The Camberwell Raid (3 page)

‘Thirty-five shillings, Horace.’

Horace whistled.

‘Handsome, very handsome,’ he said. ‘We could think about buyin’ the house we’re goin’ to rent in Kennington Park Place. Who’s goin’ to take charge of our earnings?’

‘I am,’ said Sally, ‘and I’ll give you some of yours back each week for pocket money.’

‘Hold on—’

‘I’m sure your dad gives your mum his earnings,’ said Sally, ‘and I know my dad gives his to my mum. It’s traditional.’

‘Sounds crafty to me,’ said Horace. ‘Let’s toss for it.’

‘Not likely,’ said Sally, ‘I might lose. Anyway, the job’ll only last until – well, until.’

‘Until what?’ said Horace.

‘Oh, I’ll leave that to you, lovey,’ said Sally.

‘I get it,’ said Horace, ‘you mean until – well, until.’

‘Yes, that’s it,’ said Sally.

‘Who’s blushing?’ asked Horace.

‘Not me,’ said Sally.

‘Must be me, then,’ said Horace.

‘This is it,’ said Dusty Miller, a few minutes after Ginger Carstairs had arrived in his lodgings in Stead Street, Walworth. He produced a plank of stout timber, ten inches wide, two inches thick and a yard long. Six inches from the end of the plank a semi-circle, three inches deep, had been cut out of it. ‘That drops over the handle, Ginger, and the plank then bars the door on the outside. Which means?’

‘The door can’t be pulled open from the inside,’ said Ginger Carstairs.

‘You’re right first time,’ said Miller.

‘Well, of course I bloody well am,’ said Carstairs, as much of a cold-eyed character as Miller was, ‘it was my idea, wasn’t it?’

‘Now don’t get shirty,’ said Miller.

‘Listen, the whole thing’s my baby, and that puts me in charge,’ said Carstairs. ‘So I’ll point out you’ll need to drill a hole at the other end of the plank to
take
a long nail. One blow from a hammer has got to drive the nail into the door to hold the plank in place, or it’ll swing downwards and drop away from the handle. And there won’t be time for more than one blow. Have you got that?’

‘The hole’s already drilled,’ said Miller. ‘I’m a professional, and the next time I’m way behind an amateur will be the first’

‘Some professional, considering you’ve slipped up and done time,’ said Carstairs.

Miller growled.

‘Just a few months for handling stolen goods,’ he said.

‘I haven’t done any,’ said Carstairs.

‘Well, you wouldn’t have, would you?’ said Miller. ‘This is your first job. What was it you said made you join the free-booters?’

‘I’m a rebel in search of quick riches, that’s what I said.’

‘So you did,’ said Miller. ‘When d’you get the shooter?’

‘In good time,’ said Carstairs.

‘Hope you realize that if we’re copped, it’ll be a long stretch for both of us,’ said Miller. ‘At the Old Bailey, no-one likes shooters.’

‘You can’t rob a bank with a bow and arrow,’ said Carstairs.

‘I’m still not sure we can do without a driver and a running engine,’ said Miller.

‘I’m not in favour of a three-way split,’ said Carstairs. ‘I’ll do the driving, as agreed. Now, let’s go through the plan again.’

A COUPLE OF
days later, Tim confided to Rosie that he thought Eloise was getting to be a bit sugary with their dad, that she behaved as if she owned him.

‘Never mind, Tim old thing,’ said Rosie, ‘it won’t last, and the reason why it’s happening is because for years Eloise hasn’t had a father or even known there was one around. Think how lucky you and I have been, we’ve had Boots to ourselves for years and years. We can put up with Eloise making claims on him now, can’t we?’

‘Yes, but it’s “let’s go to the park” or “let’s go out” all the time,’ said Tim, ‘and it’s just said to Dad and it only ever means her and Dad.’

‘And what does Dad do?’ asked Rosie.

‘Oh, he says, “Good idea, let’s all go.”’ Tim grinned at what that meant. It meant his dad played fair and square.

‘Yes,’ said Rosie. ‘You see, Tim, no-one’s ever going to own all of Boots. Well, no-one should ever completely own any of us. But there are weak men and women who let it happen, who become dominated by one particular person. Heavens, Tim, that must be like being dead. A sense of belonging is much the best thing, old lad, not possessiveness or being possessed. That’s very special, a sense of belonging to the ones we most want to belong to.
For
us, for you and me, it’s belonging to Boots and Emily, and the rest of our family.’

‘I suppose you know you’ve got into the habit of saying Boots and Emily instead of Mum and Dad, do you?’ said Tim.

‘Have I?’ Rosie smiled. ‘Oh, well, I’m probably allowing university to make me precocious. Nana will have something to say to me when she realizes it.’

‘Funny she never minds anyone in the family calling her Chinese Lady,’ said Tim.

‘Oh, that goes back years and years, Tim, to when your dad, your uncles and your Aunt Lizzy were all precocious themselves. Precocious kids.’ Rosie laughed. ‘Can you see your dad as a kid?’

‘Can you?’ asked Tim.

‘No, only as the lovely kind man I first knew as a child,’ said Rosie, ‘when I first wanted to belong to him. So we must be nice to Eloise because she spent seventeen whole years without knowing she belonged to him at all.’

‘Rosie, you’re the best girl ever,’ said Tim, ‘and no feller could have a nicer sister.’

‘Well, you’re not so bad yourself, are you, old lad?’ said Rosie, and lightly ruffled his hair. ‘Shout if you ever need help. I’ll hear you, because I’ll always be somewhere around.’

‘Good on you, Rosie,’ said Tim.

The following morning, Saturday, saw sunshine and the disappearance of all traces of snow. But some people who’d put their winter woollies back on weren’t sure about leaving them off again. This problem didn’t bother a certain Lilian Hyams, for she never wore such things. A fashion designer in
the
exclusive employ of Adams fashions, Lilian was now living in her own little house, two up, two down, in King and Queen Street, Walworth. By reason of Sammy Adams’s generous monetary appreciation of her talents, Lilian had become almost affluent. Well, affluent enough to buy the house, which Sammy had found for her. It was close to East Street market, and she liked the markets of London, as most of her kind did. A war widow, her husband having been killed on the Somme, Lilian at thirty-nine had left her years of mourning and privation far behind to bloom into a lush-looking, healthy brunette with velvety brown eyes that sometimes reminded Sammy of Rachel Goodman’s lustrous orbs. Lilian had recently attracted the admiration and attention of Abel Morrison, owner of a shop in the market. Since Mr Morrison was decidedly portly and accordingly a strain on his waistcoats, Lilian did her best to keep her distance. The bloke was kind enough, but Lilian, while owning a fulsome figure herself, had no real liking for surplus flesh on men. If she could have had anybody, it would have been Sammy Adams who, in her eyes, was the most electrifying man in the rag trade. Unfortunately, Sammy was the doting husband of his wife Susie. Otherwise, for the pleasure of being his wife herself, Lilian would have willingly converted to the Christian faith. Ah, well, from around some corner somewhere, someday, there might appear a lovely bloke akin to Sammy. Mind, at her age, she didn’t want to wait too long.

Coming out of her house to begin her journey to the Adams factory in Shoreditch, she bumped into the milkman. Well, there he was, right on her doorstep, in his white working-coat and peaked cap.

‘Hello, hello,’ he said, retreating from her private person, ‘what’s all the hurry, then, missus?’

‘Are you a policeman?’ asked Lilian.

‘No, your new milkman,’ said Bill Chambers.

‘Then what d’you mean by addressing me like a bobby?’ asked Lilian, looking him over. He was an improvement, physically, on the previous milkman, Ernie, who was something of an old codger.

‘I’m Bill, not Bobby, missus, and I’ve been deliverin’ your milk all this week. Old Ernie’s gone to his rest.’

‘My life, he’s dead?’ said Lilian.

‘Old Ernie?’ said Bill. ‘Not him. Last for ever, he will. No, he’s retired.’

‘I should be bamboozled by having you tell me he’s gone to his rest as if he’d passed away?’ said Lilian.

‘No, he’s gone to live with his widowed sister in her country cottage by Chislehurst,’ said Bill, healthy-looking and muscular. ‘She’ll see to his feet.’

‘His feet?’ said Lilian.

‘Well, you could say it’s his feet that have gone to their rest,’ said Bill informatively. ‘After treading these here pavements for forty year and more, they’ve earned it, and his sister’ll see they get it, and find him a cosy pair of slippers into the bargain, I shouldn’t wonder. I’ve taken over his round. I’ve been fortuitously promoted.’

‘You’ve been what?’ said Lilian.

‘It’s a fact, missus, seeing my previous round was near the Elephant and Castle. Any round near there puts a bloke in danger of being run over six times a day.’

‘Six?’ said Lilian. ‘But wouldn’t once be enough?’

‘Beg yer pardon?’ said Bill.

‘Run over once, wouldn’t that be enough for anybody?’ asked Lilian.

A grin appeared on the new milkman’s face and he took a more interested look at his customer. Lilian allowed the survey. He then referred to his customers’ book.

‘You’re Mrs Hyams?’ he said.

‘I am,’ said Lilian.

‘Might I say I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs Hyams?’

‘Might I ask why it’s pleasing?’

‘Search me,’ said Bill, ‘except it’s just a sudden feeling that’s taken up residence.’

‘Are you always like this?’ asked Lilian, who hadn’t met many milkmen quite as vocal as he was.

‘Like what, lady?’

‘Talkative,’ said Lilian.

‘Only since I was born,’ said Bill. ‘Well, accordin’ to my old lady, I came into the world with my mouth open and asking where Paddington railway station was. Well, some do, some don’t, y’know. Might I ask if you’re goin’ out, seeing you’ve got your coat and titfer on?’

‘Yes, I’m going to my job,’ said Lilian.

‘I’m holdin’ you up,’ said Bill. ‘Well, there’s your milk, on your step. Any eggs?’

‘Eggs?’ said Lilian.

‘New-laid, fresh from the dairy’s country farm in Hampstead, and now available to all our customers,’ said Bill.

‘Not today, thank you,’ said Lilian.

‘Well, just leave a note in one of the empties any time you’re thinking of makin’ an egg custard,’ said Bill. ‘I’ll be round again this afternoon to
collect
what’s owing on your bill, seeing it’s a Saturday. Won’t keep you now. Good day to you, Mrs Hyams, it’s been promising to have had the pleasure of meetin’ you personally.’

‘Promising?’ said Lilian, hiding a smile. ‘Why promising?’

‘I don’t know how that slipped out,’ said Bill, ‘I’m a reserved bloke normally.’

‘My life, are you sure you are?’ asked Lilian.

‘You noticed, I daresay,’ said Bill.

‘Not so far,’ said Lilian, and laughed.

‘So long, lady,’ said Bill, and returned to his float. Although milk churns and cans had been superseded by bottled milk, the Walworth dairy’s floats were still horse-drawn, and Bill gave his nag a pat that set it into motion. Lilian took the bottle of milk through to her kitchen larder, and then left the house. She passed the milkman and his float on her way to Browning Street and the bus stop. He watched her. Her coat was stylish and her hat, of light brown chamois, was fur-trimmed. She looked expensively kitted out, and Bill wondered if her husband had a job as well. You didn’t see a lot of expensive clothes in Walworth. Nor too many women as handsome as she was. Lucky old Hyams, whoever he was.

At the Shoreditch factory, Lilian spent part of the morning supervising the delicate finishing touches to two bridal gowns, one for a young lady called Cassie Ford, the other for Susie’s sister Sally. Sally was Sammy’s sister-in-law, Cassie well-known to Sammy and the rest of the Adamses. To strengthen the relationship, Cassie was marrying Sally’s younger brother Freddy. The brides-to-be had had their first fitting of the gowns, both of white silk and designed
to
float. Lilian’s main problem had been to ensure that one gown did not outshine the other, for it was to be a double wedding in St John’s Church, and Lilian herself would be there.

Finishing at twelve noon with the rest of the factory staff, she was back home before one. She treated herself to a light lunch, then changed into a costume for her Saturday shopping expedition. The sunshine had brought warmth and she did not need a coat. But she put on a light hat.

Opening her front door she almost repeated the process of bumping into the new milkman.

‘I should believe this?’ she said with a smile.

Bill Chambers, customers’ book in his hand, said, ‘Have I had the pleasure, missus?’

‘What pleasure?’ asked Lilian.

‘Of meetin’ you personally?’

‘Only for about ten minutes at twenty-to-eight this morning,’ said Lilian. The factory began work at eight, and Lilian usually got there at about eight-fifteen. ‘You informed me that old Ernie’s feet had gone to their rest at his sister’s.’

‘Well, so I did,’ said Bill. ‘I’m complimented that you remembered. Might I say I’m admirin’ of your togs?’

Lilian looked extremely well-dressed in her brown costume and pristine white blouse. She liked the feel of good clothes.

‘Does your dairy encourage you to comment on your customers’ togs?’ she asked, smiling.

‘Not precisely,’ said Bill, ‘nor exactly, either. Polite’s the word for our relationship with one and all, missus. No familiarities. Still, I know a nicely attired lady when I see one. Now let’s see,
one
pint of milk Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays. That’s one-and-fourpence for this week. Wait a tick – any eggs?’

‘You asked me that this morning,’ said Lilian.

‘Did I?’ said Bill, and pushed his peaked cap back a bit, and scratched his hair with his pencil. ‘Well, it’s new, y’know, egg availability, and I’m givin’ the good news to all my customers. Would you like some?’

‘Not today, thank you,’ said Lilian. ‘I’ll slip a note into an empty when I’m in need.’