Touched by Angels (4 page)

With her clients, some of whom were regulars, her lies were never too incredible, as they would be seen through, but as everybody around here was as desperate for a bolt hole as she, they drank in the fiction, rather like the one peddled to Nigel Boakes, Dick Morgan, and Lenny Chapman, by Robert, as they sat at their desks in the classroom, though his tale was at least half true.

Six

Mr Myers walked along the rows of boys slowly, tapping his heel with his cane. It was hidden mostly beneath his gown, but everybody knew from painful experience that as a cutlass, it could appear in a flash.

He was slightly deaf though, so when he was beyond eyesight, the whispering went round.

“Nah, don’t believe yer,” Dick whispered, trying his best to smirk, “anyway, she lays a finger on me, my dad’ll give ’er a black eye.”

“’ow?” Lenny said. “He’s in the nick.”

The others laughed and Lenny added, as he looked at the sketch of a daffodil before him, “God, this is borin’!”

“But she did,” Robert insisted, “I’m tellin’ yer. She yanked down me pants first. Bare arse.
An
’ Big Molly ’eld me in a head lock while she did it, so’s I couldn’t get away. I was screamin’ an’ screamin’. Fought I was gonna be sick, it hurt so much. An’ you’re all gonna get the same.”

“Bollocks!”

“What a loada shit!”

“She wouldn’t dare.”

“All right, if you don’t believe me, we’ll go in the bog at lunchtime, an’ I’ll drop me drawers an’ show…”

Whack!

Four pairs of eyes were standing out on stalks at the sight of the wicker, stretched over Robert’s desk. It had missed his fingers by scant inches, but shattered the stencil he had been sketching with. Bits flew around like shrapnel.

“Have you something to say to the class, boy?”

“No, Sir.”

They looked up at the long thin face, upon which the mouth could barely be seen through the moustache.

He looked around the four waxen faces, as he flexed the limber rod, and said, “Do you want two cuts apiece on each hand?”

“No, Sir.”

Mr Myers closed his eyes and stuck his nose out towards the blackboard. “Morgan, what is a stamen?”

“Er… don’t know, Sir.”

“Boakes, what is a petal?”

“Oh easy, it’s a…”

“Shut up, you stupid boy! Any fool knows what a petal is. It is the intricate you must study. Only that will assure you ease in life. You boys will study, and study hard, or by God, you’ll be in the poor house, with pinched bellies and oakum raw fingers.
Do
you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He looked around the class, lest others needed caution.

“Now get on with it!”

They carried on sketching, this time in silence.

***

In Rice Lane, Lil watched the O’Driscolls lining up on the other side of the street, along with the occupants of all the Irish houses, as a horse-drawn hearse pulled up outside the O’Briens’. They were dressed in a motley collection of black, and each sported a black armband. It amused her, in spite of the occasion, that they always seemed to arrange themselves in order of height, with their mousy mother at one end.

Four pallbearers came out the O’Briens’ door, carrying the coffin from which her son had tried to take the pennies, with Mrs O’Brien and Molly following. They were arm in arm, snivelling, dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs.

Mrs O’Brien held rosary beads in one hand, while the O’Driscoll sons and everybody else doffed their hats, which ranged from flat caps to bowlers that had seen better days.

As the coffin was being loaded into the back, Mrs O’Brien burst into tears, and at a prompt from his mother, Benny O’Driscoll ran forward to steady her.

Lil stood out of respect as the procession moved off, with big Michael O’Driscoll winking at her as they passed. She knew it was he who had saved her from a much worse beating the night before.

Her legs felt wobbly as she watched him, seeing his powerful arms, that she could imagine enveloping her and taking her away, and his dark face, smudged here and there with traces of blood from the cutthroat razor. She hoped her hot flush wasn’t too obvious.

When they had passed, she carried on, and by the time the whistles were piping dismissal from work, she had amassed nearly five shillings, and felt quite pleased with herself. She normally averaged no more than three.

***

Fighting Bob was feeling rather smug too as he felt the heavy jingle of coins in his pocket, purloined from the upturned cap of the old soldier who stood outside the Mission in Pudding Lane, wearing blacked-out spectacles, selling laces for a farthing a throw.

Bob had bided his time, to make sure nobody was looking, before shoving him over, kicking him and taking his money.

Until now, he had been increasingly fidgety through alcohol withdrawal, but now, the world was his friend, as he stood in the Dog and Duck among his cronies and the welcoming thick smoke and said, “Six pints o’ Porter.”

Seven

Robert was scared of what he might find, when he arrived home from school, but heard his stomach rumble after Lil opened the door. He smelt roast lamb, potatoes and thick gravy. There was mint too, unless he was mistaken.

The fire was lit and Lil greeted him with a warm smile and an embrace, as she took the newspaper from him, her crowning glory piled up once more.

He grinned as he thought of Lenny, Dick and Nigel, who had still been sceptical of his tale, ’til, with a little sadistic glee, he did as promised. He had taken them into the school toilets, and lowered his pants to show them the red welts and purple bruises from Mrs O’Brien’s hairbrush. He could almost hear the gulps of fear.

On their way home, Lenny and Dick had picked another route, rather than pass her house as they usually did, and Nigel had even suggested they get Sergeant Sharp onto the case.

Now, Robert didn’t care a jot, as he sniffed the air again and asked, knowing this sort of fare was a rare luxury, “Where’s Dad?”

“I don’t know.”

“Bet he’s in the pub.”

Annoyed at his cheek, but knowing he was probably right, she said nothing for a minute as she started carving, before saying, “I doubt it. He has no money to speak of. Perhaps he reported for work.”

Robert wondered who she was trying to kid, him or herself, as he watched her pouring gravy, while over in the Dog and Duck, Bob looked at the landlord as though he’d come from another planet.

He couldn’t believe his ears. He had refused to serve him.

Eight

Ted Baker was a weedy-looking man, with drooping skin, spaniel eyes and sagging shoulders, but he knew bad money when he saw it. He was one of those men who had the rare gift of knowing how to deal with the likes of Fighting Bob, without shouting, threatening, or ending up on his back, holding his nose.

Six pints of porter, at sixpence a time, normally comprised six coins in his hand, if they
were
sixpences, or thirty-six at the most, if they were pennies.

By the time a little mountain, mostly of farthings, stood on the bar before him, a process that had caused the activity in the pub to first slow, and then stop, Ted had become suspicious. The rumour had already got round that an unwritten rule had been broken; namely, that an old soldier had been turned over.

A dozen sets of eyes were watching as he got to the seventy-fifth little coin, counting them out quietly, when Ted asked, “Where’d you get this money, Bob?”

“What d’ya mean?”

“They’re nearly all farvings.”

“So?”

He resumed his counting and stopped at eighty-four. “I asked you where you got this money.”

“Earned it, didn’t I?”

He turned, grinning, but although his chums were anticipating their drinks, none were laughing. Some were looking away, while others were conveniently lighting cigarettes and pipes.

An elderly man at the back, with a brick red face, permanent grin and medals on his chest said, over his pewter tankard and stick, “We all knows where yer fathins ’ail from, young ’un. You go put ’em back, an’ we’ll say n’more.”

He leaned back, nodding earnestly.

There were grunts of agreement all around, so Bob rasped, “I
said
I earned it!”

“Oh yeah?” said another voice, “I work in the same factory as you. You been gone this past week an’ more, an’ rumour ’as it yer sacked.”

Murmurs of agreement followed.

Bob looked around, glaring at the obstinate faces. Seeing it was no go, and feeling horribly sober, he rasped, “If you buncha shits ain’t gonna gimme any ale, I’ll find some bastard who can. You can rot in ’ell!”

He swept the coins into the air with his forearm and they tinkled as they fell around like brass confetti.

Somebody mumbled, “Arse’ole!” as he stormed out, kicking the door open.

It wasn’t until the cigarette smoke was replaced by that of hundreds of coal fires and cold, dank air that the words “Yer sacked!” echoed through his mind.

He thought too of what Lil had warned him, of going into the workhouse, where he would “never sup again.” He wasn’t so far gone that the tales about these terrible places had gone unheeded. On top of unremitting toil, there would be no booze either, ever again. Daily prayers only. God, he would never bear it…

He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. He needed a drink to make the horror go away and for that he needed money. Lil had money.

As he was pushing the front door open, wondering if perhaps a new tack was required, such as appealing to her for it, across town Mr Flint was standing once more before the wooden plinth in the workhouse, top hat before him.

***

Flint was silent, as the man with the monocle regarded his references more closely, while to his side, Horace was muttering something to Alistair behind his back.

At last, Sir Rupert looked up, and said, “Before we make our final decision, why was your employment as headmaster of this school terminated so abruptly? The reasons you give are rather vague.”

“It’s quite simple,” Flint replied, sensing he was among sympathisers, “in these days of mounting, namby-pamby social reform, my ways are regarded, by some, as too austere. I confess that I am an advocate of the very severest forms of punishment, those to which only the underling and the simpleton will respond, the very types, if I may be so bold, to whom board and lodging are extended here.”

The six heads nodded and muttered to each other in agreement.

“I was removed for reasons deemed by the Board of Governors, as… well…”

He trailed off, as he racked his brains for a more acceptable synonym.

“Wanton cruelty?” Sir Rupert asked, as his monocle dropped.

Flint looked aghast.

“Good Heavens, no, Sir! I merely believe in getting results and see the means of so doing as immaterial. There is no impropriety in my method whatsoever. The rod is, and should be, as a last resort only, though its application should be, I’m sure you’ll agree, with zeal, or not at all.”

He failed to mention that his dismissal had come about as the result of a ten-year-old boy in need of having a brace of cuts stitched at Bow infirmary.

He was about to continue, sure he had failed the interview, when Sir Rupert held up his hand and began conferring with the others.

At last he said, “You are hired, Mr Flint, for a probationary period of six months. Please report for duties at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, sharp.”

He tinkled the bell once more and Flint smiled, withdrawing gracefully.

***

Somebody who certainly wasn’t smiling was Fighting Bob. Not only had his wife, to whom he believed he had selflessly devoted God knows how many years of his life, eaten without him, leaving his share on a plate to get stone cold, but she had also refused point blank to give him any money.

He had been certain that asking for it, rationally, would bear fruit.

“I have told you,” she said, “we need the money to pay bills.”

“Just a few bob. A few pints. Ain’t gonna make much diff.”

She folded her arms.

“’Arf a bar then.”

“No!”

She stared at him, even though her knees were trembling, and added, “And where are your wages?”

He looked sheepish.

“Dunno.”

“If we are unable to pay the next rent, we’ll be out.”

“Yeah,” Robert added, ducking back slightly, “an’ you know what that means.”

“So where are your wages then? I expected them, yes…”

She didn’t get any further. Bob grabbed Robert round the neck, with one arm, and the carving knife with the other and growled, as he held the blade to his throat, “Now get them coins, now, or I’ll fillet the little runt!” His eyes glinted madly.

Lil had frozen solid and, seeing the terror in her son’s eyes, rasped, “You harm a single hair on his head, they won’t
have
to hang you, I’ll…”

He pressed the blade even harder, eyes glowering, and she was backing off slowly towards the fireplace. She turned and lifted one of the tiles on the hearth, reached inside a hole underneath and pulled out a small leather bag. It was bulging with coins, more than a week’s worth. With a seething and terrified look in her eyes, she tossed the bag to him, and it chinked as it struck the boards.

Bob grinned as he shoved the boy away. He picked it up; it was deliciously heavy. He tossed it up and down a couple of times and whacked the knife into the table, where it stood quivering. He headed for the door, feeling as though he’d struck gold.

Nine

Bob stayed away all the rest of that day and the next, and it was pretty obvious that by then, every penny had gone on booze.

Lil had a deadline to aim for. March 25th, the day when King would be along for the rent.

By that time, she not only had to scrape together the two pounds for it, but enough to feed them too, for it also became more clear with every passing day that Bob really had been sacked from the factory.