ‘I think Gran got it all wrong, don’t you? That exclamation mark was
definitely for us, not you.’

Connie nodded her agreement as they left the room. She was sad to hear that Laurie would soon be conscripted, especially as Pat was expecting. But selfishly she couldn’t help feeling a
sense of relief that Gran’s reading was not meant for her.

Billy was on top of the world. Another notch on his belt. His opponent was being dragged to his corner. Blood streamed down his chin, his flabby body spent. Several of his
front teeth were lost in the sawdust, but no one was going to look for them. It was the victor of the grudge match, not the loser, who drew the crowd’s adoration.

Billy raised his fists above his head and gave Winnie’s two-fingered salute. He was victorious! The men beneath him roared in approval. Two years ago in this very yard they had given him
the thumbs down. He remembered that first thrashing as if it was yesterday. Could still taste the humiliation as he’d grovelled on the ground, wondering if a tram had hit him. He’d only
clawed back a grudging respect when he bit off a chunk from the Fat Man’s ear. Now the crowd at the Rose and Crown worshipped him.

Billy revelled in the limelight. What a brilliant right jab! The man’s teeth had met with a crack, his tongue in between them. He’d still been screaming when Billy had dealt a low
punch that would see him walking with a stoop for a week. There was no coming back from that and Billy knew it.

‘You done it, Billy my lad,’ Taffy shouted at him. ‘They love you. You’re the champ!’

Billy was high as a kite. He had never felt so good. ‘I can beat ’em all, Taff. Every last one of them.’

‘You can, boyo, indeed you can.’

‘I’m gonna celebrate, buy a few beers.’

Taffy took his arm and pushed him to the stable door. Inside smelled of horse dung and ale. ‘Celebrate tomorrow, Billy. When you’ve calmed down.’

‘But me mates are waiting.’

Taffy pushed him on a barrel. He flung a towel in his face. ‘They’re not mates, Billy boy, they’re leeches.’

‘Just give me my share,’ Billy demanded, standing up. ‘I earned it fair and square.’

‘If I do, it’ll be gone by the morning.’

‘Leave off, Taff, you’re not me father.’

‘I’m not trying to be, lad. I’m just looking out for your business interests. You gotta remember you’re only as good as your last fight.’

Billy threw the towel aside. ‘All I seem to get from you these days are scraps with fat gits.’

Taffy looked insulted. ‘I’ll ignore that, Billy, owing to your excitement.’

‘I want to box, Taff. You promised.’ Billy felt as if he was about to explode. Why couldn’t Taffy see the talent in front of him? He knew for certain he could box at the
British Legion if only Taffy would pull his finger out.’

‘We’ll talk about it soon, lad.’

Billy grabbed his shirt and pushed past Taffy.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To drown my sorrows.’ Billy strode out to his friends. They cheered when they saw him and followed him into the pub. Billy ordered drinks all round, assuaging his pride, but not
the anger that was smouldering inside him.

‘Name your poison, chum.’

Billy was in the Rose and Crown, his head reeling pleasantly. ‘I’ll have another pint if you insist.’

‘Good fight,’ said Freddie Smith, signalling the barman for two more ales.

‘Yeah, for me it was anyway.’

‘Get that down you.’

Billy took a hefty gulp. He was getting his revenge on Taffy and enjoying his freedom. He was skint, but the barman knew the fight would cover his slate. At least Freddie had the decency to buy
a round, and, to Billy’s surprise, was telling him all the things he wanted to hear.

After all, who did Taffy think he was? In reality he was a failed Welsh lightweight turned cockney roofer. He hadn’t thrown a punch in years. Well, bollocks to Taffy. This last fight had
proved a big point. Billy was ready to box. If winning his last six fights on the trot wasn’t experience, he didn’t know what was.

And his opinion on the subject had been confirmed many times over this evening. All his mates were of one mind. He could knock spots off any fist fighter this side of the river. Why
wouldn’t Taffy see sense?

‘You were a right hard case today,’ said Freddie, looking at Billy in admiration. ‘The other bloke made twice of you, but you wore him down.’

‘That was me plan.’ Billy nodded, gulping his ale.

‘Then you landed those crafty jabs. It was a shock to the other geezer. Could see it in his eyes.’

Billy stood tall as a chum on the other side of the bar gave him the thumbs up. Another patted him on the back. ‘I’m quick on my feet and stay out of range. That’s where they
all go wrong, see? They think one wallop and I’ll be on the floor. But I fool them all.’

‘Anyone can see that,’ his companion agreed. ‘You’ve got a career ahead of you.’

‘I know.’ Billy frowned in consternation. ‘That is if I can get Taffy to set me up with gloves.’

‘You want to box?’

For the first time Billy really studied the man standing beside him. He was dressed in a suit and tie, unlike the majority of dockers and stevedores who drank in the pub. ‘Yeah,
that’s the plan, anyway.’

‘Well, a nice little southpaw like you should go places.’

Billy looked surprised. ‘You reckon I’m a southpaw?’

‘With a right hook like that, what else? Take it from me, I should know. I’m in the management line myself.’

Billy’s eyes opened wider. ‘No kidding?’

‘Remember Joe Wallace, the middleweight from Lancashire, and Archie Johns, flyweight, from across the border? Little Willie Faulkner from Skegness?’ He glanced at Billy sideways.
‘Course you’ve probably not heard of them. A bit before your time.’

Billy racked his brains. ‘Was they really your boys?’

‘They were, but they’ve all done so well they’ve pissed off to the States now.’

‘America!’ Billy yelped, spilling his drink. ‘That’s where I’m headed.’

‘Not surprised,’ Freddie agreed casually. ‘You’re wasted here.’ He held up his hands apologetically. ‘No offence to Taffy – but pub yards? Do me a
favour, they’re carve-ups.’

Billy swallowed hard. This was someone in the business who he could respect. Freddie signalled the barman for top-ups. When their glasses were filled he turned to Billy and frowned. ‘How
much is Taffy’s rake-off?’

Billy considered this. ‘I get five pounds if I win or not.’

‘Yes, but how much does he get?’

‘Dunno. Never asked.’

Freddie nodded slowly, leaning his elbows on the bar. ‘Taffy is probably pocketing four times as much as you.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Keep it under your hat, of
course.’

Billy tried to do his sums. He’d never thought about Taffy’s earnings, just as long as he was getting his. Four times five was . . . Billy frowned, his brain working overtime. About
twenty, wasn’t it? Blimey, enough, anyway. And it was him, Billy, who was doing all the work!

‘See what I mean?’ The blue eyes narrowed.

‘Yeah, I do.’

‘So ask yourself this. Why would Taffy want to change things? You wouldn’t get much for a three-rounder with gloves. You’d start right at the bottom again, to prove yourself
like.’

‘Would I?’ Billy hadn’t thought of that either.

‘Your man is on to an earner with the pub larks. He’s not planning to see the back of it, is he? You’re an unlicensed fighter, so the bookie loves you, chum. But as a rookie
boxer you’d be earning peanuts.’

Suddenly it all fell into place. All Billy’s protests to Taffy to let him box, all useless as he wouldn’t be making them any money.

Billy’s shoulders slumped. He pushed his hands down in his trouser pockets and tried to think straight. Freddie smacked his lips. ‘I’ve got to go, son.’ He gave Billy a
pat on the shoulder. Then, turning, he pushed his way through the evening drinkers and disappeared.

Billy tried to use his befuddled brain. What was he to do? He felt he was sliding into a pit he’d never be able to climb out of. He stared around him. At the unflattering décor and
the dirty tables, the shabby clientele, his mates. He was champ all right, but of what? All in all, he had nothing and was nothing and would go on being nothing unless . . .

He fought his way through the crowd, deaf to the flattery that an hour ago he was thriving on. The street was dark, the blackout still well in force. He looked to his left and saw Freddie just
turning the corner.

‘Freddie, wait!’ Billy caught him up. ‘Will you take me on?’

‘I don’t know about that, son.’

‘Why?’

‘Dunno that it’d pay me—’

‘I’d take what you give me, I just want to box. To prove meself to everyone. All I need is a chance.’

Freddie looked at him, then, leaning casually against the wall and ignoring the blackout, drew out a packet of cigarettes. Lighting up, he nodded thoughtfully. ‘We’ll have another
little chat sometime.’

‘When?’

‘Dunno. Tomorrow night maybe.’

‘Where?’

Freddie shrugged, blowing smoke into the night air. ‘Here.’

Billy watched him saunter away. He was filled with hope, yet was he being disloyal to Taffy? Well, he hadn’t done anything yet. And if Taffy wanted to keep him, then he’d have to
match what Freddie could do.

‘F
ive bob says our office is first for the chop,’ Len English muttered to Connie as they joined the queue in the corridor outside Mr
Dalton’s rooms. ‘They’ve got to make cuts with business going downhill like it has.’

‘The government might step in,’ Connie posed. ‘And take us over for the war effort.’

‘They could have their own people,’ Len speculated as they moved forward. ‘We might prove expendable.’

‘No one’s expendable in war. Everyone has to do something,’ Connie whispered as they entered the large outer office that was usually strictly off limits to the staff and
reserved for Mr Dalton’s sole use. In front of them were rows of wooden chairs placed neatly in front of a small raised platform.

‘Blimey, this looks official,’ Len muttered as they filed in and sat down.

‘I’ve never been in here before.’ Ada looked cautiously around the room as the thirty or so other clerical workers and members of the typing pool joined them. Rumours had
abounded as scarcity of petrol had crippled Dalton’s transport services. The import and exportation of food, vegetables and household goods had sunk to an all time low as the war had
intensified. Government inspectors had visited the shop floor; Dalton’s, it was said, was ripe for requisitioning.

‘The ball-bearings factory up the road needs staff,’ Ada whispered suspiciously. ‘But if they think I’d work in one of them factories, they can think again. My
fingernails would chip something rotten and I couldn’t stand the noise of those machines! Bang, crash in your ears all the time.’ She frowned across Len, who was sitting between them.
‘Anyway, I’m a trained shorthand typist like you, Con. Why should we work on a shop floor?’

‘Because you’ll have to, if that’s what the government wants,’ Len intervened. ‘You don’t get a choice, Ada. None of us do.’

‘Well, I’d rather piss off somewhere else,’ Ada said indignantly. ‘Sign up for the Land Army even.’

‘Can’t see you looking after pigs when you can’t even stand the smell of fish in the canteen.’ Len smiled ruefully. ‘And, anyway, what about Wally?’

Ada shrugged carelessly. ‘What about him? He don’t even notice me around most of the time. And to tell you the truth, sharing a stable with a horse would be an improvement on living
with his sister. At least horses don’t criticize and keep telling you how lucky you are to have a roof over your head. And they don’t pinch your clothes or spy on you, either! When I
complain to Wally all he does is tell me to stop nagging and make the best of things. It would teach him a lesson if I left.’

Connie knew things between Ada and Wally were at an all time low. But would she really consider joining the Land Army just for spite?

‘Shh, ladies.’ Len jerked his head as Mr Burns and Mr Layman, the workforce manager, entered the room and ascended the platform. Mr Dalton, leaning heavily on his stick, followed at
a snail’s pace, aided by his secretary, Miss Cummings.

What changes, Connie wondered, were in store for the employees of this once lucrative, but now ailing family firm? The bells of victory had been ringing over Britain for the last two days, the
first time since the threat of invasion in 1939. General Montgomery had won the battle of El Alamein. Germany’s Afrika Korps had been plundered in the deserts of North Africa. The British had
reason to celebrate and had been doing so for longer than twenty-four hours. But here at Dalton’s everyone was waiting anxiously for bad news.

Connie stared unseeingly through the tall windows at the dense grey morning beyond. The weather reflected the mood inside, air heavy with mist from the river as it rolled over the glass. This
was the way the river worked, unpredictable in its nature, as was the war.