The Toff And The Curate

CHAPTER SEVEN

A Round To Club Members

Rollison moved forward but had to side-step two couples engaged in furious battle and, as he passed a man whose right fist wore the ugly, spiked knuckle-duster characteristic of the East End mobsman, he clouted him on the side of the head. The fellow’s opponent, a much older man whose right cheek was opened and bleeding, did not appear to see Rollison but went in furiously with both fists.

Rollison tried to reach Bill who was fighting back fiercely. They were using coshes on him but he was avoiding many of the blows.

A little, thin-faced fellow stood up from a man who was gasping on the ground, saw Rollison and jumped at him. Rollison shot out his foot and sent the man reeling backwards. His victim banged into one of Bill’s men who tore into him. Next moment, Rollison was hauling one assailant off Bill, using his elbow against a bony chin. The other man was smashing at Bill’s head and Rollison gripped him about the waist and hauled him into the air. He put his knee into the small of his back and shot him forward; he hit the ground and lay still.

Bruised but not bloody, Bill blinked up.

“Gaw blimey O’Reilly!” he gasped. “Ta—Mr Ar! Look aht!”

Rollison turned to see a man coming towards him brandishing a knife. He used his foot again and toppled the man over. The fighting was savage and desperate with the members of the club heavily outnumbered. Since none of them had weapons—except two who were swinging Indian clubs—the odds were against them. Rollison rushed across to the wall, picked up two more Indian clubs and began to swing them. The odds were still heavy but suddenly there was a clatter of footsteps outside and half a dozen men burst in, three of them in khaki. They were reinforcements for the “club” and they weighed in with a violence which altered the whole course of the struggle.

Realising that their chance had gone, the assailants escaped as and when they could, running the gauntlet towards the door. A massive veteran stood by it and clouted each man as he dodged out.

Rollison put down his clubs, smoothed his hair and went over to Bill Ebbutt who was now standing in the middle of the room and directing operations like a guerrilla leader. He said nothing until only three of the attacking party remained, all unconscious.

“I could do with a pint, I could,” Ebbutt declared, looking at Rollison with one eye closed up and already swelling to huge proportions. “You come just at the right time, Mr Ar. You know ‘ow to work it, donclia.”

Must luck,” said Rollison. “I’d no idea what was happening.”

“I noo it was bound to come,” said Ebbutt, philosophically. He was a large man, running to fat but still very powerful. His features were rugged and battered, for he had spent thirty years in the ring, but his ears were curiously small and well-shaped; it was his dictum that a boxer who allowed himself to get cauliflower ears should take up stone-breaking. “Ho, yes, I noo,” he went on, trying to grin although his mouth was nearly as swollen as his eyes and he uttered the words with great difficulty. “Charlie!”

“Callin’ me?” demanded a little man with enormously wide shoulders.

“Who’d yer think I’m callin’?” growled Ebbutt. “Fetch some beer and glasses, mate, an’ be quick about it. An’ fetch me a coupla pound o’ beefsteak!” he added. “Strewth, Mr Ar, wartime’s a bad time to get a black eye, ain’t it? I don’t know wot my missus will say when she sees me.” He made a brave attempt to wink. “I’d better tell ‘er it was your fault, that’ll keep ‘er quiet!”

He roared again. The beer arrived and the club members, now twenty strong and increasing every minute for an SOS had been sent out when the melee had started, began to drink eagerly. Of the three men who had been knocked out, two had recovered and been literally kicked out of the room; the other was still on the floor, conscious but detained for interrogation. He looked terrified and proved to be genuinely dumb.

The fight had started about a quarter of an hour before Rollison had arrived when only half a dozen “club’ members had been present. The purpose, Ebbutt declared with assurance, had been to beat him up; he didn’t think Rollison would need telling why.

“No,” agreed Rollison. “Keller wants to prise you off the Whitings.”

It had been a likely enough move, although he had not expected one to materialise so quickly. The place had been admirably chosen. A beating-up in the street, by daylight, was a risky business for it might bring the police while after dark Ebbutt always had plenty of men with him. Also, Ebbutt told Rollison, as soon as he had known what the job was, he had locked his door and made sure no one could get in at his window. Because:

“I know somefink about Keller,” he remarked, darkly.

“I hadn’t heard of him until a day or two ago,” said Rollison.

“No more you didn’t want to,” declared Ebbutt. “ ‘E’s a swine, Mr Ar, I don’t mind sayin’ so—he’s a proper swine.”

“How long has he been about?” asked Rollison.

“Three Or four munce,” said Ebbutt. “No, more’n that. Six munce.”

“What’s he up to?”

“No use arstin’ me,” said Ebbutt “I minds me own business, you know that. “E’s a proper swine, Keller is. It’s my business all right now,” he went on and made a comical effort to lick his lips. “I don’t half sting,” he added, and managed to get beer past his lips. “ ‘ave another, Mr Ar?”

“Not yet, thanks,” said Rollison. “Don’t you know anything about Keller’s game?”

“I only knows that he’s got a mob and is runnin’ a racket,” declared Bill, “I dunno what I lie racket is. Tell yer somefing, Mr Ar.”

Rollison waited.

“Tell yer somefing wot will surprise yer,” declared Ebbutt. “ ‘E’s “ad a go at arf a dozen other swine. Blokes I wouldn’t-a’ minded bashin’ meself. Mr Ar, that’s a fact. No business o’ mine, then, seein’ as he was goin’ fer swine. But some of the things ‘e did to them—it would make yer scalp crawl, Mr Ar, it would reely. There was one fella—Tiny Blow, you know Tiny Blow? ‘e was inside fer lootin’,” Rollison nodded. “Well, Tiny come out about four munce ago,” went on Ebbutt. “ ‘E started throwin’ ‘is weight about. Keller hadn’t started, it was the first time I ‘eard of ‘im. I did hear that Tiny started a fight in The Docker and waited fer Lucy—been at The Docker ten yers, Lucy has.” Ebbutt sniffed. “Don’t know that I think much of her but Tiny didn’t ought to ‘ave waited for ‘er. Bad thing for ‘im he did, because four of Keller’s mob was waiting for him. He’s still in the ‘orspital. If it ‘ad been anyone else but Tiny, I woulda’ bin sorry for lm.

“And the other cases have been as bad?”

“More-less,” assented Ebbutt. “Except that I thought he was goin’ too far when he started on this parson bloke, Kemp.” Ebbutt sniffed again. “I got nothin’ against Kemp but he oughta know that he didn’t oughta come down to a place like this. He’s a torf. Don’t take me wrong, Mr Ar!” exclaimed Ebbutt, hurriedly. “I never meant nothin’ personal!”

“No offence taken, Bill!”

“Then that’s all right,” went on Ebbutt but elaborated the point. “I wouldn’t like yer ter think I was bein’ personal, there are torfs an’ torfs.” On the first utterance, he managed to give the word an astonishingly contemptuous ring, on the second one of unveiled admiration. “Well, there you are! When you ask me to lend a “and, I was only too ‘appy, Mr Ar. Funny thing,” he added, reflectively, “I wouldn’t ‘ave expected Kemp to come to you, ‘e looks the kind to run to the dicks.”

“What do you know about Joe Craik?” asked Rollison.

Ebbutt finished his beer, summoned Charlie and demanded a refill, wiped his lips gingerly and then turned his one open eye on Rollison.

“Don’t get me wrong, Mr Ar. There’s persons .in’ persons. Goin’ to church never did no one any “arm wot I can see, except it made hypocrites aht’ve some o’ them. But I’ve “ail some good boys, very good boys, from the church clubs, scouts an’ boys’ brigades an’ tilings. I don’t hold wiv goin’ to church meself, though I don’t mind a good Army meeting sometimes, they’ve got a bit of go, the Army. If it wasn’t for them always “alley uya-ing an’ arskin’ you to confess yer sins up in front’ve everyone, I wouldn’t mind the Army. My own missus wears the uniform,” he added, somewhat shamefacedly.

“She’s got to keep you in line somehow,” said Rollison, lightly.

Ebbutt grinned, then winced.

“Doan “arf sting,” he complained, absently. “Yes, I agree, Mr Ar. She has somefink ter put up wiv’ but wot I was saying is, I’m not perjudiced against churches an’ things. Some persons is sincere, some isn’t, and I ‘aven’t got no time for them that isn’t. But I never bin able to make up me mind about Craik.”

Sooner or later, Bill always got to the point.

“ ‘E’s gotta good business,” he declared, “and he gives his customers fair doos. Ain’t never ‘eard that he’s in the market, ‘e don’t seem ter touch under-cover stuff. But between you an’ me, Mr Ar, I don’t like his face!”

Rollison grinned.

“It ain’t because it’s ugly,” Bill assured him, solemnly, “ ‘E’s got a face as good as the next man but I just never took to it. Thassall I got against Craik. My missus thinks he’s okay.”

“I haven’t seen him yet,” said Rollison. “I’ll tell you what I think about his face when I’ve had a look at it! You know nothing else?”

“Ain’t that enough, Mr Ar?”

“No. I want to find out what Keller is up to.”

Ebbutt deliberated and then opined that, just as Keller’s mob had beaten up “swine,” there was evidence that Keller was putting into effect a widespread but often undeclared antagonism to Ronald Kemp. It was a case of oil and water, Ebbutt declared.

“Does Billy the Bull still come in here?” Rollison asked.

“Every night, faithful. “E’ll be ‘ere soon. On the docks, ‘e is. Maybe ‘e is past ‘is prime,” continued the ex-fighter, a little regretfully, “but there still ain’t a dozen men in England could stand five rounds against Billy the Bull. Why’d you want to know?”

Rollison lowered his voice. At intervals during the next five minutes, Ebbutt emitted squeaks of delight and finally managed to part his lips in a smile which showed his discoloured teeth.

Soon afterwards, Rollison left the gymnasium.

He walked to the mission hall, going out of his way to pass 49, Little Lane—named after a benefactor, not because it was any different from a thotisand other long, drab, featureless streets in the East End. Front doors were open, women and old men were talking, children were playing on the cobbles and dirt abounded; but some of the tiny windows looked spotlessly clean and some of the women were as well-dressed as they knew how to be. In spite of every disadvantage, there was an air of prosperity about Little Lane. It revealed itself in new boots on many of the children, in the fact that most of the people were smoking, in the gay splashes of lipstick and rouge on faces which had not known them for years.

A dozen friendly people called out to Rollison, others smiled and nodded and as he went out of earshot there was much earnest chattering. Outside Number 49 were two of Bill’s stalwarts. He was glad to see them on duty.

Kemp was in the mission hall with three other men and a woman.

The place was fairly ship-shape again. Only a dozen chairs out of two hundred were undamaged but the men were hammering and knocking them into shape. The walls had been cleaned but they still bore traces of the paint. The warning remained at the back of the stage—a good touch, thought Rollison. He asked Kemp why he hadn’t removed or covered it.

The curate, dressed in old flannels and an open-necked shirt, which made him look more boyish than ever, grinned widely.

“I’ll take it down when it’s no longer true.”

“Happy thought,” said Rollison. “How are things?”

“There’s nothing fresh to report,” said Kemp. “I told you all about Keller’s offer. I’m a bit worried about that,” he added, frowning. “We could use £500—I mean, the Relief Fund could. I have wondered whether I ought to resign and let—”

“Don’t be an ass,” said Rollison. “You can raise the money if you put your mind to it.”

“I suppose I can,” said Kemp, rather lugubriously. “Anyhow, I wouldn’t leave just now for a fortune. I’m beginning to enjoy myself.”

“Yer don’t know what injoyment means,” said a man from the door in a loud voice.

All six people turned abruptly, to see a giant standing in the doorway, almost filling it. His shoulders were enormous and his chest deep and powerful and he held his knuckly hands in front of him. He was remarkably ugly and the most astonishing thing about him was the likeness of his face to a cow’s. His forehead, although broad, receded. He seemed to have no chin and his lips were very full and wide.

“I don’t think you were invited,” said Kemp, after a pregnant pause.

“You don’t, doncher? ‘Hi don’t think you was hinvited!’ ” mimicked Billy the Bull, with a vast grin—and a shrill burst of laughter came from behind him, the first indication that he was not alone. “Why’nt yer go ‘ome, Kemp?”

Alter a moment’s hesitation, Kemp advanced towards the man. Rollison and the others watched—Rollison was inwardly smiling and the three men and the woman obviously anxious.

“I don’t know who you are,” Kemp said, clearly, “but it wouldn’t surprise me if you know who wrecked the hall. Do you?”

“Supposin’ I do?” growled Billy the Bull.

“If I thought you did it,” said Kemp, softly, I’d smash your silly face in!”

Stupefaction reigned among the church-workers and astonishment showed on Billy the Bull’s bovine countenance.

The silence was broken by a piping voice from behind Billy. A man who did not come up to his shoulder and was thin, bald-headed and dressed in a dirty sweater with a polo collar in spite of the heat, pushed his way in to stand by Billy.

“I wouldn’t let him git away wiv’ that, Billy. I wouldn’t let no one say he’d bash my face in!”

Billy the Bull licked his lips.

“Take that back!” There was menace in his manner.

“If you haven’t the guts to admit that you helped to smash this place up, you’re not worth wasting time on,” said Kemp. “If you did, I’ll—”

“ ’It him, Billy!” urged the little man, indignantly.

“I don’t fight hinfants,” declared Billy, scowling. “But I wouldn’t mind knocking the grin orf yer face, parson. Talk, that’s all you’re good for. Standin’ up in the poolpit an’ shouting yer marf orf—that’s all yer can do. ‘Please Gawd, make me an’ all me flock good lickle boys an’ gels,’ continued Billy, in a fair imitation of the worst type of clerical drawl. “ ‘Please Gawd—’ ”

Kemp said quietly: “Don’t say that again.”

Billy broke off, looking at the curate in surprise. Kemp had gone pale and his fists were clenched.

It was the little man who broke the silence again, piping: “Strewth! Have yer gorn sorft, Billy? “It ‘im.”

“I don’t like knockin’ hinfants about,” repeated Billy. Something in Kemp’s expression had stopped him and he was obviously on edge. It was Rollison’s cue and he moved forward. “You do a bit of boxing, Billy, don’t you?”

“A bit!” squeaked the little man. “Why there ain’t a man in London can stand a round against ‘im!”

“I can use me mitts,” declared Billy the Bull, on safer ground. “But this apology fer a parson only shoots “is mouth orf, that’s all. Cissy-boy!” he added. “You ought to be back ‘ome wiv’ yer muwer!”

“

“I’ll fight you anywhere you like, unilei I lie Oueensberry Rules,” Kemp said, tense-voiced.

“Coo, ‘ear that?” squeaked the little man, dancing up and down. “ ‘E’s ‘eard o’ Lord Queensb’ry. Coo! Ain’t ‘e a proper little man! Why yer don’t know wot fightin’ is!”

“Don’t be rash,” Rollison advised Kemp, looking now as if he wished he had not mentioned boxing. “Billy’s an old campaigner.”

“I’ll fight him anywhere he likes,” Kemp said again.

“You mean that?” demanded the little man, coming forward and peering up into Kemp’s face. “You mean that—no, o’ corse yer don’t! There’s a ring not a hundred miles from ‘ere, I’ll fix yer up a match ‘ere an’ now, for tonight. Pound aside, one quid per man but you don’t mean it.”

“I’m not a—” began Kemp.

“The stakes to go to charity,” Rollison put in hastily.

“Suits me,” said the little man, loftily. “I managed Billy the Bull all his life, I ain’t above doin’ a bit for charity.”

“Does he mean it?” demanded Billy the Bull, incredulously.

“Try to make them understand that I’m not afraid of his size, will you?” Kemp asked Rollison, earnestly.

Rollison nodded and fixed the details quickly.

Billy the Bull and his companion stalked off, the sound of the little man’s squeaky voice drifting back into the hall. The woman helper looked troubled but the three men eyed Kemp with a new respect. Kemp himself seemed unperturbed. One by one, the others left the hall.

“Do you think . . .” Kemp began, when they had gone and talked almost without stopping for twenty minutes.

Meanwhile, the grapevine of the East End, that remarkable information system rivalling the drums of Africa, began to work at high pressure. It played one refrain only. “Kemp’s fighting Billy the Bull at Bill Ebbutt’s—nine o’clock. Kemp’s fighting Billy the Bull at Bill Ebbutt’s—nine o’clock.”

News reached many unexpected places. It amazed most who heard it, it alarmed the Whitings, it brought church members post-haste to try to dissuade Kemp from going on with it—all to no purpose—it brought protests from the more influential church members; and it put Kemp’s stock up to undreamed-of heights, although he did not realise it.

It reached Keller.

It also reached the dockside canteen where Isobel Crayne was working.