Beware This Boy Read online

  ALSO BY MAUREEN JENNINGS

  The Detective Inspector Tom Tyler Mysteries

  Season of Darkness

  The Murdoch Mysteries

  Except the Dying

  Under the Dragon’s Tail

  Poor Tom is Cold

  Let Loose the Dogs

  Night’s Child

  Vices of My Blood

  A Journeyman to Grief

  Copyright © 2012 by Maureen Jennings

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Jennings, Maureen

  Beware this boy / Maureen Jennings.

  eISBN: 978-0-7710-4314-7

  I. Title.

  PS8569.E562B48 2012 C813’.54 C2012-900979-2

  Published simultaneously in the United States of America by McClelland & Stewart, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, P.O. Box 1030, Plattsburgh, New York 12901

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012932377

  McClelland & Stewart,

  a division of Random House of Canada Limited

  One Toronto Street

  Toronto, Ontario

  M5C 2V6

  www.mcclelland.com

  v3.1

  Always for Iden, my best supporter.

  Also to my mother, the late Betty Jennings,

  who endured it all.

  To all those Brummies who went through the bombing

  and the war with courage and steadfastness.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Sunday, November 24, 1940

  Monday, November 25

  Tuesday, November 26

  Wednesday, November 27

  Thursday, November 28

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  He’d waited patiently, knowing everything had been set in motion. There was nothing more for him to do. At six o’clock, he switched on the wireless. A slight crackle, then the announcer’s voice came on. “This is the BBC Home Service. Here is the six o’clock news and this is Alvar Liddell reading it. There was an explosion in a Midlands factory this afternoon. Three fatalities have been reported. Four other workers, two men and two women, were also injured, one of them seriously. However, work is expected to resume within a few days.”

  That was enough. The rest of the news didn’t interest him. He turned it off and sat back. “Work is going to resume, is it indeed? We’ll see about that.”

  SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 1940

  CHARLES ENDICOTT LIKED TO RUN WHAT HE CALLED a tight ship, and his employees had learned to be punctual. However, when the workers on the afternoon shift, Danger Sections A and B, arrived, they were held up for a good fifteen minutes. The women’s change room was unaccountably locked. The first shift had already cleared out, but the precious transition time allocated to the incoming group was used up while Mrs. Castleford, the supervisor, went off to find a key. The twelve women stood waiting in the drafty entrance hall where the clocking-in machine was located.

  “I wish she’d hurry up. I need to go to the toilet,” murmured Sylvia Sumner to the girl standing beside her. Sylvia was the youngest of the group, shy and sweet, new to factory work. She still retained the fresh complexion of a country girl.

  “Why don’t you go through and use the men’s,” said the other girl. “Apparently, it’s open.”

  “Ooh, I couldn’t do that, Tess.”

  “Don’t be such a silly goose. A loo is a loo. What’s the difference?”

  “No good asking her,” said another girl.

  Tess grinned. “You’d better take her under your wing, Prue, before it’s too late.”

  Of all of them, Prue McDermott, with her lush lips and perfectly applied makeup, came closest to being a “woman of the world.” She was also funny and good-hearted, so nobody was overly judgemental about her way of life.

  Sylvia ducked her head. She was always being ribbed about being an innocent.

  Unexpectedly, Irma Dimble, who rarely laughed these days, joined in the teasing. “She’ll know soon enough.” But she patted Sylvia’s arm affectionately to take away any sting from her words. She knew Sylvia was counting the days until her fiancé would come home and they could get married.

  “Speaking of which, you’ll never guess what happened to me on the way here,” said Audrey Sandilands. But before she could tell her story, a flustered Mrs. Castleford reappeared.

  “Situation resolved. You can come in. No shoving now, we’re not on a bus.”

  The girls surged through the double doors separating the cloakrooms from the main floor. There were already women working at the lathes, and some of them broke into cheers and hoots when they saw them.

  “Make sure you don’t claim that on your overtime, McDermott,” one woman called out.

  “Shut it,” Prue yelled back.

  “What happened, Mrs. Castleford?” asked Sylvia. “What was the delay?”

  “I really don’t know. Fortunately Mr. Riley has located another key.”

  The magazine-keeper was standing at the change-room door. He threw up his hands. “Don’t ask me,” he said. “I know it’s not supposed to be locked. I’ll look into it.”

  He opened the door and stood aside to let them in. Prue positioned herself at the threshold as they jostled past. “Tickets, please. Have your tickets ready. Next stop, Hell.”

  Mrs. Castleford frowned at her. “Miss McDermott, please!”

  Audrey nudged Tess and whispered, “Mr. Riley, indeed. No wonder it took so bleeding long to find a key. They had to search everywhere.”

  They both burst out laughing, drawing another frown of disapproval from the supervisor.

  The girls went to the lockers and began to disrobe. The factory provided white cotton turbans, blue overalls, and the special soft leather shoes they had to wear.

  “Ooh, those are posh,” remarked Audrey as Prue undressed to reveal peach-coloured silk cami-knicks.

  “Must have cost a week’s wages,” added Tess. She was the youngest of a large family, and her own style of dress was hand-me-downs. All from a taller, older sister.

  “A week’s? Try a fortnight’s,” retorted Prue.

  “I hope you’re saving them for his eyes only,” said Audrey.

  Prue shrugged provocatively. “Some things are too good not to be shared.”

  She took her compact from her handbag and handed it to Sylvia. “Hold this for me, there’s a pet. I can’t get a look in edgewise with the ugly sisters over there.”

  One of the Section A operatives, a chunky brunette, had stationed herself in front of the small mirror on the wall and was applying her lipstick. Her skin had a yellowish tinge and the front of her hair was bright orange. All the girls who handled the cordite ended up like that.

  “I heard that,” she said over her shoulder. “Who’s calling us ugly?”

  “Nobody, dearie,” said Prue. “Just an expression.” She checked herself in the compact mirror, pulled out a strand of hair from beneath her white turban, and studied the result. She had only recently transferred from Section A and her normally brown hair was still an orangey yellow. “Draws the blokes,” she whispered to Sylvia, who was watching. “They get hot and bothered at the thought we might be blown to sm
ithereens any moment.”

  “Don’t tease the child,” piped up Audrey. “She doesn’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Speaking of smithereens, I still haven’t got over that damn raid on Friday,” interjected Tess. “The worst yet. Our entire family stuck in our Anderson shelter for eleven bloody hours. Eleven hours. Bombs falling all around us. Can you imagine me and my sister together for that long? Christ! I thought it would never be over.”

  “Better that than dead,” said Irma Dimble. A recent widow, she knew what she was talking about.

  “Quite right, Mrs. Dimble,” said Mrs. Castleford. “Let’s have no more gloomy talk, girls. That won’t win us the war. And no more swearing from you, Miss Deacon, or I’ll dock your wages.” She clapped her hands. “Chop-chop, girls. Let’s not dilly-dally. We have absentees today, which means more work for the rest of you. We don’t want to fall behind, do we.”

  “Or on our behinds, for that matter,” said Prue, winking.

  “Speaking of which,” said Audrey, as she tied on her turban, “I never got to tell you my story.”

  “Never mind that now,” interrupted the supervisor. “Section A ready? All clear?”

  “All clear, Mrs. Castleford,” came back the chorus. One by one they hopped over the low barrier into the clean area beyond the lockers and headed for the far door.

  “Get down to work right away, you lot,” called Prue. “You’ve kept us waiting lately. Falling asleep, are you? Too many late nights?”

  The little brunette, the one who’d been looking in the mirror, cocked a snoot at her behind Mrs. Castleford’s back.

  The supervisor turned to the remaining five girls. “Let’s get a move on. Miss Sumner? Mrs. Dimble? Did you remove your rings?”

  “We’ve put sticking plasters over them,” said Irma.

  Althought the ASA powder they worked with was so volatile that anything that could create a spark was a worry, everybody knew how important it was for her to keep her wedding ring on. Mrs. Castleford nodded.

  “Just let me see.” She inspected their hands. “Yes, that’s acceptable.” Her glance swivelled over to the others. “Miss McDermott, how many times must I remind you? All of your hair must be covered. You have some hanging out.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Castleford.” Prue tucked away the strand.

  The supervisor waved her hands as if she were shooing chickens. “Now then, off we go. Miss Sandilands, I don’t need to check you for cigarettes again, do I?”

  “No, you don’t.” Audrey’s voice was demure. She was on warning and she knew she would be fired if she was found a second time with contraband.

  “Are we all clear, then?”

  “All clear,” the girls chorused.

  Just as the others had done, they all stepped over the low barricade. Mrs. Castleford hustled them through the door and into the passageway that connected with their section.

  The two danger areas were new additions to the old factory and were strictly practical. Squat and square, they were built of brick painted battleship grey. Official word was that this prevented the Jerry bombers from seeing them in the fog. However, the employees joked that the real reason was Mr. Endicott had got a bargain on grey paint.

  “Have you decided whether or not to evacuate the kiddies?” Tess asked Irma as they scurried along. The passageway was roofed but open-sided, and the damp fog had settled in.

  Irma shook her head. “I can’t bear to be without them is the truth. Not with Dick gone.”

  Tess linked her arm through that of the older woman.

  “That’s understandable. You probably should have taken more time off.”

  Irma’s husband had been killed at Dunkirk seven months ago, leaving her with two young children.

  That same fog followed them as they pushed open the heavy fire doors and entered the section. There were no windows, and the narrow, shed-like building was bathed in the bluish light of mercury lamps. There were two benches, each covered with rubberized linoleum, also grey coloured. Buckets of sand lined the walls.

  Two men were working at one of the benches, which had the covering torn up.

  “What are you fellows doing here?” demanded Mrs. Castleford. “You know it’s against regulations to be doing repairs when the shift starts.”

  “Sorry, ma’am, won’t be much longer,” said the older one. “We had to replace the lino.”

  “Well, please hurry. We’re losing far too much time as it is.”

  “You’re late today, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, we are.” She regarded her charges. “Take your places, girls. Miss McDermott and Miss Sandilands, you can sit with the others until the men have finished.”

  The two girls settled themselves onto wooden stools at the adjacent bench.

  Mrs. Castleford glanced around. “Where are the carrying boxes? Don’t say there aren’t any fuses ready?”

  One of the men indicated a wooden box on the floor between the benches.

  “There’s one there. The first shift didn’t quite finish its quota.”

  Mrs. Castleford sighed and turned to the girls. “Mr. Riley says there’s a miscount from the morning shift. I really must help him sort out the problem.”

  “We can start up by ourselves,” said Audrey.

  The supervisor hesitated. “You’re not supposed to.”

  “We know what to do,” added Irma.

  “Oh, all right, seeing that we’re so late.”

  She went over to the box, which was about the size of a small suitcase and had rope handles on each end. Both of the workers flicked her an appreciative quick glance. Mrs. Castleford was as plump as a robin but firmly corseted.

  “Here, let me do it,” said Doug Aston, the younger man.

  “Why, thank you. Just be careful.”

  He took the box by the handles and placed it on the bench between Irma and Tess, who were at the far end.

  “Mrs. Dimble, I’m leaving you in charge for now,” said Mrs. Castleford. “I won’t be long.”

  She bustled off and Audrey started to sing softly, “I’m in the mood for love, simply because you’re near me …”

  “Shush. You’re so wicked, Audrey Sandilands,” said Tess with a grin.

  “I wonder why they had a miscount on the red shift,” said Sylvia.

  Audrey made a guffawing noise. “That’s a bit of malarkey, if you ask me. It’s an excuse for Mrs. C. and Phil Riley to have a little shag. Or search for some more missing keys.”

  “But they’re both married,” exclaimed Sylvia.

  Irma looked disapproving. “Let’s not get into gossiping, shall we.”

  The girls subsided into a chastised silence that was only half sincere.

  Tess lifted out one of the cylindrical papier-mâché pots from the box. She began to count out her quota of fuses, placing each one in her tray.

  “I keep trying to tell you what happened to me as I was coming here,” Audrey said as she watched.

  “What happened to you on the way here?” chorused Tess and Prue.

  “Well, this bloke bumps into me, see. Suddenly I feel his hands all over my bottom. ‘Oi, what do you think you’re doing?’ I says. ‘Sorry, miss,’ says he, ‘it’s this fog. I mistook you for a lamppost.’ What cheek.”

  The others all laughed. Audrey was as thin as a stick.

  “Too bad for him he didn’t collide with our Sylvia here,” said Tess. She gestured with her hands, making curving movements. “He’d have thought he’d died and gone to heaven.”

  Sylvia blushed. For a young girl, she had a full figure. The two workmen were pretending not to listen in, but they were. They grinned at each other.

  Tess went back to counting out the fuses as she removed them from the pot.

  “Fifteen … sixteen … and never been kissed … seventeen … eighteen, wished she had been …”

  “Hurry up, slowpoke,” said Audrey, drumming her fingers.

  “I can’t rush today. I didn’t get home until one o
’clock. I was at a dance.”

  “Did you meet anybody interesting?” asked Prue.

  “I did indeed. A Canadian bloke. He joined the RAF. Ever so smashing, he is. He’s going to meet me tonight after work.”

  “I don’t understand how you can go out dancing at times like this,” interjected Irma. “What if there’s a raid?”

  Tess shrugged. “I’d rather be done in having a good time than be sitting shivering in a shelter when the bomb lands. Friday was enough for me.”

  “I feel the same as you, Tess,” said Prue.

  They were silent for a moment, then Prue clapped her hands in a good imitation of the supervisor.

  “Now, girls, no gloomy thoughts. Chins up.”

  “She’s the one should talk about chins, not me,” said Audrey, patting her own lean jaw.

  There were two rectangular boxes in the middle of the bench. One contained plugs, the other specially designed brass holders. Having finished her count, Tess removed one of the plugs and inserted a fuse from her tray.

  “Here you go. Here’s baby.” She passed both plug and fuse along to Prue.

  “Here comes some screwing,” said Prue with a lewd grin. She had one of the holders at the ready to engage the threads of the plug.

  Audrey yawned. “Stop playing around, you two. Oh, what the hell, I might as well tray up too.”

  Impatiently she reached for the papier-mâché pot and started to pull it towards her.

  “Oops, why is it so wobbly …?”

  “Audrey, be careful,” Irma cried out in alarm. “Don’t! Don’t move it like that!”

  The meagre fire in Detective Inspector Tom Tyler’s office seemed to be in its death throes, smoking continuously. The old police station, with its ill-fitting window frames and doors, couldn’t cope. Tyler knew he shouldn’t use up his coal ration all at one go, but he was very tempted. He was dressed warmly enough, but he craved brightness and warmth.

  He got up from his desk, where he’d been trying to justify being at the station on a Sunday afternoon by filling out the endless forms that the Ministry of War required these days. They were mostly requests to replace missing ration books or identity cards. Each had to be considered carefully. Not exactly an exciting task, but being at home with Vera was so painful, he avoided it as often as possible. It’s not that they squabbled anymore; they didn’t. It was just that there was a silence between them that he found impossible to bridge. Had he even tried? Perhaps at first after the tragedy, but Vera had made it clear she didn’t want to. So he’d stopped and they remained locked each in their own loneliness and sorrow.