The Camberwell Raid

  About the Book

  There was a double wedding planned in Walworth. Sally Brown was marrying Horace Cooper, and her brother, Freddy, was at last getting hitched to his childhood sweetheart, Cassie Ford. But the wedding wasn’t the only thing being planned, for Ginger Carstairs and Dusty Miller were working out a bank robbery and, unbeknown to the inhabitants of Walworth and Denmark Hill, both Freddy Brown and the Adams family were to be deeply involved and put in considerable danger.

  It took much ingenuity on Boots’s part to come up with a scheme that would foil the plans of the raiders. And all this was happening at a time when Boots had other worries in his life, and when the unity of his own little family was being threatened.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Family Trees

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  About the Author

  Also by Mary Jane Staples

  Copyright

  THE CAMBERWELL RAID

  Mary Jane Staples

  To BUNNY, a dear friend,

  and with treasured memories of Ted.

  Prologue

  DURING THE FIRST two months of 1935, up to the time when blustery March blew in, the Press and the wireless of Britain had supplied the people with the usual mixture of national and international news.

  Among other items of interest, it was noted that the aged Field-Marshal Hindenburg, in dying the previous year, had given Adolf Hitler the opportunity to make himself virtual dictator of Germany. Hitler, accordingly, was flexing his muscles and threatening not only his neighbours but also fellow Germans who didn’t agree with him and his Nazis. He kept talking about Germany’s need for ‘living room’, and the necessity of dealing ruthlessly with all political opponents. And he was also making it clear he didn’t feel Germany’s Jewish people were an asset to the country. Mrs Susie Adams of Denmark Hill, Camberwell, asked her husband, Mr Sammy Adams, what he thought about Hitler. Off his German chump, said Sammy, or he wouldn’t wear a Charlie Chaplin moustache.

  There was also news of an incredibly fascinating addition to the media, called television. It was so far advanced that in February pictures had been broadcast from Crystal Palace to a selected audience. The selected audience was so spellbound that it might have been lost for words had it not been made up of the kind of people who never were.

  Then the BBC banned radio artistes from making jokes about fat people, cross-eyed people, coloured people, marital infidelity and men who were effeminate. Twelve-year-old Emma Somers asked her mother, Mrs Lizzy Somers, what the latter meant. It means, well, that they’re a bit delicate, said Lizzy. Emma, who thought that meant they caught colds easily, said oh, poor things, what a shame.

  The Hon. Unity Mitford, who had a crush on Adolf Hitler, had also been in the news. She’d written to a Nazi newspaper to boldly declare that along with her beloved Fuhrer she hated Jews. Shocks went through the British people that one of their own could make such a spectacle of herself. A fifth form pupil of West Square Girls School asked teacher Miss Polly Simms what she thought of that. Miss Simms said every country had its quota of idiots, but it was frightfully bad luck for Britain to have one as ghastly as the Hon. Unity.

  There had been speculation in some newspapers about whether or not debutantes would be allowed to wear muffs when presented at Court. That was a question that made hard-up people spit, especially those short of boots and shoes, but it was reported all the same.

  The BMA announced that its recommended minimum weekly intake of food for one person, including a Sunday roast, costed out at five shillings and tenpence ha’penny. The Government thought anything over four shillings and sixpence was lashing out a bit, and accordingly unpatriotic in view of the economic need to tighten one’s belt.

  Something that hadn’t been mentioned either by the Press or the wireless was the fact that there was going to be a double wedding at St John’s Church, Walworth, on Easter Saturday. The vicar was keeping calm about it, the brides-to-be, Miss Sally Brown and Miss Cassie Ford, were beginning to feel slightly fluttery, and the would-be bridegrooms, Horace Cooper and Freddy Brown respectively, were doing what they could to think up witty speeches that wouldn’t fall apart.

  Meanwhile, a couple of downright unpleasant characters, Dusty Miller and Ginger Carstairs, were planning a bank robbery which, if successful, would take them off to the fleshpots of South America via France.

  Chapter One

  ‘BLIMEY, SNOW!’ CRIED gleeful kids of Walworth on a morning in late March, noses pressed to cold window panes.

  ‘Bother that,’ said a great many Walworth mums.

  ‘I ain’t rapturous, either,’ said a dad or two.

  Some indignant people with a few coppers to spare used two to ring up the wireless people from public phone boxes and complain that the wireless weathermen hadn’t said anything about snow last night. The wireless people said so sorry, it was a sudden and unexpected chilly front after a spell of unseasonal warmth that did it. A likely story, said several people, and just when some of us had started to leave off our winter vests and all.

  Nineteen-year-old Cassie Ford spoke to her widower dad when he came down for breakfast.

  ‘Dad, have you seen outside?’

  ‘That I ’ave, Cassie,’ said Mr Ford, known as the Gaffer. ‘Looks like Christmas.’

  ‘Blow that,’ said Cassie, ladling out steaming hot porridge, ‘it’s my weddin’ next month. Suppose it’s snowing then? I’ll freeze. Freddy won’t think much of a frozen bride.’

  ‘Don’t you worry yerself, pet,’ said the Gaffer, sprinkling sugar over his porridge, ‘I daresay you’ll still be a nice blushin’ bride when you get to the altar.’

  ‘Not if I’m frozen stiff I won’t,’ said Cassie.

  ‘Well, that’s what Freddy’ll expect, yer know, Cassie, a blushin’ bride,’ said the Gaffer, a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Dad, you daft ha’porth,’ said Cassie, ‘blushin’ brides only happen in books.’

  ‘Well, do yer best,’ said the Gaffer. ‘Freddy’ll be a mite disappointed if you ain’t blushin’ a fair bit.’

  ‘If the weather’s like this,’ said Cassie, ‘I’ll just have a pink nose. I’ll die if I ’ave to say me vows with a pink nose.’

  ‘Yer pink nose won’t notice if you can manage a few nice blushes, pet,’ said the Gaffer.

  ‘Dad, I’ll hit you in a minute,’ said Cassie.

  ‘Serve me right for pullin’ yer leg, eh, Cassie?’ said the Gaffer, and Cassie smiled. She loved her affectionate old dad and all his bluff ways. She served him two thick slices of toast when he’d finished his porridge, and was pleased when he helped himself liberally to the marmalade, because she’d made it herself with Seville oranges bought cheaply from the East Street market. He was going to lodge with her and Freddy in the house they’d contracted to rent in Wansey Street. Mind, Freddy’s brother-in-law, Sammy Adams, had advised them not to get permanently attached to renting. It might keep a roof over your heads, he said, but that roofs never going to be yours, it’ll always be your landlord’s. Buying even a little two-up, two-down place would
be a better bet, he said. Cassie said she didn’t think they’d be able to afford the mortgage. Well, said Sammy, don’t let that stop you looking, and as soon as you spot a suitable place, come and see me, and I just might finance you. Oh, said Cassie, would you really loan us, Mister Sammy? At affordable repayments, said Sammy. Freddy’s as good as part of the family, he said, and so will you be, Cassie, when you’re Mrs Freddy. Cassie was so touched she gave him a kiss.

  Sammy charged her tuppence for it.

  ‘Well now,’ said the Gaffer, when he’d finished his breakfast, ‘I’d best get off to the railway, Cassie. There’ll be a few frozen points this mornin’, I shouldn’t wonder. Glad I wasn’t on early shift.’

  ‘Dad, you got all your winter woollies on?’ asked Cassie.

  ‘You bet I ’ave,’ said the Gaffer, taking his overcoat off the peg on the kitchen door.

  ‘All of them, Dad?’

  ‘The lot, startin’ with me winter combinations,’ said the Gaffer. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday, yer know.’

  ‘Where’s your woollen scarf?’ asked Cassie.

  ‘In me coat pocket,’ said the Gaffer. He fished it out and wrapped it around his neck. ‘So long, love, see yer this evening.’

  ‘Dad, would you like a nice hot meat stew for supper, with suet dumplings?’ asked Cassie.

  ‘Be a treat and a half, that would, me pet,’ said the Gaffer, who knew suet put body and flavour into dumplings. He kissed her and left.

  Cassie washed up the breakfast things, closed off the kitchen fire with the damper so that it would burn slowly all day, put on her winter coat and hat, and went off to her own job, to a florist’s shop in Kennington, her feet and legs snug in Russian boots. Such footwear was popular in winter, and had not yet come to be called Wellingtons.

  Just a few more weeks, she thought, as she walked through the snow to the Walworth Road. Just a few, that was all, before she gladly gave up her poorly paid job in a cold shop to become a housewife. The prospect was an exciting one. Well, it was Freddy to whom she was going to be a housewife, and she’d have her dad to care for as well. Sewing, darning, cooking, baking and housework would be all of a full-time job, and she’d make sure the kitchen would always be warm and cosy. And on Saturday evenings, she and Freddy would go to the pictures. And then there’d be their marital relationship, which Freddy said he was looking forward to as he hadn’t had one so far – oh, help, his grin had got wicked lately.

  Her face tingled in the cold snowy air.

  A neighbour’s young son made himself heard as he approached.

  ‘Watcher, Cassie, what yer blushin’ for?’

  ‘I’m not, you saucebox,’ said Cassie, passing him by.

  ‘Well, yer hooter is,’ he said.

  Which made Cassie think again of arriving for her wedding with a pink nose. Oh, blow that. She wanted sunshine, colour, and a ride to the reception in Mr Eli Greenberg’s pony and cart. Lovely old Mr Greenberg had come to the house, knocked on the door, raised his old round hat, smiled at her and then said that as Freddy was as good as related to the Adams family, and seeing that Lizzy, Boots, Tommy and Sammy Adams had all ridden to their wedding receptions with their spouses in his pony and cart, might he have the pleasure of carting her and Freddy likewise?

  Well, since Cassie had always dreamed of riding as a bride in a carriage and pair, Mr Greenberg’s pony and cart represented a dream come true, good as. So she told him it would be a blissful pleasure for her.

  ‘Vell, vell, Cassie, and vhat a pleasure for me too, ain’t it?’ said the beaming Mr Greenberg.

  ‘But it’s a double weddin’, did you know?’ said Cassie.

  ‘Vhat don’t I know, eh?’ said Mr Greenberg. ‘Ain’t it Freddy’s sister Sally and her young man, Orrice Cooper? All velcome, Cassie.’

  ‘Oh, bless your warm heart, Mr Greenberg,’ said Cassie, ‘come in and ’ave a cup of tea.’

  ‘Cassie, ain’t I stepped over a thousand Valvorth doorsteps for a cup of tea? Vhat kindness there is here.’ And Mr Greenberg thought how fortunate his family had been in electing to come to the United Kingdom when they left Russia many years ago. They had thought of Germany, because it was so much nearer, but his father, very knowledgeable and well-read, had said no, that he was going to pay good money for papers that would admit them to the United Kingdom, because there they would always have the protection of laws laid down centuries ago by the Tudor and Plantagenet kings.

  There was no protection these days for the Jews of Germany. Hitler’s laws had made them non-persons.

  The snow was a thick carpet, and although it turned to dirty brown slush beneath the wheels of traffic on main roads, in many places it remained untrodden and virgin white. In the Denmark Hill area it covered gardens on which only robins, blackbirds and sparrows left their footprints in search of breadcrumbs scattered by kind residents.

  Robert Adams, known as Boots, came home from the office on a bus. Alighting at a stop in Red Post Hill, he crossed the churned-up road and entered the gravelled drive of the family house. The thick snow covering the drive bore the depressed imprints of feet. He was ambushed then, by his son, his daughters and his wife. Snowballs came flying at him from both sides, followed by yells of laughter.

  ‘Got you, Daddy!’ That was Rosie, just down from university for her Easter vacation. She and other students had been released a little early because of an outbreak of measles affecting three young ladies.

  ‘Got you, Pa!’ That was Tim, as lively as his mother.

  ‘’Ello, Papa!’ That was Eloise, just eighteen and Boots’s daughter by a Frenchwoman.

  ‘Give in, lovey?’ That was his wife Emily, still energetic at thirty-six.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Boots, the snowballs still coming, his overcoat patterned with white. But he made a dash for the front door, all the same. Rosie, in a warm coat and woollen hat, appeared in front of him, glowing and laughing.

  ‘Hello, Daddy, old love,’ she said. She’d arrived from Oxford during the afternoon.

  A snowball from Tim struck Boots in his back.

  ‘How do I come to be an Aunt Sally?’ he asked.

  ‘Luck of the game,’ said Rosie. The snowballing stopped, and Boots kissed her on her cheek. She gave him an impulsive hug, and snow transferred itself from his coat to hers.

  ‘Papa, I’m ’ere too.’ Eloise claimed his attention. She had come over from France for Christmas, when, shy and nervous, she had met all the families related to her paternal grandmother, Mrs Finch, whom she was astonished to find was often referred to as Chinese Lady by her daughter and sons. That apart, the affection, kindness and whole-hearted welcome given by everyone touched Eloise deeply. She was drawn into every kind of seasonal festivity, including hilarious party games on the evening of Christmas Day, by which time all shyness and nervousness had disappeared, so much so that Postman’s Knock was a delight to her. She had never played it in France, never, but the Adams and Somers families played it for all it was worth, and Eloise had never received so many kisses from so many extrovert males. Her father’s brothers were exciting, Uncle Tommy the handsomest of men, Uncle Sammy charged with electricity, while the brother-in-law, Uncle Ned, was most engaging. And one cousin, fourteen-year-old Bobby, was as bold as you like.

  ‘Alors! Is it right for you to kiss me like that?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Bobby, ‘I’ve only just started.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Yes, you’re the first girl I’ve kissed,’ said Bobby. ‘Can I have another one?’

  ‘No, no, we are cousins,’ said Eloise, but she giggled and Bobby had another one.

  The Christmas with her new-found family and the close relationship she established with Boots, her father, decided Eloise once and for all to make her home with them. So two weeks after she returned to France, Boots went over with Emily to collect her and bring her to England for good. Since when she had established herself. In Emily, she found an outgoing and friendly stepmother, and in Chinese Lady
she discovered an understanding, if old-fashioned, grandmother. In Rosie, she found an affectionate and supportive sister, and in thirteen-year-old Tim, she found a good-natured half-brother. He let her know he was willing to put up with another sister as long as she didn’t get bossy or interfere with his cricket and football. In Mr Finch, Chinese Lady’s second husband, she found a calm and reassuring grandfather. As for Boots, she quickly became devoted to him. He was so easy to talk to, with a fascinating sense of humour and the kind of little undercurrents that made some men much more exciting than others. She felt exceptionally pleased with herself for being his daughter. One thing had puzzled her, however. She knew he had married Emily late in 1916, and therefore his other daughter Rosie could not have been born earlier than 1917, and some months later than herself. Yet Tim had mentioned that Rosie would be twenty in May. So Eloise asked Boots about Rosie, and Boots who, like the rest of the family, simply regarded his elder daughter as an Adams, nevertheless had to acknowledge Rosie was adopted.

  ‘Oh, I am your only real daughter, Papa?’ said Eloise.

  ‘You’re both my daughters, both very real to me,’ said Boots.

  ‘But—’

  ‘There are no buts, Eloise, and no differences in what you both mean to me,’ said Boots. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Eloise, ‘yes, I understand.’ The conversation, like many she had with him, was in French. She had, however, taken lessons in English during the three months prior to Christmas and could speak it passably well. Boots encouraged her to use it, and the family, particularly Mr Finch, helped her to enlarge her vocabulary. Like her late mother, however, she could not pronounce aspirates, which was why, after Boots had been ambushed, she dropped an aitch in saying, ‘Papa, I’m ’ere too.’

  ‘So I see,’ smiled Boots. ‘Was it your idea to have everyone chuck snowballs at me?’

  ‘No, mine,’ said Emily.

  ‘Was there a good reason?’ asked Boots, as they all entered the house.

  ‘Yes, I wanted to feel sixteen again,’ said Emily.