Darkest Before Dawn (8 page)

Evie knew that such things did happen. Indeed, she had heard threats made by canal parents when their kids were being particularly difficult. ‘I'll buy a red beret and send you off to that Strawberry Fields,' Evie had heard a fat barge woman scream. ‘You won't find the teachers there turnin' a blind eye if you sag off school or don't help get the messages in.'

Evie had not known what she meant but Seraphina had enlightened her. ‘The Salvation Army have a children's home in Liverpool called Strawberry Field, and the children have a uniform of red blazers and berets,' she had told Evie. ‘It's a wonderful place, a big old house with beautiful gardens, an orchard, swings and slides . . . oh, all sorts. But canal kids have something even more precious than wonderful grounds and swings and slides. They have freedom, Evie, and that's worth more than silver or gold.'

So now Evie nodded her understanding at Percy's words. ‘So what did your mam say?' she asked curiously. She knew that neither of her own parents would ever tell a deliberate lie but she also knew that other people were different. Besides, if telling a lie might keep your family out of trouble, then she supposed that even her own mother might stretch the truth a little.

‘Oh, she said Ron fell downstairs,' Percy said airily. ‘It's what she allus says. If she telled the truth, me dad 'ud murder her, which wouldn't be much help,' he ended. ‘Thanks for the butties, Evie; you're a good kid.'

By now they had reached the school gate and Percy was raising a grimy hand in farewell and turning into the boys' playground. ‘Hey, hang on a mo,' Evie said urgently. ‘I just want to ask you . . .'

But it was no use. A large and corpulent teacher with a huge nose and a stained waistcoat had appeared at the entrance to the boys' school. He was ringing a big hand bell and shouting to the boys above the noise he was making to get into line. Evie stood and watched for a moment as the boys scuffled and shouted, and then she made for her own gates, by no means dissatisfied with her morning's work. She was now on excellent terms with Percy Baldwin and knew that he hated his father and would not be unwilling to tell her anything she cared to ask, particularly if she continued to provide him with the food he lacked. She decided she would suggest that he might like to come back to the flat one day soon for some tea and a game of snakes and ladders, or ludo. Her mother never objected to feeding her pals, and when she saw Percy's skinny, half-starved frame would do so even more willingly.

‘C'mon, Evie Todd, where's you been? I were walkin' wi' Ruthie, talking about Christmas, 'cos our class is goin' to do the Nativity play this year. Ruthie wants to be Mary, but I reckon I'd rather be a shepherd, 'cos you get to hold one o' them white woolly lambs what the teachers make. They're ever so sweet and cuddly; I wish my mam could make things like that, so I do.'

‘She's gorr'erself a sweetheart,' Ruthie said mockingly. She was a fat and freckled girl with red hair and a round, good-natured face. ‘She were chatterin' away to 'im . . . oh aye, they's sweet on each other, I could tell.'

‘He ain't my sweetheart, he's just a boy,' Evie said dismissively. ‘But I felt real sorry for him; his dad punched him in the face and he's got one helluva shiner. What's more, his little brother's in hospital, 'cos he . . .' she remembered, belatedly, the story that Mrs Baldwin had had to tell the authorities, ‘'cos he fell down the stairs,' she finished weakly.

Annie and Ruthie grinned. ‘That's what all the mams say when someone gets belted, 'cos if a feller gets took in by the scuffers he might lose his job and then there'd be no money comin' in,' Ruthie said sagely. Evie knew that Ruthie and her brother Si were the only children of the elderly couple who kept the corner shop two hundred yards further down Scotland Road. Her parents were pleasant, friendly people and Evie was sure they had neither of them ever raised a hand to their children, but she guessed they would talk in front of Ruthie, perhaps not realising how much she took in.

‘Well, anyway, Percy ain't no sweetheart of mine,' she said firmly. ‘But he's nice and it ain't his fault his dad's a mean old sod.'

‘That's true,' Annie said wisely. ‘He's awright is Percy, otherwise me brother Gareth wouldn't be his pal. They play footie together and Gareth says Percy's the best player in the court. He says he'll play for the Reds one of these days.'

At this point, the bell interrupted them and the girls hurried to form lines, and presently took their places in class. As Evie settled into her seat, she glanced across at Millie, wondering whether to ask if the other girl had any more information about the doings at the warehouse, then decided against it. Anything Millie told her would be second if not third hand. Now that she was on good terms with Percy, she felt she had access to first-hand knowledge.

The teacher opened the register and began to call the names and Evie settled back in her seat. Before too long, she would know as much as Percy did as far as pranks were concerned.

That evening, the warehousemen met for a drink at the Bridge Inn at the end of Chisenhale Street before making their way home. It was not pay day and the pub would not give them tick, so they sat chatting companionably, each man making his mug of porter last as long as he could. The only one not to join in the talk was Reg Baldwin, who sat with both hands round his mug, gazing frowningly at the sawdust on the floor. He was in a bad mood and wanted to put off going home for as long as possible. He had only the haziest memories of the previous night, but despite his present ill humour he still felt a glow of satisfaction as he remembered his fist crunching into someone's face and the delicious swoop as he had chucked someone – someone light – across the filthy kitchen. He remembered shouting at his wife because the meal she had provided had not been to his liking, though he had no recollection of what had been on the table. His wife had bleated and wept, screaming that he was tearing the hair from her head, begging him to let her go so that she might begin to prepare a meal which he would enjoy. He had laughed at the suggestion, knowing that there would be no more food in the house. He remembered bellowing that he wanted GUINNESS, GUINNESS, GUINNESS . . .

Then, he supposed, the fight had started, not that it had been much of a fight. His sons were a cowardly couple; it had not taken him long to settle their hash. But his wife had somehow managed to sneak out of the house while he was teaching the boys a lesson and brought in that interferin' bugger Briggs. The man was huge, a docker, strong as an ox. Even now, Reg could see the man's fist raised, which was the last thing he did remember.

He had woken this morning, stiff, hung over, with a mouth as dry as a desert and a raging thirst. He had been lying on the floor, his head resting in something sticky and disgusting which proved to be his own vomit, and when he had shouted for assistance no one had come. He had managed to get up on to all fours and had crawled across to the sink beneath which – thank God – was the pail, still half full of water. He had grasped the bucket as lovingly as if it had contained Guinness and had drunk a good half of the suddenly delicious ice cold contents. His head had still been swimming after the previous night's drink, but he felt better and had crawled back to the couch, heaving himself aboard it and falling immediately asleep.

He had been woken again by someone shaking his shoulder. It was the boy, Percy, white as a sheet save for an enormous black eye. Reg had reached out for him, meaning to use the boy's shoulder as a support to help him sit up, but Percy had stepped back quickly – so quickly that the question that had hovered on Reg's lips –
Where did you get that black eye?
– became immediately unnecessary. Well, I reckon he deserved it, Reg had told himself, glancing at the kitchen clock. Oh, God, if he were to get to work on time, he'd need to get a move on. In the old days – the good old days, he had amended – the fellers would have come for him, and of course Herbie Hughes would have done the same. But ever since Herbie's dismissal, things at the warehouse had gone steadily downhill. Mr Harry bloody Todd, a right nasty prig of a feller, had somehow managed to persuade the other chaps that time-keeping was important, as was the sacredness of the goods entrusted to their care. So far as Reg was concerned, the only sacred thing in the warehouse was himself and he felt sore and sick and angry when he thought of the many little ploys that he and Herbie had worked out which had led to the enrichment of them both. Tins of pineapple and tins of red salmon were easy to smuggle out and to sell around the pubs afterwards. And then there was tea and coffee, always popular amongst the housewives. Many a feller now drinking in the pub was glad to take home two ounces of tea for his missus, knowing that the gift would shut her mouth to his shortcomings. Luxury goods, such as Belgian chocolates, destined for the smart shops on Church Street or Bold Street, were very popular, and in some pubs Reg had become so well known as a purveyor of cheap goods that even now customers raised their eyebrows at him and were disappointed, even angry, when he was forced to shake his head.

If only they could get rid of Todd! He had dreamed of it ever since the man's first day as head warehouseman. The trouble was, he was so damned good at the job. Herbie's thefts – and those of Reg himself – had depended upon the chaotic way in which goods were stored. It had meant you could check in a dozen crates of tinned peaches secure in the knowledge that Herbie would have to split them to get them into the place at all. That was the moment when you manoeuvred a crate away from the others, perhaps shoving it into the boiler room for a day or two. If it was missed, it could be produced; if it was not, then Herbie or Reg would be at liberty to break it open and make off with the contents. However, all that was at an end, for Todd knew where every lump of sugar was stored and almost nothing could go missing without a fuss. Now, at the end of each month, the men were paid a bonus, but this did not compensate Reg for losing his standing in the community as a provider of cheap luxury items. Besides, there was the thrill of stealing the stuff, which had lent an element of danger to each ordinary working day, and made him feel one helluva good feller as he handed out the sorts of goods most people never even touched, let alone tasted.

The odd thing was, though, that apart from Mickey Platt, none of the other warehousemen disliked the new order of things. In fact they were saying, frankly, that they thought it a great improvement. ‘It's made life much easier, Mr Todd knowing exactly where everything is, and drawing up a fresh plan each day so that everyone else knows as well,' one of the men had said. ‘And you know how it is – when everyone realises that someone's at the nicking game, then you're all half afraid the boss'll end up believing it's you. Why, honest men have had the push before today and a'course the thief just chuckles to hisself and stays stumm, because a feller that'll steal from his employer won't think twice about puttin' someone else in the frame if he gets the chance.'

At the time, Reg had nodded wisely along with the rest, but afterwards he and Mickey had discussed the new order and agreed that something ought to be done to get rid of Todd. ‘I'm not saying anyone else would be as bent as Herbie,' Mickey had said. ‘I agree with the fellers that we don't want someone like that; far too dangerous. What we want is someone who'll turn a blind eye to a bit of pilferin' – a coupla tins o' salmon, a bag o' sugar poured off when you've split a sack, like; a tin of golden syrup to make a nice treacle tart of a Sunday . . . that sort of thing. What I'd call perks of the job, I suppose.'

So now, sitting in the pub and taking no part in the conversation going on around him, Reg began to try to think of a foolproof plan which would cause old Todd to go back to his bleedin' canal boat and never poke his nose into a decent warehouse again. By the time he had finished his porter, several ideas had risen to the surface of his mind, but they all needed cooperation from someone else, and that someone would have to be Mickey Platt. The other man was not present, having made his way straight home, but Reg knew where he lived and decided to visit him. We must strike while the iron's hot, he told himself virtuously. Todd's already had three months and he's used them to change just about everything. The next thing we know, he'll start looking into our private lives and deciding who he could do without, because there's no doubt about it, when a warehouse is run the way Payton and Bister is being run, you don't need the same level of staff. That's why I can get away wi' having a smoke in a crafty corner. Oh aye, I'll nip round to Mickey's place on me way home tonight.

Reg had done as he had promised himself he would, but had been disappointed. Mickey Platt had gone to visit an elderly aunt who sometimes gave him his tea in return for the performing of small tasks which were too heavy for her. Reg had made his way home, still plotting furiously. He had let himself into a cold and empty house, for neither his wife nor any of his children were to be seen. Cursing, Reg examined the food cupboard and found it empty. He took down the teapot where he knew his wife kept her housekeeping money, but that was empty too, and for the first time it occurred to him that the kid he had thrown across the room the night before might have been more badly injured than he had supposed. His blood ran cold at the thought. Scuffers were notoriously hard on child beaters and it would be no good explaining that he had scarcely touched the boy, that the lad had tumbled down the stairs, or tripped on one of the uneven floor tiles in the kitchen. Why, if the kid were real bad, his wife might see it as a chance to get her revenge on him for occasionally having a drink or two, and might tell the scuffers that it had been he who had punched his son and chucked him across the kitchen. You could never tell with women; they could be as spiteful as hell if they thought a feller would be thrown into the cooler and therefore unable to give them the slapping they deserved for their treachery.