Tuppence to Tooley Street (11 page)

‘Mr Daniel Sutton!’ a voice called out, and Danny looked up to see a bespectacled man beckoning from an open doorway.

‘Good luck, son,’ his new friend spluttered between fits of coughing as Danny got up from the bench.

The small office contained a desk, a filing cabinet and little else. More posters adorned the walls: grinning workers staring out from behind machines, their toothpaste smiles looking maniacal to Danny as he glanced at them. The wording urged everyone to join the struggle for victory. The official told Danny to take a seat and he himself sat down at the desk with a loud sigh. When he had made himself quite comfortable he took off his glasses and proceeded to polish them on a large white handkerchief. Finally satisfied, he put them back on and addressed himself to the papers on the desk.

Danny felt an immediate dislike for the man. He slumped down in his chair and glared. The official began his routine by first resting his elbows on the desk and tapping the tips of his fingers together, next he put his thumbs against his forehead in a display of deep concentration and started a low humming. Danny had an almost irresistible urge to scream some obscenity into the official’s ear but he ignored the temptation and looked back at the posters.

‘I see you are unfit for heavy work,’ the man said at last. ‘That makes it rather awkward for me to fit you in.’

‘It makes it rather awkward fer me as well,’ Danny said sharply.

‘Quite, but I can’t fit you in at the lead mills, and I can’t see where I can send you. Most of the jobs I’ve got to offer are for fit men. Do you see?’

Danny could see quite clearly, and his temper began to rise. ‘Look, I can’t ’elp it if I’m not A 1. I didn’t ask ter get shot at, an’ I—’

The official stopped Danny by holding both hands up in front of his chest. ‘You haven’t got a trade, have you, Mr Sutton? You see I’m looking for skilled workers for munition factories, or for people to be trained to work lathes and milling machines. You don’t fall into that category unfortunately.’

Danny’s eyes focused on the official’s rather bulbous nose and his thick-rimmed spectacles, which made his eyes seem like two large marbles. His long, thin fingers were tapping the paper in front of him in irritation, and Danny noticed the cluster of well-chewed pencils sticking out from a round tin. Suddenly the official grabbed one of the pencils and started to make notes. When he had finished he leaned back in his chair and sucked on the pencil, his eyes staring at his unskilled client.

Herbert Snelling had interviewed a few of these ex-service types recently, and in his opinion they were an insolent lot. After all, they shouldn’t expect special treatment and, as he had remarked to his colleagues, most of them were probably making heavy weather of their disabilities. A few weeks in the lead mills would have got them back into shape. Sutton looked fit enough to do manual work. It was a pity the Ministry were so tolerant of those types. Everyone had to make sacrifices these days, as he had explained to his wife when she remarked that it was time she had a new coat. It was all so irritating, he mused as he chewed on the pencil.

Danny was getting more angry. He felt as though the official was expecting him to fall down on his knees and plead for a job with tears in his eyes and with his hands clasped together in anguish, just like in one of those old silent pictures. Danny had other ideas, although he was, too, aware of the consequences. After all, he had come here for a job, not to provoke a magistrate into giving him six months’ hard labour for assault. Danny took a deep breath and sat up straight in his chair. ‘Surely you’ve got somefink ter give us? There’s gotta be plenty o’ jobs about, now that everybody’s gettin’ called up?’

The official looked at Danny through his thick lenses and reluctantly pulled open the drawer of a small cabinet that sat at his elbow. He hummed tunelessly as he fingered through the small white cards until he found the right one. ‘Here we are, Mr Sutton, here’s something you could do. The Acme Glass Company are looking for glass inspectors. It’s a sitting down job, no hard work.’

The young cockney’s heart dropped. Bonky Williams had told him all about glass inspectors. He knew that he would not last more than a day at that job and he shook his head. ‘Yer mean ter tell me that’s the only job yer got fer me? What about all those vacancies frew the call-up? That’s a rubbish job, it’s soul-destroyin’. Yer must ’ave somefink else in that box.’

The official looked at Danny over his glasses. ‘I don’t think you understand. All those jobs you talk about are being filled by women. Yes, women. It releases the men for war-work and the forces, you see. We’ve got vacancies for manual workers, but you are disabled, aren’t you?’

It was the emphasis placed on the end of the sentence that finally brought Danny to the boil. He got up and put his hands on his hips, his pale face flushed angrily and the corner of his mouth twitched. ‘Now listen you,’ he exclaimed, his voice trembling, ‘I’ve bin sittin’ ’ere like a naughty school kid who’s waitin’ ter get ’is arse caned! Yer bin pissin’ me about wiv yer bloody papers an’ yer stupid remarks. Anybody listenin’ ter you would fink I wanted ter be disabled! D’yer know what it was like out in France? No, course yer don’t!’

The official opened his mouth to speak but Danny shouted a tirade of abuse. ‘If you fink I’m gonna sit ’ere an’ listen ter you prattin’ off wiv yer snide remarks, yer got anuvver fink comin’. What wiv yer twiddlin’ yer poxy fingers an’ eatin’ yer bloody pencils, an’ lookin’ at me like I’m somefink the cat dragged in, an’ then ’avin’ the gall ter offer me a poxy glass inspector’s job! I reckon yer takin’ the piss!’

The official’s face went white and the small cluster of purple veins on his temple started pulsating. He stood up and waved Danny to the door, ‘I’m not going to talk to you any more. I shall put in a report about your behaviour. It will be for the manager to decide what’s to be done.’

Danny leaned forward menacingly and the frightened Herbert Snelling backed away. ‘I tell yer somefink else, four-eyes, yer can do what yer like, an’ yer poxy manager can do the same. If yer fink I’m gonna sit in front of bottles all day wiv a’ammer in me ’and, yer more stupid than I thought yer was.’

Mr Snelling waved his unhelpful client to the door again. ‘We’ll see what the manager has to say.’

‘Get stuffed, an’ tell yer poxy manager ter do the same,’ Danny sneered as he stormed out of the office and into the coolness of the street.

Back in the office the harassed Mr Snelling sat down heavily in his chair. What was that he said about a hammer? he thought. What would a glass inspector be doing with a hammer? These ex-soldiers are getting worse!

 

Another member of the Sutton household was on her way to encounter officialdom that Monday morning. Lucy slipped her arm through Ben’s as they left Tooley Buildings and walked purposefully along the busy street. Horse carts were lined up outside the wharves and the bored nags were snorting into their nosebags. The narrow lanes that led down to the water-front were crowded as vehicles and carts were being loaded. Bundles of foodstuffs and other commodities were lashed tight and kicked out from loop-holes to hang suspended from crane chains. The loads were then slowly lowered onto waiting transport to the cries of: ‘Up a bit! Whoa! ’Old it, yer silly bastard!’

The shouts of the dockers rose above the din of clanking cranes and revving vans as the working week began. Along the busy Tooley Street lorries and horse carts continued to arrive, and people were hurrying about their business. Well-dressed office workers carried brief-cases and bundles of papers, and heavy-booted dockers and stevedores moved about on the street. Trams clattered by with their warning bells clanging, and the sounds of the river trade reverberated down along the narrow side lanes. The signs of war were apparent in the busy dockland street. Men were pasting up stark reminders that ‘Careless Talk Costs Lives’ and about what to do in the case of a gas attack. A military convoy of trucks clattered past towing heavy guns, and a bored-looking policeman ambled along, a gas mask pack and steel helmet slung over his shoulder.

Lucy gripped Ben’s arm tightly as they made their way to the magistrates’ court for the tribunal hearing at ten o’clock. A few people were hanging around outside the court building as Lucy and Ben approached. Ben was silent, his stomach tightening as they climbed the few steps and entered the high-ceilinged hall. A flight of wide marble steps led up to a narrow balcony which circled the hall and gave access to the first floor courtrooms. Some people were sitting on polished wooden benches with worried looks on their faces, while others studied the court schedule. Ben motioned Lucy to the notice-board and saw that Ben’s hearing was to be in court 4. His name was near the top of the list and he gave Lucy a wry smile.

‘At least we should get it over with quickly,’ he said.

They took a seat and watched as more people crowded into the hall and policemen moved among the crowd calling out names from their lists. Ben’s name was called and he was directed to the upper floor. The lovers sat down close together, holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes. Lucy saw the fear in his face, and she smiled encouragingly. She felt that they now belonged to each other, come what may, and Lucy was determined to remain strong for both of them.

The courtroom was panelled in oak and the windows were high up so that the sun’s rays did not penetrate down into the well of the court. Ben stood facing the five-man panel. The well of the court. Ben stood facing the five-man panel. The person seated in the centre announced himself as the chairman and each of the others introduced themselves in turn. Ben could sense the hostility as he waited for the chairman to begin. A sheet of paper was passed along from hand to hand, and he could only guess that it was his written statement to the panel. There was a slight mumbling from the back of the court and the chairman looked over his spectacles reprovingly. Ben knew that Lucy was sitting behind him and it gave him comfort.

‘You are Benjamin Morrison of 16 Tooley Buildings, Tooley Street, Bermondsey?’

Ben answered in the affirmative.

‘You registered on January the 6th as a conscientious objector, and subsequently presented this tribunal with a statement setting out your reasons for doing so?’

Ben nodded and was immediately rebuked by the chairman.

‘You must answer. A nod will not do. Is that quite clear?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you anyone to speak on your behalf?’

‘No, but I sent in a letter from—’ But the chairman interrupted him in mid-sentence.

‘I’m aware of the letter, Mr Morrison, I was coming to that.’

Ben gripped the rail in front of him. The hostility was becoming obvious and he began to tremble.

The chairman glanced at the person next to him and the questioning continued. ‘I have a letter here from the Reverend John Harris of the Tower Bridge Road Methodist Mission. He states that you are a regular attender at that church, and he goes on to say that you are a part-time youth club leader. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

Another member of the tribunal took up the questioning. ‘The letter also states that you intend to study for the cloth. Is that so?’

‘Yes.’

‘How long ago did you come to this decision?’

Ben coughed nervously. ‘I first decided over two years ago.’

‘Are you sure you did not come to this decision after the outbreak of war?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Can you provide this tribunal with any proof that would substantiate your assertion, Mr Morrison?’

‘No, sir. You only have my word, as a Christian.’

‘Mr Morrison,’ the interviewer went on, ‘do you consider it wrong for this country of ours to be at war with Germany?’

Ben’s knuckles tightened on the rail. ‘I consider it wrong for people to kill each other.’

‘You think it is all right for the Germans to march into this country and kill our people? Because that is exactly what would happen if we did not defend ourselves.’

Ben looked hard at the questioner. ‘No, I think it is wrong for Germans to kill, or for anyone to kill another human being.’

‘I see, and are you conversant with the Holy Bible?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does the Bible tell you that killing is wrong?’

‘Yes.’

‘And does it not tell of how God led the Israelites into battle?’

‘Yes.’

The members of the tribunal exchanged glances and the chairman smirked. ‘Tell me, Mr Morrison, were you brought up in a Christian family?’

‘Yes, both my parents were practising Christians.’

‘Did your parents ever chastise you as a child?’

‘I was punished for doing wrong.’

‘Were you beaten?’

‘No, I was sent to bed early, or had privileges taken away.’

‘Are you prepared for the results of non-resistance?’

‘I know I must take the consequences. I realise that.’

‘Let me put this to you, Mr Morrison. God forbid the Germans ever get here, but in the event, if you happened to see a wounded German soldier lying in the street, would you render first aid?’

Ben felt himself being slowly forced into a corner from which there was no escape. He took a deep breath before answering. ‘I feel that every human being has the right to receive medical assistance, regardless.’

‘Regardless of what?’

‘Regardless of the fact that most people see it as being wrong to aid the enemy. I feel sure in my mind that we are all one family under God.’

‘Are you aware that the Royal Army Medical Corps picks up wounded soldiers from both sides in war, and that the medics are strictly a non-combatant corps?’

Ben sensed that the
coup de grâce
was not far off. ‘Yes, I would expect that to be so.’

‘Do you still say that despite what has been said you still object to wearing a military uniform?’