and at least half his income was legit. A spiv, Evie called him, and Lawrie could see that he looked the part. His luxuriant moustache was as styled as his hair, worn parted on the side and greased down. He wore more cologne than was welcome; it made Lawrie’s nostril hairs twitch.
Don’t trust him, Evie had warned Lawrie. He’ll say he’s doing you a favour but he’ll ask for double in return.
He wasn’t so bad, Lawrie had decided, and there had been benefits to living with a petty criminal. Derek was generous enough to share his ill-gotten gains. A whole extra block of cheese last week, a pound of bacon the week before. Arthur and Lawrie usually went halves on their monthly bottle of rum, which Derek gave them a good price on. They were still one of the few houses on the street to have a telephone installed, a lifesaver for Lawrie. A last-minute booking could only be accepted if the club could actually get hold of you. And, of course, running deliveries for Derek was adding to Lawrie’s savings. He had almost enough saved up for a small wedding and a honeymoon – Mrs Ryan had reckoned on him needing seventy pounds plus a bit extra for spends. Except that because of Derek, Lawrie had been on Clapham Common at the worst time possible and he couldn’t marry Evie if he was sent to gaol. Or the gallows.
The fritters had gone hard in the heat of the oven, their undersides wet with grease that turned Lawrie’s stomach. He tried to force down some of the mashed potato instead, washing it down with hot tea.
‘Well, I heard something scandalous,’ Mrs Ryan announced. ‘I was at the butcher’s earlier, trying to get a bit of beef so we can have a decent roast this Sunday. But no, they’d run out they told me. I tell you, I swear they keep back the good stuff. He’s a mason, Fred Yorke, you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if the best cuts go to his little friends from down the lodge. Them and their funny handshakes…’
‘I tried to join once,’ Derek reminded her. ‘Bastards blackballed me. Can you believe the cheek of it?’
Lawrie could well believe it but he kept his mouth shut.
‘While I was queuing, there were two women in front of me. Talking about a body being found up on Clapham Common. In one of the ponds. A child! And one of them had the ridiculous notion that it might have been there since the war. Kept hidden by the weeds. You do hear of it, people clearing away the rubble and finding people buried beneath, but not a child. The parents would have been going wild! Though the woman was ever so snooty with me when I pointed that out to her.’
‘It wasn’t a child. It was a baby.’ Lawrie’s voice sounded strange in his own ears, as though someone else was speaking through him.
‘A baby? You heard about it on your rounds then?’
‘No.’ He tried to smile, wanting to reassure her, but his lips trembled and he pressed them together until they stilled. They’d find out soon enough. Better it came from him. ‘I found it. I found the baby. In the pond.’
Mrs Ryan stared at him oddly, as if she was struggling to comprehend his words. ‘Dear God.’ She looked to the crucifix and crossed herself. ‘Lawrie, you poor love! So is that why you’re so late home?’
‘I had to give a statement to the police and you know what they’re like.’ He tried once more to smile, still not entirely successfully. ‘I was just glad to get out of there in time. I need to be in Soho for eight o’clock.’
‘What? No, you can’t, Lawrie. You’ve had a terrible shock and you’ve not slept since yesterday. You can’t possibly go and play tonight. Your mother would never forgive me for letting you out in this state.’
Mrs Ryan was a similar age to his mother and they shared several things in common: both widows, regular churchgoers, recovering slowly from a war that had left their families irreparably damaged. They exchanged letters frequently, a few thousand miles of ocean unable to prevent them from finding a sympathetic friend in one another.
‘I have to. Johnny’s expecting me. I’ll see Evie and then head out. I should be home by midnight so it’s not all bad.’ And then up at half four again to serve the Post Office. ‘Besides, it’s better to keep busy. Stop me thinking about it.’
‘I don’t know how you do it, I really don’t.’ Mrs Ryan shook her head. ‘Well, at least clear your plate first. A good meal’ll sort you out. Gosh, what a shock! You just never know what each day will throw at you.’
With that he had to agree. The only thing he did know for certain was that playing his clarinet, immersing himself in music for a few hours, would take his mind away from the day’s events. He just couldn’t dispel the prodding fear that he was going to be facing DS Rathbone again. This wasn’t the sort of thing that went away with only slashed tyres to show for it.
Extract from the Clapham Observer – Monday 21st June 1948
‘WELCOME HOME!’: SONS OF EMPIRE DRAW CLOSE TO THE MOTHERLAND
Today, 492 men, women and children, from Jamaica and other parts of the Caribbean, will land at Tilbury in Essex, setting foot on British soil for what, for some, will be the first time. Others are returning from leave to rejoin our armed forces after fighting for their mother country during the most recent war. In preparation, the Evening Standard sent up a plane to greet them yesterday as their ship, the Empire Windrush, entered the Thames: ‘Welcome Home!’ its banner proclaimed.
What is unclear yet is where these men, for it is understood that the majority of the passengers are men of working age, are to be housed. The Colonial Office were unwilling to talk to this newspaper but an unofficial rumour indicates that a number of new arrivals are to be bussed to the Clapham area. Government officials appear to be unsure exactly why these men have been allowed to travel when no plans have been put in place for them. The Ministry of Labour has assured concerned MPs that all men who are not already bound for Air Force, Army or the mines will be interviewed and assisted in finding work. Suitable accommodation will be provided for them until they are in a position to find their own.
A Lambeth council representative had this to say: ‘It is my understanding that these men are British subjects, invited here to help rebuild our great nation. Let the people welcome them into our community and be grateful that Lambeth has been chosen to benefit from a few more good, strong pairs of hands.
1948
Lawrie waited patiently, leaning against the rough brick of the pillbox wall and trying to look as though he belonged. He occupied his time by watching the people walking past, staring down the curious glances of the pale-faced Clapham locals as he tried once more to calculate how far his money would go until he found work. If the bus was four pence from here to Coldharbour Lane, then how many journeys could he make until he was broke? How much would he have to pay out for rent, and how much was a loaf of bread? Not to mention the expense of clothing. He was all right for now but once the seasons changed he’d freeze to death unless he invested in jumpers. He was already cold.
They called this summer because they knew no better. God help him when winter did come; he was shivering in the sunlight. People hurried along in their coats, umbrellas in hand, hats firmly pushed down and pinned into hairdos that had never been vexed by humidity like his mother’s each Sunday as she fixed it up for church. Lawrie wore both the new jumpers she’d bought him as a leaving present, the arms of his jacket tight, unused to the bulk. He had thought of buying a scarf earlier in the day, only the shop assistant had made him feel anxious as he followed him around Menswear. Just as well.
Almost all of his
