Читать книгу Coronation Day - Kay Brellend - Страница 6

February 1952

‘Touch any of them tools again and it’ll be the last thing you ever do, you thievin’ toerag.’

Christopher Wild stuck a threatening finger close to the man’s bristly chin, his face contorted into a savage mask. A moment ago he’d been knocking down a partition wall inside a derelict property when, from the corner of an eye, he’d seen a suspicious movement through a gaping hole in brickwork where a window frame had once been.

‘Wasn’t stealin’, was I now,’ the fellow muttered in his guttural Irish accent. ‘Was just gonna borrer the pick for a little while, that’s all it was …’ He propped the pick back against the front wall of the house, next to a fourteen-pound hammer, then stuffed his hands into his donkey-jacket pockets. He was a large individual with wildly unkempt black hair and a ruddy complexion.

‘Yeah, ’course … just gonna borrow it, weren’t yer …’ Christopher mimicked sarcastically. He grabbed several implements by their battered wooden handles and sent them hurtling, one after the other, along the hallway of the house where they thudded against bare boards. ‘Piss off and borrow stuff off yer mates.’ Christopher flicked his head at the contingent of navvies working a distance away along the street. Some of them had heard what was going on and had come out of the tenement to watch. A couple started to approach.

The Irishman spread calloused hands, gesturing for a truce as he retreated. Despite his attempt at nonchalance his small eyes were shifting to and fro. Christopher knew if the navvy had managed to filch the pick, Wild Brothers Builders would never have seen it again … not without a fight anyhow. And they’d had one of those earlier in the week when a couple of shovels went missing. The week before that there had been an almighty bust-up when his colleague, Bill, got a tooth smashed in a fight. A new high-reach ladder had disappeared from where it had been tied on the top of one of their vans. Of course, the pikeys had denied all knowledge of any of it, they always did, but now Christopher had caught one of them red-handed he knew that every accusation, every punch landed, had been well deserved.

‘What’s up?’

‘Nuthin’ I can’t handle,’ Christopher mumbled to a middle-aged man who’d sprinted up to him, looking agitated.

Stephen Wild, Christopher’s father, had been sitting in one of the vehicles scribbling with a pencil in his notebook when he’d noticed a confrontation between his son and one of Declan O’Connor’s crew. He’d stuck the pencil behind his ear, dropped the ledger, and sprung immediately from the Bedford van to rush over. He was well aware that things could turn very nasty at any time.

The Irishman started to amble away and Christopher put a hand on his father’s shoulder and steered him over the threshold of the door-less house. He didn’t want another fight erupting so soon after the last. And thankfully they hadn’t lost any more equipment.

Christopher worked for his uncle’s construction firm as a foreman when his father wasn’t about to take charge. Although it was called Wild Brothers, his father was more or less just another employee and his uncle Rob was the guvnor. Rob was certainly the one with the money and the business nous. Stephen Wild was the brawn, or he had been in his younger years when he’d had better health and vigour. Now it was Christopher’s turn to take on the brunt of the donkeywork, and to chivvy the lads into action so contracts were finished on time.

Since tempers had started running high due to the Irish crew muscling in on their territory Wild Brothers’ few employees seemed to be working less and moaning more. Stephen took a glance along the street and noticed that their rivals were carrying on a heated discussion, with much gesticulating.

Alert to trouble brewing, Christopher’s colleagues started emerging from the bowels of the derelict tenement they’d been demolishing in Whadcoat Street. The men were carrying the tools they’d been using. Hammers and jemmies were swinging in fists as they approached to stand about their boss in a show of solidarity.

‘Nuthin’ goin’ on here. Get back about yer work,’ Christopher told them. They remained where they were, covered in brick dust, looking belligerent and ready to get stuck in.

‘They on the thieve again?’ Vic Wilson demanded indignantly, glaring along the street.

‘They’re having a go at it. Keep stuff inside the house, or locked in the vans.’

‘Fuckin’ Micks,’ Bill Bright said, flattening his lips against the gap in his teeth. ‘Should’ve put me ’ammer over that pikey’s crust earlier in the week.’

‘Yeah … then we’ll all be out of work, and sitting in the nick, won’t we,’ Christopher stated dryly. ‘Just what they want, ain’t it? Us doing something stupid so they can have the work all to themselves.’

‘We let ’em push us around then, do we?’ Ted Potts suggested sarcastically.

‘Get back to work,’ Christopher snapped impatiently.

He watched his crew peel off one by one and go back inside the property. He waited until banging and crashing resumed before he turned to his father.

‘Ted’s got a point,’ Stephen Wild muttered, squinting at the group of labourers along the road. ‘Declan O’Connor’ll be laughing his bollocks off alright if we let ’em keep getting away with it.’

Declan was the Paddies’ guvnor and would turn up about once a day to check on his crew and taunt Wild Brothers’ boys with a few yelled insults.

Most of the navvies had gone about their business. But a couple were still leaning on shovels, chin-wagging, and throwing dirty looks their way.

‘A real bust-up’s brewing and it’d be as well to get this out of the way now rather than later when O’Connor turns up.’ Stevie jutted his chin belligerently.

Christopher turned a jaundiced eye on his father. He was a reasonably fit man for his forty-five years, but in no shape to be taking on burly Irish navvies in a fistfight … or worse. If things kicked off it might not just be punches doing damage. Bill’s threat to use a hammer had been in retaliation to O’Connor swinging a shovel at his head two weeks ago. Luckily it had missed or he wouldn’t have ended up with just a broken tooth and bruises. But things were getting serious. The fact that O’Connor’s gang took a dinner break in the pub didn’t help. When they ambled back in the afternoon a couple of them were always two parts pissed and up for a brawl – even amongst themselves.

Christopher was aware his uncle Robert had fingers in many other pies and might not be too bothered about the winding-up of his building concern. But if the pikeys took over in the street, the rest of them would suffer. A few other piddling contracts might come their way and keep him and his dad employed, but Vic, Bill and Ted would have to go.

‘Just need to keep calm,’ Christopher said. He quirked a rueful smile. ‘Keep calm and carry on …’ He quoted a wartime motto.

‘They’d better stay on home ground then. The boys are getting to the end of their tethers. And so am I …’ Stephen came to an abrupt halt, squinting at a house some distance away. Despite demolition work having started at one end of the long road, some families still lived in houses in Whadcoat Street.

It was February and bitterly cold but an elderly woman had just shoved up her sash window and stuck her head out to bawl something at them.

‘Aunt Matilda’s after you by the looks of things,’ Christopher told his father as he noticed his great-aunt waving to gain their attention. ‘You go and see what she wants; I’ll make sure everything’s under control here.’

Christopher was glad when his father immediately went loping off along the road. He didn’t want him getting geed up by the lads into confronting the pikeys. Christopher watched him come to a halt and angle his face up towards Matilda.

When his father reappeared Christopher was attacking the splintered remains of a doorframe with a hammer. Something about his father’s shocked expression made him drop the tool to the ground.

‘King’s dead.’

‘Eh?’

‘Matilda just said it come over on the Home Service. King George has died.’

‘Eh? What’s that?’

Vic Wilson had appeared, wiping his grimy face with a handkerchief.

‘Me aunt’s just told us that the king’s died.’

Bill and Ted trooped into the front room of the house.

‘What’s that?’ Bill asked, frowning.

‘King George has died …’ Stephen repeated croakily, blinking rapidly. He looked close to tears.

Into the stunned silence came Vic Wilson’s voice. ‘Weren’t unexpected I suppose.’ He grimaced. ‘Smoked like a chimney, didn’t he?’

‘Poor sod might not’ve needed ’em so much if his brother’d done his duty, ’stead of running off with that bloody American woman,’ Stephen barked angrily. ‘He weren’t trained up for the job, was he.’ He gestured with a hand as he sank down to his haunches then collapsed to sit on the bare boards. ‘Just got chucked in at the deep end by that selfish git. Edward was the one brought up for it from when he was a kid and got taught all the right stuff. George just had to pick it up as he went along.’ Stephen came to a sudden halt, his face florid from his impassioned outburst. His head dropped forward and his fingers sank into his hair. He wasn’t a royalist by any means but, like most Londoners, Stephen Wild had nothing but praise and respect for King George and Queen Elizabeth. They’d braved the dangers of the Luftwaffe bombings on the city along with everybody else instead of scurrying off to the comfort and protection of a mansion in the countryside.

Christopher perched on an upturned crate and shook his head. He agreed wholeheartedly with what his father had said. ‘Yeah, good bloke he was. Did us proud during the war, considering he weren’t really cut out fer the job. Queen Elizabeth too. She was a diamond.’

‘He was only about ten years older’n me.’ Stephen produced a packet of Weights and immediately took one out then threw the packet for Christopher to catch it.

‘Makes yer think, don’t it. Me dad’s comin’ up to sixty-five …’ Vic sat on the floor next to Stephen and got out his own cigarettes.

Bill squatted down too and fished in Vic’s packet of Weights when it was offered, then lobbed it towards Ted.

As a melancholy silence descended on the room Christopher drew smoke deep into his lungs then rested his head in his cupped hands.

‘Can’t believe it, y’know …’ The woman’s voice had come from the doorway and jerked them all to attention. ‘He was only fifty-six. Weren’t an old man at all, was he?’

‘Were a sick man though, Aunt Tilly, weren’t he,’ Christopher said. ‘S’pose we all knew fer a while it might be coming.’ He stood up. ‘Any more news come over on the wireless? Was it a heart attack took him in the end?’

Matilda came gingerly further into the debris-strewn property. ‘Don’t know … not said.’ She shook her grey head, her wrinkled complexion creasing in a frown. She was seventy-one years old yet, considering what she’d been through in her life, in robust condition. ‘BBC has cancelled all the programmes. Just gonna be sad music and news broadcasts. Bound to come out later today what caused it.’

‘Won’t get nuthin’ done now. Everything’ll be closing up out o’ respect.’ Billy nodded sombrely.

‘Right ’n’ all!’ Stephen said forcefully, shoving himself to his feet. ‘Ain’t a man anywhere deservin’ of more respect than him.’

‘We off home then?’ Ted asked optimistically.

‘Yeah, go on, get going,’ Stephen said. There was plenty of work left to do, and a good few hours in which to do it, but nobody had the heart now to get stuck in.

‘Bet them Irish bastards don’t show a bit o’ respect and knock off early,’ Vic said. He unhooked his jacket from the back of the door and shrugged it on over his overalls.

‘Most Paddies can’t stand the English at the best of times,’ Bill interjected sourly. ‘Probably be doin’ a jig, they will.’

‘Can’t tar ’em all with the same brush.’ Matilda wagged a finger. ‘The Irish couple wot’s just moved in along the road don’t seem bad people. Spoke to the woman the other day when she was coming out of Smithie’s shop and she was as polite as yer like. Introduced herself straight off. Noreen Murphy’s her name and she said her husband’s called Kieran.’

‘Well, I don’t reckon they should have camped in that dump in the first place,’ Vic mumbled, slightly chastened. ‘They’ve got a couple of young kids with ’em. It ain’t right, livin’ like that.’

‘Couple of sweet little girls they are ’n’ all,’ Matilda remarked. ‘But yer can’t always pick ’n’ choose when it comes to putting a roof over yer family’s head.’

‘As far as I’m concerned they can stop in the road as long as they like if they ain’t causing trouble.’ Chris chipped in his opinion.

‘Well, I’m getting off home now,’ Vic announced, sounding sulky.

‘Winston Churchill’s gonna make a broadcast to the nation tomorrow about King George.’ Matilda’s tone was solemn once more. ‘Eight o’clock on the Home Service, just so’s you know when to tune in.’