Too Many Heroes Page 7

  Despite her best intentions, she’s amused. Watching this barman as he works, she can’t help but notice the way he fits that shirt, filling it out in all the right places.

  The penny drops – it’s the beard, that’s what it is; he’s gone and shaved it all off. It’s so obvious; she can even see how much paler the skin around his jawline is against the rest of his tanned face. Makes him seem younger. He’s looking straight at her now, his eyes dancing with such a liveliness. There’s even a dimple in the middle of his chin you couldn’t have seen before. He puts her in mind of Kirk Douglas, though he looks more like Alan Ladd. She has to fight an impulse to reach out and trace a path around that little indentation with her finger. Yes, Frank Danby certainly is a handsome man.

  ‘Are you two goin’ to just stand there gawping at each other all ruddy day?’ thin Harry’s reedy voice demands.

  ‘Just you watch your manners, Harry Bishop.’ Grace can feel herself reddening. ‘One of us will be with you soon enough.’

  ‘Mmmm; well, when you’ve a mind to turn your attention to your paying customers again, I’d like a pint of mild, if you please, Mrs Stevenson.’ His gaze goes from her to Frank and then back again. ‘This sort of weather can bring out a raging thirst in the best of us.’ Seeming to look right through her, he adds: ‘Ent that right, Dennis, me old mate?’

  Grace is taken aback to find her husband standing right behind her. He must have come in through the side door; how long he’s been standing there she’s no idea.

  Dennis drapes his arm around her shoulder and gives her a proprietorial squeeze. ‘There’s really no need for you to help out in here, love; especially dressed like that. The two of us can manage just fine between us; can’t we, Frank?’

  She’s surprised by the animation in his voice. He’s pressing the top of her arm now, his grip awkward and insistent. ‘You deserve a few hours away from this place.’

  His eyes look a bit wild and she wonders if he’s been drinking, though, for once, she can’t smell it on his breath. He lets go of her to rummage in his wallet before pressing a couple of pound notes into her hand. ‘You could go an’ get your hair done. Or go an’ do a bit of shopping with Dot – whatever takes your fancy, my darlin’.’

  He steps back. ‘Go on, gal – off you go. Enjoy yourself.’ And now his hand is right in the small of her back almost pushing her out of the way.

  Chapter Nine

  Frank tries to get on with his work, with what he’s being paid to do here, for Christ’s sake. He lifts up the hatch and goes off to collect the empties, glad to have a bit of space around him. There’s no denying that seeing Dennis with his arm around Grace was a surprise – a shock even; yet he’d known exactly who she was almost from the moment he’d laid eyes on the girl.

  Another feeling takes over the pit of his stomach – disgust. Is it that, or is it closer to a sense of outrage that such a young and beautiful woman could have settled for the likes of Dennis Stevenson?

  Just before her husband’s sudden arrival, Frank had held Grace’s gaze for that one moment and what he saw in her eyes had stirred something in him. It wasn’t only physical arousal – although he has to admit that was part of it – it was a lot more besides.

  Once both hands are full of glasses, Frank heads back towards the counter determined to put aside any such thoughts. What’s more, he should remember that none of the rest of it is his concern. Whatever it is that’s going on between the two of them or what Dennis might be getting up to – it’s their affair. This is a just temporary job and, if he’s lucky, it might tide him over until he can escape The Smoke in September. He only needs to stick it out for another five or six weeks and then he’ll be gone.

  Wilf surrenders his empty glass with a loud burp, doesn’t bother to cover his mouth. ‘That’s me done – or done for.’ The old man chuckles and pats him on the back before he turns to his friends. ‘Be seeing you both. Come on then, Harry me ol’ mate, you’d best get off an’ all or you’ll find yourself in hot water with the old trouble and strife.’

  Frank nods a farewell to both men and watches them stagger together out of the door. He carries on washing up, wiping each glass with unnecessary vigour. Once he’s back down there in the Kent countryside, everything will have altered again and he’ll be able to see things here for what they truly are – none of his ruddy business.

  He moves on to the ashtrays – dumping each mound of butts in the bin until it’s pretty much full. You’d have thought, after all this time, he’d have learnt not to give in to distractions however attractive they might be.

  ‘There’s no need for you to stay right till closin’ up today.’ Dennis’s eyes dart towards the door and back. ‘Once you’ve finished washing that little lot and done round the tables a bit, you can get off home. I’ll see to the bottles. And don’t worry – it’ll all be shipshape and ready for you when you get back this evening.’

  ‘Oh right; well if you’re sure.’ What else can he say? The clock above the fireplace tells him that’s likely to amount to a good half hour off this morning’s money.

  ‘Tell you what – you hold the fort for a minute while I just nip to the lavvy,’ Dennis says. ‘Be back in a tick.’

  Frank calls last orders, though, in truth, the place is almost empty anyway. By the time the landlord’s returned, he’s finished most of the clearing up.

  ‘You can leave everythin’ to me now, Frank. Away you go.’ The man even flaps his hands at him like you might shoo away a dog or a wasp. ‘I’ve got to hang around here for a bit anyway – I’m expectin’ my accountant to call round.’

  Frank grabs his jacket. Stuffing his cap into a pocket, he takes his leave. Outside in the street, an unspoiled afternoon greets him. Not ten yards away from the pub, he passes a man coming the other way dressed in a dark suit and tie and carrying a silver-topped cane. The man’s face is half hidden beneath the brim of his trilby.

  Curiosity makes Frank glance back to watch this chap look carefully right and then left before he enters the side door of the Eight Bells. He’d be the first to admit he’s no expert on that class of person, but this fellow seems a most unlikely accountant. Strange too that he would be conducting business with a client on a Saturday afternoon.

  Once Frank’s clear of the main road and all its noise and fumes, he finds himself heading towards the park. He’s still had no chance to buy any swimming trunks but he’s a mind to at least dip his feet in the water. The lake in the park is silted up around the edges, even so there’s bound to be a place to dangle his feet in.

  On the other hand, with this bit of extra time on his hands, he could take himself off to Tower beach. Why not? He’s never been there but, judging by the photos he’s seen in the newspaper, they’ve laid a proper sandy beach over the foreshore running south of the Tower of London. Shouldn’t take him more than a quarter of an hour to get there on foot if he goes via Jamaica Road.

  It’s an extraordinary sight – if you could ignore the mass of crane jibs and the famous bridge itself, you might think you were on a regular beach. Right now, it’s low tide and every yard of sand is teeming with near-naked kids. They’re rushing around in every direction carrying toy boats or slopping buckets of water back to fill the moats they’ve dug around miniature castles. Many of them are paddling and splashing in the shallows, churning up mud that clouds the water till it looks like tea. The river itself smells of rotting weed, and worse.

  Despite all the screaming and calling, their mums and dads are sitting back in deckchairs, many with their eyes firmly shut. Some of the men are shirtless though most remain fully dressed except for their bare feet. The women are in their summer frocks and skirts. A line of young girls walks past him looking self-conscious in their swimwear; holding onto each other’s hands as they finally take to the water and shriek at its iciness. Everywhere he looks, newly exposed, pale skin is on its way to turning red and sore.

  With no other choice, Frank finds a small space in the thick of it a
nd sits down. He takes off his shirt and folds it with some care before laying it to one side. He rolls up his jacket to a make a headrest of sorts before he lies back to enjoy the sun’s warmth on his chest. Despite the endless racket going on around him, it’s not long before he falls asleep.

  Frank becomes conscious of something dripping onto his leg, then a shadow blocks out the light. ‘D’you mind if we sit here?’ a woman’s voice asks. When he opens his eyes, he sees two women about his age along with four soaking wet children of varying ages.

  Both women have dark, curly hair and pleasantly regular features. They’re equally slim and well turned out – one of them in a floral dress, the other in a pink one with a black band around her narrow waist. Their similarity suggests they might be sisters. Both women are wearing wedding rings.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he tells them, his dried-out throat making his voice sound like a stranger’s.

  Two of their boys are quarrelling over a plastic cowboy. The woman in the flowery dress spreads out a striped towel. The other one kneels down before opening a large basket from which she produces a pile of tin plates and mugs. She pops the lid off a biscuit tin and takes out a parcel of sandwiches. Once unwrapped, Frank can see these have a brown filling that looks and smells like Bovril, or possibly Marmite.

  The children’s sand-covered hands are upon them before she can distribute the plates. At least they’re quieter now their mouths are filled.

  Frank sits upright. Looking at the space these people are occupying, it’s clear they’d have had enough room for this picnic without the need to wake him up.

  ‘It’s a grand day,’ the woman in the pink dress says. She pours orange pop into each of the mugs. Frank’s not sure who she’s addressing. ‘Not a cloud to be seen.’ She looks up to the sky to illustrate the truth of it. ‘The kids all love it down here, don’t they, Winnie?’

  ‘They’d be down here all day every day, if they could,’ Winnie passes the pack of sandwiches back to her. ‘Mind you, Sal, who can blame ’em; it’s so nice to get a bit of fresh air for a change.’

  Sal takes another bite and chews it for a moment before she says, ‘We haven’t seen you here before.’ She’s directing her words and what’s left of her sandwich in Frank’s direction.

  ‘No, you won’t have done.’ He clears his throat. ‘I’ve not been down here till today. Truth is, I didn’t realise it would be quite this crowded.’

  ‘Where are my manners – would you like a sandwich, mister, um –?’ Winnie thrusts the biscuit tin under his nose and, like he’s a ruddy dog, the smell of fresh bread makes him salivate.

  ‘Frank,’ he says, ‘and I’m just fine, thank you.’ He pats his empty stomach. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve not long eaten.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure. Sal’s made too many again. They’re so nice and fresh it would be a shame to waste any.’

  He notices her wristwatch. ‘Have you got the time?’ he asks her before regretting his choice of that well-worn phrase with all its implications. ‘It’s just I’ve forgotten my watch and I’ve been asleep, so I’ve lost track a bit.’

  The women notice his embarrassment. Not quite hiding a smirk, Winnie glances at her watch. ‘It’s just coming up to four.’

  The freckled little boy sitting next to her holds out his mug. ‘You look hot, mister – d’you want a sip of my pop?’

  Frank shakes his head. ‘No – but thanks all the same, lad.’ He feels a rising panic that he’s getting himself embroiled with these people.

  ‘I’d best be going.’ He stands up, slips on his shoes and tucks his socks in his jacket pocket.

  ‘Hope to see you again, Frank,’ Winnie shouts after him.

  He makes sure he’s well clear of them before he slows down. There’s no point in going back to the pub just yet – in fact there’s still time for a bit of a paddle.

  He rolls up his trousers until they’re above his knees intending to wade out past the children into the less crowded part of the river. It’s too awkward carrying his clothes in one hand so he takes the risk of leaving them tucked up behind one of the wooden groynes along with his shoes.

  The water is shockingly cold and murky, but it cools him down. Under his feet the sticky riverbed oozes between his toes. He can’t decide if the sensation is pleasurable or not.

  Just as he’s about to turn back, he hears someone cry out for help. He’s not sure if it’s a joke until he hears it again. ‘Help me somebody!’ A young boy who looks about ten is doing the shouting. ‘My brother’s gone under and he can’t swim.’ The lad’s face is running with snot and tears as he frantically scans the surface of the water over and over.

  With no other adults in the vicinity, Frank half wades, half swims, over to the boy and grabs his shaking arm. ‘Where? Where was he when he went under?’

  ‘Just there.’ The boy points to a spot about ten yards away where the current is stronger. Frank takes a breath and dives under the surface. The water’s too thick with sand and mud to see much. He thinks he can make out a darker ridge along the bottom where the river deepens.

  He’s forced to come back up for air; takes a deep breath and dives back down into the foul water. Just as the air in his lungs is giving out, he spots something lighter lying on the riverbed. It takes on the shape of a child’s foot.

  With no time to re-surface, he dives down and grabs at it. Working blind, he feels along the skinny leg to the rest of the boy’s body and scoops him up.

  Frank kicks for the surface and holds the child’s head high above the water.

  Treading water, he shakes the boy. ‘We need a doctor,’ Frank bellows. ‘Somebody get him a doctor.’

  He reaches the shallower water. The little lad’s mouth and nose appear to be clear of mud at least. On the riverbank the shocked crowd part as he wades to the shore with the lad in his arms and, almost as if he were a fish, lands his limp body onto the sand.

  A dark-haired woman rushes up and takes charge. ‘I’m a nurse,’ she announces. ‘Quiet now everyone, please.’ She puts her ear to the boy’s nose and then checks his chest. ‘He’s not breathing. Help me turn him over.’

  Together she and Frank roll the boy over onto his side. Using the fingers of both hands, she pushes the boys jaw forward until it’s jutting out. Just as Frank is despairing, the lad throws up a quantity of pungent water. A second later he brings up some more.

  ‘Quiet again,’ she demands. ‘You check his breathing while I hold his jaw.’ Frank bends his ear to the boy’s nose and mouth. He’s sure he can hear a faint sound. There it goes again. He turns his head until he can see along his little chest and it rises just a fraction and then falls again. ‘Yes, yes he’s breathing.’

  The crowd cheers as the boy’s distraught brother is thrust forward to witness the miracle. Through his tears he stammers: ‘Our mum’s goin’ to wallop me good an’ proper when she finds out about this.’

  ‘An ambulance is on its way,’ someone shouts out from the back.

  A sturdy woman standing over them turns to the crowd, hands on her hips. ‘Where was that bloody boatman – that’s what I want to know. He’s supposed to keep an eye on all these kiddies. This wouldn’t have happened if he’d been doin’ his job proper.’

  There’s a general chorus of ‘that’s rights’ and lots of nodding.

  The boy’s face has turned more of a normal colour at last. While the nurse takes over, Frank flops back onto the sand. A wave of nausea overcomes him and he throws up some of the foul water he must have swallowed. Exhausted and sobbing, he shuts his eyes.

  A rough hand shakes him. ‘Now then, there’s no need for all that blubbing –the boy’s okay and you’re a bloody hero.’ The speaker is a fat man with a bristling moustache. ‘That young nurse is an’ all. If it hadn’t have been for the two of you, the poor little blighter would have died.’

  Frank comes to his senses, gets to his feet, though he’s a little unsteady with it all. ‘I’ve got to get back to work,’ he tells the c
ircle of spectators.

  The fat man seems to have appointed himself as their spokesperson. ‘What, half dressed like you are and soaking wet – do me a ruddy favour. You can’t turn up for work looking like Robinson bloody Crusoe; you’re gonna need a bath, sunshine, and some dry clothes. An’ what about your ruddy shoes?’

  A woman pipes up: ‘Here, this man should have ’is picture in the Evening News – he ought to get a medal or something.’

  Frank notices Winnie and Sal amongst the crowd at the far end. The bell that’s been ringing in the background gets louder and then abruptly stops. A minute later two men carrying a stretcher come running along the beach. Spreading their arms out wide, a couple of bobbies aided by the fat man force everyone to step well back. ‘Come on, folks – let the professionals do their job.’

  Their patient blinks and then opens his eyes. A collective sigh issues from the crowd as they lean forward to witness the boy’s first reaction. ‘Flamin’ hell,’ he says.

  Amongst the general laughter, Frank slips out through a gap between the spectators. Aside from his wet and muddy trousers, his underpants cling to his body as he walks. He hurries as best he can along the beach looking for the groyne with the two black stripes near the bottom – the place where he’d stowed the rest of his clothes.

  Once he’s located his clothing, with everyone still caught up in the drama at the far end, it’s easy enough to dress without attracting attention. He pulls on his shirt despite all the sand stuck to his back. Getting his socks over the muck and sand still clinging to his feet is more of a struggle. For good measure he puts on his jacket.

  A few yards away, someone has left a light grey fedora on the seat of an empty deckchair. He rolls up his cap and stuffs it inside his pocket. Looking around he can see there’s no one close by. He walks past the deckchair and, as casually as he can, picks up the abandoned hat.

  It’s a near perfect fit. Before leaving the beach, Frank adjusts the brim with care, pulling it down so that it might shade his eyes from any passersby.