Rough Justice (33 page)

‘I know, darling, but just hang on while we figure out what’s going on here.’

They could see that the door to the shop was
closed, something Sarah never allowed even in the coldest weather – it had to look welcoming to customers, she always said. And she would rather have the wood burner going at double the rate to keep the place warm than ever shut the door. But that wasn’t all. Outside the shop was a gang of men and boys – some youngsters who looked to be barely in their teens, and others far older.

While two of the crowd painted crude slogans on the walls the rest of them sang a song to the jolly tune of the one about Daisy Bell and the bicycle made for two – but with far more sinister words.

‘Blackshirts,’ said Nell under her breath, pulling away from Sylvia with such force that they both stumbled forward.

‘Come to join in, girls?’ asked one of the men, who was painting a slogan about what he thought should happen to Sarah and David and all other Jews along with them.

‘I’ve come to collect my children.’ Nell stood tall, determined to control her breathing, refusing to let them intimidate her.

The man’s lip curled in disgust. ‘You’ve left your kids with the likes of them?’

The rest of the mob stopped their singing.

‘What sort of woman are you?’ asked another.

‘It’s obvious. She’s a Jew-lover,’ shouted a third.

Nell pushed past them and tried to open the door. It was locked. She could see Sarah and
Mary cowering inside behind the counter. Nell was beside herself. Where were her children?

She felt someone grab her arm. Thinking it was Sylvia, she slapped at the hand. But the grip only grew tighter. She looked down. It wasn’t Sylvia holding onto her, it was a man.

‘If you know what’s good for you,’ he snarled, ‘you’ll piss off out of here right now.’

As Nell struggled with the man, a stone whistled past them. They both turned to see it hit the glass panel in the door; the window didn’t break, but if it had, anyone who wanted to could have reached through and unlocked the door.

One of the men struggled to hold onto a kicking, struggling Sylvia, who had failed to get past them to help her friend. The mob laughed like fools as Nell, using all her strength, shoved the man away from her and threw herself towards the door. She couldn’t let them get inside the shop. She had to protect her children.

‘Aw blimey, it’s not that lot again.’ It was Florrie Talbot, wobbling along the cobbled street on her high heels. Her hat was tipped rakishly over one eye, and the fox-fur tippet on the collar of her coat was pulled up snugly around her neck. Despite the cold and the drizzle that was now coming down, she kicked off her shoes, shoved her sleeves up her arms and sprinted over to the man who was now holding the almost defeated Sylvia about a foot off the ground. Florrie smacked him hard around the head, sending him reeling, and wrenched Sylvia out of his grasp.

‘Get over there across the street till you get your breath back,’ she ordered, pushing a gasping Sylvia out of the way, and then barged past the men to join Nell by the door.

‘Come on you bastards,’ she hissed, her fists up and her chin stuck in the air, looking for all the world like an inappropriately dressed prizefighter.

Sylvia, her chest almost bursting from the efforts of her struggle, watched with her hand over her mouth as Nell and Florrie Talbot stood determinedly by the door. What chance did the two of them have of stopping all those men? Since the humiliation the Blackshirts had faced when they’d been driven away from their march through the East End, Mosley’s thugs had picked on easier targets, and their retribution had become more and more vicious.

At first the men just stood there, staring at the two women. But then, without warning, the one whom Florrie had hit around the head let out a yell. ‘Did you see what she did to me?’

He threw himself at Florrie and grabbed her. Nell tried to separate them, but one of the men who had been painting slogans threw down his pot of whitewash, splattering the pavement and splashing her coat, and joined in the scuffle. It was enough to distract Nell and Florrie for an all-important few seconds. Each man grasped the opportunity. One of them took hold of Nell and dragged her away from the door. The other was less successful, getting a straight jab to his
chin – Florrie had dealt with tougher men than him.

‘Don’t let them get to the door,’ Nell yelled to Florrie.

‘Don’t you worry,’ hollered Florrie, her eyes blazing and her blood up.

Sylvia ran back across the street and did her best to drag the man off Nell, but she was no match for his strength.

He hauled Nell across the pavement, with her slipping and skidding through the whitewash, and Sylvia hanging onto his coat. As they came to the gutter, Nell tripped and fell down into the road.

‘Jew-lover,’ he spat at her, kicking her in the side.

‘Get off her!’ screamed Sylvia, but the man was caught up in the violence and struck Nell again, not even noticing her trying to pull him away.

‘Do something someone, help her,’ Sylvia appealed to the men, not believing they could let this happen.

No one stepped forward, but one of them, alarmed by the man’s ferocity, shouted across to him, ‘All right, that’s enough, what the fuck d’you think you’re doing?’

Nell tried to protect herself with her arms, but her assailant wasn’t ready to stop. She clutched at her stomach, moaning to herself as a pool of blood began seeping out from under her, mingling with the whitewash.

‘You fucking lunatic,’ shouted another one of
the mob. ‘Look what you’ve gone and done.’

The man who had been kicking Nell backed away from her, turned and ran.

‘Forget about that Jew-loving cow, you can see she’s only putting it on,’ shouted another one, turning his attention back to painting his filth on the walls. ‘Do you want these bastards out of this area or what?’

‘But she’s bleeding,’ said one of the younger ones, clearly terrified.

‘Ain’t your mother told you anything yet? All women fucking bleed, you idiot.’

Florrie hurried across to Sylvia, who was folding her coat to put under Nell’s head. Florrie tore off her own coat as she ran, knelt down beside Nell and draped it over her.

‘Don’t worry about me,’ gasped Nell. ‘Don’t let them get to the kids. Please.’

‘I’m going for the police,’ said Sylvia, staring down at the puddle of blood that was growing darker and thicker around Nell.

‘No. Don’t leave the children. Please. You’ve got to stop them getting inside.’

Sylvia and Florrie looked at each other and made a rush for the door, silently praying that the others weren’t as vicious as the man who had attacked Nell.

Inside the shop, Sarah Meckel and Mary Lovell were crouching behind the counter with the children tucked in below them.

Mary had seen one of the men dragging Nell away, and now Florrie Talbot and someone who looked like Nell’s friend Sylvia were back guarding the door. The men were shouting and gesturing at them, but at least they didn’t look as if they were going to hurt them. Goodness only knew what had happened to Nell. Say she needed help? Mary didn’t want to do this, but what choice did she have?

‘Tommy,’ she murmured without looking down at him, in case the jeering, singing mob realised what she was doing. ‘I know you’re scared, love, but do you think you could creep out the back on your hands and knees and then climb up over the wall and run and fetch Mr Lovell? Tell him what’s happening, that there’s nasty men, and that we need help?’

Mary knew that Joe had been to the Blackshirt meetings – she had had to live with the trouble it had caused between them all, and watched as it had eventually driven Martin away and caused a rift between her and Joe – but she could never
believe he would tolerate anything like this. He was a good man at heart. And he loved her. She knew that too.

Tommy had never run so fast. Within minutes he was in the Lovells’ kitchen, breathlessly explaining to Joe about the bad men who were frightening them all and that Sarah and Mrs Lovell wanted him to help them.

Pausing only to instruct Tommy to stay exactly where he was, Joe ran down the stairs to the courtyard, bashing on every door as he passed each landing, yelling at the top of his voice that he needed help from every available man who could use his fists or wield a lump of wood.

Joe and a motley group of men in various states of dress despite the now pouring rain, and with an assortment of improvised weapons, rounded the corner to see the Blackshirt mob taunting Sylvia and Florrie Talbot. The women were pressing their backs against the door of the shop. There was what looked like a body covered with a fur-trimmed coat lying in the gutter.

One of the Blackshirts broke from his catcalling to give Joe a friendly wave. ‘All right there, Joe? Come to help us have you, mate? We’d be in there if it wasn’t for these silly tarts. We don’t want to hurt them, but if we have to, well they’re asking for it.’

Joe walked up to him. ‘Let me mark your card for you, moosh, that’s my old woman in there.
What was I ever thinking of, listening to you and your shit?’ With that, he bent low and charged full pelt at the man, winding him as his shoulder made contact with the man’s belly.

Joe straightened up and stared boldly about him. ‘To think I thought you yellow cowsons were ordinary, respectable people. Now let’s see how clever the rest of you are at fighting men instead of frightening the life out of women.’

It was as if a dam had been breached. The group from Turnbury Buildings surged forward, and despite the mob outnumbering Joe and his neighbours, they were no match for the infuriated men. They might themselves have been quite capable of bad behaviour, but there were standards, lines that weren’t crossed, and these strangers coming in and frightening their own was totally unacceptable.

The battle didn’t last long – fists flew, heads were butted and curses exchanged – then the remaining members of the mob who hadn’t been picked off with a few choice punches, and who didn’t fancy getting on the wrong end of a length of two-by-four, followed the example of Nell’s attacker and ran off into the night.

Joe rattled the door handle. ‘Mary, it’s me, Joe. Are you and Sarah all right in there?’

Sarah threw the door open and, without a word, she rushed over to where Florrie and Sylvia were crouching down by Nell, who was still lying in the gutter.

Mary hugged Joe and kissed him. ‘Thank you,
Joe. Thank you. I don’t know what we’d have done without you.’

‘And I don’t know what I’d do without you, love. And I don’t know what to say about all this.’

She kissed him again. ‘You’re a good, kind man, Joe Lovell. One of the best. Always have been.’

‘Who got hurt?’ he asked, looking over her shoulder to where Florrie, Sylvia and Sarah were kneeling on the now soaking ground.

Mary looked round. ‘Nell!’ She ran over to the women.

‘Go into the shop,’ she threw over her shoulder. ‘Dolly’s hiding under the counter.’

‘Nell?’

‘Get Dolly, Joe, I’ll explain later.’

When Joe came back out onto the street, with an ashen-faced Dolly wrapped in his jacket, all the men from the Buildings seemed to have forgotten their own cuts and bruises and were looking warily at the women.

‘Anything I can do?’ asked Joe, sheltering Dolly from the sight of her mother stretched out in a mixture of rain, blood and whitewash.

‘Sarah, can you get some towels?’ Sylvia said quietly. ‘And Joe, get that little one away from here, eh?’

Sarah went back into the shop, and one of the men, not wanting to hang around a moment longer while all this women’s stuff was going on, muttered about having to get back to his dinner. It was the signal for the rest of them to disperse.

‘Where’s Tommy’s tin of lead soldiers?’ Nell asked, her eyes flickering in and out of focus.

Florrie looked at Sylvia and Mary. Their hair was plastered down with rain, and their clothes were soaked through. Then she stroked Nell’s cheek. ‘I think you’ve got more to worry about than toy soldiers, my little love.’ She hooked her arms under Nell’s shoulders.

‘Come on you two, we’ll have to chance moving her inside the shop or she’ll wind up with pneumonia on top of everything else.’

It was the following afternoon and George was counting out a handful of silver from the day’s takings onto the fake grass that covered the stall. ‘Your turn today, Lil,’ he said. ‘Fish and chips for me. No, wait, I’ll have savs, faggots and pease pudding.’

‘Make up your bleed’n’ mind will you,’ said Lily, snatching up the change. ‘This bloody rain’s getting me down.’

‘Saveloys,’ he said, nodding to himself as he walked off in the direction of their new home above a tailor’s shop in Brick Lane, leaving a fuming Lily to put away the stall.

George frowned. What was going on? The narrow side door that opened onto the stairs to his and Lily’s set of rooms was unlocked. They never left the place without deadbolting the door; there were too many thieving foreigners around for George and Lily to do that. Maybe Lil was home already. He had stopped off for a pint instead of banking the takings. But she’d had to take the stall back to the store, before she went for the savs, and why would she leave the door unlocked anyway?

‘Lil?’ he called as he pushed open the inner door that opened directly onto the living room, holding the bag of takings behind his back.

‘I don’t think so.’ It was an enormous man – even bigger than George – whom he had never seen before. ‘I don’t reckon I’m pretty enough for a name like that, do you? And you know all about pretty girls, don’t you?’

George caught the glint of the brass knuckles the man was wearing as he smacked one fist into the palm of his other hand. Shit, they were going to rob him. Why hadn’t he gone to the bank?

‘Is that him?’ called a voice from behind the floral curtain that separated the living room from a narrow little kitchen.

‘Fits the description.’

The curtain was pulled back by a huge tattooed hand, revealing a man who looked like the much bigger brother of the one with the knuckleduster.

‘Do you know what I hate?’ he said, poking a sausage-sized finger in George’s now sweating face. ‘A bloke who don’t respect the ladies. A bloke who takes liberties with them, in fact. No real man likes that. That’s just for cowards and pisspots.’