The Camberwell Raid (9 page)

‘Yes, you can use that, Percy,’ said Nick.

‘Here, what’s the idea?’ said Percy. ‘It’s knickers again, and accordin’ to the way you lot are goin’ on about it, Sally and Cassie won’t stand for it.’

‘Chance it,’ said Freddy, ‘it’s short and sweet.’

‘Well, it’s better than Nick’s third-rate poem,’ said Percy. ‘But what about your mum, Horace?’

‘Good point,’ said Horace, ‘I almost forgot about Mum. No, she won’t favour it. Use Nick’s poem instead.’

‘But you put a downer on it,’ said Percy.

‘We’re stuck,’ said Horace. ‘At least, you are, Percy.’

‘Can’t we be serious?’ said Percy.

‘Give over,’ said Freddy, ‘we’re all dead serious. We’ve got to be, like Nick said, when it’s Cassie and Sally’s big day. I don’t want Cassie takin’ me aside and kickin’ me knees to bits on account of your speech bein’ dubious, Percy. It’ll ruin me ’oneymoon. And Orrice won’t want Sally ruining his, either. So pull yerself together, chum, and cut out all this saucy stuff.’

‘Yes, use your loaf, Percy,’ said Nick.

‘Yes, make your speech a bit decent, Percy,’ said Horace. ‘You were normal at school. Well, fairly.’

‘Do I look as if I’m peculiar?’ asked Percy.

‘Not from where I’m sitting,’ said Nick. His Ma put her head in at that point.

‘You boys all gettin’ together satisfact’ry?’ she said.

‘What boys?’ asked Nick.

‘All of you,’ said Ma. ‘Are you ’aving a proper talk about the weddings?’

‘Serious, Mrs Harrison, serious,’ said Horace.

‘Tell her another,’ muttered Percy.

‘What was that?’ asked Ma.

‘Nothing much, Ma,’ said Nick.

‘Well, don’t do a lot of nothing much,’ said Ma, ‘and I’ll bring you all in a nice cup of tea and some ’ome-made cake in a few minutes. My, I do like to see young men preparin’ serious for weddings.’

‘Percy’s larkin’ about a bit,’ said Freddy.

‘Well, one or two little jokes won’t hurt,’ said Ma, and returned to her kitchen, where she informed the rest of her family that the young men were preparing serious for the double wedding.

‘You sure, Ma?’ asked fifteen-year-old Amy.

‘She can’t be sure if she said serious,’ commented Alice.

‘In my time as a young man,’ said Pa, a con artiste now going straight by reason of Ma’s egg saucepan always being ready to hand, ‘I can’t remember treating anything seriously.’

‘Well, Nick’s different,’ said Ma.

‘Some hopes,’ said young Fanny.

‘If that lot in trousers are in the parlour being serious,’ said Alice, ‘I’m a spotted duck. I’m goin’ out now, to meet Johnny. He’s another one.’

‘What, another spotted duck?’ said Amy.

‘No, another clown,’ said Alice.

‘Why’d you go out with ’im, then?’ asked young Fanny.

‘I like clowns,’ said Alice, departing with a smile.

Ma put the kettle on.

In the parlour, poor old Percy, a decent but slightly naive bloke, was still a bit unsure about exactly what was expected of a best man. He was, of course, up against three serious jokers. He’d just been told by Freddy that one of his duties on behalf of Horace was to inspect Sally’s wedding garter before she floated up the aisle.

‘You sure?’ he said.

‘It’s tradition,’ said Freddy.

‘Well, I don’t mind a bit of tradition,’ said Percy, ‘I’ll have to make arrangements.’

‘Good idea,’ said Nick.

‘Well, I’m glad we got somewhere at last,’ said Percy.

Ginger Carstairs and Dusty Miller, a determined, ruthless and ambitious pair of crooks, began their new practice run from Cadiz Street, off the Walworth Road, at six minutes after three-thirty the following day, under a cloudy sky. Ginger, at the wheel of the baker’s van, drove left into the Walworth Road and its busy traffic, proceeding only a short distance before turning right into John Ruskin Street. Dusty Miller pointed out that although kids weren’t out of school yet, those under school age were bound to be about in the back streets. Carstairs, going at a steady speed, said street kids were being allowed for, but wouldn’t hold them up as the main road traffic did. Sure enough, young boys and girls were in evidence, playing their street
games
, but they ran onto the pavements as the van approached.

Carstairs, keeping to the steady speed, drove on, turned left into Camberwell New Road, hit a little traffic, and then freed the van from what there was by turning right into Flodden Road. More young street kids were seen, but no traffic to speak of, and on the van went into Denmark Road. Miller said watch the kids. Carstairs said shut up, and drove to the end of Denmark Road to cross Coldharbour Lane into Cutcombe Road. No hold-ups of any real kind had been encountered so far.

‘You’ve got it all worked out, I’ll give you that much,’ said Miller.

‘It’s necessary planning,’ said Carstairs, and turned left into Bessemer Road, then right into Denmark Hill, where traffic, unburdened by any trams, was always light. ‘Here we are, Denmark Hill, how about that for an easy ride?’

‘Sweet,’ said Miller.

The speed of the van was now about twenty-five miles an hour. Carstairs slowed at the approach to Red Post Hill, turned left into its leafy suburban atmosphere, and drove without haste all the way to North Dulwich railway station, then past it to reach a short row of lock-ups. The van turned and came to a stop outside the first one. Miller alighted, unlocked the doors, opened them, and Carstairs drove the van in.

The time taken for the drive from Cadiz Street had been nine minutes, which left them seven minutes to catch the required train. They’d need a couple of minutes to do a quick change of clothes and to see the van was left out of sight in the lock-up.

‘It could be tight, all the same, if we do hit a snag,’ said Carstairs, ‘but there’s less chance of that if we keep to this route.’

‘If we miss the train, the only alternative is to sit here in the van out of the way and catch the next one,’ said Miller.

‘Listen, cloth ears,’ said Carstairs, ‘I’ve told you, if we catch the next train we’ll miss the connection for the Dover line, and the bloody ferry as well. The important thing is to get out of this area as fast as we can, and then out of the country double-quick.’

‘Agreed,’ said Miller.

‘But we’ll do two more practice runs before the day of the job,’ said Carstairs.

‘Several,’ said Miller.

‘Two,’ said Carstairs. ‘Any more than that, and we’ll begin to be noticed.’

‘I’ll grant that,’ said Miller.

‘Hoo-bloody-ray,’ said Ginger Carstairs sourly.

They returned to Walworth by bus.

‘Try it on, Sammy,’ said Susie that evening.

Sammy looked at the shining black top-hat she was offering. The kids, all three, were agog.

‘What’s that?’ he asked.

‘A top-hat,’ said Susie.

‘Nothing to do with me,’ said Sammy.

‘Daddy, go on, put it on,’ said Bess.

‘Not me,’ said Sammy, ‘I might get stuck with it.’

‘No good arguin’, Dad,’ said Daniel. ‘If Mum says you’ve got to try it on, you’ve got to.’

‘And I’ve got to be firm and say no,’ declared Sammy, ‘and you all know me when I’m firm. No surrender, that’s me.’

‘Sammy, stop showing off and try this hat on,’ said Susie.

‘Excuse me, kids,’ said Sammy, ‘but I’ve got to wash me hands before supper. If Queen Mary phones, I’ll be upstairs, but only for five minutes.’ He made for the living-room door. A hand caught hold of the tail of his jacket and stopped him in his tracks.

‘Try the hat on first,’ said Susie.

‘Told you, Dad,’ said Daniel, ‘told you you’d got to.’

‘Well, I’ll unfirm myself just for once, and just to let your mum know I’m reasonable,’ said Sammy, and took the topper. He placed it on his head. It slid down and came to rest on his ears. The kids shrieked. So did Susie, come to that. ‘What’s happened?’ asked Sammy. ‘Everything’s gone dark.’

‘Dad’s ’ead’s gone and disappeared,’ said Jimmy.

‘And nearly all his face,’ said Bess, and indulged in a surfeit of giggles.

Sammy removed the topper and looked at Susie. Susie straightened her face.

‘Might I be permitted to ask where you bought this large so-called headgear, Mrs Susie Adams?’ enquired Sammy.

‘Oh, I didn’t buy it, Sammy, I borrowed it from Mr Greenberg to see if a top-hat suited you,’ said Susie.

‘Well, this one doesn’t,’ said Sammy.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Susie, ‘it did something for you, and if we stuffed it with newspaper, it could do even more.’

‘Am I hearing you right, Mrs Adams?’ said Sammy. ‘This piece of head furniture that hides me face does something for me? Might I remind you I’ve been frequently complimented on the look of me kisser?’

‘Who by?’ asked Susie.

‘I’m not saying I’m Ronald Colman, but—’

‘Who by?’ asked Susie.

‘Well, Susie—’

‘Mrs Rachel Goodman, I suppose,’ said Susie.

‘Daddy’s got a nice face,’ said Bess.

‘Well, we’ll see it’s not covered up for the weddin’, pet,’ said Susie. ‘We’ll make sure there’s enough newspaper in the topper.’

Sammy put the topper on a chair and sat on it. It cracked and crumpled beneath him. He stood up and everyone looked at the ruined headpiece.

‘Crikey, you’ve done it now, Dad,’ said Daniel.

‘It’s gone flat,’ said Jimmy.

‘Saves a lot more argument, though,’ said Sammy.

Susie burst into laughter. There was only one Sammy, and the whole family knew it. But it had been fun, putting the wind up him about a top-hat.

At ten minutes to eight, Tim answered a ring of the doorbell. He recognized at once that a gent had come calling, not someone from Billingsgate.

‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Good evening,’ said Major Armitage, ‘does Mr Adams live here?’

‘Well, yes, he does,’ said Tim, ‘he’s my dad.’

‘Would you be kind enough to give him my card and ask if he could spare me some time?’

Tim took the card and looked at it under the hall light. It told him the caller was Major Charles Armitage of Headleigh Hall, Godalming, Surrey. Tim, curious, looked up at him.

‘D’you know my dad?’ he asked. ‘I mean, did you meet him in the war somewhere?’

‘No, I don’t know him,’ said Major Armitage, ‘and I don’t imagine I ran into him during the war. Was he an officer?’

‘No, a sergeant,’ said Tim.

‘I see,’ said Major Armitage. Sergeants came in all kinds. Tough but unimaginative, loud but competent, courageous but bullheaded, highly disciplined but wooden, brief of words but full of initiative. ‘I hope he can spare me a little time.’

‘Come in,’ said Tim. The caller stepped into the hall, and Tim closed the door. ‘I won’t be a minute, I’ll tell my dad,’ he said, and went through to the living-room used by Boots and his family. Chinese Lady and Mr Finch had the use of another, but on most evenings gatherings were communal, as on this occasion. ‘Dad, there’s a gent,’ said Tim, ‘he wants to see you.’

‘A gent?’ said Boots.

‘An extra posh one,’ said Tim. ‘Here’s his card.’

Boots took it.

‘Who is it?’ asked Chinese Lady.

‘A Major Armitage,’ said Boots.

‘In uniform, Tim?’ asked Mr Finch, thinking that perhaps the call was to do with Boots being on the Officers’ Reserve list.

‘No, he’s not in uniform, Grandpa,’ said Tim.

‘You must go and see ’im, Papa,’ said Eloise.

‘Well, I will, of course,’ said Boots, getting up.

‘Shall I come with you?’ asked Rosie, who had slipped so easily into the atmosphere of home.

‘If I need help,’ smiled Boots, ‘I’ll call for all of you.’ Out into the hall he went to come face to face with the visitor, a man as tall as himself, with strong handsome features, intelligent eyes and
a
distinguished appearance. And Major Armitage, hat in his hand, saw a man of obvious self-assurance with an expression that seemed as whimsical as it was enquiring.

‘Mr Adams?’

‘I’m Adams, yes,’ said Boots, and shook hands. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’d be obliged if I could talk to you for five minutes or so,’ said Major Armitage.

‘Come into the study,’ said Boots.

A study, thought Major Armitage, and the large house itself with its handsome hall. Some sergeants do rise in the world, but not many.

‘Thanks, Mr Adams,’ he said, and they entered Mr Finch’s study, often used by Boots.

‘Take a seat, Major.’

‘I’m on reserve, Mr Adams.’

So am I, as a lieutenant, thought Boots, but he didn’t say so. They both sat down, and he said, ‘Fire away, Major Armitage.’

‘Difficult,’ said Major Armitage with a faint smile.

‘Why?’ asked Boots.

‘To begin with, it concerns a certain occasion in August, 1914,’ said Major Armitage.

‘This can’t concern me, surely,’ said Boots.

‘It did, subsequently, Mr Adams,’ said Major Armitage, and recounted details of his brief time with a girl called Milly Tooley and its consequences. The recounting had the effect of making Boots tighten his jaw. So here he was at last, the man who had fathered Rosie, the man he had often suspected to be very different from her graceless mother. Rosie had a natural air of definite grace, and all the charm and composure of the well-born. She was undoubtedly
her
father’s daughter and had never related to her mother in any way. Boots listened in silence to further details, those concerning a visit to Rosie’s grandfather, Mr Tooley of Deptford, which were followed by Major Armitage saying, ‘You’ll understand, Mr Adams, that having discovered I had a daughter, and that you and your wife had adopted her, my immediate wish was to meet you and have you introduce her to me.’

‘Yes, that’s understandable,’ said Boots.

‘Is it true she’s an undergraduate at Somerville, Mr Adams?’

‘Yes, it’s true,’ said Boots.

‘Remarkable,’ said Major Armitage.

‘Why remarkable?’ asked Boots, thinking deeply.

‘The circumstances of her birth.’

‘And the background of her mother? But I daresay not all mothers of undergraduates come out of a top drawer.’

‘And I daresay you’re right, Mr Adams. Your son informed me you served in the war. What regiment, may I ask?’