That'll Be the Day (2007) (50 page)

Ewan was clapping him on the back, saying something about him being a chip off the old block. ‘Or at least you could be if you had a bit more intelligence.’

The other men chuckled, snorting into their pints of Guinness. ‘But everyone has their uses and a good fast driver is always useful in these sort of operations.’

‘What sort of operation?’ Jake asked, hoping Ewan would tap his nose in that sneaky way of his, and tell him that the least he knew the better.

Not this time. On this occasion he told Jake everything and the lad felt sick to his stomach by the time he’d heard it all, sincerely regretting ever having asked the question. Ignorance, and being considered a bit of a dim-wit, Jake decided, was far safer. Because now he was in possession of all the facts, he was going to have to do something about it.

The docks were a hive of activity as always when Jake made his way across the yard, negotiating stacks of timber, iron girders and agricultural machinery in the process of transit. The offices of Catlow and Son were small and surprisingly untidy, situated in a corner of one of the warehouses. Jake kept on glancing nervously over his shoulder, half expecting Ewan to emerge from behind a stack of crates. It’d taken every ounce of courage to escape his father’s eagle eye and make it this far. He only hoped he didn’t live to regret it.

Jake tapped on the somewhat dilapidated door and walked straight in. A blonde , no doubt a secretary, was typing furiously on a battered Imperial typewriter, the desk piled high with paperwork, with files and dockets, and bills of lading. Another girl in a red checked dress was putting even more paper into an overstuffed filing cabinet while chatting to a young male clerk who was presumably engaged in book keeping.

It was clearly an operation that devoted most of its time and money on turning the goods around, on loading and unloading, importing and exporting, and wasting few resources on dealing with the massive mounds of paperwork all of that work created. Jake wondered if they were equally careless over security matters.

 
‘Can I help you?’ The sound of the clattering keyboard momentarily ceased as the secretary sat, well-manicured hands poised over the keys, finely trimmed eyebrows raised, while she regarded Jake with a piercing gaze over a pair of half-moon spectacles. Her expression clearly stated that she certainly wasn’t going to waste any of her precious time on Teddy-Boy types like him so he’d best say what he had to say quickly, and get out.

‘Um, I wondered if t’boss were in.’

‘By whom you mean Mr Catlow?’

‘Aye . . . er, yes, I do.’

‘If you’re seeking employment he isn’t taking anyone on at the moment.’

‘No, I weren’t. I mean, I’m not. I just need to talk to him about something.’

‘I’m afraid he’s in a meeting and cannot be disturbed. May I be of any assistance?’

‘Hecky thump, no, it’s private.’

‘Then you will have to come back later. Let me see . . .’ The woman glanced briefly at a diary on the desk beside her typewriter, running a pointed pink fingernail down the page. ‘I could make you an appointment for Tuesday week.’

Jake was thrown off balance by this. He’d practised most carefully what he wanted to say, choosing his words with meticulous care. He certainly had no intention of giving the impression that he personally was about to commit a criminal offence. Jake had also made up his mind that Ewan’s name could not be mentioned at this juncture, but must remain anonymous since you didn’t grass on Ewan Hemley in a hurry. He simply wanted to put Catlow on his guard without getting himself into any bother. Now he looked at the woman in dismay.

‘But it’s important. I have to see him today.’

‘Important to
you
perhaps, but Mr Catlow deals with far more important matters than you could ever imagine each and every day of the week. How could a person of your sort ever hope to understand what a very busy man he is?’

She gave a disapproving sniff and returned to her typing. ‘I’m sorry, but if you aren’t prepared to give me any clue as to what this matter is about, that’s the best I can do.’

Jake glanced frantically about him, spotted a door set in the back wall from which he could detect the murmur of voices and wondered if he should burst it open and charge in. He saw himself as the hero of the hour, surprising Leo Catlow at his meeting by making a bold dramatic announcement that his warehouses were about to be raided in the early hours of Friday morning, and then storming out again before they could catch him and ask how he knew this fact. Or any other awkward questions, any who, why or wherefore. But he could see the young clerk watching him out of narrowed eyes and knew he wouldn’t get further than one step from this desk.

Or he could try explaining it all to this woman who was his secretary and just hope she didn’t call the police.
 

‘Well?’ she said, watching him closely as if trying to read his thought processes. ‘What is it to be? I haven’t all day.’

Jake looked at her smiling coolly up at him with lipstick on her teeth. ‘Stuff it then,’ he said, and walked out.

Jake left Potato Wharf and was passing by the Mission Hall along by the canal basin when who should step out in front of him but Ewan Hemley. The sight of his leering smile sent a chill running down Jake’s spine.

‘Hello, son, and where might you have been on this bright winter’s afternoon? Don’t look to me like you’re engaged in your usual deliveries.’’I’ve just made one,’ Jake recklessly agreed, impulsively snatching at this possible excuse.

‘Indeed, and where to, might I ask? Not Catlow’s warehouse by any chance? And while you were there making this mythical delivery without even the help of a hand-cart, did you happen to suggest that he might do well to check out the locks on his gates, or get an alarm system fitted?’

Jake had gone white to the lips, his mouth ash dry and were he capable of thinking of a suitable reply he couldn’t possibly have uttered a single word.

Ewan grabbed him by the throat and shoved him so hard his knees buckled, he tripped over an iron bollard and fell. The next instant Jake was lying on the hard ground with his head and shoulders hanging over the edge of the canal, mere inches from the black swirling water beneath, and Ewan still hadn’t let go of his throat. ‘Cos if you had done owt stupid like that, you know I’d be pretty pissed off about it. I might even do summat really nasty that you’d come to regret. Know what I mean?’

Jake wasn’t in a position to nod his agreement. He merely blinked, like a frightened owl.

‘And let’s not forget your poor mam. Betty is depending on you to keep your end up, so to speak, so’s this can all end happily and she can come back to her own hearth and home. Your sister too needs you to hold your nerve. We don’t want owt to happen to our lovely Lynda, now do we?’

Jake attempted to shake his head but Ewan’s thumb was pressing so hard under his left ear that it started to buzz very loudly. He was quite certain that if he moved an inch he’d slip backwards into the oily depths. And he couldn’t even swim.

‘All you have to do is follow instructions and drive the van. Right? I reckon we should allow your lovely sister to join our little game. We need her assistance too.’ He told the boy what was expected of Lynda and Jake’s eyes were nearly popping out of his head by the time he was done.

‘You can explain it all to her tonight. And make sure she understands how very important it is for her to follow my instructions to the letter. I don’t want any stupid rebellions on this job, or you know what will happen.’

Chapter Fifty

Judy sat huddled by a single bar of the electric fire, somehow unable to shake off the cold that seeped right into her bones. She had it on all the time these days although heaven knows what her electricity bill would be. Sometimes she even slept in here, since there was no heating at all in the damp bedrooms, and not even a power point. It was so cold there was ice on the inside of the windows.

What was happening to her? Why was her life such a misery? Christmas had been a nightmare without the children, Sam insisting she wait until Boxing Day before being allowed even to give them their presents. Not that she could afford much: the Eagle Annual for Tom, and School Friend Annual for Ruth, plus a box of Bassett’s Liquorice All Sorts each.

After the holidays when she’d rung from a local call box to make arrangements for her next visit, Sam had told her that they were staying with his mother until it was time for them to go back to school, and she couldn’t see them.

Judy had protested, saying she was their mother and they should be with her, that she surely had a right to see them, but he’d hung up on her leaving her weeping down the phone at the dialling tone.

The visit with the children today, to which she’d looked forward with such eagerness for nearly two whole lonely weeks, had been a complete failure. Ruth had sulked for the entire time and despite Tom’s efforts to be brave the small boy had sobbed his heart out when it was time for her to leave.

‘I shall see you next Sunday,’ she’d assured him, trying to offer comfort. ‘That’s only a few days to wait.’

‘It’s a whole
week
! And what if it’s longer, like last time? You might forget all about us.’

‘Of course I won’t forget you . . .’

At which point Sam had intervened, his face utterly devoid of emotion, completely dispassionate and oblivious to her pain. ‘It all depends whether you’re a good boy, Tom. If you can manage to keep your bedroom tidy and do your homework then perhaps I might allow you to see your mother.’

Judy felt hot rage boil up inside her. Was he using her as some sort of reward for good behaviour? What was it that made Sam behave so cruelly towards her, and to his own children? It seemed to be his only source of pleasure these days. But she refused to give him the satisfaction of rising to his bait.

‘I shall come for you next Sunday as usual,’ Judy firmly announced to her son’s retreating back but as she tried to kiss Ruth goodbye, the young girl brushed her aside and fled indoors, clearly on the brink of tears.

They seemed so unhappy, so desolate, and yet she was powerless to put things right.
 

Driven by despair, Judy took the decision that if she were careful, she could manage to avoid bumping into Leo Catlow, and hurried straight round to Lynda’s house. She felt desperate to see a friendly face, for a heart-to-heart chat with her closest friend. To her surprise it was Jake who answered the door, opening it only wide enough to stick his head around.

‘If you’re wanting our Lynda she can’t come to the door right now, she’s busy. Sorry!’ And before Judy could ask the reason the door was closed again and his pale face had vanished.

Judy walked home in complete misery, facing yet another week alone, relieved only by hours at the snack bar.

Late one afternoon on her way home from work Judy called in at Hackett’s shop, as she often did, for a few groceries. It was the kind of cheap corner shop which sold everything from mouse-traps, which she was constantly in need of, to soap and dolly blue to soak her wash, and Bournvita, bread and potatoes which formed the major part of her diet, along with such everyday necessities as firewood, hammers and nails, Coleman’s starch, and donkey stone.

Children would stand at the counter for hours deliberating between aniseed balls, gob-stoppers or sherbert lemons, and Mrs Hackett never hurried them.

Mrs Hackett was a comfortable, motherly sort who’d taken Judy rather under her wing. ‘Are you still working in that greasy spoon?’ she would ask her at least once a week, and Judy would admit that she was and then Mrs Hackett would tell her she deserved something better.

‘You should have a job in a library,’ she would say, as if that were the ultimate aspirational place of employment. ‘Since you love reading so much.’

Mrs Hackett ran one of the last remaining penny libraries from a range of bookshelves set behind the shop door, which Judy plundered on a regular basis. With no television or radio in her flat, books were her main source of entertainment, particularly now that she no longer had the heart to paint.

Every spare shilling she had left at the end of the week, and there weren’t many of those, Judy saved for the day when she would get her children back, and for finding a place to live which would impress the magistrates. Apart from Ruth’s old box of water colours Judy didn’t even possess any materials. But she did miss creating pictures.

One quiet morning in the snack-bar she’d sketched an old man quietly reading his paper, using a bit of pencil on the back of a paper bag. The result hadn’t satisfied her and she’d thrown it away, but the feel of a pencil between her fingers again had lifted her spirits for a moment.

Now, as she approached the little shop her eyes alighted on a sketch-pad in the window. It had obviously been there for some time as there was dust all over it, and a few dead flies, even now in the depths of winter.

Why hadn’t she noticed it before? She stood staring at the sketch pad for a long time, shoulders hunched against a bitter cold wind. It was large and thick, and paper was expensive. Could she afford to waste money on such an indulgence? Judy still hadn’t made up her mind when she opened the door and went inside.

The little bell over the shop door jangled and she braced herself for the usual motherly lecture. But Mrs Hackett, savvy when it came to her customers, asked her quite a different question. ‘So what caught your eye in my window, love? What have you set your heart on?’