War and Chance

CHAPTER ONE

Once his father had finished with the newspaper of an evening, Thomas Collins religiously scanned its pages, searching for information on changes in radical politics. The country’s widely held views on Fascism and Stalinism, which had begun to race like wildfire throughout the country, unsettled him greatly. People were uneasy on the streets, propaganda rife in the pubs and dives. Thomas tried voicing his concerns to his best mate Donkey, but Donkey was of the opinion that there was no use getting het up about something that hadn’t yet happened. They were powerless to stop it; it didn’t affect him so why should he spend precious time worrying.

Some years back, Robert Watson-Watt was the first to prove radar could work on a large scale. By 1935 it could detect aircraft at a distance of 16 miles. By the end of that year the range was up to 60 miles. Now, eighteen stations had been set up to cover the approaches by enemy to London, and a central radio tower system, Chain Home, a command and control air defence reporting system, was more or less ready for the enemy, should it come. Thomas’s father, John Collins, the editor of the Southampton Echo, was a mine of information and this news, which he imparted to his seventeen and a half year old son, set Thomas’s brain ticking. Last year, the air defence programme had added forty one squadrons to the RAF in readiness, so maybe he should be thinking about joining the Air Force, those boys were undoubtedly ace, and girls set their sights on a man in uniform. It was probably the only way to get himself a girl, he thought wistfully. It wasn’t for the want of trying.

How Donkey did it, have them hanging off his arm, laughing at his jokes, he hadn’t a clue, but he was jealous of his friend’s pulling power. His mate only had to click his fingers and one would appear as if by magic. Thomas was intelligent, not bad looking, his feet were two left ones when it came to dancing, but he was fit. He should be after all the pedalling he did for Freddy.

Thomas believed, like a thousand others, the Great War should have been warning enough, millions wounded, missing or dead, never to return home to their country, their mothers, their family. In total, if what he read was correct, over three million men didn’t make it back home to England. That number was staggering; His mind struggled to grasp the enormity of it when trying to imagine all those bodies laid boot to boot, head to head – disappearing into infinity.

Oswald Mosely’s British Union of Fascists were causing a massive stir meeting with violent opposition from the streets: the Jews, the Labour Party, Liberals, Democrats and the Communist Party of Great Britain. Mosely had modelled himself on Mussolini. They were Blackshirts, just like his father said, wearing fascist war uniforms, fighting against their own kind, and far too extreme. Trouble if you ask me, Thomas thought, but then no one would ask him because what did the youth of today know about such matters.

There was nothing Thomas hated more than his head filled to overflowing with things he’d read about in the paper and jittery talk bandied around the streets and on the radio. Rambunctious hormones and lack of money didn’t help either and neither did his lack of stylish clothes, his father’s attitude towards him, and then, of course, there was his run down errand boy bike and Freddie. His mind was constantly creating endless streams of thought and doubt and it didn’t do him an ounce of good. His mind unable to retain something he’d been told ten minutes ago, unless it was of prime importance like the goddess Gracie Jones with the bouncing bosoms and fluffy blonde hair from number 5 Darlington Crescent declaring her undying love for him, which was never going to happen in his lifetime.

He didn’t even own a decent shirt and shoes for the Saturday dance. His father’s hand-me-downs hanging in his wardrobe didn’t fit in the right places. Every Saturday his mother patiently pinned the shirt behind his back to give the chest a better fit. All well and good but it inhibited his dancing and boy, how he loathed dancing, sweating copiously after five minutes on the dance floor. However, it was the only way to get close to a girl so one had to be prepared to pull out all the stops even if he leaked like Niagara Falls. Margaret Withey, the girl living a few doors up from him, had on more than one occasion sent him pitying glances when they danced to swing. His mother, bless her, did the best she could but he deeply resented his father’s castoffs; the last thing he wanted to be was an imitation of his father.

Living in a fast changing world after The Great Depression, Thomas benefitted nicely, thank you; especially down at the Pier where the girls had, as if by magic, swiftly tossed away their rigid corsets and replaced them with flapper style dresses or knee length circle skirts and bobby socks, and necklaces that swung manically round their necks as their lively, lithe bodies gyrated frantically to the sounds of The Shimmy, Charleston, Black Bottom, the Rumba and the Samba, which were all the rage. His feet tapped out the frantically paced music on their own accord, the music which often led it to being banned from dance halls as young men exuberantly flung their girls high into the air. Not being able to dance had its merits, Thomas thought, as he stood on the sidelines, catching a glimpse of stocking tops and knickers.

He was, what his old Nan, bless her cotton bloomers, called ‘living through history.’ She’d been the exciting one of the family, the one he felt more aligned with – a slender, raven-haired free spirit in her younger days and a writer of slightly erotic novels which he secretly pinched from the family bookcase, read and replaced when no one would notice. A veritable mixture of Jewish, American and Scottish blood had swirled through Florence’s genes. She had been a chain smoker, much to his father’s disgust, using a long stemmed cigarette holder that afforded her, she thought, an air of authorcratic distinction. His father deemed it a disgusting habit, not fit for a lady, but then when had Florence ever been that. Gosh, how Thomas missed her.

Frank Walker, Thomas’s best friend, had been known, for over five years, to everyone as Donkey. They’d been welded together ever since that first day at primary school. That very first morning they recognised in each other a certain kinship, a shared fear of the unknown, and had become inseparable. Somewhat shorter than Thomas, Donkey’s humour was legendary, and his thatch of wavy blonde hair, his startling piercing eyes, and a cheeky smile became a magnet for girls once they hit their teenage years. Donkey found humour in the smallest of things, and where that had originated from was a complete mystery to Thomas seeing as his parents were religious and attended the Anglican Church regularly. Their DNA had not come equipped with a thing called humour. Fun, to them, was flippant, it led to deviant ways; hard work was the answer to putting a stop to a teenage boy’s thirst for indecent activities.

Donkey collected plenty of grief over his nickname; it cemented itself to him like a barnacle on the bottom of an old boat as he grew older because his moronic peers leeringly took Donkey to mean something else entirely. But this sobriquet was due to the three well-fed donkeys his father owned. Every day, before and after school, it was Frank’s job to tend to them, the pungent smell lingering about his person permeated the air as he sat stewing in the moist, perspery aroma of the classroom. It didn’t take Frank long to realise that the only way to deal with their asininity was to play along, so ‘Frank’ disappeared and ‘Donkey’ took over and the girls giggled and whispered amongst themselves wondering whether he lived up to his nickname. Both boys felt assured they were in prime position, each possessing something to offer the fairer sex, although Thomas doubted his intellect would win over Donkey’s imagined attributes. Out on the town on a Saturday night, down at the Royal Pier near the docks, became a highly anticipated event and lingered on in their memories.

It made no odds the lads were not of drinking age, a few months, a year, here or there ceased to matter since everybody knew everybody in their part of town. Quinn McLaughlin, the proprietor of The White Swan, or as it was known to the locals ‘The Mucky Duck’, very much doubted he’d get any hassle or altercation from them because if he did it they knew he could seriously limit their only entertainment during the week by making damn sure Thomas’s father, the editor of the local paper, knew everybody’s name. They might even make Saturday’s edition.

*

During the summer holidays and after school Thomas Collins worked the streets for Freddie Murphy, a petty thief turned moderately legitimate as a second-hand dealer. This pleasurable secret he kept from his parents. His part-time job satisfied Thomas’s longing of breaking free from the shackles of bondage his parents coddled their only child in. Freddie Murphy, whose luck it was to always be caught doing the most stupidest, idiotic of things to alert the coppers, had gone legit – but that wasn’t to say that everything in his shop found its way there lawfully. Freddie’s shop, aptly named Deals ‘n Steals, was a veritable Aladdin’s cave of delight and false hope. Having opened its front door by its greasy brass doorknob and having tried, without much success, to peer through the unloved, unwashed windows, should have given the unfortunate customer an indication of what lay behind them. Faced with an overpowering moist aroma of opportunity shop, an unwashed musty bouquet of vintage, it never failed to hit the unfortunate captive like a force five gale.

Upon changing the ‘Closed’ sign to ‘Open’ of a morning then retreating to the back of the of shop, Murphy was never surprised to find a straggle of impatient people waiting at the back door with their goods often packed under their coats, trying to cajole Freddie in unctuous tones into buying the family jewels when most of it was, in fact, crap or stolen wares. Sidling up to them, behaving in a manner that wouldn’t shame Fagin, desperate to haggle, Freddie might be lucky to find a gem and if he did his face never changed. But if people looked hard enough they’d notice a greedy glint in his eye, and you could guarantee his offer would always be on the low side. Amongst the dross in the shop, if someone game enough to plunge their hands into the rejectamenta, if one peered close enough and luck was on their side that day, they could score themselves a pièce de résistance. It was known to happen but not often, and if it did Freddie, whilst in the throes of wringing his hands with a come-hither smile, was only too willing to part the punters from their money.

When in need of a spare pair of hands to get rid of stuff in a dark alley of an evening where cash would be exchanged for a brown paper wrapped package, Freddie found in Thomas a willing sidekick. Thomas’s job was to wait in heightened anxiety at the agreed time, sitting on his haunches behind foul smelling dustbins on many a dark, cold or blustery night, for his customer who inevitably wore their cap drawn down over secretive eyes, their hands shoved deep within their pockets. Upon catching a glance of his contact walking furtively towards him, Thomas stood up smartly, making as much noise as he dare without alerting the neighbours and setting off the dogs, scaring the living bejesus out of the customer, which was just the effect Thomas was after.

Once his hands had stopped shaking the man would hand over the goods to Thomas and wait impatiently while they were closely inspected. Once everything was tickety boo, Thomas passed the cash in double quick time. The punter then nervously looked around to see if anyone was taking notice of what was going down and then make off smart. Thomas would transport the readies to Freddie and get given his cut in return. Sometimes Thomas would make this transaction two or three times a night, twice a week. At first the meetings had taken place in the local pub but Thomas soon put a stop to that because he was known there and uncomfortable in the knowledge that if word got around to his parents there’d be hell on earth to pay and a public flogging. No one but Freddie knew, apart from Donkey, and he wasn’t about to spill the beans. Extra money in his pocket, a girl on his arm for the weekly highly anticipated Saturday night dance was excitement enough for Thomas. And if there was no girl, the expectation was there would be one by the end of the night.

One girl in question, the present light of his life was Margaret Withey, who lived in a mid-terrace Victorian brick house with a bay window along with her three siblings. She was the oldest. Her mother Nancy, who stayed at home to take care of the children, took in sewing as a means to an end in helping her husband put food on the table for the family of five. Margaret’s father, Albert, a decidedly doughy, dour man the years hadn’t smiled favourably on, worked on the trolley buses, which did nothing to help his pasty pallor in the slightest. He was desperately in need of a splash of sunlight. If Albert was by chance at home when Thomas and his mother visited Nancy, they’d retire to the front room, leaving the disgruntled man in the kitchen sitting by the fire in his usual chair, knocking his pipe on the hearth while continually muttering under his breath about having his peace shattered by hordes of bleedin’ kids around his feet. He wasn’t averse to giving them a non-too-gentle, well aimed kick with his slippered foot if they ventured within reach, yelling Shut your blinkin’ row up when their shrieking shrill voices and giggling became unbearable. It wasn’t the first time Thomas wondered what on earth Mrs Withey had seen in the man that had prompted her to marry him.

Palpitations beat a tattoo in his chest whenever they were to visit Margaret’s mother, which was usually on a Sunday afternoon at two o’clock. He’d spend ages in front of the bathroom mirror beforehand, slicking down his hair with a gob of spit and pulling his tie into submission. He hated the damn thing but when visiting with his mother things were done the proper way. The nearer they got to the Withey’s the more the anticipation became too much: the acids in his belly started regurgitating his last meal, he’d belch a lot, he was sure his breath smelled, and a bout of dizziness would cloud his eyes. Blood swished like lightning through his arteries faster than fat Percy Littlejohn could put away three meat pies, and that was saying something.

Having reached their destination, door knocker in hand, his mother Evie gave it a good hefty belt while he stood timidly behind her taking in great gulps of air, his breathing untamed. Maybe, hopefully, he’d pass out on the spot. Maybe he was coming down with something noxious, and then the door opened and there she was, Margaret, a vision of loveliness in the doorway smiling, beckoning them to come in. Head down, concentrating hard on placing one foot in front of another down their long, dark and narrow hallway, hoping not to make a complete arse of himself, he walked into the living room where Nancy was seated on the sofa holding one of her youngest children on her lap. He’d always liked the comely Mrs Withey who saw the good in everybody; she had ways of making you feel at ease, always asking whether he had enough cake or water or tea or whatever else was going round. She was kind, unlike her misery of a husband. There are some people you just itched to beat the living shit out of, thought Thomas, smiling at the thought.

His mother and Mrs Withey’s conversation droned on and faded into background white noise while he became extremely conscious of Margaret sitting opposite him dressed in a pink blouse with pearl buttons and a petal collar trimmed with lace that accentuated her ripening breasts. Her dark wavy hair, free of restriction, floated around her shoulders like ripples on a lake when the moon was up. Her smile lit up her face like a glow worm and she was aiming it right at him. Blushing bright red to his roots, he looked down at his hands tightly clasped between his knees. He was in sore need of the toilet but couldn’t find the words to excuse himself from the room though he doubted he could walk. When he dared look up again Margaret was tending her little sister Helen who wanted a drink of lemon water. Thomas’s breath came out in a rush and wished himself far away, anywhere, where regaining control of himself would be easier.

‘… well, Thomas?’ Margaret was saying.

‘Uh, well what?’

‘Do you want something else to eat, another sandwich? You seem to be on another planet.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ His face flared with heat. His mother hated his use of street words and gave him a pointed look. He quickly altered his first statement, ‘Yes, please.’

As he took another sandwich off the plate Margaret held out to him she accidentally brushed her hand against his. A seismic jolt of electricity caused him to drop the sandwich on the cream rug where it unfolded, shedding its contents. Bright red tomato and mashed egg plopped down like a Pollock painting. Could be worse, it could have been beetroot, he thought.

His mother and Mrs Withey stopped talking, his mother’s steely glare scolding him for being so clumsy. Thomas stood abruptly and left the room and made his way to the outside toilet, locking himself in. What a wanker! He was shaking. Perhaps he was coming down with something: measles, mumps, glandular fever? He thought of the way her hair caught the light, the way she brushed the back of her hand across her forehead, her smile. He was in love, but could being in love bring on something akin to catching the Pox, make you so crazy as to want to take to your bed all day, wistfully idling life away thinking about fantasies? Donkey would double over laughing ‘til he cried if he knew.

One evening after dinner, Thomas’s father looked over his paper at him.

‘I’ve been doing a spot of thinking, Thomas,’ he said.

Oh, God, here we go. Thomas knew he was in for something unpleasant when his father began a sentence like that.

‘There might be a vacancy running errands at the paper, doing odd jobs. What do you say? Give it a go? Start from the bottom up because one day, hopefully, you will be sitting in my seat. You’re of an age now when you need money in your pocket and start paying some board, and I’m sure working for that reprobate Freddie Murphy won’t sustain you for long.’ He smiled at Thomas’s astonishment. ‘Don’t look so shocked. There are no secrets in this house, my lad. You’ll end up in the copper’s cell if you let Murphy have his way with you.’ He stopped to take a sip of tea. ‘I’ll make an appointment with you as soon as I’ve looked in my diary, show you around.’ The conversation was now at an end. The newspaper went back up obscuring his John’s face. The matter, he felt, had been dealt with efficiently.

How on earth does he know about Murphy? ‘Its fine, dad, really. Freddie pays me enough to get by. I’ll ask him for a raise tomorrow. I’m doing good there.’

The paper came down again.

‘Doing good? What sort of sentence is that? ...doing good? Has your education been wasted on you? The matter’s closed, Thomas. That man pays a pittance and we have bills to pay. You’re seventeen and a half now and need to take some responsibility. You won’t learn that working for the likes of Murphy.’ The paper went up again. End of discussion.

Thomas stomped up to his room to contemplate his father’s words on his bed. When he was eighteen he could do what he bloody well liked but that time was not yet, it was six months away. Besides, he liked working for Freddie. Dealing and scouting the sides of roads for rubbish, ploughing through it until he found something Freddie could sell. Anything he came across he was given a percentage of, a small one, granted, being Freddie. He’d have to talk to him. Thomas jumped off the bed, reached over and tugged his jacket off the back of his chair and left his room. Mother and father were still where he left them so he quietly turned the knob of the front door and let himself out into the cool night air.

‘Hey, Freddie, it’s me, open up.’ Thomas demanded, banging seven bells out of Freddie’s front door. Stupid old sod. Bet he’s pissed. ‘Come on, Freddie, its cold out here.’

‘Wait up, wait up, what’s all the bleedin’ fuss about. I’m comin’, I’m comin’.’

Freddie’s apparition was a picture. His wispy silvery hair stood up on end like he’d been hooked up to the electric light socket, it haloed around his head giving him a ghostlike pallor of some long forgotten slipped saint. His clothes had a rumpled slept in look and there were stains of unknown origin down the front of his shirt. Freddie poked his head outside, glanced quickly up and down the street and then motioned Thomas to quickly enter.

‘Are you looking for anything or anyone in particular out there? The rozzers?’

‘Never mind the rozzers, what’s the racket for? Can’t a gent get some sleep? Is there a bloody fire somewhere?’

Once inside the old feller’s lounge, Thomas said ‘Look, Freddie, you have to give me more work and pay me proper wages. My father’s after giving me a job at the Echo doing errand boy things. I don’t want to work there. I’ll never be free of his bloody meddling in my life. Morning, noon and night, it’ll be: ‘Thomas, run this downstairs.’ ‘Thomas, go down the road and get me this, that and the other.’ ‘Thomas, Thomas…’ I’m frantic, Freddie. I really want to work for you but you gotta pay me more.’ Thomas stood looking beseechingly at his employer like a wet eyed spaniel from the middle of the room that was cluttered high in one corner with open and closed boxes, grubby moth eaten rugs and an assortment of rubbish no one in their right mind would buy. It doubled as one of Freddie’s warehouses.

‘‘Ere, you want a cuppa? Gonna put the kettle on an’ make us a brew seein’ as I’m awake, no thanks to you.’

‘Um, no thanks.’ Thomas shook his head, he’d seen the state of the cups. Fine bone china they may be but the inside of them were stained with tar so thick you could pave the road with it.

‘Well, don’t mind if I do.’

Thomas sat on the floor on a cushion seeing as there was no other available space and awaited his verdict. A watched pot never boils and all that. Freddie was taking ages, clicking and clanging his spoon against cup and inside the teapot. He glanced around the room taking in the boxes, the standard lamps with no cables and or hats, chairs with three and a half legs or missing a spindle or two, and grubby single mattresses which were probably infested. It was then he espied the cat – a jet black moggy with massive green penetrating eyes peering out from behind a box in the corner of the room. She’d heard Freddie moving about in the kitchen and came out in search of milk but Thomas’s presence hindered her. She gazed steadily at him, calculating the risk. Foe he must be because she retreated back behind the box.

‘Didn’t know you had a cat, Freddie?’

‘That’s Mae – Mae West. She ‘as a fiery temper that one. She’ll spit as soon as look at you. She’ll sit on your lap an’ hypnotise you with her purrings. But you let your guard down even a little an’ she’ll strike. Just like a woman, eh? Though it’s so long since I’ve ‘ad one I wouldn’t know what to do if one bit me on the arse.’ Freddie chuckled loudly which turned into a hacking, phlegmy wet cough. Thomas cringed. ‘Anyway, don’t mind Mae, she’ll come out when she’s good and ready.’

Freddie made himself comfortable in his seen-better-days wing chair with stuffing that was externally trying to escape its confines. Freddie’s sparse, greasy hair leant against its grimy, pomaded upholstered back.

‘Here’s a right to-do, young Thomas. You know I can’t pay much. You’ve seen what comes into the shop. Now, you wouldn’t want to take all this old man’s money, would you?’ His Scrooge like tone and small calculating eyes were directed at Thomas over the top of his chipped mug.

Cunning bugger! Thomas saw what came in the shop; he also knew that there was bent dealings coming in around the back financially more rewarding. Freddie did alright, always would, his kind. Still, he needed a raise, and anything was better than working for the poxy paper. He wasn’t going to leave without one.

‘Come on, Freddie. You know I can keep my mouth shut. I won’t say a dickie bird, why would I? Just pay me what I’m worth. I sit in those dark alleys of a night freezing my arse off waiting for a punter. I could be killed or else my balls could ice over and fall off. I take a lot of risks for you and I don’t get respected for that. You know you can trust me and I’ve never let you down?’

Freddie took his time sipping his tea, all the while a beady eye trained on the lad.

‘Come on, it can’t be that hard to think about. The proof’s in the pudding as my mother would say.’

‘Mmm... I wouldn’t want to be held accountable for your balls falling off, young Thomas, so against my better judgment I might be able to swing a few more pennies your way. Might, being the operative word. But you’ve worked ‘ard for it, granted... Yeah, go on then, I’ll give you extra in hand every week but mind you keep on your toes and your nose outta business that don’t concern you. I might even have a few extra night time activities.’

Freddie’s gaze held his employee’s. Thomas knew he could get into big trouble but it was worth it not to be at his father’s beck and call. He held out his hand to Freddie. Freddie spat in his own hand and held it out to the boy. Thomas grimaced then gingerly shook it.

CHAPTER TWO

April 1939. Thomas woke to the sound of torrential rain belting out a steady rhythm on the tiled roof. Turning over on his side he looked out through the gap in the curtains, a very dark day beckoned. Cold and miserable, definitely brass monkey weather. Groaning loudly he pulled the blankets up to his chin, hating winter, and it suddenly dawned on him – all he had to do was to get through the next five months without having to abide by his father’s rule of taking the job offer at the paper then he’d be old enough to do whatever he liked. The blankets and quilt were thick and comforting, his body was warm, but Thomas still shivered in his arctic room. It was too early to rise. His thoughts wandered.

He loved his mother. She could be a stickler for detail in some areas, and somewhat impetuous, and loved to dance though never got the chance now, his father saw to that. No matter what mischief he got into she loved him, and often forgave his discretions. On his side most of the time, and always managed, just, to keep peace talks between him and his father on a reasonably even keel. He loved her cooking but couldn’t understand her cleaning regime which was nearly non-existent, even though she’d worked many years in the regimented sterile environment of the Southampton General as a nurse. His father drove him mental, harping on about his age and earning enough to pay something towards the household bills like some demented preacher. When Thomas told his father he got a raise from Freddie Murphy he’d blown a gasket but calmed down somewhat when he told him how much his wages had been put up by. But he wasn’t a happy man by any means, knowing his son was working for the likes of ‘that felon Murphy’. He wanted his son to follow in his footsteps and work at the paper. Thomas knew he was skating on fragile ice, and he wished his father wouldn’t keep bringing up war. Just the other day Roosevelt had asked Hitler and Mussolini to stop the violence, and made a proposal to hold a conference; also, Spain had signed the Anti-Comintern Pact, aligning itself with Japan, Nazi Germany and Italy. The day before, Hitler announced he would no longer honour the nonaggression pact Nazi Germany signed with Poland in 1934. This prompted the Polish authorities to quickly negotiate an alliance with London. People on the street, in the pub and shops, were alarmed that another war was brewing. Hitler had everyone running scared.

Thomas was lucky to have Donkey as a mate. He’d divulged to Thomas the previous night as they wandered through the town towards the pub, that while he had the sex appeal and his humour going for him, he waggled his eyebrows at that and grinned, Thomas couldn’t help but laugh, Thomas was endowed with intellect and girls were suckers for that. Thomas detected a smug smirk on Donkey’s face when he said it. What girl in her right mind would go for brains over someone named Donkey who would, the girls surely thought, make them swoon over his rumoured appendage? Donkey was also a dab hand at telling stupid jokes that left girls giggling and wanting more. Life just wasn’t fair. Psyched out by it all, wishing his brain would cease its spaghetti strands of nonsense, he decided to cycle over to Freddie’s to see if he could cadge extra work.

After placing his bike against the side of a table groaning under the weight of rusty odds and broken sods he entered the shop to find Freddie in the midst of a minor skirmish with some skinny, bent over, rodent-faced man with rat-like teeth and a large white lump sticking out of his right cheek. Thomas’s eyes honed in on it like a missile. It appeared inflamed around the edges like a pimple that had been picked and prodded at in the mirror, only it wasn’t a pimple. The maggoty lump had a dark grey whisker sticking out the middle of it and there were tiny white pustule-like growths on the lump. He peered at it again, he’d never seen one quite like it before. It was pretty amazing. Rat Man turned and glared at him with antagonist eyes and demanded to know if he had a problem. Thomas mumbled something and fervently shook his head and concentrated on a tatty paperback in a nearby bookcase. The man turned his attention back to Freddie.

‘Look, this was given to me by me dear old auntie Flora. You’re intimatin’ I’m a fief? You insult me. So... are you gonna buy it or wot?’

‘No, no, old chap. You are mistaken. It’s just that your aunt must have been exceedingly wealthy to own an item such as this. I just don’t want the coppers invading my premises looking for it, if you take my drift; I could be done for stolen goods.’

Thomas just managed to smother a snigger. Although the old man wasn’t particularly smart he made up for it with slyness and cunning, keeping his valuable commodities hidden elsewhere other than on the premises.

‘So you’re callin’ me a tea leaf?’ Rat Man inched into Freddie’s space.

‘Alrite, alrite…’ Freddie put his hands up in the air. ‘Keep your wig on, old chap.Just to get rid of you I’ll buy it.’

‘‘Bout bleedin’ time. Give me the readies and I’ll take off, there’s a good man.’

From out of Freddie’s trouser pocket grudgingly came a mucky wad of notes done up with an elastic band. His hands trembled slightly, probably from having to part with his cash. He flicked over a few notes and hesitantly placed them in the man’s skeletal outstretched hand that snatched them up like a gin trap before Freddie changed his mind, then he was gone, like the clappers.

‘God, Thomas, I ‘ate that Richard the Third. Coming round ‘ere telling me ‘e’s got the crown jewels. Gives me the creeps, ‘im. The man’s off ‘is rocker. ‘What’s the bettin’ he’s done a blag?’

‘Calm down, old man. He’s gone now and I bet you never paid him full whack. What say I make us a cup of tea?’

Sipping his tea, Freddie began to relax in Thomas’s company. Seeing that was the case, Thomas thought it a good a time as any to plead again for more money.

‘Freddie, you know I said my old man still wants me to work with him? Well, he’s not letting up. You did good in giving me more hours but it isn’t enough to get him off my back... This is where the action is, right? And the place is looking like a tip. It’s a small wonder you can find anything. I can make it all shipshape for you. My father thinks I’m shirking my responsibilities by not adding more to the kitty. If you don’t, I’ll end up being his lap dog at the newspaper.’

‘Blimey. The thought of you running about after those ponces at the paper, running their errands, making their tea, simpering up to management, well, it fair makes my ‘ead boil.’

‘So does that mean I can do more hours for you? If so, it means you’ve got to pay me more, Freddie.’

‘I’ve just given you a raise. Wot do you think I’m made of, money? Do you see a flippin’ money tree in my back yard?’ Freddie’s face had taken on an anaemic pallor, the colour, Thomas thought, of his mother’s pastry. He waited. ‘… Yeah… go on then. Alright, Thomas, my son. Working for the establishment can give a man a bad reputation. There’s work a plenty ‘ere if you want it. You’re a good boy an’ I can trust you.’

They raised their chipped tea-stained mugs and clanged them together to celebrate their working partnership.

‘Come on, let’s start as we mean to go on. I want you to ride over to Scruffy Paddy’s place, ‘e’s got something for me. Won’t take long, only don’t meet any rozzers on the way home. An’ look after it, it’s precious, alrite? On yer bike, son.’ Freddie chuckled as he turned to forage amongst a box of rubbish someone had dropped off.

Well, that’s solved that problem, smiled Thomas.

Ominous black clouds hovered overhead but the rain had, for the moment, eased off a little. Scruffy Paddy’s was on the other side of town and a bit of a hike. Thomas found the shop without any problem, which was a fraction more up-market than Freddie’s place and the windows were actually clean enough to see inside the shop. The owner was doing business with a customer so Thomas wandered around. Few bits of nice stuff but junk mostly. Three nice fur coats and some stoles with startled looking fox faces were laid on the racks, men and women’s hats, some knitted by someone’s granny, long white, elegant gloves, some World War One regalia, and some flippy looking 1920s lacy, glittery dresses all vying for attention. Some of the chinaware was in good nick, too. A few books in an oak bookcase enticed Thomas over to browse through them. Intent on reading, he jumped like a jack-in-the-box, dropping the book on the floor when a meaty hand was placed on his shoulder.

‘Were you going to thieve that young man or buy it?’

Thomas hadn’t met Scruffy Paddy before. He was expecting an Irishman but instead standing before him was a well-built, broad shouldered man straight from the heart of Barnsley. His black shoes shone like a mirror and a red polka dot handkerchief peeked cheekily out over the breast pocket of his burgundy velvet jacket. Not what he expected at all.

‘Er, no. In fact I was just glancing through it to see if I wanted to buy it. I’m here on behalf of Freddie Murphy. He says you’ve got something for him.’ Thomas bent down to retrieve the book and returned it to the shelf.

‘My dear friend Freddie! Of course, follow me, lad.’

Scruffy Paddy strode purposefully to the front door, turned the sign to Closed, then turned tail and headed for the back room at a pace belying his age. Not sure of where he was going Thomas followed behind him all the way to the front of the shop, feeling a little more than stupid when he walked into Scruffy’s back when he stopped to change the sign. The old man tut tutted under his breath, shook his head and gave him a funny look. Once in the back room, Scruffy gestured to Thomas to sit.

He turned his back on him for a second and bent down to pull something out of a cupboard in the corner of the room. Everything was so neat and tidy; Thomas found it hard to get his head around it having worked so long for Freddie amidst dust and grim. The small square table was free of chips, gouges and scratches and all four chairs, though they didn’t match, were in reasonable condition. Over in the corner was a small area where a kettle, a teapot, a packet of tea, sugar in a pot, and biscuits waited. He was so used to Freddie’s’ chaotic jumble and miserliness that coughed into spasms when Thomas once asked him if he