The Lights of London (27 page)

‘This weather’s as clammy as a two-bob tart’s corsets,’ Bert said, unknotting the red-and-white spotted handkerchief he wore round his neck and wiping it over his sweaty face.

‘If you ask me,’ said Harry, a younger man who assisted Bert in his purl boat, much as Buggy did Teezer, ‘it ain’t the weather what’s getting you hot under the collar, it’s the sight of them pair up on the stage.’

‘I must admit, Harry, my son,’ replied Bert, ‘that there is something strangely appetising about them two. Do you reckon, Teezer, that they’re, you know, a pair of whatsisnames?’

‘That’s what we all wonder,’ chipped in a fat, grinning man who’d just joined them, uninvited, at the table. Usually jealous of their privacy, they were all too sticky to complain. ‘And this weather makes a man’s thoughts turn to all sorts of things,’ he went on, with a
lascivious lick of his lips and a spreading of his great fat legs, so that he could rub at his fleshy groin.

‘I don’t know,’ said Teezer, suddenly bothered by the amount of space this flabby stranger was taking up, ‘London has a heatwave as regular as my old gran’s clock and everyone’s still surprised when it happens.’

‘Tell you what, how about if we get a party together?’ said Harry. ‘We could go off somewhere, for a beano, like. That’d be just right on Bank Holiday. You know, getting out in the fresh air for a bit …’

‘For a bit of what?’ asked Bert, nudging Teezer in the ribs.

‘I only …’

‘Don’t tell me, Harry,’ Bert interrupted his young worker. ‘You want us to go to Alexandra Park.’

The young man bristled with indignity. ‘I never even suggested it.’

‘Don’t make me laugh, Harry, I’ve got a split lip.’ Bert rolled his eyes at Teezer. ‘We all know your game, don’t we, Teeze?’

‘What game’s that then?’ asked the fat man. ‘What do we all know?’

‘Not that it’s any business of your’n,’ Teezer answered on Bert’s behalf, ‘but Harry here’s brother runs a carting business over Alexandra Park way. And he gets a cut, don’t he, if he lays on customers for the racing track.’

‘No, I don’t,’ protested Harry sulkily. It was bad enough having Bert on at him all the time, without someone else’s governor getting in on the act. ‘It was just an idea.’

The fat man nodded. ‘Sounds all right to me.’

Harry nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yeah, it’s a right good idea. Come on, let’s have a whip round. If we all put a few more coppers in the pot we’ll have enough for a really good day out.’

Bert looked at Teezer and winked conspiratorially before shaking his head at his young worker. ‘Not likely, son. I mean, we don’t wanna miss Sweet and Dandy, do we, Teeze? Here, heads up, the little ’un’s started singing again. Now that is a lovely sight. Will you just look at them bosoms on her. She’s bloody magnificent!’

‘Bugger magnificent bosoms,’ butted in a man who had just appeared at the top of the stairs, knocking the drinks-laden Buggy sideways in his effort to get over to one of the tall windows that lined the room, ‘you wanna get a look at this.’

‘Oi!’ complained Buggy, licking the spilt beer from the back of his hand. ‘What’s your hurry, Jim? Got kippers for tea?’

‘Kippers?’ snorted Jim, shoving the window open. ‘This is better than kippers. This is as good as a plateful of roast beef, mate. You look down there, there’s only a riot. And we’ve got ringside seats.’

‘Never!’ sneered Teezer.

‘Honest. You have a butcher’s.’

Teezer sauntered over to the window to see for himself what, if anything, was going on.

‘Here, he’s right you know,’ Teezer confirmed, giving the signal for them to crowd round for a look.

Teezer was soon jostling with the others for space.

‘How’d it start?’ asked Harry, straining to see over the fat man’s shoulder.

‘It was one of them unemployed meetings,’ Jim said with the smugness of one in the know. ‘All nice and orderly it was at first, but what with it being Bank Holiday, there was a lot of people on the streets that was kind of merry. And you know how easy things can get out of order. Well, they started joining in with the march. For a laugh, like. Then someone threw the first punch and now, well, you can see for yourselves. It’s a
right old turn-out. And once the words gets round there’ll be no stopping them.’

‘Hit him back! Use your fists, you great Jessie!’ Teezer hollered at full volume to a bewildered young man who’d just been cracked over the head with a chair leg and was now slumped against the door of the warehouse opposite.

‘Yeah!’ joined in Buggy. ‘Have him back, you dopey bastard. Punch his lamps out for him!’

‘Oi, you lot. Do you mind?’ shouted Tibs from the other end of the room. ‘We never said nothing when you come up here for a crafty look – without even paying for the privilege, might I add – but you can at least keep the bloody noise down.’

‘Our bit of noise won’t make no difference,’ Jim called over his shoulder. ‘Soon there’s gonna be enough noise down there to drown out a full choir and a pipe organ accompaniment.’

As if on cue, the sound of hobnailed boots racing across cobbles rang out, followed by the smashing of glass and a loud, animal-like whooping and hollering that rose to a terrifying crescendo of screams, whistles and yells.

Forgetting their rehearsal, Tibs and Kitty jumped down from the stage and, joined by the pianist – who was more than happy for a break from the wear and tear on his ear-drums – ran over to the window to have a look for themselves.

The first thing Tibs saw was the little watercress girl. She was cowering against the wall staring at the man who had been knocked down. Barrelling along in her direction was a crowd of hobnail-booted men, apparently being pursued by an as yet unseen enemy.

‘She’s gonna be trampled,’ gasped Tibs. ‘Can’t someone do something?’

‘Leave off,’ puffed Teezer. ‘What d’you think we are, stupid? They’ll trample us and all if we go down there.’

‘Don’t move, darling,’ Tibs called down to her at the top of her fog-horn voice. ‘Don’t move. I’m coming down to get you.’

‘Don’t be silly, Tibs.’ Kitty grabbed her little friend by the arm. ‘They won’t be able to see you among all that lot; you’ll get flattened.’

‘But, Kit …’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll go and get her.’

Before Tibs could protest, Kitty was already half-way down the stairs.

Tibs went to run after her, but Bert took hold of her arm. ‘It’s better for Dandy to go, darling,’ he said with a suggestive leer. ‘She’s meant to be the feller, after all.’

‘She’s more of a man than you lot’ll ever be,’ yelled Tibs, shaking him off, and to the sound of the men’s lecherous, mocking laughter and their shouts of ‘I told you so!’ she rushed off to find help.

She couldn’t find Archie – he was out the back, letting Rex loose and making sure that the outhouse where the bar stock was kept was secured – so instead she went to get Jack, even though he’d left a note saying he wasn’t to be disturbed under any circumstances.

Tibs rapped urgently on the bedroom door until it opened, just a crack, and Jack Fisher, looking dishevelled and hungover in his combinations, peered out at her. ‘This had better be good.’ His voice was thick with sleep.

‘I’m sorry, Jack, there’s real trouble down in the street and Kitty’s gone out and …’

Jack reached back, snatched up his trousers and closed the door behind him with a brisk slam.

Tibs was sure she heard a woman’s voice call after him, but said nothing. She had more important things
on her mind than who Jack was shtupping.

‘It’s that little girl who sells the watercress,’ Tibs explained as she dashed down the stairs, trying to keep up with him. ‘She’s over the road by the warehouse and Kit’s gone out to …’

Before she could finish, Jack was gone. Out of the side door that served the backyard and that he and Archie used as their private entrance, and into the street.

‘… fetch her,’ finished Tibs. She locked the door behind him, sat down on the floor and began to mouth a silent prayer that Kit and the child would be all right, and that there would be no trouble anywhere near Mrs Bowdall’s.

‘Are you all right?’

Tibs looked up, her eyes brimming with tears, to see who was speaking to her. It was Archie. He was peering at her through the letter-box.

‘Yeah,’ she sniffed, ‘I’m all right. It’s just that Kit’s outside, over the road and …’

‘I’ll go and get her.’

Tibs leapt to her feet and threw open the door. She wrenched him inside with surprising strength. ‘No, Arch, please. Not you as well. Jack’s gone already.’ She rested her head against his chest and the tears really began to flow. ‘Stay here with me, please. I don’t wanna be alone.’

Jack had to fight his way across the street to reach Kitty, where she was crouched over, sheltering the terrified kid with her body from the press of the surging, bellowing mob that surrounded them. ‘It’s all right, Kit, it’s me. Jack.’ He put his arms around her, holding her tight, protecting her and the child.

They stayed there, jammed hard against the wall, as the crowds spilled past them, making their way along
the street and down towards the river.

After what seemed like an age the noise at last began to recede, and cautiously Jack straightened up and looked about him. ‘Thank the Lord for that,’ he murmured, taking in the welcome sight of the mere few dozen youngsters who’d been left milling aimlessly about.

But he suddenly stiffened as he heard, in the distance but definitely there, the faint but ominous sound of heavy boots, and it was growing louder. ‘Are you up to making a run for it before that next lot turn up?’ he asked quietly so as not to alarm the child.

Kitty nodded.

‘Right then, come on, lass.’ Jack scooped the little girl into his arms, took Kitty by the hand and sprinted across the street.

He’d barely touched the door with his knuckles when it was flung open and Tibs had seized the child from his arms. She and Archie rushed her off to the safety of the theatre upstairs, leaving Kitty and Jack to lock up after them.

‘Thanks, Jack,’ Kitty said, her voice quavering. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’

‘There’s no need to thank me.’

She stared down at the floor, wanting to say something, but not sure what or how.

‘You’re not hurt?’ he asked.

‘No. I’m fine.’

‘Sure?’

She nodded.

‘I’m pleased.’

She raised her eyes and looked closely at this man who had just taken such a risk to help her. ‘Are you?’

‘I am.’

Albert Symes heard about the riot second-hand, from Violet, one of his girls who, fleeing from the violence and the fighting, was unlucky enough to run smack into another kind of trouble – her pimp. Terrified what Albert would have to say about her not working her pitch on a Bank Holiday, she began babbling away, telling him how scared she was, what horrors she’d seen, how she’d had to run for her life, and could only pray that he would accept it all as a reasonable excuse. When she saw the smile begin to play about his lips she could have passed out with relief. He’d believed her!

But she was mistaken, Albert wasn’t sympathising with her, he was thinking about how he was going to earn some extra money. ‘Come with me,’ he snapped, grabbing her by the arm. ‘We’re gonna find the others.’

This was an opportunity not to be missed. Albert knew that when men had their blood up their passions needed cooling and there was bound to be good business to be done. He’d seen it often enough when he’d taken his girls to work the bare-knuckle bouts and the dogfights. The men practically queued up for their services.

All he had to do was work out where the conflict would wind up and that wouldn’t be too difficult. A mob mentality took over on these occasions and the crowds moved around the streets like a living creature hunting out its prey. He’d then marshal his girls into the nearest pub and Bob was as good as his uncle. He had no worries about the girls refusing. They were more scared of him than of any riot.

He might even take this occasion to explain to Tibs that this was the day she was returning to the fold; and it’d be a good opportunity to introduce that lanky mate of hers to his firm at the same time. That northern
bastard who ran the Dog was bound to be too busy protecting his precious boozer and his own skin to worry about what happened to a pair of tarts.

He smiled nastily to himself. They could more than make up for the earnings he’d lost since Lily had been
indisposed
and not well enough to do business recently. Bless her.

That wouldn’t be a bad day’s work. Not a bad day’s work at all.

But while Albert’s plan might have been simple, it still had a flaw. Not everyone was as keen as he was for the riot to continue.

Just as he was doubling back through the side streets around East Smithfield to get to the rear of Rosemary Lane – no matter how keen he was to get to Tibs and that skinny great bean-pole, he had no intention of getting caught up in the throng in the main roads – he heard the sound of police whistles coming from the direction of the Tower. It wasn’t that close, but he could hear it all right, and much as he knew the law didn’t exactly relish getting involved with a crazed rabble and would probably keep their distance from the actual fighting, he still couldn’t afford to take any chances of getting a tug, not with his previous form hanging over him.

Shit. He kicked furiously at a passing dog, sending it yelping and limping on its way. Whenever that rotten little cow Tibs was involved he seemed to wind up with some kind of bother, and he was getting just about sick and tired of it.

He spun Violet round and spat angrily in her face.

The upstairs of the Old Black Dog was now full of customers staring down at the heaving crowds swarming around in the street below. Downstairs was all locked up and certainly safe enough, but the view was
useless. Up here, the full panorama of events could really be appreciated.

The only ones not looking out were Tibs and Archie, and the little watercress seller, whom they had sat up on the counter of the small theatre bar at the back of the room. They were fussing and petting her, feeding her with lumps of rock sugar that the barman used in his hot toddies, and the fizzy pop that was intended for making port and lemon.