On Mother Brown's Doorstep (22 page)

‘My compliments,’ said Sammy. ‘Right, then, with considerable feeling I’ve got to admit Bert has his back to the wall, and Gertie and the girls likewise. So what I propose is that when the time comes, if it does, we’ll run a banner outside the fact’ry. What’ll be on it, you’ll ask.’

‘Yes, I’ll ask,’ said Tommy.

Sammy quoted what he had in mind.

‘ADAMS FASHIONS SUPPORT THE STARVING
FAMILIES
OF THE STRIKING WORKERS WITH DONATIONS FROM STAFF AND EMPLOYERS – DROP YOUR OWN DONATIONS IN THE BUCKET.’

‘Bloody ’ell,’ said Bert.

‘Watch yer language,’ said Gertie.

‘Yer a bleedin’ genius, guv,’ said Bert.

‘Hold on,’ said Tommy, ‘I’m not approvin’ donations my girls can’t afford, Sammy.’ Tommy, in daily touch with his staff of seamstresses, knew just how hard-up most of them were, and how much they relied on the weekly bonuses they were paid on the understanding such payments weren’t made known outside the factory. Sammy knew the girls generally, Tommy knew them individually, and Tommy had the softest heart of Chinese Lady’s three sons.

‘If I might continue?’ said Sammy.

‘Keep it simple,’ said Tommy.

‘My proposition,’ said Sammy, who wasn’t partial to words of one syllable, ‘is that everyone donates half their wages while the strike’s on, and that this sacrifice is gen’rally made known. It can also be communicated to the local paper. I’ll donate the same amount, which’ll be the sum total of all the staff donations.’

‘Strike a light,’ breathed Bert.

‘Good of your pocket, Sammy,’ said Tommy, ‘but nothing doin’ as far as the girls are concerned. They can’t afford anything like ’alf of their wages.’

‘I’ve got to say it’s a bit more than I thought you ’ad in mind, guv,’ said Bert.

‘Fortunately,’ said Sammy, ‘I can inform you the firm’s in the financial position of bein’ able to reimburse everyone, so long as it’s kept under yer titfers, which if it isn’t might blow a ruddy great hole in the look of things.
You
’ve got to be seen makin’ the sacrifice. Kindly inform the machinists of same, Gertie.’

‘Bless yer kind ’eart, Mister Sammy, yer the best boss goin’, and yer smart as well,’ said Gertie. ‘We don’t come out, we stay at work to ’elp support the strikers’ fam’lies? We got yer. And ’oo’s goin’ to be able to say that that ain’t better than a non-union shop goin’ on strike, specially as you’re donatin’ too, out of yer pocket. Bert’s right, Mister Sammy, yer a bleedin’ genius, and ’im an’ me couldn’t ’ave put it nicer if we tried. Excusin’ me French again.’

‘Clever, I grant yer,’ smiled Tommy.

‘Bert still bein’ in an embarrassin’ position, however,’ said Sammy, ‘he’ll stand outside the fact’ry to take charge of the collectin’ bucket, or it’ll get half-inched. Might I suggest, Bert, that to anyone who drops a coin in you say, “The starvin’ fam’lies of the strikers cordially thank you, mate.” Or missus, as the case may be. Now, you’ll look as if you’ve come out, but if we need you to do a piece of work, I’d like to ask you to do it and to send Gertie out to keep an eye on the bucket. And if you could arrange for security to be kept goin’, I’d appreciate it.’

‘You’ll need a bit of security, guv,’ said Bert, ‘because there’ll be some geezers that’ll think about firin’ the fact’ry on account of it not bein’ on strike.’

‘Can I take it you’ve got no more worries?’ asked Sammy.

‘I’ll settle for your wheeze, guv,’ said Bert. ‘Like you pointed out, it’ll look as if I’m on strike, anyway, which I will be most of the time, an’ besides, I’m thinkin’ donations’ll be more of an ’elp than closin’ the fact’ry down.’

‘Right,’ said Sammy, ‘and would you like to make it your business to see that all the donations land up where they’re intended to?’

‘With the strikers’ fam’lies,’ said Tommy.

‘Be a pleasure,’ said Bert.

‘I know you’re our boss, Mister Sammy,’ said Gertie, ‘but yer one of us and always will be. So’s Mister Tommy.’

‘We happen, Gertie, to have been born one of you,’ said Sammy.

‘Two of you,’ said Tommy.

‘Back to work, Gertie,’ said Bert.

‘Back to me girls,’ said Gertie, ‘and if what I tell ’em don’t make ’em sing, me name ain’t Mrs Gertrude Amy Roper.’

Left alone with his brother, Tommy said, ‘Business wearin’ you out, Sammy?’

‘Business, sunshine, is what perks a bloke up,’ said Sammy.

‘Business,’ said Tommy, ‘is what ’ands you the perks.’

‘Unfortunately,’ said Sammy, ‘you can’t always dodge the contrary hand of fate.’

‘You’ve got verbal tonsilitis, d’you know that, sonny?’ said Tommy.

‘Caught it from Boots and his educative infection,’ said Sammy. ‘I was sayin’, I think, that fate’s got provokin’ ways of pokin’ a finger in your eye.’

‘You get problems, you mean,’ said Tommy. ‘So do the rest of us.’

‘In my case,’ said Sammy, ‘I’m havin’ to hope St John’s Church stays upright next Saturday week. I don’t want it fallin’ down just as Susie’s promisin’ to love, honour and obey. Come to that, can I rely on her to obey yours truly?’

‘I hope I can rely on her to poke a provokin’ finger in your eye occasionally,’ said Tommy, studying a batch of delivery notes from Mr Greenberg’s warehouse contacts. It looked to him as if Sammy was cornering the stocks held by London wholesalers.

‘I ain’t appreciative of that kind of comment,’ said Sammy. ‘I’ll remind you that as managin’ director of Adams Enterprises, I’ve got problems other blokes never hear of.’

‘Well, keep ’em close to yer chest,’ said Tommy, ‘because if your best friends get to hear they’ll want some of them. I’d say what you’d say yourself, that most of the problems you’ve got are ’ighly desirable.’

‘I can’t hang about here any longer,’ said Sammy, lodging some invoices in his business attaché case for Boots’s attention back in Camberwell. ‘All I’ve got time for is to inform you that you and Boots both come up with jokes that don’t make me laugh. Give me love to Vi. I’m partial to Vi. Her jokes are funnier than yours. So long, Tommy.’

‘Wait a bit – all this material Mr Greenberg’s buyin’ on our behalf–it’s more than we need as a reserve—’

‘Precautionary, Tommy, precautionary,’ said Sammy. It wasn’t a rag trade strike he really had in mind but rumours of a General Strike.

On his return journey to Camberwell, he made a detour that took him to the Bermondsey scrap yard. He brought his car to a stop outside the gates. They were barred and locked, the yard deserted, by order of the police. It could be they were going to keep it that way until they’d solved the murder. The place, of course, was now an object of morbid curiosity among the locals. Open, it would have attracted swarms of them. Sammy thought about the unfortunate young girl. It made him grit his teeth. Hanging was too good for any man who could strangle an innocent. It was hard luck on Susie’s dad, the discovery of the body and the closing down of the yard, but that was nothing compared to the brutal ending of a young life. He could imagine the murderer having the run of the yard.
Old
Collier and his son had often neglected it for days on end. But at least the investigation had moved away from the place and away from Adams Enterprises.

Why had he come here when he couldn’t really spare the time? In the hope, of course, that he’d find the police there with the news that they’d laid their hands on the bloke responsible. A young girl. It could have been Rosie, Boots’s adopted daughter, or Annabelle, Lizzy and Ned’s girl, given different circumstances. Or Susie’s lively young sister, Sally.

Sammy drove away, wishing the police luck in their investigations.

Scotland Yard had taken them over, and were conducting enquiries not only in respect of the murder but also in respect of two other missing girls. There was the possibility that the initial disappearance of all three girls was linked to a common factor. They were examining the missing persons file on thirteen-year-old Mary Wallace of Rotherhithe, who had disappeared in October, 1925, and twelve-year-old Amy Charles of the Old Kent Road, lost to her family in December. The parents of both girls were still making regular calls at their local police stations to ask if searches were continuing. Scotland Yard began to interview the parents, the neighbours and friends of the missing girls, as well as combing Bermondsey for any kind of information that might help to connect the dead girl, Ivy Connor, to a suspect.

‘Annie me pet,’ said the Gaffer over supper that evening, ‘did we ’ear from you as to when soldier Will is doin’ ’imself the honour of walkin’ you out again in a rowin’-boat?’

‘Doin’ what?’ asked Annie.

‘Dad, yer silly,’ said Nellie, ‘’ow can anyone walk Annie out in a rowin’-boat?’

‘Well, yer know what I mean,’ said the Gaffer. ‘Is ’e callin’ for yer again on Sunday, Annie?’ He asked the question naturally, for he was quite sure Will appreciated his nice-looking daughter and had made some arrangements to see her again.

‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ said Annie, feeling very put out that Will had made no arrangements at all. If he turned out to be a chronically casual type, she’d show him the door quick when he did happen to call, or if he did. Except that she hoped he wasn’t like that, she really did.

‘Well, I’m blowed,’ said the Gaffer, and wished he hadn’t asked.

‘Oh, I bet ’e’ll be on the doorstep soon,’ said Nellie.

‘’E might be at Buckingham Palace,’ said Cassie.

‘She’s orf,’ said Charlie, rolling his eyes.

‘Well, ’e might,’ insisted Cassie. ‘The King might be makin’ ’im a lord.’

‘A dustman, more like,’ said Charlie.

‘Course not,’ said Cassie scornfully, ‘’e don’t ’ave a dustman’s smell. ’E’s a soldier. And ’andsome,’ she added, after one of her brief thoughtful moments. ‘I expect the Queen fancies ’im a bit.’

‘Well, I ’ope she don’t, Cassie,’ said the Gaffer, ‘because if she does, the King might chop ’is ’ead off.’

‘Cor, I’d like to be there,’ said Charlie, ‘I ain’t never seen a bloke ’aving ’is loaf chopped orf.’

‘Ain’t you an ’orrible boy?’ said Nellie.

‘Funny you should say that,’ said Charlie, chewing on a chop, ‘one of me teachers calls me ’Orrible ’Arry. I told ’er me name’s Charlie, but she went an’ said I was still an ’Orrible ’Arry.’

‘Well, Charlie, if you don’t mend yer ways,’ said the Gaffer, homely face stiff and stern for once, ‘I’ll mend ’em
for
yer. You won’t like it, me lad, you can be sure you won’t, but it’ll ’appen.’

Charlie went a bit red. Nellie, who didn’t like uncomfortable family moments, said brightly, ‘Annie, you never told us if Will liked yer new white Sunday frock.’

‘What there was of it,’ said the Gaffer, returning to his normal good-humoured self.

‘I heard that, Dad,’ said Annie.

‘There, see what comes of talkin’ out loud, Cassie?’ said the Gaffer.

‘Mrs Bell’s parrot talks out loud,’ said Cassie.

‘Yes,’ said Charlie, never subdued for long, ‘i says things like ’ello, cock, and ’ow’s yer farver?’

‘It spoke to me once,’ said Nellie.

‘What did it say?’ asked Cassie.

‘“Who’s a naughty girl, then?”’ Nellie giggled.

‘Cheeky old bird,’ said the Gaffer.

‘They got ’undreds of talkin’ parrots in Windsor Castle,’ said Cassie, ‘an’ goldfish as well.’

‘Cassie, you’re goin’ cuckoo,’ said Nellie.

‘Yes, they got them as well,’ said Cassie, ‘the Queen likes cuckoos.’

‘She’d like you, then,’ said Nellie.

‘Yes, I might be ’er maid one day,’ said Cassie.

‘Bless yer, Cassie,’ said the Gaffer.

‘Yes, bless her,’ said Annie, fond of her dreamy, imaginative young sister.

‘I went out with Freddy on Sunday,’ said Cassie.

‘We know yer did, an’ with yer barmy cat,’ said Charlie.

‘Well, I’m Freddy’s mate,’ said Cassie, ‘ ’e told me so.’

‘Wait till ’e finds out what’s ’it ’im,’ said Charlie.

The talk among the Brown family was mostly about the forthcoming wedding. Susie was having three bridesmaids,
her
sister Sally and two of Sammy’s nieces, Rosie and Annabelle. The conversation was a trial to Freddy. He did his best to make it more interesting.

‘That Cassie Ford,’ he said, ‘I dunno I ever ’ad a mate as scatty as her. Did I tell yer—’

‘Susie, I do think cerise pink for the bridesmaids’ dresses is lovely for a weddin’,’ said Mrs Brown.

‘Wouldn’t do for a funeral, though,’ said Mr Brown, ‘so it’s lucky you only ’ave bridesmaids at weddings.’

‘Funny ha-ha,’ said Susie.

‘I ain’t wearin’ pink meself,’ said Freddy, ‘just me new suit.’ He’d been fitted out with a ready-made grey suit at Gamages. ‘Did I tell anyone that when I took Cassie up the park on Sunday, she brought ’er cat and I ’ad to—’

‘I do hope it’ll be a fine day,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘I wouldn’t want to go to Susie’s weddin’ under an umbrella; it wouldn’t seem right.’

‘Better than bein’ rained on, Ma,’ said Will, victim of two asthma attacks during the day.

‘You could get Freddy to ’old the umbrella,’ said Sally, ‘then you could walk into the church all dry an’ dignified.’

‘Good idea,’ said Mr Brown, ‘we’ll make Freddy official umbrella-’older.’

‘I dunno I ought to ’ave a mate that takes ’er cat to a park,’ said Freddy. ‘Daisy Cook never—’

‘Eat your supper up, love,’ said Mrs Brown.

‘Dad, you made up your mind yet about what kind of ’at you’re goin’ to wear?’ asked Sally.

‘Well, I’ve been offered the loan of a top ’at by an undertaker friend,’ said Mr Brown.

‘Bless us, Jim,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘I don’t know it’ll be right to wear any undertaker’s hat.’

‘Dad, it’s out,’ said Susie.

‘I think I’ll go for a bike ride up to Scotland,’ said Freddy.

‘Yes, all right, love, when you’ve ’ad your afters,’ said his fond mum.

‘What’s the use?’ muttered Freddy.

‘Keep tryin’, pal,’ said Will, ‘it got you your bike.’

Freddy’s problem came knocking on his door after school the following day.

‘Can I come on yer bike, Freddy? I’ve been ’ome and ’ad some tea an’ cake, and Annie said you can ride me round a bit but not make me late for me supper.’

Freddy said how kind of her, then asked Cassie if she’d brought the cat. Cassie, long hair slightly awry and boater sitting on the back of her neck as usual, said no. Tabby, she said, had gone out with another cat.