Too Many Heroes Page 5

  He reaches up for a bottle of pearl barley and she glimpses bare skin where the buttons on his shirt end. Unlike most of the men in this city, the man’s suntan clearly extends further than his neck and lower arms. On his way over to the till just now, he’d brushed so close she could smell him. This night’s work has made him sweat, for sure (hadn’t she felt her own back running with it) and, studying him now, she can see the darker patches staining his blue shirt to prove it. There’s certainly no denying that by the end of the night the man will benefit from a bath but, that said, the aroma he’s giving off doesn’t seem stale. Despite all the smoke and spilt beer surrounding them, Frank Danby smells of something different, something fresher that’s very far from unpleasant.

  By the next run of orders, they’re in the swing of things, working together as a team and not getting in each other’s way like they had been earlier on. Grace remembers the satisfaction to be had from doing the job and doing it well. For the first time in a long while, she’s actually enjoying herself.

  Keeping up with demand means they’re soon in need of clean glasses. As she washes up a batch of tankards, she continues to observe this Frank. She notices how he gives Mrs Perkins the briefest of smiles as he hands over her change and how the woman’s face reddens in response. Despite her advanced years, and the fact that her husband is only a few yards away, the old lady looks positively coquettish as she gives him her gap-toothed smile.

  Frank comes over to take the glasses she’s just dried. He doesn’t say much, just something like ‘Ta, Grace,’ but then he goes and smiles down at her and, with that, his whole face takes on such a look that she has to avert her eyes back to the task in hand. Wouldn’t you know it, now she can feel her own cheeks blushing; an awareness of him running through her body like it really, really oughtn’t to.

  Grace always considered herself to be a realist and it’s not hard to size up the situation. The most sensible course of action now would be to thank this man for his hard work and then, once he’s been paid his week’s dues, get Dennis to inform him his services are no longer needed. In truth, they’ve always managed well enough between them with the help of young Jack on the busier nights. The boy’s slower about his work than she’d like but he’s willing enough. Frank Danby’s certainly a better worker by far, he may even be good for trade, but without a doubt he’s a luxury neither of them can afford.

  Frank goes off to collect more empties and her attention is drawn towards a thin figure standing in the passageway to her right.

  Arnold Kirby tips his hat at her. ‘Evening, darlin’,’ he says in that smarmy voice of his – the one he puts on when trying to appear charming. ‘I’m after a word with your Dennis – in the back, is he?’

  The little weasel takes a drag on the cigarette pinched between his fingers, his pale eyes narrowing on her. Without waiting for an answer, he says, ‘I see you’re busy. I’ll find the way meself. Just got a little spot of business to discuss with your hubby.’

  He turns away with every intention of carrying on towards their private rooms.

  She steps out to stop him with a hand to his arm. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr Kirby.’ Keeping her voice as steady as she can, she adds, ‘You see he’s not in at the moment and I’m really not sure when he’ll be back.’

  The odious man looks down at her hand resting on his jacket sleeve and all the way up again until his eyes reach her face. ‘In that case, perhaps you’ll tell him I called.’

  He takes another long drag on his cigarette before dropping it to the floor and grinding the butt beneath the sole of his polished brogues. ‘Tell him I’ll be round to see him again sometime soon. Maybe I’ll have better luck with finding him in, the next time I visit.’

  Kirby gives her a twitch of a smile then raises his hat. ‘Be seein’ you again soon, Mrs Stevenson. Goodnight to you.’

  She watches him go, and makes damn sure the man has left the premises before she bolts the side door behind him.

  ‘When you’ve got a moment, Mrs S…’ Without even turning round, Grace recognises the raised voice of Mr Tomkinson the undertaker. ‘I’ll trouble you for a Double Diamond, if I may?’

  ‘I’ll be right there,’ she tells him, taking a moment to collect herself.

  She grabs the bottle of beer on her way through, snapping its cap off with one swift and satisfying movement. ‘So, how are you tonight, Mr Tomkinson?’ It’s odd that she doesn’t know or can’t recall the man’s first name.

  ‘Oh, I’d say fair to middling, as they like to say up in the north.’ He nods his head towards Frank. She guesses that it’s not just because of his profession that the other men shy away from his company. Some of them complain there’s the pong of death hanging about him and Grace has to admit that, on occasions, she’s detected an unnatural chemical smell on the man.

  While she’s pouring the beer into the sleever glass the undertaker prefers, Thin Harry comes up for yet another refill. The two men greet each other with ‘Evening.’

  ‘Double Diamond is it?’ Harry says, looking at the label on the bottle she’s holding. ‘What is it they reckon in that advertisement? “A Double Diamond works wonders”.’

  ‘And I’d wholeheartedly agree,’ the undertaker says. ‘I find it a very fine drink at the end of the working day. Most restorative.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ Harry looks pointedly down at the crotch of the undertaker’s trousers and smiles. ‘So, you planning on raising a stiff tonight then?’

  Frank leans over the bar. ‘I’d ask you to be careful of your language in front of a lady, Harry.’

  The culprit ducks his head, looking a tad shame-faced. ‘Point taken. No offence intended, Grace.’

  ‘And none taken, Harry,’ she says with a broad smile. Grace is indignant – it’s not like she needs defending from that sort of thing in her own pub. She’s tempted to tell that barman she’s heard far worse, though she thinks better of it and gets on with serving the next customer.

  Coming up to last orders, the bitter starts to run out. Not enough dribbles to fill a glass. ‘I’m really sorry.’ She looks into the young fella’s disappointed face. ‘I can give you this drop for free, but that’s it with the bitter for tonight, I’m afraid.’

  Frank comes over. ‘Has that barrel run out already? We really have been busy tonight.’

  ‘Well it’s too bad, they’ll just have to drink somethin’ else,’ Grace says.

  Frank looks at his watch. ‘I’ll nip down and swap the barrels over – if that’s alright with you?’

  ‘What and leave me on my own for last orders – I don’t think so.’ Although she can do it herself if pushed, changing a barrel is heavy work more suited to a man. It’s a job Dennis usually takes a good twenty minutes over including a fair bit of moaning and groaning.

  ‘Won’t take me more than a few minutes, I’ll have it back on well before the crush.’ Frank looks down at her with an expression on his face she can’t quite fathom. ‘Trust me, Grace, I won’t let you down.’

  Before she can argue, he’s heading for the cellar stairs.

  ‘Young fella says the bitters gorn off, is that right?’ Fat Harry’s standing at the counter looking mournful. ‘A rum do and no mistake on a Friday night.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that. Frank’s gone down to change the barrel if you can hang on for a bit.’

  ‘Like I said, it’s a rum do, darlin’,’ Harry’s smile reveals his tobacco-stained teeth; ‘because at such times only a rum will do. I’ll have a large glass of Myer’s, if you please.’

  She smirks. ‘So – shall I put some water in that for you, Harry?’

  ‘Now then – don’t you go taunting an old navy man with such a terrible thought, Grace Stevenson.’

  It’s not long before Frank reappears. He strides over to the pump and, after a few splutters, the new barrel begins to flow. He’s about to pour off the first pint or two to check its clarity when she stays his hand. ‘That’s enough, Frank. I’m s
ure it’ll do just fine as it is.’ She meets his puzzled expression. Leaning in towards him she whispers: ‘There’s really no point in wasting any more of it – it’s not like they’re going to notice the difference at this time of the evening.’

  Grace is about to step back when she feels his warm breath against her ear: ‘Is that right? Well now, Mrs Stevenson, I see there’s a whole hidden side to you I hadn’t appreciated.’

  She’s taken aback, is about to reprimand him for his flaming cheek when his smile stops her dead. ‘I could say exactly the same for you, Mr Danby,’ she says, as she turns away.

  Chapter Six

  Tonight, it’s Grace who rings the small hand bell and calls out, ‘Time, ladies and gentlemen, please!’ Frank feels dispossessed, oddly resentful that the task has been taken from him.

  He goes from group to group collecting up glasses and wishing everyone goodnight. ‘That’s it, folks. Have a safe journey home.’ Like always, a handful of customers need a bit more persuading and he tries to chivvy them along with: ‘Let’s be having you, lads and lasses, I’m sure you’ve all got homes to go to.’ He’s careful to keep his voice affable – tanked up as they all are, it wouldn’t take much to rile someone and at this late stage of an evening things can get out of hand in a flash.

  A heavy arm is planted across his shoulders. ‘So how are you, Frankie me old mate?’ The cigarette dangling from the corner of Thin Harry’s mouth has gone out. ‘You know we’d all stay as quiet as little, tiny mice, wouldn’t we lads, if you and the ever-lovely Mrs Stevenson wanted to lock us in for another half an hour or so. What’s thirty minutes between pals?’

  ‘I’m quite sure neither Dennis nor Grace would want to risk losing their licence, Harry.’ Frank picks up the man’s limb and gives him a friendly smile before he lets it drop away. ‘And I know you wouldn’t want them to endanger their livelihood over a few extra drinks none of you really needs. Am I right?’

  Thin Harry nods and then shakes his head, casting his gaze down at the floor like a beaten man. ‘When I was younger, coppers round here were a decent lot, happy to turn a blind eye to a lock-in – ’specially of a Friday or Saturday night; some used to drop by themselves for a quick couple of pints at the end of their shift. We was all pals together in them days.’

  His two mates are nodding in unison. ‘You could say it was bit of a tradition in this part of London.’

  ‘We haven’t long fought a war that was supposed to be for freedom and what do we get for it?’ Fat Harry stands with his legs apart, swaying like he might still be onboard ship in rough weather. ‘Country’s gettin’ more like a bloody police state all the time.’

  He hands Frank his empty glass and then, with as much solemnity as he can muster, puts on his cap and staggers off towards the door.

  ‘Peace at last.’ Frank pushes the heavy bolts across behind the last of them. ‘That was a busy one and no mistake.’ From where he’s standing, her face is unreadable. He’s been on tenterhooks all night wondering if he’ll have a job come the morning – now for the reckoning.

  But the woman remains mute, standing there biting at her top lip and not meeting his eye. ‘Quite a homecoming for you,’ he says. ‘I bet you’re all in and ready for bed.’

  Grace raises her eyebrows though still giving nothing away. She looks past him to gaze into the mirror while she removes the grips from the front of her hair. Apparently satisfied with her appearance (and who wouldn’t be?) she sighs and then wipes her hands on her apron more than can be necessary.

  He can’t stop watching her every movement as she unties it at the back, winding the two straps round and around the whole thing to make a small bundle, which she dumps on the shelf below the mirror.

  At last she speaks: ‘Certainly got a bit wild in here tonight.’ She goes over to the till and pulls out the loaded cash drawer. ‘It’ll be interesting to see how the takings are going. They ought to be up a fair bit with trade like this.’

  Frank wonders if her tone is implying something more. She looks directly at him now and still there’s no hint one way or another. ‘You get on with the clearing up in here and I’ll go and see where Dennis has got to with your wages.’

  Without further ado, she walks off with the money and leaves him to it. It’s clear as day that, despite their earlier cooperation, the two of them are no longer a team.

  As he goes round collecting up the empties, he admits to himself the signs don’t look good. Of late he’s been able to send good money to Annie on a regular basis; if he loses this job, he’ll let her down once again. Of course, he’d known all along it was more than likely Dennis would let him go when trade gets less busy come the autumn – in fact he’d planned to go back down to Kent for the hopping – but the neither of the Williams brothers will want him to show his face down there much before the beginning of September.

  He’s always loved the hop season down on Gorseleigh Farm but it has one obvious drawback – even for a poll-puller or a binman the pay’s never been up to much. With regular money coming in, he’d thought he might be able to save up a decent amount between now and then. Hop work is always hard, that’s for sure, but he’s noticed just how much those East End kids enjoy running around in all that fresh air and freedom.

  Of late, he’s even been wondering if, once he’s got together enough to pay for their fare down and a bit of extra bait, he’ll write to Annie this year and suggest she and the lad might like to join him for a bit of a working holiday.

  Frank’s finished with the ashtrays and is wiping over the tables and yet there’s no sign of Dennis or Grace.

  Someone’s left a cap on the shelf in the corner. He looks inside to find there’s no clue to its owner. Frank puts it on his head – it’s several sizes smaller than his own. The hat is yet another object to add to the collection of keys, lighters and umbrellas they hold behind the bar. Once or twice he’s found a wallet and just the once a purse. He made sure to hand anything of that nature straight over to Dennis for safekeeping. It would be too easy to be tempted.

  So, what is he going to do if he’s dismissed tonight? He could look for work at the docks. At best it’s backbreaking work and he might be hanging around for hours, days even, before he’s given a shift.

  Dennis finally appears as he’s wiping over the counter one last time. ‘Evening, Frank.’ The publican’s changed into his carpet slippers, shuffling along like a much older person. ‘Grace tells me it was a busy one again this evening. Takings are on the up, that’s for sure.’

  Looking down into the man’s florid face, Frank guesses Dennis Stevenson is probably no more than early forties. The landlord’s hairline is retreating as fast as his waistline is expanding. By his manner and the deep lines etched into his forehead, he could pass for fifty. The age gap between husband and wife must be a good twenty years or so. Yes – the Stevensons are an unlikely match on every level.

  Though he’s dressed in shirtsleeves – and the temperature in the empty bar has dropped considerably – Dennis is sweating profusely, dabbing his face with his hanky like he was earlier. A charitable view would be that the man is coming down with something.

  ‘By my reckoning,’ he says, ‘once you’ve finished up here tonight, you’ll have worked sixty-eight and a quarter hours this week.’ From his trouser pocket Dennis produces a brown envelope and holds it out. ‘I think you’ll find it’s all there – though you’re welcome to count it.’

  ‘There’ll be no need for that, Dennis; I trust you.’ He can smell the whisky and cigarettes on the landlord’s breath when he steps forward to take his wages. ‘I’m quite sure it’s correct down to the last penny – as always.’

  Frank looks down at the envelope resting in his palm. His name is written on it in a neat, sloping hand that has to be Grace’s. He weighs its contents. ‘And what about this weekend – do you want me to work the usual hours?’

  A moment passes while Dennis rubs away at his moustache. ‘It’s been decided we’ll go on as we ar
e for now, Frank. I can’t say fairer than that, can I?’

  The landlord gives him a wry smile as he pats him on the shoulder. ‘You get off home now and mind you’re back here in good time in the morning.’

  He unhooks Frank’s jacket and cap and passes them to him. ‘After the run on things tonight, there’ll be a fair amount of bottlin’ up needed before we open.’

  So – a reprieve of sorts; for the time being at least, he’s still an employed man. How long it’s likely to last will depend on a number of factors beyond his control.

  ‘Thanks very much, Dennis.’ He hooks his hat over his head. ‘I’m much obliged to you.’

  Frank knows he was dead lucky to secure this job in the first place; work all over the city seems to be in short supply right now and yet it rankles to be so beholden, always at the mercy of other people’s inclinations.

  ‘Night then,’ he says, as the door is bolted to his back.

  Chapter Seven

  It’s a long slog home on foot. The air’s still warm and, despite the hour, there are plenty of people out and about; the headlights of the passing traffic spotlight each group in turn.

  He stops at the corner where there’s a closed-up chophouse. The alleyway behind the building is redolent with the smell of cooked meat. It’s his habit to take this back route – a shortcut to his digs and the sleep he so badly needs. At least he’ll have money for the meter when he gets in.

  Away from the interference of the lights, he looks up at the array of stars peppering the sky above his head. The shallow arc of his torch beam picks out the narrowness of the way ahead. A family of rats – looks like a mother and her four young – are scampering along in the dry gulley running alongside the cobbled pathway.

  From here the alley leads up a steeper incline. He’s almost reached the top when the silence is broken by the sound of quick footsteps approaching.

  He can just make out the silhouettes of two men; both are wearing broad-rimmed hats and, despite the temperature, long, dark overcoats. There’s a marked difference in their height and build – a disparity that would be almost comical in other circumstances. The short one keeps spitting from the side of his mouth like he might be chewing tobacco.