Tuppence to Tooley Street (17 page)

The second week of July remained warm and sunny, but now the street drains began to smell and the pavements were hot and dusty. The council water cart plied in and out of the backstreets laying the dust and swilling the drains while children jumped in and out of twirling skipping ropes and chased marbles along the gutters. In Dawson Street, old Charlie Perkins sat watching the daily spectacle. Charlie’s leathery features were composed and serene; from time to time his eyes drooped and his head nodded. The children of the street left him alone and Charlie gave them little thought. When little ones chased a bouncing ball or a skidding marble they passed him as they would the lamppost, for Charlie was inscrutable.

In the next street Danny started his job as street bookie. His pitch was in an ever-open doorway at number 18 Clink Lane. The little turning looked very much the same as Dawson Street, with two rows of terraced houses and a railway arch at one end, but unlike Danny’s road there were a couple of tiny shops wedged between the tumbledown houses. In Sadie Frost’s window flies buzzed around sticky toffee apples and Liquorice Allsorts and crawled over boxes of wine gums and sherbet dips. A little way along on the other side of the turning was a boot mender, where Sammy Hopgood sat for most of the day with a line of brads clenched between his teeth as he concentrated on shaping and nailing new leather onto wornout footwear. The tap-tap of Sammy’s heavy snobbing hammer continued constantly throughout the day. A few doors along from Sammy’s was Mrs Coombes’s house. Her brood was large and fatherless–Reg Coombes had met with a fatal accident at the tram depot when his youngest was only a few months old, and his wife Ginny had been left to bring up their seven children. Ginny’s door was always open–there were so many comings and goings at number 18 that she found it easier that way. Tony Allen was quick to take advantage of the fact, and it suited him to have a bolthole for his bookie when the police dashed into the turning for a pinch. The arrangements suited Ginny as the payment she received for her co-operation paid her rent and bought a few bits and pieces for her children.

The week had started well for Danny. Most of the street folk knew him, and his helper Tubby Smith was able to clue him up about a few awkward punters. On Wednesday Danny was left on his own, but on Thursday Tony Allen popped into the turning with a worried look on his face. ‘They’ve got a new Chief Inspector down at Riverside nick. I’ve just ’ad Fat Stan come in ter see me, ’e reckons the Chief’s wavin’ the big stick. They’ve got some raids set up fer termorrer. The dice players are in fer it an’ so are we.’

Danny winced. ‘Bloody ’ell, they ain’t given us much time ter get used ter the job, ’ave they?’

Tony Allen nodded. ‘Don’t worry, Johnny Ross is gonna’ave a word wiv Bonky Williams. ’E might do the honours fer us. You know this Bonky, don’t yer? Is ’e reliable?’

Danny thought about it. Bonky was okay, but things always seemed to go strangely haywire when he was involved. He could be a walking disaster. Suppressing his fears Danny nodded. ‘Bonky’s a good lad, ’e’ll know what ter do.’

That evening a subdued family sat down to their tea at number 26 Dawson Street. Lucy had come in with the news that Ben had been summoned to a medical and Connie was upset too–the news broadcasts reported heavy sea battles in which there had been many losses. She picked at her meal and then left the table hurriedly. Later, Danny listened at her door and heard her crying. He tapped gently and walked in. Connie’s face was wet and puffy, and her eyes were red. Danny sat on the edge of her bed and picked at the counterpane.

‘Don’t yer worry, Con,’ he said quietly, ‘Jimmy’s all right.’E’ll be ’ome soon, you see if ’e’s not.’

Connie dabbed at her eyes. ‘I ’ad an ’orrible dream the uvver night. I dreamt Jimmy was callin’ me. I saw ’im plain as day, but I couldn’t move. ’E was in the sea an’ ’e ’eld out ’is ’and. I tried ter reach ’im, but it was no good. It was really ’orrible, Danny.’

Danny put his arm around her shoulders and she buried her head in his chest. He could feel her sobbing gently as he stroked her fair hair.

‘’E’ll be all right. In any case, you shouldn’t take notice o’ dreams. ’Ere, I’ve got somefink ter make yer laugh. The police are gonna do a pinch termorrer, and who d’yer fink’s gonna get nicked?’

There was concern in Connie’s eyes as she looked up at him. ‘Not you?’

Danny laughed aloud. ‘Not me. They’ve set Bonky up fer the pinch. ’E’ll get six months ’ard labour if ’e takes ’is eye out in front o’ the magistrate.’

Connie laughed, and for a moment her face relaxed, but then she went quiet again. After a while she looked up. ‘Danny,’ she said, ‘who was that letter from, or is it a closely guarded secret?’

Danny leaned against the bedrail. ‘It’s no secret from you. I met a nurse in the ’ospital at Dover. ’Er name’s Alison an’ I’m seein’ ’er on Sunday. She’s comin’ on leave. But don’t tell the others-I don’t want ’em ragging me!’

Connie grinned. ‘What’s she like? Is she pretty?’

Her brother pursed his lips. ‘She’s fat and cuddly, with bright ginger ’air. I’ve never took a fat girl out, it’ll make a nice change.’

Connie threw her pillow at him and Danny caught it. ‘No, she’s pretty–like you,’ he said, tossing the pillow back at her.

 

Bonky Williams was feeling important. He paced up and down Clink Lane with a smirk on his face and his hands clasped behind his back. He had had a ‘Trotsky’ haircut and a shave, and he had put on his best coat, even though the morning was warm.

Danny had just finished paying out a punter when Bonky strolled by. He called out sharply, ‘Don’t go wanderin’ too far, you’re s’posed ter be on ’and.’

Bonky grinned and scratched his cropped head. ‘Don’t worry, I know what ter do.’ He had been given two one pound notes to pay the fine, and two more for his trouble, and a few fake betting slips to put in his pocket as evidence.

In Riverside Police Station Detective Constable Stockbridge –Fat Stan–was feeling irritable. On the rare occasions he had to arrest the bookies his income had suffered. He was on the take, but he was proud of his integrity, and it was unthinkable for him to go around nicking the bookies and still hold his hand out. It wasn’t right, he rued. Why did that bloody inspector have to go and get caught peeping through the dormitory windows at the hostel for young women? Bloody old pervert. Now there was a new chief at the station, and he had turned out a right bleeder.

Fat Stan mumbled angrily to himself as he raised his considerable bulk from the canteen chair. ‘Better get goin’. Musn’t ferget me ole Rennies.’

At eleven–thirty a police car pulled up at the end of Clink Lane and Fat Stan got out. At the other end of the turning a police constable stood in a concealed position under the railway arch. Danny had spotted the car draw up and he shouted out to Bonky. ‘’Old tight! ’Ere they are!’

Bonky Williams was ready. He was determined to make the pinch look genuine. As Danny slipped into Ginny Coombes’s passageway and slammed the front door, Bonky did a quick shuffle. Fat Stan came waddling down the street and already he was puffing. Bonky took off in the direction of the arch, with Fat Stan in hot pursuit.

‘Stand still yer soppy git,’ the fat policeman gasped. ‘’Ow am I s’posed ter catch yer?’

Bonky looked over his shoulder and grinned evilly as he trotted on.

PC Entwhistle was observing. He had been told to stay put under the arch and just observe. No one had told him that a dangerous–looking character would be fleeing from the strong arm of the law, and in his direction. PC Entwhistle braced himself. It would be a feather in his cap if he was able to apprehend a dangerous criminal. Fat Stan was a few yards behind Bonky and puffing like a concertina. His face was scarlet, and he was concentrating on what he would do once he got the idiot to the station. PC Entwhistle suddenly jumped out in front of Bonky, but he ducked neatly under his outstretched arm and carried on running through the arch. But Fat Stan could not stop in time and he crashed into the startled constable. They fell in a tangle of arms and legs.

‘Get yer big feet orf me chest, yer stupid oaf,’ Fat Stan gasped out. ‘Yer’ve let ’im get away. The chief’ll ’ave me guts fer garters.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ PC Entwhistle blurted out, attempting to get Fat Stan up from the ground.

‘Don’t worry about me! Get after ’im fer Gawd’s sake!’ Fat Stan screamed.

The crestfallen constable ran through the arch and looked both ways. Bonky had disappeared. As he stood nibbling at his chinstrap PC Entwhistle felt a tap on his back.

‘Excuse me officer.’

He turned around and saw a little old lady standing there looking very flustered.

‘What is it, madam?’

The old lady took out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. ‘It’s me Bertie, I’m afraid ’e’s gorn.’

‘Gorn, madam? You mean ’e’s dead?’

‘Oh, I do ’ope not,’ replied the diminutive old lady, dabbing at her eyes again.

Fat Stan had now reached the constable and had just opened his mouth to bark out some choice profanities when he saw the old lady standing there. He slapped his hand to his forehead in frustration. ‘Christ!’ he muttered, tramping off past them along the road.

‘I’m afraid it was my fault,’ the old lady went on. ‘You see Bertie was naughty. I didn’t give ’im any supper last night. ’E smashed me best vase, you see.’

PC Entwhistle took out his notepad. Things were going wrong for him today, he decided. Maybe if he could solve the mystery of Bertie it would redeem him in the eyes of his superiors.

‘Please ’elp me find ’im, Officer. I’m frightened ’e’ll kill’imself,’ the old lady sobbed.

‘Don’t worry, madam, we’ll see what we can do,’ the constable said, sucking on his pencil stub. ‘I’ll need a few particulars. Now then, full name, age, and description.’

The old lady sighed. ‘Bertie Smith. ’E’s about two, an’ ’e’s blue and yeller.’

PC Entwhistle bit through his pencil. ‘Blue an’ yeller?’ he echoed incredulously.

‘Well, sort of. ’E sings luv’ly, ’cept last night when I scolded ’im. What ’appened was, I let ’im out of the cage an’ ’e flew inter me best vase, an’ it smashed. “There will be no need fer you ternight”, I said and Bertie knew I meant it.’

‘Just a minute, lady,’ the constable said, puckering his forehead. ‘You’re talkin’ about a bird?’

‘Of course. Bertie’s my little budgie. I left the scullery door open an’ Bertie jus’ flew away. I ’ope those nasty cats ’aven’t got ’im.’

PC Entwhistle put his notepad back into his breast pocket. ‘I’ll keep me eye open, madam,’ he said with a frown. ‘What’s your address?’

‘A hundred an’ eleven Bermon’sey Lane. I’m on the top floor. You’ll ’ave ter give two knocks, an’ if ’er downstairs answers yer’ll ’ave ter shout. She’s very deaf yer know.’

‘All right, madam, leave it ter me.’

‘You’d better write it down, Officer, you might ferget.’

‘I won’t ferget, madam. One blue an’ yeller budgie, answers ter the name of Bertie Smith. Okay?’

Satisfied that she had done everything possible to secure Bertie’s return, the old lady toddled off. PC Entwhistle blew out his cheeks. He was only half–way through his shift, he had already allowed a criminal to escape, and now he was saddled with a missing budgie report. A policeman’s lot is not always a happy one, he thought grimly.

Fat Stan was fuming. He stood against a wall while he recovered his breath and cursed the stupid idiot he had been chasing, and he cursed the constable who had caused him to lose his pinch. When he felt less exhausted Fat Stan walked slowly back to Clink Lane railway arch. The constable was still waiting there, hands behind his back. Stan gave him a blinding look. Bloody war, he thought to himself, they’re taking anyone on the Force these days.

‘No luck, sir?’ Constable Entwhistle asked.

‘Does it look like it?’ Stan sneered.

At that moment Bonky decided it was time to give himself up to justice. He had realised there was a slip–up in the proceedings when he trotted out of the arch. His pursuer was not behind him. Puzzled, Bonky had popped into the little tobacconists on the corner of Bermondsey Lane for a packet of Woodbines. He knew the shopkeeper, and they began to chat away. Now, as he stepped from the shop and saw the two policemen standing by the arch, Bonky could see by the expressions on their faces that all was not well. He ambled up to them and took the betting slips from his pocket. ‘’Ere, you’d better ’ave these,’ he said, looking sheepishly at Fat Stan.

PC Entwhistle reached for his truncheon, just in case Bonky should cut up rough.

‘All right, all right, I’ll deal wiv this,’ the fat detective growled, taking a handful of Bonky’s best coat in his grasp. ‘C’mon you, jus’ wait till I get you down the nick.’

As quick as a flash Bonky put his hand up to his face and called out, ‘Mind me eye.’

As Fat Stan steered him along Clink Lane Bonky brought his bunched fist down from his face and slowly unclenched it. A glass eye stared up at Fat Stan.

The detective gagged. ‘Put that bleedin’ eye in yer pocket,’ he shouted, his face white. ‘An’ don’t give me any more trouble. You’re already on a good ’idin’ when I get yer down the station.’

Bonky walked on passively beside the puffing detective. The police car had gone and Fat Stan cursed. ‘That’s anuvver one I owe yer, makin’ me walk all the way ter Dock’ead.’

Bonky was beginning to feel depressed. Two pounds had seemed a good bargain when Johnny Ross put the deal to him. Getting a good hiding wasn’t in the deal. ‘Jus’ wait till I see that cripple bastard,’ Bonky mumbled.

‘What’s that?’ Fat Stan spat out.

‘Nuffink, jus’ finkin’.’

‘Well keep yer poxy thoughts ter yerself.’

Behind lace curtains at number 18 Danny sat with Ginny Coombes. They stared out into the street for a time before Danny spoke. ‘I can’t understand it. Fat Stan should’ve got ’old of Bonky an’ brought ’im back by now.’