frontier to a run of narrow streets and warehouses just down river from Tower Bridge. The streets were empty; the warehouses shut for the day, and all the workers – draymen and lightermen – safely home with their feet up listening to the wireless and reading their paper. Sensible blokes. But they’d left their spoor on the air like a tribe that had just folded its tents: acrid fumes of coal fires from guttering braziers, the sharp stink of urine and dung from the Clydesdales, and ripe malt and hops from the Anchor Brewhouse. It set my senses alight and made me wish I was meeting this girl for a quiet drink instead of a gang for a midnight ruckus.
I pushed though the swing doors, into the bar area and ducked into the little back room behind it. Four rough lads were throwing darts, another was sipping his pint and scanning the racing section, and a bargirl stood polishing her counter and dreaming of the first kiss from her beau when she got off work at ten.
No Eve. Late, as usual. I turned to walk through to check the other rooms when the fella with a paper coughed. I turned. He was waving at me to join him. Then I saw the dark eyes below the brim of the flat cap and the slenderness of the hands holding the paper. I nearly burst out laughing. I signalled to her to follow me and went on ahead. One of the darts players gave me a funny look as though he’d spotted a rendezvous between homos.
The Tap is a warren with a dozen boltholes downstairs and up. I took a seat in an empty room down the narrow corridor and waited. She appeared in the door clutching her paper and her pint. Smaller than your average bloke but no midget, she wore a scruffy pair of flannels, a jacket that must have come from a jumble sale of lads’ cast-offs and a creased blue shirt and tie. I guessed she’d bound her breasts to keep them flat. The boots looked like genuine labourer’s with hard toes and plenty of scuffs. Her face was scrubbed of make-up and showed off its strong lines. Her tangle of hair had been ruthlessly shoved under her cap.
It bulged under the strain. In a weird way the look suited her, and I had a very odd fancy to grab this pretty lad and give him/her a sound kissing.
“You look like a docker. Quite a pretty one, mind.”
“Was that a compliment?”
“For what we’re up to, yes.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Nothing. You are here purely as a spectator. If things get messy, stay clear.
Whatever you do, keep out of the lads’ way.”
She nodded and looked suitably serious, yet there was a glint of mischief in those interesting eyes that made me wonder if she really understood what I’d got her into. I tried to put it across.
“If things go pear-shaped, you have to be prepared to dump the jacket and the boots, and swim for it. And this is no sweet-smelling lido; this is the Thames.
More turds than fishes. Do you understand?”
“I don’t intend to drink it.”
I sat back. Either she was a bloody good actress or she didn’t realise what a thoroughly stupid idea this was. And how likely it was to go horribly wrong.
We left the pub at nine. Once we’d gone beyond the pool of yellow light from the pub, darkness gathered round us like a silent crowd. These were warehouses, not residential streets; no need for the lamplighter to string his fire from hissing globes. The four- and five-storey brick buildings loured above us. Overhead, cranes and walkways linked the river-fronted warehouses with the rear ones. You could unload your ship and shift your load to storage through rat-runs in the sky. In the day it was full of shouts and crashing doors and creaking hand carts. Now, it was eerily quiet, and I didn’t enjoy the claustrophobic narrowness of the streets. Our boots rang out on the cobbles and echoed round the maze of alleyways.
We came to Shad Thames, the eastern boundary of this enclave. I held her back in the shadows and peered across the road into the gloomy arches of St Andrew’s Wharf. I checked my watch; the luminous dial glowed green. Nine-fifteen exactly.
I looked again across the road. A light blinked twice then stopped for a count of five. Twice again, and we crossed the road and penetrated the gloom. Hands guided us forward and I could smell the salt. As my eyes adjusted I could see the three shadows grinning at me.
“All set?” I asked, not whispering but keeping my voice low.
“Set, skipper.” I recognised Midge’s voice then his face as we emerged into a pool of moonlight. We stood on the wharf side looking down on the gathering waters of St Saviour’s Dock. Below me, moored by rope to the wharf, were two boats, each with a two-stroke outboard motor. Big Cyril had done well. To our left the dock widened into the grey-glistening Thames in the Pool of London.
Across the other side among the darkened crenulations, stood Tommy Chandler’s warehouse.
I turned to the men and indicated Eve. “This is the reporter I told you about.”
“Does he have a name?” asked Stan, his inquisitive eyes running all over Eve.
I saw Eve’s eyes widen as she realised I hadn’t told them.
“Fellas? Just to set the record straight. It’s not a he. This is Eve Copeland, ace reporter on the Daily Trumpet.”
“Fuck’s sake, Danny!” said Stan, more offended by Eve being taller than him than by her sex, I suspected. He was echoed by the others.
“Enough! I said I’d handle this. She’s…”
Eve interrupted me. “I’m just along for the ride. I promise you, I won’t get in the way. And if things work out the way Danny says, you’ll all be front-page heroes.”
The men grumbled but were softened by her attitude, or the promise of stardom. I called them back to business.
“How’s the tide running, Cyril?” This was his specialty. I hoped he wasn’t having flashbacks to the Dieppe raid. But as far as I could see he was enjoying it. Just like old times.
“We’re at the last half hour of high tide, Danny. The current’s running like a greyhound. It’d have us all down at Richmond in two shakes if we went out now.
But I’m assuming Jerry will have thought of that too. If they’re coming out to play tonight.”
“Jerry?”
“Habit. Sorry.”
“Is the Clever Girl berthed?”
“She’s alongside. You can see her prow if you walk five yards.”
I did. I could see the sharp outline of her forward half across the water. Tommy told me she was a three thousand tonner, one funnel job. She took up three-quarters of the mooring in front of the warehouse.
“When’s the best time – if you were planning to nick the goods?” I asked.
“In an hour the tide will hit high water mark. That’s when there’s calm, when the water balances,” said Cyril showing us with his hands.
“How long does it last?”
“Ten, fifteen minutes.”
“When’s the next high tide?”
“Three a m. That’s the one I’m betting on,” said Midge. “Dead time.”
“You could be right. But we need to be prepared for either. We’ll take turns watching. The rest of us settle down. This could be a long night.”
Midge took lookout first, sitting out at the end of the walkway in the shadow of a thick pile, gazing across the swollen river. Eve and I sat with our backs to the wharf wall. The wood warmed up under us and as there was no breeze, the evening air felt mild. We shared a cigarette, cupping the glow, and kept our thoughts to ourselves. Mine dwelt on other nights waiting for action. The weapon drops in France, with the wood-burning Gazogene truck parked in the wood. The quiet breathing of the Maquis around me, ready to chase the crates of ammo and guns swooping down out of the night sky. Or before that, under a desert night flooded with stars, waiting for the roar of the guns to split the dawn. Back further, to a past that belonged to someone else; waiting for the daybreak of my finals at Glasgow. Head buzzing with swotting and lack of sleep, terrified of failure.
Was it fear that cramped my guts now? Or excitement? I felt the heat of Eve’s body and despite her lack of make-up and perfume, could smell her skin above the coarser smell from her borrowed clothes. I thought about putting my arm round her, but instead found my head slowly tipping forward, and I was asleep.
“Danny! Skipper!” Someone was hissing at me.
