This Lovely City

‘Looks like you can go.’ Rathbone reappeared, his face barely moving as he spoke. ‘But don’t think this is the end of it. I’ll be seeing you soon enough, I expect.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Lawrie stood and made for the door before the detective could change his mind. Whatever had gone on outside that interview room, it had not pleased Rathbone.

A uniformed constable showed him to the spot where his bicycle had been moved to, dumped on its side in the yard at the back of the police station. Even in the dim dusk light he could see the slashes in the tyres without having to bend down. A glance over his shoulder showed Rathbone and the younger detective watching him out of the lit window. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of a reaction.

He pulled his scarf up around his freezing ears and began to walk with his bicycle towards the main road, some sixth sense slowing him as he reached the corner, just in time to pull back. The journalist of earlier had multiplied into a huddled pack, puffing away on their cigarettes as they watched the front door of the police station. The bicycle wobbled beside Lawrie as he made a detour, discovering new streets that were both unknown to him and yet sadly familiar. Terraced houses with the occasional shocking rubble-filled gap. During the day these were children’s playgrounds, the bombed-out buildings becoming forts and castles. Dens full of hidden treasure. In the darkness they were macabre ghosts of London’s recent past.

Lawrie stopped off at a corner shop and bought a bottle of ginger beer. He’d be late for tea and Mrs Ryan would wonder what kept him. Evie too, when she arrived home from work before him. The thought of having to relive the whole experience again, seeing their faces fall in horror and pity, drained the energy from his legs.

He kept on going for the best part of an hour, but only three streets from home he wasn’t sure he could make it. There was an alleyway on his right and he managed to bump the bicycle along the broken cobbles, shouldering open a wooden gate that was only half on its hinges, given up since it no longer had a house to guard. What had once been someone’s backyard was overgrown with weeds and Lawrie slumped down into them, his back resting against the brick wall that still stood. A loose brick and a hard smack removed the bottle top, a helpful trick that Aston had taught him. The ginger beer burned his throat but it was a comforting fire, warm and familiar, and the sugar punched him in the face, waking him from his daze. He belched and wiped his mouth.

The skeleton of the house clung upright to the air, glass and debris littering the ground around him. The outhouse had survived almost intact, though its wooden door had decayed. Lawrie could see the porcelain bowl, the half-light of the distant moon glancing off its curves. This was a city marked by death, the darkness finally catching up with him. Everywhere you walked in London you could see tragedy through absence: construction sites that had sprung up to replace the missing homes, the widows who looked older than their years, that missing generation of men that had forced a desperate government to send their mayday overseas. Lawrie was only in the country because of the misfortune of others. He’d thought he was coming to help, same as Bennie had. ‘Doing his bit,’ as they said here.

The English just got on with life as if this was normal. Stiff upper lip, put on a brave face and pretend that if you can ignore the horrors of the past and think only of the future, then you too will be all right. This was an island of crazy people.

His mother had encouraged him to leave home but his brother had not warned him. Bennie Matthews had sent weekly letters home from his RAF base, addressed to their mother but always with a coded postscript for his younger brother. Never had he hinted as to what a dour country England was. Those postcards – what a dupe! Buckingham Palace in its pomp and splendour, the brilliant white dome of St Paul’s, the famous Tower Bridge sitting regal beneath bright blue skies that could have been painted on. Bennie was a real-life hero, posting his tales of derringdo, camaraderie and local dances before flying back across the Channel to save the Motherland. He’d never said a bad word about the country he’d died trying to save.

Lawrie tipped the last few drops of liquid onto his tongue, laid his head in his hands, and sobbed until his ribs ached. The sky was clouded over in a reddish-brown smog, not a star in sight to wish upon, but he closed his eyes and prayed. He wanted to go home. That was it, a simple statement that he’d denied for so long because home, as he had known it, no longer existed.

He regained control and wiped his face, dampening the corner of his handkerchief with spit just as his mother had done when he was a little boy, hoping that evidence of his weakness would not be apparent to anyone when he got home. It was late, and he made his way carefully, keeping to the warren of alleyways before going in through the back gate of Mrs Ryan’s house.

‘Where on earth have you been, love?’ His landlady called from the kitchen, opening the back door for him. ‘I left a plate in the oven for you if you want it? You must be starving. Spam fritters and spuds.’

‘Long story.’ He propped the useless bicycle up against the wall and left his boots outside by the door. He rested his forehead on the cold bricks of the outside wall until he felt composed, then went in.

The meal was coming to an end, Arthur and Derek sitting there with plates that were empty but for the grease stains. Arthur was caught up in the full flow of conversation and Lawrie was grateful to slink past them all without attracting any attention. He hung his coat up in the hall and took his time about returning to the warm kitchen.

‘I tell you quite honestly, Mrs Ryan,’ Arthur was saying as he entered, ‘I ain’t never been so insulted. Not in all my life.’

Arthur shook his head vigorously to emphasise his point. Usually Lawrie would be fighting back a smile, since Arthur took offence to something or someone at least once a week; twice last Tuesday alone. God only knew why the man had bothered to leave Trinidad when he seemed so miserable in London. Lack of funds seemed to be the only reason he was still here. In his forties, Arthur never spoke about his long dead wife, and Lawrie only knew of her existence through Mrs Ryan: landlady, matriarch and confidante – as long as you didn’t mind your secrets being shared within the boundary of her four walls.

‘So what did you say to him?’ Mrs Ryan asked, as she placed the teapot in the centre of the solid wood table that dominated her kitchen. She smiled at Lawrie, nodding to the cooker. ‘Sit down, love.’

‘What did I say?’ Arthur continued. ‘I say nothing. What else can I say? That man knows he can say whatever he likes to me. I say just one single word back to him, I’m out the door ’fore I can get my coat and hat on. He talks to me like I’m an imbecile ’cause he knows I just got to stand there and take it.’

‘What happen now?’ Lawrie asked Arthur, pouring himself some tea and cupping his hands around the mug.

‘My father would have beat me half to death, I even dared to think what this fella say to me.’ Arthur got into his stride. ‘I mean, is this what they teach children in this country? To give cheek to their elders ’stead of respect?’

‘Not in my day,’ Mrs Ryan agreed, placing a warm plate in front of Lawrie.

‘You should offer to kick the shit out of him,’ Derek advised, fitting a filter-less cigarette into his mouth. ‘I’ll give you a hand if you fancy teaching anyone a lesson.’

‘Derek!’ His mother nodded towards the large crucifix that watched over them from the wall opposite, brought over on the boat from Cork not quite twenty years before, though they all went to the local C of E these days.

‘Self-employed’ was how Derek described himself. A businessman. He ran a stall on Brixton Market and at least half his income was legit. A spiv, Evie called him, and Lawrie could see that he looked the part. His luxuriant moustache was as styled as his hair, worn parted on the side and greased down. He wore more cologne than was welcome; it made Lawrie’s nostril hairs twitch.

Don’t trust him, Evie had warned Lawrie. He’ll say he’s doing you a favour but he’ll ask for double in return.

He wasn’t so bad, Lawrie had decided, and there had been benefits to living with a petty criminal. Derek was generous enough to share his ill-gotten gains. A whole extra block of cheese last week, a pound of bacon the week before. Arthur and Lawrie usually went halves on their monthly bottle of rum, which Derek gave them a good price on. They were still one of the few houses on the street to have a telephone installed, a lifesaver for Lawrie. A last-minute booking could only be accepted if the club could actually get hold of you. And, of course, running deliveries for Derek was adding to Lawrie’s savings. He had almost enough saved up for a small wedding and a honeymoon – Mrs Ryan had reckoned on him needing seventy pounds plus a bit extra for spends. Except that because of Derek, Lawrie had been on Clapham Common at the worst time possible and he couldn’t marry Evie if he was sent to gaol. Or the gallows.

The fritters had gone hard in the heat of the oven, their undersides wet with grease that turned Lawrie’s stomach. He tried to force down some of the mashed potato instead, washing it down with hot tea.

‘Well, I heard something scandalous,’ Mrs Ryan announced. ‘I was at the butcher’s earlier, trying to get a bit of beef so we can have a decent roast this Sunday. But no, they’d run out they told me. I tell you, I swear they keep back the good stuff. He’s a mason, Fred Yorke, you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if the best cuts go to his little friends from down the lodge. Them and their funny handshakes…’

‘I tried to join once,’ Derek reminded her. ‘Bastards blackballed me. Can you believe the cheek of it?’

Lawrie could well believe it but he kept his mouth shut.

‘While I was queuing, there were two women in front of me. Talking about a body being found up on Clapham Common. In one of the ponds. A child! And one of them had the ridiculous notion that it might have been there since the war. Kept hidden by the weeds. You do hear of it, people clearing away the rubble and finding people buried beneath, but not a child. The parents would have been going wild! Though the woman was ever so snooty with me when I pointed that out to her.’

‘It wasn’t a child. It was a baby.’ Lawrie’s voice sounded strange in his own ears, as though someone else was speaking through him.

‘A baby? You heard about it on your rounds then?’

‘No.’ He tried to smile, wanting to reassure her, but his lips trembled and he pressed them together until they stilled. They’d find out soon enough. Better it came from him. ‘I found it. I found the baby. In the pond.’

Mrs Ryan stared at him oddly, as if she was struggling to comprehend his words. ‘Dear God.’ She looked to the crucifix and crossed herself. ‘Lawrie, you poor love! So is that why you’re so late home?’

‘I had to give a statement to the police and you know what they’re like.’ He tried once more to smile, still not entirely successfully. ‘I was just glad to get out of there in time. I need to be in Soho for eight o’clock.’

‘What? No, you can’t, Lawrie. You’ve had a terrible shock and you’ve not slept since yesterday. You can’t possibly go and play tonight. Your mother would never forgive me for letting you out in this state.’

Mrs Ryan was a similar age to his mother and they shared several things in common: both widows, regular churchgoers, recovering slowly from a war that had left their families irreparably damaged. They exchanged letters frequently, a few thousand miles of ocean unable to prevent them from finding a sympathetic friend in one another.

‘I have to. Johnny’s expecting me. I’ll see Evie and then head out. I should be home by midnight so it’s not all bad.’ And then up at half four again to serve the Post Office. ‘Besides, it’s better to keep busy. Stop me thinking about it.’

‘I don’t know how you do it, I really don’t.’ Mrs Ryan shook her head. ‘Well, at least clear your plate first. A good meal’ll sort you out. Gosh, what a shock! You just never know what each day will throw at you.’

With that he had to agree. The only thing he did know for certain was that playing his clarinet, immersing himself in music for a few hours, would take his mind away from the day’s events. He just couldn’t dispel the prodding fear that he was going to be facing DS Rathbone again. This wasn’t the sort of thing that went away with only slashed tyres to show for it.

Extract from the Clapham Observer – Monday 21st June 1948

‘WELCOME HOME!’: SONS OF EMPIRE DRAW CLOSE TO THE MOTHERLAND

Today, 492 men, women and children, from Jamaica and other parts of the Caribbean, will land at Tilbury in Essex, setting foot on British soil for what, for some, will be the first time. Others are returning from leave to rejoin our armed forces after fighting for their mother country during the most recent war. In preparation, the Evening Standard sent up a plane to greet them yesterday as their ship, the Empire Windrush, entered the Thames: ‘Welcome Home!’ its banner proclaimed.

What is unclear yet is where these men, for it is understood that the majority of the passengers are men of working age, are to be housed. The Colonial Office were unwilling to talk to this newspaper but an unofficial rumour indicates that a number of new arrivals are to be bussed to the Clapham area. Government officials appear to be unsure exactly why these men have been allowed to travel when no plans have been put in place for them. The Ministry of Labour has assured concerned MPs that all men who are not already bound for Air Force, Army or the mines will be interviewed and assisted in finding work. Suitable accommodation will be provided for them until they are in a position to find their own.

A Lambeth council representative had this to say: ‘It is my understanding that these men are British subjects, invited here to help rebuild our great nation. Let the people welcome them into our community and be grateful that Lambeth has been chosen to benefit from a few more good, strong pairs of hands.

1948

Lawrie waited patiently, leaning against the rough brick of the pillbox wall and trying to look as though he belonged. He occupied his time by watching the people walking past, staring down the curious glances of the pale-faced Clapham locals as he tried once more to calculate how far his money would go until he found work. If the bus was four pence from here to Coldharbour Lane, then how many journeys could he make until he was broke? How much would he have to pay out for rent, and how much was a loaf of bread? Not to mention the expense of clothing. He was all right for now but once the seasons changed he’d freeze to death unless he invested in jumpers. He was already cold.

They called this summer because they knew no better. God help him when winter did come; he was shivering in the sunlight. People hurried along in their coats, umbrellas in hand, hats firmly pushed down and pinned into hairdos that had never been vexed by humidity like his mother’s each Sunday as she fixed it up for church. Lawrie wore both the new jumpers she’d bought him as a leaving present, the arms of his jacket tight, unused to the bulk. He had thought of buying a scarf earlier in the day, only the shop assistant had made him feel anxious as he followed him around Menswear. Just as well.

Almost all of his savings, thirty pounds, had been spent on his ticket to England. On the dockside his mother had waved him off, pretending that it was a sneeze that sent tears scattering down her cheeks. As the boat was tugged away, he’d already had second thoughts, looking down into the water and knowing he was quite capable of swimming that short distance back to dry land. But then Aston had slung a loose arm around his shoulders and suggested they both go below deck and seek out some entertainment, by which Aston mainly meant gambling and drinking. If there had been more than a handful of women on board he’d have meant them too.

Here was the man now, Aston, his jaunty walk unmistakeable as he came out of the tube station, pausing to light his cigarette. Lawrie lifted a hand in greeting as his friend crossed the road.

‘Where you been all day, man? I just come from the labour exchange and Moses said you never showed your face.’

Lawrie jabbed his right thumb upwards, indicating his injured eye, now swollen and ripe, a nasty cut below. ‘I won’t get me a decent job looking like this. I can leave it a day or two, go down there when I don’t look like trouble.’

‘Up to you, only don’t be complaining if you end up cleaning out toilets or some such low-paid nonsense. You gon’ miss out on all the good jobs,’ Aston warned. He took a lengthy pull on his cigarette, as if he was trying to inhale all its nicotine in one lungful, then dropped it beneath his foot. ‘Let’s go. The boys are heading out into town tonight and I need to change me shirt.’

Lawrie had no intention of going out drinking again, not after the night before, but he followed his friend to the entrance of the shelter. He hated the place, hated that they’d been shoved down into the bowels of the city, unexpected guests that no one knew what to do with. His mother had said that Britain was an orderly place, that everything ran like clockwork compared to back home, but from what he had seen, this country was anything but organised. A plane had greeted them as they sailed up the Channel, Lawrie and his friends crowding onto the deck to look up in wonder. He had thought it an impressive gesture, excitement growing, until they’d arrived in Tilbury the next day to discover that nothing was ready for them.

One hundred and eighty steps led them down, a twisting helter-skelter; it could have been the entrance to Hell and he’d not have felt more terrified. It was getting easier, though. The day before, the first night down there, Aston had abandoned him, frustrated by Lawrie’s slow two-footed progress as he clung to the railing, men flowing around him like a stream around a rock, the babbling of water replaced by the kissing of teeth. He still felt relieved when they reached the bottom, trying to forget about the tonnes of earth above his head and the rumble of the tube trains that passed close by, bringing commuters back from the city at the end of the working day.

The woman they’d nicknamed Rita Hayworth was carrying a pile of clean sheets along the corridor as they walked towards Fremantle, humming a popular song that he knew would be stuck in his head for hours. All the bunk rooms were named for naval captains, laid out like they were still at sea. Her heels clipped the concrete floor and he could barely see her face over the tower of linen.

‘What on earth happened to you?’ she asked, seeing Lawrie’s eye.

‘Oh.’ Lawrie touched his wound gingerly. ‘This? You’ll think badly of me.’

‘You were fighting?’

‘Sort of.’ He looked at Aston who shrugged and began to walk away. ‘More like I got hit and didn’t get back up. I wasn’t expecting it though, the fella caught me by surprise. Mistook me for Aston. Since we all look the same…’

She looked him up and down: half a foot taller than her, lean and clean shaven. Then she looked over at the departing figure of Aston who was stocky with a neat ’tache. ‘But you look nothing alike.’

‘No,’ Lawrie agreed, his face brightening into a wide grin. She blushed as she realised he’d been joking. ‘The fool who hit me could barely stand, let alone see who he was hitting. I’m embarrassed, tell the truth, getting knocked over by a drunk.’

‘What had Aston done to him?’

‘Talking too much, as usual. To the girl behind the bar. This fella decided he didn’t much like it is all.’

‘And you took his punishment.’ She nodded. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’

‘Mine? Lawrie.’ He shook the hand she held out from beneath the sheets. ‘Sorry, miss, I should be helping you with that load you got.’

‘Call me Rose.’ She let him take the bundle from her. ‘If you could just pile them up over there. When I’ve finished later on I can take a look at that eye if you want. I’m not a nurse but we’ve got a first aid kit. You need that cut cleaning properly.’

Lawrie smiled and left her to it, dumping the sheets where she’d indicated before finding Aston, already on his bunk and reading that evening’s Standard.

‘What’s news?’ Lawrie climbed up to the bunk above.

‘Maybe I should be asking you that.’ His head poked out, grinning up at his friend.

‘I was just being friendly.’

‘Yes, well you shoulda checked her left hand first. You too late, my friend. But in more general news rain is forecast for tomorrow. Though that is an everyday state of affairs in this country, I must warn you. Buy an umbrella, you’ll get some use out of it.’

Lawrie’s head was beginning to ache as he rested it down upon a pillow that was barely thicker than a folded piece of cardboard. Damn that fool Aston, getting him into strife before they’d been a full day on dry land. He’d known as soon as they’d walked into that pub that it was a bad idea. They weren’t welcome, no matter what that newspaper article said.

Sonny stopped by. ‘You comin’ out tonight, boys?’

Aston laughed. ‘You only just met me?’

‘No thank you,’ Lawrie replied. ‘I had enough excitement last night.’

‘Boy, don’t be like that. Come on out. We goin’ to Soho. Johnny say there might be work there. They lookin’ for musicians.’ Sonny reached up and poked Lawrie in the side, making him squirm.

‘You serious? He’s still on about forming a band?’ Lawrie sat up.

Sonny shrugged. ‘Worth a look. If not then we go back to the labour exchange tomorrow, nothing lost.’

It was tempting. To earn a living from playing music… well, it was a dream that Lawrie had never thought might come true.

‘Let me get my eye fixed up first but yes, then I’ll come.’

‘No problem.’ Sonny winked as he saw Rose walking towards them. ‘Man, I wish I get punched in the face if I get a woman like that tending to me.’

Lawrie ignored their sniggers and followed Rose into the first aid station, set up in what had been a makeshift infirmary during the war. Rose told him this as she sat him down on a wooden stool, turning to grab her standard issue first aid kit.

‘Did you come down here then?’ he asked. ‘During the bombing?’

‘No. We were living on the other side of the Common back then. We had our own shelter out the back, before we got bombed out. Not a direct hit, thank goodness.’ She tilted his head up to the light. ‘Did you make any attempt to clean this? It’s a right mess.’

‘A little.’ His head had been throbbing and it had been so late when they’d arrived back the night before that even the rickety bunk had been too enticing. A splash of cold water after using the lavatory had been the extent of it.

‘You could have fooled me. Hold still.’ She held onto his head as she applied iodine to the cut.

‘Jesus Christ!’ That innocent ball of cotton wool felt like a poker straight out of the fire. ‘What the hell is that?’

‘Language! My mother would have given you a right piece of her mind if she’d heard you talking like that.’

‘Mine too,’ he admitted. He took a deep breath and held it as Rose carried on, making sure that the wound was clean before releasing him.

‘So where were you last night?’ she asked. ‘Not round here surely.’

‘Yes, actually. Just in that pub down the road, on the left.’

‘I know the one. What did the man look like? The one who punched you.’ She dabbed cool cream on his eye, the chill of it making him jump once more.

He thought about it for a moment. ‘Shorter than me but not by much. Dressed pretty smart. Black hair. Sort of like Cary Grant in The Philadelphia Story. And he wore a ring on his right pinkie. That’s what cut me.’