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Again, a lot that you could unpack from a little detail like this. The informant's contact was able to pass himself as a Port Authority man, which can imply one of two things:
While your inferences are probably correct for the story, I confess my first assumption was Option 3 - The informant isn't that bright. After all, security guards on the docks are not typical drawn from the intellectual cream of society. ;)

On the subject of small details; Martin heard the bell for 3 in the morning and was going for some sleep before rousing the gang. So he and his fellow 'thralls' are out and about in daytime. The contrast between his evident delight in serving and pleasing his Master and his advice that Professor Cannerby made the correct choice in dying rather than joining the joining the Master's family is also intriguing.
 
While your inferences are probably correct for the story, I confess my first assumption was Option 3 - The informant isn't that bright. After all, security guards on the docks are not typical drawn from the intellectual cream of society. ;)

On the subject of small details; Martin heard the bell for 3 in the morning and was going for some sleep before rousing the gang. So he and his fellow 'thralls' are out and about in daytime. The contrast between his evident delight in serving and pleasing his Master and his advice that Professor Cannerby made the correct choice in dying rather than joining the joining the Master's family is also intriguing.
Not everyone can a professor be, but a certain degree of cunning about the docks would not be amiss from what I can tell.
 
Not everyone can a professor be, but a certain degree of cunning about the docks would not be amiss from what I can tell.
Certainly. But what a job needs, what the employer asks for and what the wages offered will actually get can be very different things!
 
Chapter 1.3 - Albert III
Albert

I like The King’s Water. Of course, it is mine. The upmarket restaurant one street, the pub on the parallel street, and the shared kitchen between the two. It is, in certain circles, quite the scandal. One of my more successful efforts.

Tonight I sit in the pub, in a recess set back along the wall with a good view of the door to one of the private rooms. I hire it out, but after about nine in the evening its purpose becomes more general - a place for my kind. Four of them are in it now, playing skittles or darts or somesuch. Younger members of the brood, killing time.

The common room is reasonably busy tonight, enough to feel occupied without being crowded. A good mix too: of younger professionals and more discerning working-class types, with a few students thrown in. The evening is lively, but not rowdy. You don’t come to the King’s Water to get drunk, you come to have a good time with friends, or to relax surrounded by strangers after a long day, or to scandalise your social class. At a nearby table two journalists are talking excitedly about the news from the Continent - another riot in France. Seems the mayor and several other notables of Nantes got thrown into La Loire. Aided by their drinks the scribblers compete to come up with potential headlines, the worse the pun the better.

“Guv,” a broad Irish voice drawls, and Dara takes a seat at the table. “Sorry I’m late. Victor wanted to have a word, and you know how he just won’t shut up.”

I do a half-chuckle, because it’s true. Victor Melhuish is a pleasant sort, willing, comradely - just the sort of person you would happily make some time for if he had a need. Unfortunately with Victor a quarter can all too easily turn into a full hour.

“Tonight, it does not matter,” I reply, with just a hint of emphasis, and Dara nods slightly. Dara’s not his birth name, but Dara serves. He does much of the nightly work to keep the Water functioning. “Anything happened whilst I was away?”

“Nah. Pretty normal. Everything good with you?”

I nod. “It appears I am going to be away for a much longer period of time, quite possibly a few years.”

Dara frowns. “When?”

Now I do chuckle. “Whenever arrangements are complete - probably a month or two.” I can see Dara thinking this one through. “I am relying on you to keep this place running whilst I am gone.”

“Of course guv,” he says, and I reckon that to be genuine enough. Even now he keeps glancing at the bar, keeping an eye on things. He likes the Water.

“That means,” I continue, “knowing when you can sort out something yourself, and when to bring it to the Sheriffs.”

“Bu-” he starts to say, and stops himself. I lean back, and I can see him fighting to control his natural antipathy. He swallows, and grimaces as if he has just tasted something astringent and bitter. He glances to one side, and then back to me. “Right guv.” His stare drops to the table, and he mumbles something to himself.

I wait a moment. “Will you share?”

He looks up. “You didn’t hear me?” he asks, surprised. I shake my head. I can see him wonder if that is truthful or not, and then he smiles, just a little. Perhaps he realises it does not matter.

“Just, you’re right. Without you nearby I might need the cover. But still, it sticks in the throat.” He snorts. “You remember when you asked me if I wanted to help you run this place? You said something about a warning to me - about not being part of the rabble no more. Well, this sodding proves it.” Then, more quietly, but still easy enough to hear. “Gods what I fool I was.”

I smile, and I am proud of him. “I know. We have all been fools Dara.” Memories burst upon me, but I fight them off. This time. “In truth I doubt there will be any trouble. I suspect this place will be under protection whilst I’m away.”

He thinks for a moment. “You doing another job for the Lord and Mighty?”

“A favour, Dara.” Then I stare right at him, “best you not mention this, eh? At least until the word is official.”

His head jerks a couple of times, and then he stops himself. “You didn’t…?”

“Would you trust the answer?” I ask, and before he can reply, I continue, “but no. Just so you understand the need for discretion. We’ll make some plans, you and I, before I leave. In case of need - and then sometime after I get back we can talk about the future.”

He stays still a moment, thinking. Then, like striking a match, he grins. “Sure thing guv,” he says. From near the bar a querulous voice sounds suddenly sharp and irate. “I better be doing stuff - you don’t pay me to sit on my arse.” He gets up and moves off to deal with whoever that voice belongs to.

I like Dara. I hope one night I don’t have to kill him.
 
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Certainly. But what a job needs, what the employer asks for and what the wages offered will actually get can be very different things!
At this time security was one of the few jobs that actually got a steady job. The vast majority of dock-work was day labour. Security and administration being the main exceptions, I believe in an attempt to combat pilferage. Which apparently was pretty rife, even after the Port of London Authority reforms that did cut it down quite considerably.

I should note in talking of the docks I am partially informed by family history, as my great-grandfather worked in the East End docks and so I've been utilising some tales of him from my father.
 
So Dara is not a full part in the Family, it seems? Even though he knows about the boss? Interesting.
 
So Dara is not a full part in the Family, it seems? Even though he knows about the boss? Interesting.
It is also interesting that so far nobody is thankful for the chance to work with/in/for the Family after they find out what it actually involves. Lots of regret, a certain amount of pride at how well they are doing a certain task, but no-one really enjoying their work and being grateful for it.
 
I like Dara. I hope one night I don’t have to kill him.
So nice, chummy, the benevolent and proud mentor, until ... <hmmm emoji>

It also implies Dara is killable, in the conventional sense of the word ;)
 
So Dara is not a full part in the Family, it seems? Even though he knows about the boss? Interesting.
Well I suppose that all depends family :) - and it is always wise to know who the boss is.

It is also interesting that so far nobody is thankful for the chance to work with/in/for the Family after they find out what it actually involves. Lots of regret, a certain amount of pride at how well they are doing a certain task, but no-one really enjoying their work and being grateful for it.
Ignorance, they say, is bliss. A false bliss, maybe. Pull back the cover ...

You take something white, and add some black, and no matter how much more white you add you will never get anything but grey.

So nice, chummy, the benevolent and proud mentor, until ... <hmmm emoji>
It also implies Dara is killable, in the conventional sense of the word ;)
I didn't want to give present Albert falsely, shall we say.

I think there is a challenge almost inherent in first-person writing, especially using the present tense where things are more immediate. I think this opens up some intriuging narrative potentials and pitfalls both. This line is attempting to exploit the former whilst avoided the latter.


All
Due to a scheduling upset the next post is probably going to come up at the weekend. I may be able to spring it earlier, as ever "it depends"
 
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"I like you, Dara. I'll kill you last."
 
Chapter 1.4 - Martin - November 1934 - Later that day
Chapter 1.4 - Martin - November 1934 - Later that day

The City was awake, lively, and eager. Martin pushed his way through the bustle of the underground station, clutching his satchel. He emerged into the weak light of a smoky winter’s day, a chill breeze doing the rounds but without any real puff. He hurried up Whitechapel towards Shadwell. The lair was tucked away in the grime and the filth, down a slummy sidestreet that perfectly suited their purpose. The building, at least, was sound. A decade earlier Martin had made sure of it. A little violence, and not much money, provided more than enough discretion. For this job, conveniently placed too. Probably.

He let himself in.

“It’s about time you turned up,” called out Annie in a sharp voice. She sat in the first room, and of all things she was sewing.

“Where are the rest?” Martin asked, guessing the answer.

“Passed out back there,” she said, jabbing a thumb towards the back room. “They’ve been getting bored.”

“Well, I have a cure for that.” He stopped and smiled at a sudden thought, and scoped up the small blackboard and a piece of chalk. “Want to watch?” he asked

Annie grinned. “Tempting, but I want to finish this,” she said, holding up the fabric she was repairing. “I’ll listen to the show instead.”

Slowly, to make no sound, Martin opened to the door to the back room. Inside were half a dozen beds, three of which were occupied by humps. Two of the sleepers were snoring in a discordant duet. Stepping into the room Martin lifted up the blackboard, grasped the chalk tightly, and scraped it along the board, making an entirely unpleasant penetrating screech.

The effect was immediate and everything he had hoped for. “Five minutes,” Martin shouted, dodging a boot. He went back to the first room where Annie was giggling like the maid she wasn’t. By the time Henry, Angus, and Paddy tramped into the front room he had a large kettle on the stove.

“Take it there’s a job,” Angus said as he flopped down onto a bench, looking the most awake of the trio.

“Yes,” Martin replied. “We need to find the whereabouts of someone - Robert Williams.” He briefly explained the job.

“What if he’s just laid up sick at home?” Paddy asked, squinting.

“Then it’s an easy job,” Martin replied. “Anyone want to bet against me it’s not?” The grumbling announced no takers. “So my intention is for me and Annie to visit his house while the rest of you snoop around the docks. Unless anyone else has any ideas?”

“So, basically you want us to gossip, get a few dockers drunk, and the like?” Henry asked. Of all of them he knew the docks the best.

“Whatever works, just don’t draw too much attention to yourselves. Catch,” Martin said, throwing them all small pouches. “Spend it well - but don’t spend too much of it on yourselves.Any questions?”

There were none, and Martin hadn’t really expected any. There wasn’t much to say.


Martin - An hour later

“It would have been quicker taking a boat,” Annie said, not for the first time as they waited to get through to The Island. The Docks stood astride the bend in the river, nearly blocking all access. The throng had barely moved for half an hour behind the broken cart and its spilled cargo. Meanwhile they had been assailed by the sounds of the dock - shouts, calls, whistles, clangs, groans (of men, timber, and steel). And then there was the smell. Each waft of air brought a new pungence that blocked nostrils and infected clothes. The scents did not mix, but warred with each other in an unending array of chemical clamour and confusion.

Martin didn’t bother replying. Ahead there was a sound of growling and heaving, and then a splash. The crowd began to move again. As they finally crossed over the bridge there was the stench of vinegar, and glancing to one side Martin could see a few fresh timbers in the water. “Come on,” he said, and marched forward and through the tumult of the wharfside and towards Cubitt Town.

Past the dockyards they walked down Manchester Road, almost devoid of people. It was, however, not much quieter - the symphony of industry continued unabated, if slightly muffled, by the walls of the factories, workyards, and wharfs on the river side.

“Gods it’s been ages since I was down here,” Annie said.

Martin nodded. On their right side they passed The Dorset Arms, quiet at this time, and the buildings gave way to a scattering of allotments and the larger wasteland beyond.

“You sure you know where we’re going?” Annie asked.

“Billson Street, to one of the new houses built after the war, especially for veterans. Lucky for Mr Williams,” he said as they turned into Stebondale Street. “Quite a lot of these others,” he just shrugged at the dilapidated dwellings. Annie nodded. “Floods, too, so I hear. I think they finally forced the landlords to board up all the basements in the old houses a few years ago. One hazard, at least, that’s rare north of the docks.”

Annie said nothing for a moment, and then spoke in a strained tone. “Martin, you keep that up you’re going to make me feel lucky to have lived in Whitechapel.”

He did not reply. “We turn there,” Martin said, pointing at The Builders Arms a little ahead.

They turned into Billson Street. “Nice house,” Annie said, as they approached.

Compared to many others it was a nice house. Not grand of course, but well and solidly constructed. It was still a working man’s house - but its presence seemed to accentuate the decay of some of the other buildings on the street.

“Come on,” said Martin. From the front the house seemed quiet. He thought about using the knocker, but decided just to bang on the door instead.

After a minute Annie asked, “The wife didn’t work, you said.”

“The wording in the notes was ‘believed to be a housewife’,” Martin said. He thumped the door again.

“Martin,” Annie said softly, “there’s someone watching us ...”
 
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Nothing good ever came of snooping around the docks. Or East London, come to think of it.

“Martin,” Annie said softly, “there’s someone watching us ...”

- see, told ya!

As ever a compelling update @stnylan - you write in a most enigmatic and, if I may, stylish way.
 
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A well-kept house in a bad neighborhood. Could be nothing more than someone who's meticulous in keeping up appearances -- or could be an indicator of someone who has "connections."

(OK, we do know already that he had at least one connection, but still...)
 
It feels almost rude of me not to have spotted this thread earlier, but I will eagerly correct that oversight now. Consider this me signing on and embarking upon the work of catching up! :)
 
By the time Henry, Angus, and Paddy tramped into the front room he had a large kettle on the stove.
”An Englishman, a Scotsman and an Irishman walked into a room ...” :D
“Gods it’s been ages since I was down here,” Annie said.
Hmm, “Gods”: which ones, I wonder? :confused:

I wouldn’t want to be in the shoes of the one they’re looking for, whether they intend harm or not. Likely to be doing evil, have evil done to him, or (probably) both.
 
Caught up. Very good writing. It'll be some time until all the dots are connected and the plot becomes clearer.
 
As so often happens, I fell far behind. As so often happens, it was worth the effort to catch back up!

I was sad I missed the conversation about our grandparents' experiences in the war. If you'll permit me, it's a good day for an American to share (though my grandfather is still alive, so not 100% fitting, but I rather like him that way).

My grandpa didn't speak of his war experiences until I interviewed him for a school assignment. As a result, I probably know his stories the best. He was the youngest of four brothers, from a family of teachers. But he dropped out of school to join the navy at seventeen (he figured it was better to join his choice of service than be drafted into whichever). He served as a cook and gunner on a transport ship in the Pacific Theater, where he fought in the battle of Okinawa. The stories are harrowing, if sometimes amusing. He describes seeing a Zero fly by so low he could have hit the pilot with a softball. But he also witnessed a Kamikaze destroy the bridge of another ship. Worse yet, he didn't know if that was the very ship one of his brothers served on (fortunately, it was not). He later spent much time ferrying troops around the Pacific, including some significant officer or another (when younger I would have sworn he told me it was MacArthur, but you'd think that detail would land on the wikipedia page if true. I must remember wrong).

He did well in the time after the war, eventually meeting my grandmother at a dance 'at the grange in Salem [Oregon]'. I've tried to find the grange on visits (my wife grew up there), but the area where it would have been has been redeveloped. Turns out both grandparent lied about their age to the other at first. And that they had been eyeing each other on the bus into town for weeks! In any case, they got married, both became teachers, they had two kids, and moved to California. My grandfather's had a good life, and it's in its twilight, but for now I'm glad I still have him.

So in addition to the ever-wonderful AAR, thanks for giving space for us to share our tales (and for sharing yours). It's a wonderful community we have here!
 
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Nothing good ever came of snooping around the docks. Or East London, come to think of it.

- see, told ya!

As ever a compelling update @stnylan - you write in a most enigmatic and, if I may, stylish way.
One thing my research has turned up is just how isolated the Isle of Dogs was from the rest of London at this time, even the rest of the East End. Quite remarkable in its way.

A well-kept house in a bad neighborhood. Could be nothing more than someone who's meticulous in keeping up appearances -- or could be an indicator of someone who has "connections."

(OK, we do know already that he had at least one connection, but still...)
Actually this is a wonderful little detail I picked up from the following from this post on Billson Street by this blog all about the history of the Isle of Dogs. There were empty lots that were filled up with some of the best built houses in the East End to that point. I also thoroughly recommend that blog if one has a desire to drop down a rabbit hole of local history.

It feels almost rude of me not to have spotted this thread earlier, but I will eagerly correct that oversight now. Consider this me signing on and embarking upon the work of catching up! :)
Welcome aboard :)

”An Englishman, a Scotsman and an Irishman walked into a room ...” :D
Hmm, “Gods”: which ones, I wonder? :confused:

I wouldn’t want to be in the shoes of the one they’re looking for, whether they intend harm or not. Likely to be doing evil, have evil done to him, or (probably) both.
I'm glad someone noticed that little in-joke. It is indulgent, I know, but fun. Also, of course, not all that unrepresentative given inward migration from the rest of the British Isles to London.

As to Mr Robert Williams, well, you are probably right to not wish to be in his shoes.

Caught up. Very good writing. It'll be some time until all the dots are connected and the plot becomes clearer.
Thank you.

Very intriguing tale going on here. I guess I stick around to who is watching who.
Well, there is always someone watching :)

As so often happens, I fell far behind. As so often happens, it was worth the effort to catch back up!

I was sad I missed the conversation about our grandparents' experiences in the war. If you'll permit me, it's a good day for an American to share (though my grandfather is still alive, so not 100% fitting, but I rather like him that way).

My grandpa didn't speak of his war experiences until I interviewed him for a school assignment. As a result, I probably know his stories the best. He was the youngest of four brothers, from a family of teachers. But he dropped out of school to join the navy at seventeen (he figured it was better to join his choice of service than be drafted into whichever). He served as a cook and gunner on a transport ship in the Pacific Theater, where he fought in the battle of Okinawa. The stories are harrowing, if sometimes amusing. He describes seeing a Zero fly by so low he could have hit the pilot with a softball. But he also witnessed a Kamikaze destroy the bridge of another ship. Worse yet, he didn't know if that was the very ship one of his brothers served on (fortunately, it was not). He later spent much time ferrying troops around the Pacific, including some significant officer or another (when younger I would have sworn he told me it was MacArthur, but you'd think that detail would land on the wikipedia page if true. I must remember wrong).

He did well in the time after the war, eventually meeting my grandmother at a dance 'at the grange in Salem [Oregon]'. I've tried to find the grange on visits (my wife grew up there), but the area where it would have been has been redeveloped. Turns out both grandparent lied about their age to the other at first. And that they had been eyeing each other on the bus into town for weeks! In any case, they got married, both became teachers, they had two kids, and moved to California. My grandfather's had a good life, and it's in its twilight, but for now I'm glad I still have him.

So in addition to the ever-wonderful AAR, thanks for giving space for us to share our tales (and for sharing yours). It's a wonderful community we have here!
Thank you very much sharing. And the conversation was not missed, it was just slightly extended - and welcomingly so :)



All
I am (as of later today) going to have my daughter staying with me for a few days over the half-term, so I am not going to try to get a mid-week update out.
 
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