Rosie’s War. Kay Brellend

forging coupons now?’ John whispered, aghast.

      ‘I’m forging all right, just like I was when I run off all them dodgy spirit labels for your hooch.’ Frank’s lips thinned over his brown teeth. ‘We need to talk, mate … seriously …’

      John knew he’d never get rid of Popeye until he’d let him have his say. And he didn’t want the neighbours seeing too much. Popeye lived the other side of Shoreditch but he had a certain notoriety due to his ducking and diving. Not that you’d think it to look at him: Popeye had the appearance, and the aroma, of a tramp. ‘Just a couple of minutes; they’ll all be in soon fer tea. Don’t want no awkward questions being asked,’ John snarled in frustration.

      ‘Right y’are …’ Frank said brightly and stepped into the hall.

      John pointed at a chair under the parlour table by way of an invitation. He limped into the kitchen and quickly poured a cup of lukewarm tea with a shaking hand. ‘There, get that down yer and say what you’ve got to.’ John glanced nervously at the clock, dreading hearing his wife’s or his daughter’s key in the lock.

      ‘Look at us,’ Frank chirped, watching John fidgeting to ease his position. He pointed at his left eye. ‘There’s me with me squint and you with yer gammy leg.’ He guffawed. ‘Don’t hold yer back, though, John, do it, if you don’t let it?’ He grinned wolfishly. ‘Bet you still manage to show Doris yer love her, don’t you? Bit of a knee trembler, is it, balancing on one leg on the mattress?’ He winked. ‘Gotta get yer weight on yer elbows.’ Popeye leaned onto the tabletop to demonstrate, rocking back and forth on his seat. ‘I’ve got meself a nice young lady works in the King and Tinker, name of Shirley.’ He paused. ‘Your daughter’s called Rosemary, if I remember right. Heard you’d got a grandkid; so young Rosie’s given up the stage, has she, and got married now?’ Popeye paused to slurp tea.

      ‘Fuck’s sake, you got something to say, or not?’ Agitatedly, John snatched Popeye’s cup of tea off him. He’d been about to throw it down the sink but knew if he disappeared into another room, Popeye might decide to follow him. And he was desperate to get him out of the house, not further into it.

      ‘So what’s the nipper’s name? Rosie call her after her mum, did she? Prudence, God rest her, would have liked that, wouldn’t she, John?’

      ‘Me granddaughter’s name’s Hope,’ John ejected through his teeth. ‘She’s a lovely little darlin’ and I don’t want her coming back home and having you scare the bleedin’ life out of her with yer ugly mug.’ John grimaced at Popeye’s dirty clothes and the greying stubble on his face.

      Frank ran a hand around his chin, understanding John’s look of disgust. ‘My Shirley’s always telling me to smarten up. Perhaps I should.’

      ‘Sling yer hook before they all come in!’ John had almost jumped out of his skin at the sound of next door’s dustbin lid clattering home.

      ‘Right, here’s the deal.’ Suddenly Popeye was deadly serious, mean eyes narrowed to slits. ‘I know this outfit what’s deep in with anything you like: dog tracks, bootlegging; pimps ’n’ spivs, they are. Based over the docks—’

      ‘I get the picture,’ John interrupted, having heard enough. ‘You’re out of your league and you’ve promised ’em stuff you can’t deliver. Ain’t nuthin’ to do with me, Popeye. I’ve paid you up. That’s us quits.’

      ‘It ain’t me who’s got to deliver on this occasion, it’s you, mate. I’ve run ’em off a nice line of girly mags in the past and I’ve been doing their booze labels. Trouble is they’ve got no bottles of Scotch to stick ’em on. Their distiller got his still broken up by the revenue men a while back.’

      ‘Well, let yer big mates buy him another one.’ John hobbled to the door and held it open.

      Popeye ignored the invitation to leave and sat back comfortably in his chair. ‘’Spect they would do that, but trouble is the fellow what knows how to use it’s doing a five stretch. So I told ’em I knew how to help them out.’

      ‘Right … thanks for the offer of the work. But I ain’t interested. Ain’t even got me still now.’

      ‘Now, I know you ain’t destroyed it, John.’ Popeye pulled an old-fashioned face, crooning, ‘Don’t you tell me no lies, now. Might not be down in the cellar … where is it?’ He jerked his head back, gazing at the ceiling. ‘Attic? I reckon since you moved here you’ve stashed it away all neat and tidy, ain’t yer?’

      ‘I got rid of it when we was bombed out of the other place.’

      ‘Don’t believe you for one minute. It’s here all right … somewhere …’ Popeye glanced around thoughtfully as though he might set off in search of it.

      ‘Get going; we’re done here.’ John yanked at Popeye’s sleeve to shift him.

      ‘Don’t think so, mate.’ Frank ripped his arm out of John’s grasp. ‘If you don’t sing along they’re gonna want their cash back, ain’t they?’

      ‘What?’ John tottered back a step, apprehension stabbing at his guts. ‘What fucking cash?’

      ‘The cash they give me, to give to you.’ Popeye shrugged. ‘I told them you’d need an advance to buy stuff to get going so they give us a monkey up front.’

      John licked his lips. Five hundred! That was a serious sum of money. ‘Well, you’ll just have to give it back, won’t yer?’

      ‘Can’t … do … that …’ Popeye warbled. ‘Make me look like a right prat. Anyhow, I ain’t got it.’ He sniffed. ‘Needed some readies meself so I had to use it to keep someone sweet. You know the old saying: rob Peter to pay Paul, but John’s getting it in the end.’ He gave a wink. ‘You know I’m always good for my word. Never once not paid you up, have I?’

      John swallowed noisily. ‘Sounds like you’ve got some explaining to do then when they come looking for you.’

      ‘Not me … you.’ Popeye nodded slowly. ‘This is where they’ll head. You don’t cross people like that, John. You should know that.’

      ‘They come here looking fer me I’ll call the Old Bill and tell ’em everything, especially that you’ve just tried to blackmail me to get involved in counterfeiting.’

      Popeye came to his feet in quite a sprightly fashion considering he was over sixty and overweight. ‘Now, that ain’t wise, talking like that, John. I’ll pretend I never heard it.’ Popeye walked up to the smaller man and eyeballed him as best he could, before strolling out into the hallway. ‘Right … be seeing you then. You come to me next time; only fair … my turn to make the tea. Say, end of the week and we can make arrangements to put the still up in my basement if it’s likely to cause ructions with your Doris. Give the missus my regards now, won’t you?’

      ‘Fuck off.’ John slammed the door after Popeye and ground his teeth when he heard the faint laughter coming from the other side of the panels. He paced to and fro then went upstairs as quickly as his limp allowed. He found the steps in the airing cupboard and positioned them beneath the loft hatch. A few minutes later he poked his head into the cool, dark roof void, his heart thumping so hard he thought it might burst from his chest.

      He’d promised Rosie on his life that he’d never make another drop of moonshine. Doris had no idea that he ever had run an illegal still. Nobody had known, other than his daughter and his business associates. Now Popeye had blabbed his business about, God only knew how many people were aware he’d once risked a spot of hard labour.

      John hauled himself into the loft, wincing from the effort, and approached the dismantled still covered in tarpaulin. He crouched down and peered at the tubes and funnels and receptacles. Suddenly he smiled wryly. The contraption had survived the bombing, having been wedged in the corner of the cellar with a cover over it. Now he was wishing that the bloody thing had been in the loft of his old house,