Tuppence to Tooley Street (6 page)

Danny threw the towel over the back of the chair. ‘Tell yer the trufe, I was fast asleep an’ I ’eard this screamin’. I thought yer got yer fingers caught in the mangle. Then I realised it was only you singin’.’

Connie laughed, her white teeth flashing. ‘Don’t be lippy,’ she said, tossing her pretty head in the air. ‘Now get in the uvver room out o’ me way while I do yer breakfast.’

The Globe was full of the usual Saturday morning crowd. The public bar buzzed with conversation as dockers and stevedores from the backstreets piled in for their ‘constitutional’. Becky Elliot, the buxom barmaid, and the ‘Missus’, Harriet Kirkland, busied themselves behind the bar, while in the more sedate saloon Eddie the guv’nor leant on the counter listening to Biff Bowden, the proud owner of Shady Lady. Eddie was a slight man in his mid-fifties, with a clipped moustache and heavily tattoed arms. His sandy hair was well brushed and kept in place with brilliantine. He was a straight-backed character who prided himself on the cleanliness of his pub, a fetish that had stayed with him since his time as a drill sergeant in the Queen’s. Biff was a regular to the pub, a robust character in his late forties with a hearty laugh. His moonface remained impassive when he was sober, but when inebriated Biff’s features became excessively animated, contorting his face into outlandish expressions.

Biff remained poker-faced as he raved about the exploits of Shady Lady.

‘I tell yer, Eddie, that dog clocked the fastest time it’s ever done on Monday. It’ll walk its next race, you mark my words.’

‘Well if I’m gonna stick a few bob on it I’ll want it ter run, not walk,’ Eddie said pointedly, winking at the group who stood to one side of the counter.

The owner of Shady Lady was not easily put off. Biff was knowledgeable about nearly every money-making scheme that had been devised in the area–he had been the creator of most of them. Biff could spin a good tale and get backing for his ventures–and he was versatile. He had been known to sell patent medicines in the street markets, and he had once peddled a hair restorer which was guaranteed to produce a mop of curly hair. He also marketed a certain ‘tonic’ that was supposed to have wondrous powers, especially where there was a flagging sexual desire. Biff Bowden always produced evidence to support his claims: in Petticoat Lane he had a hulking bystander who swore he was once at death’s door and the medicine had saved him; in the lesser markets a curly-haired individual testified that he was once bald; another said he had rekindled the burning passions of youth, and that at sixty-plus he was still adding to his brood. At one market in North London, a woman had rushed up to Biff Bowden’s fellow conspirator and said that if he was still producing children, they were certainly not hers, and she had chased her startled spouse from the market. Biff had quietened the alarm by saying that the tonic must have made the man over-sexed, and he was sold out in no time at all.

If Biff had a weakness, it was his inability to pick a winner. Most of his hard-earned money was lost at the dog tracks. It had seemed to him that the obvious answer was to get a dog of his own. Unfortunately Shady Lady was lazy-a diet of Guinness and sausages did not appear to be successful–and on two occasions at least the dog didn’t even bother to leave the trap. But Biff would not give up, and he engaged the services of a trainer who was finally able to get the greyhound at least to run around the track. Eddie Kirkland told his pals that in his opinion Shady Lady was on a new diet, which probably included Biff’s special tonic.

It was around noon when Danny walked sheepishly into the public bar and sidled up to the counter. The Globe was his local and he was prepared for some sort of reception. Becky Elliot took him completely by surprise however by grabbing his face in both hands and planting a kiss on his lips.

‘If it ain’t me ole Danny boy come ter see me,’ she laughed.

Danny wiped the scented lipstick from his mouth as wellwishers slapped him on the back and asked how he was.

Becky called the guv’nor into the public bar. ‘C’mon an’ see who’s just walked in, Eddie.’ The guv’nor shook hands warmly and told Becky to give Danny a pint on the house. Harriet Kirkland came over and put her hand on Danny’s. ‘Nice ter see yer back, luv. Are yer okay?’

Danny nodded, his attention divided by people who wanted to buy him drinks and others firing questions at him.

‘Leave the boy alone,’ Becky said, prodding one of the customers in the ribs with her finger. ‘Let ’im drink ’is beer in peace, can’t yer?’

When the excitement died down Danny took his drink and sat down to talk with ‘Bonky’ Williams and Johnny Ross. The two of them had been friends of Danny’s from school days. They were all about the same age and Bonky lived two doors away from Danny. He had got his name when, as a youngster, he lost his eye in an accident. The glass eye that he wore was often removed and laid down in front of unsuspecting victims in The Globe. Eddie Kirkland had threatened to bar him from the pub on more than one occasion, but Bonky spent well, and any altercation was quickly overcome by the lad buying drinks for the offended party. Johnny Ross was slight and dark-skinned. He limped noticeably owing to a tubercular ankle which had developed when he was very young. Johnny Ross had been involved in a few shady activities, and he was known to the police. He lived in Bermondsey Lane and worked as a labourer in the local vinegar factory.

The Globe was packed and getting noisy and Becky’s raucous laughter could be heard above the din. Bonky was getting drunk and his good eye roved around the bar. Johnny nudged him. ‘’Ere. Don’t you start yer tricks. We don’t wanna get chucked out of ’ere.’

Bonky grinned. ‘It’s okay, I’m jus’ lookin’.’

Johnny turned his attention to Danny. ‘What yer gonna do now yer ’ome, me ole son?’

‘I dunno,’ Danny replied. ‘I’ve gotta sign on the Labour Exchange an’ get me cards on Monday.’

‘Take my tip, Danny, don’t let ’em palm yer orf wiv any ole job. Tell ’em yer a nerve-case, an’ yer gotta get somefink quiet. Tell ’em yer can’t stand noisy jobs.’

‘See if they’ve got a vacancy fer a shepherd, that’s a quiet job!’ Bonky piped in.

‘You be careful, Danny boy, if yer get too lippy they’ll suspend yer. Yer gotta be as crafty as they are,’ Johnny warned him. ‘You take ’is case. Go on, Bonky, tell ’im about you gettin’ suspended.’

Bonky drained his glass and put a ten shilling note down on the table. ‘’Ere, get a round in, Johnny. We gotta cheer our ole mate up. ’E don’t look ’is ole natural self.’ He grinned and turned to Danny. ‘Yer look sort o’ different. You okay, son?’

Danny put his glass down and leaned back in his chair. ‘I feel pissed. Mus’ be outta practice. Tell us about yer gettin’ suspended, then.’

Bonky laughed. ‘Bloody scream it was. This geezer sends me fer a job at a glass factory down near Dock’ead. I goes inter the office an’ there’s a real darlin’ sittin’ down at the desk.’Course I get me Woodbines out an’ asks ’er fer a light. “We don’t allow smoking in here,” she says in a posh voice. Well straight away I’ve copped the needle. I’m sittin’ there dyin’ fer a fag, when the phone goes. “Mr Jones will see you now,” she says in this snotty voice. So in I goes all meek an’ mild. I’ve got me clean scarf on an’ I’ve ’ad a nice shave. I even took me ’at orf. Well, I takes one look at this geezer an’ straight away I don’t reckon ’im. ’E’s got shifty eyes an’ ’e’s wearin’ a collar two sizes too big. Now, I’m standin’ in front of ’im an’ ’e ain’t asked me ter sit down or anyfing. ’E asks me if I can count. “Yeah, ’course I can, mate,” I tells ’im. “My name is Mr Jones,”’e ses, all posh like. When ’e tells me what I’m s’pose ter do I done me piece.’

‘What did ’e want yer ter do then?’ Danny asked, trying not to laugh.

‘What did ’e want me ter do?’ repeated Bonky. ‘’E wanted me fer a glass inspector! D’you know what a glass inspector does?’

‘Well ’e inspects glass, I s’pose,’ Danny said, his eyes widening.

‘I’ll tell yer what a glass inspector does,’ Bonky went on. ‘’E sits in front of a machine all day long, an ’e looks at all the bottles goin’ along the belt. They give yer an ’ammer, and when a bottle goes past that’s got a flaw in it yer gotta smash it. Nine hours a day sittin’ on this stool, waitin’ ter smash bottles. I ask yer, ’ow could anybody stay sensible doin’ a job like that? If I’d took that job, me uvver eye would ’ave gorn in a couple o’ weeks.’

Danny burst into laughter. ‘Did yer tell ’im ter poke the job?’

Bonky looked indignant. ‘Gimme credit fer a bit o’ sense, Danny boy. I ’ad ter play me cards right, didn’t I? If ’e puts “Refusal” on me green card I’m in bovver at the labour office. I ’ad ter get ’im finkin’ I’m stupid, see. I got me chance when this office gel walks in the office wiv some papers. This geezer gives ’er a right lecherous look like the dirty ole git ’e is, an’ I takes me eye out, wipes it on me scarf, puts it back an’ I lets me tongue ’ang out as I watches ’er walk out the office. Yer should’ave seen ’is face. ’E must ’ave fought ’e was about ter take on a pervert. ’E looked jus’ like ole Bert Adams did when I stuck me eye on the table one night when ’e was pissed. Anyway, ’e scribbles “Not Suitable” on me green card an’ ’e ushers me outta the office like I’ve got galloping cock-rot, which suits me fine, ’cos I don’t fancy gettin’ suspended.’

Danny looked at Bonky with a puzzled expression. ‘I fought Johnny said yer got suspended.’

‘No, it wasn’t that time. This was anuvver time.’

Danny breathed a sigh of relief as Johnny came back with the filled glasses, and when Bonky Williams went off to the toilet Danny shook his head at Johnny. ‘Bonky’s gettin’ worse.’E jus’ gave me a real ear-’ole bashin’.’

Johnny laughed. ‘If yer ask me, I reckon Bonky’s goin’ orf’is ’ead. Twice last week ’e took ’is eye out. And once in front o’ Mrs Brown from the Council. She went potty. I fought Eddie was gonna ban ’im fer sure.’

The hour hand moved around towards two o’clock and Danny was feeling the effects of the drink. Bonky had got himself involved in a conversation at the bar counter. A couple of latecomers whom Danny recognised as friends of his father walked over and shook hands, but Danny politely refused their offers of drinks; it was time to leave while he was still able. He finished his beer and made to get up.

Johnny looked up at the clock. ‘You goin’ already? It’s only two o’clock.’

Danny nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s a long time since I’ve ’ad a good drink and I’m feelin’ a bit pissy.’

‘What about ternight? Fancy comin’ out fer a pint? We’re’avin’ a drink wiv Tony the bookie, up The Crown. ’E’s ’avin’ a bit of a knees-up at ’is place afterwards. There should be a few birds there, Danny boy. Tony always ’as good parties–if’e’s ’ad a good day then the booze is flowin’.’

‘Okay,’ Danny replied, ‘if I get a couple of hours sleep this afternoon I might feel all right. I’ll see yer at The Crown about’alf-eight.’

 

It was warm and sunny as Danny left The Globe. Tooley Street was quiet and deserted on that Saturday afternoon, with the wharves and warehouses closed for the weekend. In the ‘Pool’ –as the adjacent stretch of the Thames between London Bridge and Tower Bridge was known–small ships pulled against their anchors on the high tide, and out in the mainstream laden barges tethered in groups lay low in the water. The high sun lit up the silent quayside and the tall, still cranes, and it shone down on the white stonework of the Tower of London. A few strollers peered down from the grimy old London Bridge, but Tower Bridge was empty, except for the lonely City of London policeman who stood impassively, hands clasped behind his back, gazing downriver. The scene was peaceful and quiet, although the more discerning onlooker would not have been fooled; there were signs of war preparations. Fore and aft of the moored ships the tell-tale shapes of mounted guns beneath their tarpaulin covers could be seen. One of the ships wore the scars of battle where cannon shells had pierced the metal plating high in the bow. For the present the ships rested at anchor, but the usual feverish activity would begin on Monday morning, and on the evening tide the Tower Bridge would raise its cantilevers in salute as the craft sailed out of the Pool to join the Atlantic convoys.

Dawson Street was noisy. A group of children were playing tin-can copper and a baby wailed in its bassinet. Aproned figures stood chatting in doorways, and outside number 14, old Charlie Perkins sat in his wicker chair, holding a clay pipe steady with a forefinger crooked over the brown-stained stem. His face was expressionless and he seemed oblivious to the noise of the children. To the street’s inhabitants, the sight of Charlie sitting outside his front door was as familiar as the street lampposts and the railway arch at the end of the turning.

Danny walked unsteadily down the street and veered around Charlie Perkins’s outstretched legs. The railway arch seemed to be floating before his gaze and he blinked a couple of times. At his front door he swayed and peered closer at the number. He pulled hard on the knotted door string and almost fell headlong into the passage. Lucy came out from the parlour, her face showing her disgust at his condition.