Too Many Heroes Page 11

  Once she’s dressed again, Grace rinses her smalls twice over in the basin. Her hands are wrinkled from the water and she stares at them. One day her skin will no longer be smooth and what will she have to show for all the years in between?

  Her old wraparound apron is hanging on the back of the door. She puts it on over her clothes like she’s a regular housewife. Sackcloth and ashes comes to mind. If anyone is looking out of a window, they’ll only see her taking a bit of washing out to the line in the yard.

  So what? You wouldn’t think twice about something like that.

  They always send the sheets and towels out to the laundry, but the rest of the dirty washing has piled up in her absence. She really should make a start on it; it is Monday morning after all and a fine day at that.

  The stairs creak and groan and she turns to face Dennis. ‘You’re up bright an’ early this mornin’.’ His face is still puffy, his hair all over the place. ‘Ta very much for the tea; it was a bit tepid by the time I woke up, but I drank it all the same.’ Nothing about him suggests he’s suspicious.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep – it was so close,’ she says. ‘I even went for a bit of a stroll around outside to see if that would help.’

  ‘And did it?’ He rakes his hand through his hair missing the worst of it at the back.

  ‘A bit.’

  He seems distracted by something, hardly listening as she prattles on about her disturbed night.

  ‘You look all-in, darlin’,’ he says. ‘Why don’t you go on back up to bed; see if you can catch a couple more hours’ kip?’ Dennis takes various keys from the hooks in the passageway and puts them on the table. ‘We’ve got that delivery coming shortly. I can handle it. And I can manage to get my own breakfast.’

  ‘Well – if you’re sure.’ She feigns a yawn, which turns into a real one. It’s odd but she’s almost disappointed to have got away with such an act of betrayal so easily.

  Grace pulls the bedroom curtains though they’re too thin to block out all the glare of the sun. She takes off her top clothes and gets into bed still wearing her petticoat and underwear. It’s so nice to stretch out in comfort. She’s dog-tired. Even with everything in such a quandary, it’s not long before she’s drifting into sleep.

  Grace is woken by noises from outside. Well used to Alfie the drayman calling, she knows his booming voice and the familiar sound of barrels rolling along the cobbles. This is something different. She can hear a petrol engine idling for a moment before it cuts out. Dennis is talking to someone down in the side alley, but she can’t hear what they’re saying.

  Her curiosity roused, Grace goes out onto the landing and peers through the bottom of the net curtain. From here she has a good view of the tops of their heads though the other man is wearing a cap. The two of them are standing beside a lorry. Along the side of it she reads: C. Lloy. Then: Son. Then: al Builders.

  Grace knows who Cyril Lloyd is – he comes into the saloon bar sometimes; likes to doff his trilby at her in a smarmy way and call her Mrs S. She assumes the man must be doing well for himself – he’s always smartly dressed; wears that thick gold ring on his little finger. The only thing she has against him is he seems to be thick as thieves with that little snake Arnold Kirby.

  So, if that’s his lorry – which it obviously is – what are those two up to down there?

  The man in the cap pulls back the tarpaulin covering the back of the lorry. With Dennis’s help, he unloads half a dozen cardboard boxes. He puts the first two onto a sack truck, which he wheels in the direction of their bottle store. Dennis trots along behind him.

  Once all six boxes have been unloaded, she expects the man to drive away but instead he waits there by his lorry. Dennis hasn’t yet emerged. The man lights up a fag and then looks up at the building as he smokes it. She has to duck down behind the sill.

  When she steals a look again, Dennis has come back out and they’re standing around chatting and smoking together. Then the man in the cap abruptly grinds his dog end under his boot and climbs up into the cab. Before he shuts the door, Dennis takes something out of his pocket and hands it up to him. At first, she can’t see what it is and then the sun glints off a set of keys.

  Grace gets dressed, intending to go down and ask Dennis exactly what he’s up to giving the pub keys out to other people.

  She can smell burnt toast before she even opens the kitchen door. His plate is still on the table with the cut off crusts and two empty eggshells.

  Dennis must be out in the bar. The passageway is too dark, so she turns on the light to check along the row of hooks where they keep the sets of keys. Grace is pleased to see the main ones for the pub are all there safely. It’s only that small bunch at the end that’s missing. They’re the ones for that old lockup of his under the railway arches.

  Grace knows exactly where the lockup is, though she’s never once set foot inside it. Dennis has always dismissed any interest she’s shown, telling her it’s full of nothing worth keeping, just all sorts of bits and pieces that used to belong to his parents – things that, now they’d passed on, he doesn’t have the heart to throw away.

  She opens the door and hears her husband whistling in the bar. At least the man sounds happy for a change. It would be easy enough to go in and demand he tells her exactly what’s in those cardboard boxes – though she’s already got an idea what the answer to that question would be.

  If Dennis doesn’t know she’s caught on, it might be easier to check what the ruddy man’s up to and, especially, why he would give the keys to that lockup of his to one of Cyril Lloyd’s men. What exactly have those two gone and cooked up together?

  She goes through into the public bar where Bessie is mopping the floor in her usual less-than-enthusiastic manner. Dennis is through in the saloon leaning against the counter reading something. Straight away, Grace can see it’s The Sporting Life. ‘You’re up then,’ he says, folding the newspaper to hide the page he’d been studying.

  ‘Yes. I feel much better now I’ve had a rest.’

  She’s quick to change the subject. ‘I saw you out the window talking to one of Cyril’s chaps.’

  From the corner of her eye, she sees Bessie straightening up, a hand in the small of her back while she stops to listen. Nothing much gets past that one.

  Grace can see her husband’s discomfort, that way he has of eyeing up the ceiling just before he conjures up a whole host of half-truths and lies to cover his tracks.

  ‘That was just Bernie,’ he begins. ‘He was delivering something down the road so I waved him down. I asked him to ask Cyril if one of his roofers could take a look at the gents’ roof sometime. It’s not so obvious in this dry spell, but there’s damp getting in down the far corner.’ He looks more directly at her now; his colour is up, that’s for sure. ‘Bernie thought it was probably somethin’ blockin’ the gutter or maybe a few slipped tiles. As a matter of fact, he was very helpful.’

  Granted, the man can certainly think on his feet when he needs to. In truth, hasn’t she always allowed him a few secrets?

  ‘I could see as much,’ she says. ‘You two looked as thick as thieves out there.’

  Grace stares directly at Bessie now. The old woman dunks her mop and then twists it round and round hoping to hear more before she reluctantly starts on the floor again.

  ‘You need to be careful.’ She’s looking him straight in the eyes and for once he can’t hide the alarm in his face. ‘He’s a sly one that Cyril Lloyd. Just you make sure he doesn’t take advantage.’

  With that she walks away; leaves him to it. Who is she, after all, to insist on the truth and nothing but the truth between them when she’s ready to spin a pack of lies herself?

  Maybe this time, it might be as well if she knows next to nothing about what Dennis Stevenson has gone and got himself mixed up in.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The sun is higher now, already skipping along the edge of the rooftops. Heading in no particular direction, Frank walks and walks;
the cobbles around the dockyards unyielding beneath the worn soles of his shoes.

  The usual arrangement is that he goes in to work a bit later on a Monday morning. ‘There’s no point you gettin’ here any sooner,’ Dennis had reminded him more than once. ‘Bessie won’t want you under her feet while she’s doin’ the floors. Eleven is plenty early enough.’

  People crowd the pavements or speed past him on pushbikes – off somewhere in a hurry at the start of the working week. Turning the corner, a great ship looms above the warehouses and wharfs like a cathedral dwarfing all before it. Through the gaps between buildings, he glimpses all manner of ships and boats crisscrossing the river. Light patterns the surface of the water and bounces off soot-blackened walls. For a long moment he stares at those restless shapes forever forming and then dissolving again.

  ‘Kiss me goodbye,’ she’d said and he’d done just that; but it wasn’t the long lingering kiss he’d hoped for. She’d broken away from him too soon, turned her back and not looked round once as she hurried away. Now he thinks about it, Grace’s final words could have meant something entirely different.

  Frank gets to the pub just before opening time. For a change the place smells of furniture polish and disinfectant. Grace is nowhere to be seen but Dennis is already in the bar messing about with the sign on one of the pumps.

  ‘Mornin’, Frank,’ he says, hardly looking up. ‘I trust you enjoyed a few extra hours in bed this mornin’?’

  The question catches him unaware. Something about the man’s tone doesn’t sound right. ‘Ah – yes, I did, ta,’ he tells him, wondering if Dennis might have his suspicions. ‘I’ve brought back your clothes. Bit hard to wash them in my digs or I would have. Thanks again for helping me out.’

  The landlord barely looks at the small pile. ‘My wife’s idea entirely,’ he says. ‘That woman can never say no when somebody needs help; always did have a soft spot for someone in trouble. A soft touch, some people might say. Course there’s always some who’ll take advantage of a person’s gentle nature.’

  This almost sounds like a thinly veiled accusation but, then again, he could be imagining it. Frank can’t think how he should respond, so he says nothing. It’s all he can do to look the other man in the eyes. Dennis appears to be his usual self only a bit redder in the face. Large beads of sweat are forming on his forehead and running down the side of his nose. He can smell the Brylcreem that’s keeping the man’s hair under control. That moustache on his upper lip once again puts Frank in mind of a Fox Moth caterpillar.

  In the silence that follows, he finds himself blathering. ‘Another fine day out there. Quite a dry spell we’re having.’ When Dennis fails to respond, ‘Is there owt I can help with before we open up?’

  The landlord turns his attention back to the pump label. (The man always insists on them lining up exactly.) ‘I think you’ll find it’s all in hand. As you can see, I’ve done all the bottlin’ up, an’ the optics are fine.’

  Dennis’s eyes dart up to the clock on the wall. ‘Two minutes past, you can open up, though I doubt you’ll be trampled in the rush.’

  When not a soul walks through the door, the landlord smiles at him in an I-told-you-so manner. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ he says. ‘Grace’s got her head down. Catchin’ up after a disturbed night.’ He rubs his hands together. ‘I’m off out for a bit. Just got a spot of business to see to.’

  The morning drags on. Frank keeps hoping Grace will come through and talk to him but she doesn’t. Around half past one, he catches sight of her leaving through the side door. The woman doesn’t even glance in his direction.

  After that he can’t help himself, he keeps checking the door hoping to get a glimpse of her returning. If only he could talk to her, find out how she’s really feeling.

  In his afternoon break he dawdles in the street outside hoping to bump into her as she returns home. He passes a crowded café and then turns back. This is the most likely route she’ll take; if he sits near the window, he might catch a glimpse of her. He’s got enough change in his pocket for a cup of tea.

  A skinny redhead looks up from behind the counter. ‘Afternoon, love,’ she says. ‘Just you, is it?’ She nods him towards a vacant table near the back.

  ‘Mind if I sit here by the window instead?’

  ‘Take your pick, darlin’ – it’s a free country.’

  Frank decides not to argue with that statement. The girl’s quick to bring him his tea. There’s even a biscuit in the saucer – a Marie. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t charge you extra.’

  He’s obliged to thank her. ‘Anything else I can tempt you with?’ This time she adds a flirtatious smile. Her freckled cheeks redden as she waits for his answer.

  ‘Not right now,’ he tells her. ‘This will do me fine, thanks.’

  Stirring his tea, he begins to contemplate his immediate future. After what happened last night, everything is up in the air again and there’s no knowing where things will land.

  The entrance bell rings out and an old chap in shirtsleeves and green braces comes in. Without asking, he sits down at the table opposite him. Frank continues to check the street while in his side vision he sees the man take his specs from his pocket and clean the lenses with his hanky.

  A gaggle of laughing women pass the window, dressed up to the nines and in a hurry to get somewhere. None of them looks remotely like her.

  Once he’s ordered a tea and a crumpet, the old man extracts a rolled-up newspaper from his other pocket and fans himself with it. ‘Goin’ to be another scorcher.’

  When Frank remains mute, the old chap adjusts his specs, flattens out the paper and turns his full attention to the inside pages.

  The man’s tea arrives first. He carries on reading, holding his newspaper – The Evening News – inches away from Frank’s face.

  The headline on the front page reads: GUILTY SPY TO GO FREE. His curiosity aroused, Frank looks away from the window to scan the article. Seems a Russian spy was caught red-handed in a London park with top-secret stuff on him.

  He has to lean forward to read the smaller print about how this man had been sentenced to five years on Thursday, only to be released at the weekend because of his “diplomatic immunity”.

  The old chap looks up and catches Frank’s eye before checking to see what he’s been reading. ‘Terrible, ent it? They catch the ruddy fella at it; he gets banged up like he should be and then the bugger gets let off scot-free. Would you ruddy Adam and Eve it? If you’re a bloody foreigner, you can get away with murder. Diplomatic immunity – wouldn’t we all like a bit of that? Makes a bloody mockery of the laws the rest of us have to follow.’

  ‘You’re not wrong about that,’ Frank says, more to shut him up than anything. The street is empty save for a couple of chaps on pushbikes.

  The old man holds his gaze. ‘Here now, take a look at this.’ He folds the newspaper over to reveal one of the inside pages. OUR SEARCH FOR A HERO the headline reads. ‘See there; the fella in this photo – the one they’re lookin’ for – he looks a bit like you, mate.’

  Frank stares at a blurred snap of the crowd on Tower Beach. They’ve drawn a thick black circle around his head. ‘I suppose there is a passing resemblance,’ he admits. ‘Though you could say the same about half the men in London.’

  ‘I ’spose your hair’s a bit lighter than his is,’ the old man concedes. ‘Says here this chap saved a kiddie from certain drowning.’

  ‘Afraid I can’t even swim.’ Frank shrugs, the lie coming easy. ‘I’ve always had a terrible fear of water.’

  The old man finishes his drink then puts down the newspaper to take out his tobacco tin. ‘Paper’s offerin’ the lucky bugger fifty guineas if he comes forward. That’s more than half my pension for the year.’ When he laughs his front teeth fall down from his gum. ‘Eh – if he don’t come forward you could always dye yer hair and go an’ claim it.’

  He takes his time rolling a cigarette and then runs his tongue along the flimsy paper to s
eal it. ‘Ah, it’s a funny old world,’ he says, inserting the roll up into the corner of his mouth. ‘Comes to somethin’ when a villain can get away with his crime and a genuine hero don’t seem to want his just reward.’

  Frank spots a girl with the same shade of hair as Grace disappearing around the corner. His first instinct is to run. As he gets up to leave, the old man mumbles: ‘A man could do a lot with fifty guineas.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tuesday 24th June

  Dot comes to the door with a towel draped over her head and a row of skinny curlers poking out of the front. Thinking of sardines, Grace stifles a giggle.

  ‘Don’t you start,’ her friend says. ‘I’m just tryin’ out this new perm. Pin up, it’s called. Cost me a guinea with the rollers as well so it better look good. Mind you, they do promise you your money back if it doesn’t work wonders.’

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ Grace tells her once they’re safely inside.

  ‘Why – what’s happened now?’

  ‘Are your mum and dad in?’ That chemical smell is already making her eyes smart in the confined space of the hall.

  ‘D’you think I’d be doin’ this if they were? I’d never hear the end of it if our dad saw me lookin’ like this. Don’t you go tellin’ ’em how much it cost, neither.’ They move through into the small kitchen and its cloying heat. ‘I’ve got to wash this off in ten minutes,’ Dot tells her. ‘Don’t let me forget, will ya?’

  She finds her cigarettes and lights one – knows better than to offer one to Grace. Her face looks different with her hair away from it – her dark eyes much more prominent than usual. ‘So, what did you want to tell me then? Have you had another bust up with Dennis?’

  ‘No, not that.’ Grace wonders if this is such a good idea after all. Maybe she’d be better off keeping it to herself. No – it’s no good, she just has to tell someone about what’s happened, or she’ll burst.