Part 4 (2/2)

'You see, this helps the community in two ways,' Father Simmons explained, 'The factory where we make the bread is run by local people who would not otherwise be able to get work. A lot of them have been laid off from the docks or by factories which are s.h.i.+fting out of the area. So Bread of Life gives these people a pay packet, even if it is only a small one so far. But more important than that, it gives them back their self-respect. Give a man a job and you give him a sense of purpose, a reason to get up in the morning.'

The reporter was rus.h.i.+ng to scrawl down the quotes as shorthand in his notebook. 'And the other way? You said it helps the community...'

'Oh yes! Well, of course, it provides cheap food for those who can't afford very much. Bread is part of the staple diet of people in this part of London but many struggle to afford even such a basic foodstuff. So this shop helps them to buy bread cheaply, made locally. That's why we call it the Bread of Life.'

The priest was on a roll now, talking faster than the journalist could keep up with his meagre shorthand skills. 'It's about giving pride back to the East End really. This area was worst hit by the Blitz and it's still waiting for many of the bombed-out buildings to be cleared.'

Father Simmons was interrupted by a gentle nudge from Carver. 'Excuse me, but the err opening ceremony?'

The priest blushed with embarra.s.sment. 'I'm terribly sorry, Chief Superintendent! Once I start talking about this project I get completely carried away. You must forgive me for holding you up!'

The police chief waved away the apology. 'There's nothing to forgive. I like to see a man who is pa.s.sionate about doing good. We need more people like you to help get the East End back on its feet!'

Father Simmons nodded eagerly. 'I'm glad you said that. I have a proposal which I would like you to consider...'

'After the ceremony, perhaps?'

The priest blushed again. 'I'm terribly sorry, I'm doing it again. Let's get started, shall we?' Father Simmons clapped his hands together, getting the attention and the silence of the chattering crowd. 'Welcome, one and all to this very special occasion for the people of Old Street and the surrounding area.

As some of you may know, we have already begun selling the Bread of Life in parts of the East End, but this is our very first shop. If everything goes to plan, we hope to be opening similar shops across London in the coming weeks and months all with their own factories offering work to local people!'

The crowd applauded spontaneously. Chief Superintendent Carver was quite swept along by the priest's fervour. Simmons was a powerful and charismatic speaker, able to reach out to his audience as if speaking to each person individually. It was a rare gift, something Carver wished he possessed himself. But the policeman knew his rough voice and gruff words were never likely to move anybody to applause, let alone religious belief.

'I now invite Chief Superintendent Carver to officially open this shop!' Father Simmons handed a pair of scissors to the police chief before stepping aside. Carver gripped the red ribbon tied across the shop front in one hand and prepared to cut. He paused to allow the newspaper photographer to get a good angle, then sliced through the ribbon. It fell neatly aside and everyone surged toward the shop. Inside, workers from the factory were handing out slices of bread, laden with rich, creamy b.u.t.ter.

'I am the Bread of Life. He who eats of me shall live forever,' Father Simmons called out to the crowd as they entered the shop. 'Everybody's first loaf is free! Make sure you share this bounty with your family!'

Mrs Ramsey had been elbowed aside in the rush to get inside the shop. She cleared her throat loudly several times to get the attention of those around her. Once the others recognised her diminutive figure, they stepped hastily aside. In moments a path had cleared for her to reach the counter. Father Simmons thought it best resembled the Red Sea parting for Moses, but in this case the red came from the threat of b.l.o.o.d.y vengeance Tommy Ramsey would dispense if his mother was denied anything she wanted.

Jim Harris felt a hollowness in his chest, as if his very being was slowly oozing from the vicious wounds to his body. He couldn't die like this, lying in some alleyway, beaten by a smirking youth.

He had a message to deliver and he had never let Tommy down before. He wasn't going to start now, even as his life was dripping away between his fingers.

Somehow Harris pushed himself up against a brick wall, both hands clutching at his wounds. He steadied his shaking legs then began to stagger towards Old Street. If he could make it to a main road, he could wave down a car and get taken to hospital.

There was still time, if only he could make it to a main road. He took one hand away from his stomach and felt something s.h.i.+ft inside, something not meant to move like that. It was all he could do to stop from throwing up. Choking down the bile, he staggered on, one b.l.o.o.d.y hand propping him up by leaning on the wall.

Brothers Billy and Charlie followed Harris at a discreet distance.

Chief Superintendent Carver finished his third slice of bread with unexpected enthusiasm. He looked around for more but was disappointed to discover the shop had run out of supplies after only an hour. Father Simmons saw the look on Carver's face and smiled.

'Chief Superintendent! You look unhappy I hope our bread isn't to blame,' the priest said.

'Quite the reverse. I was hoping to take some away with me very tasty. Very tasty,' Carver replied, licking his lips. His eyebrows rose in grat.i.tude as Father Simmons presented him with a wrapped loaf.

'I wouldn't want you to go away empty-handed,' the priest said. 'In fact, I have a proposition for you. How much do the East End police canteens pay for their bread?'

'I don't honestly know.'

'I'm guessing that Bread of Life can undercut whatever price you do pay. And, as you testify, our bread is the equal of any other loaf.'

Carver nodded enthusiastically. 'Better, I would say.'

'Well then, that's settled. I'll put your stations down as our first major business customers.'

The chief superintendent held up his hands in mock protest.

'I only came down to open a shop, Father!'

The priest looked crestfallen. 'I'm sorry, Chief Superintendent I hope I haven't offended you.'

'Not at all, I'm just not used to your American hard sell.'

Father Simmons nodded. 'Well, I wasn't always a man of the cloth. I used to be quite the wheeler dealer before I saw the light not always on the wrong side of the law, either. But those days are long behind me. Now I only want to spread the good word and do my Saviour's bidding.'

'Well, let's just say I'm very impressed by what you've managed to achieve here. I only wish we had more men like you,' Carver replied.

'And the bread supply contract?'

'You don't give up, do you?' the chief superintendent said with a smile. 'Alright, if you can match or better the price the canteens are currently paying, then the contract is yours on a trial basis.'

Father Simmons grabbed Carver's right hand and began to shake it enthusiastically. 'Thank you, thank you you won't regret this!'

Tabernacle Street was one of Sh.o.r.editch's side roads, close to the junction of Old Street and the City Road. Terraced housing lined both sides of the street. Few cars were parked on the road, except for a black Bentley outside number 15. All along the road women dressed in ap.r.o.ns were scrubbing the front steps of their humble homes. It was a local daily ritual, handed down by generations of East End wives and mothers to their daughters. A young woman approached the women, walking hesitantly down the footpath. One of the scrubbers stopped and looked up.

Mary Mills had lived in the same house on Tabernacle Street all her twenty-nine years. She had been born in her parents'

bedroom upstairs, the last of five daughters. Her mother had died soon after due to complications, a fact Mary's father had used as an excuse to beat his daughters every Sat.u.r.day night after he staggered home from The King's Arms. Each daughter left the house as soon as they could, marrying the first man to offer a chance of escape. The old man finally died of liver failure when Mary was sixteen. She inherited the crumbling house, red hair and freckles from her father but nothing else.

Life ever since had been a struggle. Mary got pregnant after a moment of pa.s.sion with a sailor during the Blitz. She was glad her parents were dead when it happened, as the shame would have killed them. But Mary refused to apologise for her behaviour and kept working at both of her cleaning jobs until the day before the baby was born. She named the child Jean after her mother. After that Mary took in laundry to meet the bills.

Two more fleeting romances led to two more girls Rita and Bette (Mary had always been fond of going to the pictures, when finances would allow). The family trait of only having daughters was as strong in Mary as it had been in her mother.

The three girls were all school age now and Mary found the days empty without one of them tugging at her ap.r.o.n strings.

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