Darkest Before Dawn (12 page)

It did occur to Percy, as he drew back the limp and faded curtains, that his father might have staggered out to use one of the communal privies at the far end of the court, but a second's reflection made this seem unlikely. The slop bucket could be utilised without leaving the kitchen and Percy guessed that after a bout of drinking such as his father had enjoyed the previous evening Reg Baldwin would not traipse all the way down the court to use the privy.

Yet . . . where the devil was he? It seemed unlikely that he would have gone out of the house in search of food when the pantry contained the bread and jam which Percy himself had intended to eat for breakfast. The court was empty because the rain was tipping down, so Percy went back across the kitchen and checked the food cupboard, though he knew that men rarely felt hungry after a prolonged bout of ale supping.

As he had guessed, there was no sign that anyone had so much as lifted the loaves from the crock. Percy was about to begin the task of lighting the fire – it would be nice to make his mother a cup of tea and take it up to her in her bed – when he glanced at the clock above the mantel and realised immediately that it had stopped. Of course, his mother usually wound it on a Friday evening, but because they had not lived in the house for a couple of days she must have forgotten. Would his father have realised that? What if Reg Baldwin, waking in a groggy state, had seen the hands standing at twenty-past eight and thought he was going to be late for work? Smiling grimly, Percy went over to the pile of newspapers his mother kept beneath the sink and was beginning to crumple the pages preparatory to laying them in the grate when a cold and terrible feeling engulfed him. Last night, his father had been mouthing threats as to what he would do to Harry Todd when he got his hands on him. Percy remembered now that Mr Todd had sacked his father, which was no doubt the reason for the drinking bout and the subsequent threats. It also meant that Reg Baldwin should still have been in the house, since he had no job to go to. Suppose he had woken in the same evil frame of mind and had gone off to the warehouse to get his own back on the other man? Percy thought Mr Todd was the nicest man he had ever met and had envied Evie her gentle, humorous father. Mr Todd had known that Percy was the son of the man he had just dismissed yet he had been really kind, making Percy feel a real friend of the family, a welcome guest.

Percy's heart began to hammer; he remembered the conversation he had overheard in this very kitchen only two evenings ago. His father had wanted to play some sort of trick on Mr Todd but Mickey had said . . . oh, good God . . . he had said it was too dangerous . . . too dangerous . . .

Standing there in the kitchen, Percy was suddenly certain sure where his father had gone. He threw the paper down on the floor and hurried out of the house. Out in the court, the rain pelted down on him and he was soaked to the skin in minutes, but he never gave the weather a thought. He wished, desperately, that he could have afforded a tram but as it was he would simply have to run, and it was a fair way from the Cavvy to Payton and Bister's warehouses. He knew there were three of them, a couple alongside the canal and another down by the docks, but he had never paid much attention to his father's moans and groans about work, and realised he might have to visit more than one before he discovered where Mr Todd worked. Splashing through the puddles in his bare feet, he soon had a stitch like a red hot needle in one side, and the rain had blurred his vision so that twice, when overtaking a group of pedestrians, he slipped off the kerb into the gutter, bruising his feet.

He reached the nearest warehouse and panted up to the door. It took him ten infuriating minutes to get someone's attention because they were taking deliveries and there was much bustle and toing and froing. He was noticed all right, shouted at too, and eventually told that Harry Todd was in charge of a warehouse a good half-mile off. ‘Thanks. I've gorrer see 'im real urgent, like,' Percy said breathlessly, setting off once more. ‘It's – it's what you might call real serious.'

He reached the warehouse which employed Harry Todd and as soon as he got within ten feet of the big double doors, he knew that something was terribly wrong. There were lorries drawn up with their drivers standing in small knots, talking in low voices, but no goods were being taken in or out, and the warehouse workers were also standing about. Percy panted up to the nearest group, a hand clapped to his side. He picked out one man who looked as though he were in charge – he was wearing a navy blue suit and not a brown overall, as the other men were – and addressed him urgently. ‘Please, sir, can I speak to Mr Todd? It's – it's a matter of life or death, as you might say.'

The man turned and looked down at him. ‘You're too late, son,' he said, in a strained, unnatural voice. ‘There's . . . been an accident.' He peered more closely into Percy's anxious face. ‘Who are you? Not – not one of his children?'

‘No, no, I'm a friend of the fambly . . . What sort of accident?' Percy asked wildly. ‘Is – is it a bad accident? The hospital sort? Only, if so, I'd best get to the hospital, ask 'em if I can have a word wi' Mr Todd . . .'

The man hesitated, but before he could say a word, a sentence from a group of brown-coated warehousemen came clearly to Percy's ears. ‘I dunno why they bothered to send for a doctor,' the man said dully. ‘No one could have survived a crate that size landing on 'em. It were like a bleedin' butcher's shop in there, I'm tellin' you.'

‘Shut your mouth, Reddo,' the man in the navy suit said quickly. ‘This young man is a friend of . . .'

‘Sorry, Mr Bister, I didn't see no one . . .' the man began, but Percy had turned away, tears pouring down his face. Even as he did so, he saw his father leaving the group of men and coming towards him.

‘Sorry, Mr Bister; the lad's me son,' Reg Baldwin said. ‘I telled you we were friends with the Todd family . . .' He put a heavy hand on Percy's shoulder, swinging the boy round to face him. ‘Why, he'll be in a rare taking . . . had his tea with 'em last night, didn't you, lad? Though I don't know what you're doing here,' he added, speaking directly to Percy for the first time, with a world of menace in his tone.

Percy looked up and read the look in his father's mean and watery eyes.
I'll kill you if you make trouble for me
, the look said.
Don't you dare go blabbing to anyone or I'll break every bone in your miserable little carcass.

‘I – I come to tell you our Ron's not too well,' Percy said. ‘I thought . . . me mam said to tell you . . .'

He was running out of words, and was mightily relieved when his father broke in, turning to address Mr Bister. ‘There's nowt I can do here, Mr Bister, sir,' he said humbly. ‘So if it's all the same to you, I'll go back with the lad here. Our Ron only came out o' hospital yesterday. He had a nasty fall – went from top o' the stairs to the bottom – so I reckon the doctors at the Stanley let him out a bit too soon.'

Mr Bister was beginning to tell Baldwin that he might as well leave when another man moved quietly forward and put a detaining hand on Baldwin's shoulder. ‘I don't know if you realise, Mr Bister, that it were Baldwin who was on the hoist when the accident happened,' he said quietly. ‘I don't think the police will be too pleased if you send him off home before they've heard his version of the . . . accident.'

Mr Bister's thin, grey eyebrows shot up. ‘No one mentioned who was driving the hoist; I got the impression that it was Mickey Platt.' He raised his voice. ‘Platt! Come here a minute.'

Mickey Platt came over to them and Percy saw at once that it was the young man who had visited their house and refused to take part in the ‘prank' which his father had proposed. Now, Mr Platt looked extremely uneasy. His face was as white as a flour sack and his eyes rolled uncomfortably. ‘Yes, Mr Bister?' he asked.

‘I thought you were on the hoist this morning, but Mr Tilling here says different.'

‘I – I were on the hoist, Mr Bister, sir. But about half an hour ago, Baldwin called up to me that there were a telephone call for me and would I take it in the office. He – he said he'd man the hoist while I were gone. I – I didn't see no harm in it an' I come straight back. I were the one what yelled the warning when I saw the crate come loose, but it were too late. No one could have got out from under.'

Baldwin began to try to shout the other man down, but Mr Bister said sharply: ‘Quiet, Baldwin!' and Percy's father subsided, muttering.

Mr Bister turned back to Platt. ‘I don't approve of my staff taking telephone calls during the working day, but I dare say it was an urgent matter?' He stared very intently at the younger man, his eyes hard and cold. ‘Well?'

Platt began to wring his hands and to glance, nervously, at the faces surrounding him. The expressions were grim and Percy was not surprised when Platt's voice shook as he replied. ‘I – I don't know who it were, sir. When I got to the office, there weren't no one on the other end of the line. I axed who wanted me, but there were just this brrrr noise, so I hung the receiver on its hook an' come back to the warehouse.'

Mr Bister's cold gaze swung round and fixed on Baldwin's face. ‘Who wanted your workmate, Baldwin?' he said, and his voice was cold as ice. ‘Come along, man, speak up.'

Percy felt almost sorry for his father. The face which had seemed so self-confident and cocky had crumpled into a grey mask down which beads of sweat were running freely. ‘I – I dunno . . . I think the feller said he were Mickey's brother, needed him urgent. The truth is, sir, I been so upset over Mr Todd's death, I can't think straight, and . . .'

‘You are a liar, Baldwin, and I'm beginning to remember talk I've heard,' Mr Bister said quietly. ‘You didn't like Mr Todd, and you did your best to cause trouble for him. He told me himself that he'd given you an official warning because he'd caught you smoking in the warehouse. Come along, man, just what did happen? And I'll have the truth this time, if you please.'

Driven into a corner, Reg Baldwin began to mutter that he had never meant to hurt anyone, had meant merely to scare Mr Todd. ‘It were just a prank, like,' he mumbled. ‘Why, I were fond of the chap. He were a good boss. Oh aye, he caught me smoking once, but I were grateful he warned me, telled me how dangerous it were, and didn't sack me on the spot. Honest to God, I'd reason to thank him . . . certainly no reason to – to kill 'im.'

Percy gathered up all his courage. He was cold with fear, although sweat beaded his brow, but he knew he must speak out now or he never would. ‘But Dad, Mr Todd had sacked you,' he said, and his voice came out surprisingly firmly, considering the state of terror in which he spoke. ‘He sacked you last night, you know he did.'

Reg Baldwin roared, a dreadful, sub-human sound, and launched himself at Percy, but he never got near him. He was pounced on by four of his workmates and borne to the ground, and even as they struggled to subdue him, Mr Bister spoke. ‘Keep a good firm hold of him, men, the police will be here soon,' he said briskly. ‘This is a matter for them, not for us.' He turned to Percy. ‘And you'd best make yourself scarce, lad. Or, no – on second thoughts, you'd best stay by me because you'll have to repeat the statement you've just made to the authorities. And don't fear that your father will take reprisals for this morning's work, because he'll be in no position to do so.'

Martha glanced towards the window as she laid the table for high tea. It was a grey and dismal day, but then, Martha thought, every day had been grey and dismal since Harry's death. Christmas had been the worst the Todd family had ever known and they made little pretence of enjoying the festive season, though Martha had scraped together enough money to buy each of her daughters a small, but useful, gift. Now, since it was New Year's Day, she had announced, that morning, that they would hold a conference as soon as tea was over.

The family conference had been one of Harry's ideas. He was a great believer in letting the children share in any decision-making and had long ago inaugurated a council meeting whenever anything had to be decided.

Since his death, however, Martha had been too bewildered, too sick with loss, to consider such a thing. It was only because, in the dark days following their dreadful Christmas, she had realised they must pull themselves together or go under, that the idea of a conference had occurred to her.

As she moved around the table, laying it up for tea, she wondered how much of the terrible atmosphere that prevailed was her own fault. When she had accepted that no more would the clatter of Harry's boots be heard on the outside staircase, no more would his deep and cheerful voice begin to tell her about his day as soon as the outer door opened, she had gone out and bought a great quantity of cheap black material. She and the two older girls had cut and sewed and made themselves and Evie black blouses and skirts which they had worn right up to Christmas. It was only on Christmas Eve that Seraphina had spoken to her about the unwisdom of insisting on such total mourning garb. ‘It really isn't fair on Evie to expect her to go to school dressed as if for a funeral,' she had said gently. ‘As for Angie, she has to change into her shop clothes in the staff cloakroom every morning before she can begin work. And even you, Ma, put an overall on when you start in the shop. Don't you think ten weeks of wearing black is enough for folk who have their way to make and their living to earn? And you know, black is so dismal; it makes you look pale and ill even if you're not.' She had taken a deep breath and put both arms round her mother. ‘So tomorrow, being Christmas Day, we're all going back into ordinary clothes,' she had said coaxingly. ‘And we very much hope you will do the same, but of course it's up to you.'