Peter Guttridge - The Last King of Brighton

‘Just bits and pieces,’ he said.

‘How was your holiday, Mrs H?’ Bill asked.

‘Lovely, Bill, thank you. I do like the South of France.’

‘Weren’t you in Spain?’

‘There too.’

‘You’ve caught a nice tan.’

Mrs Hathaway stuck her thin arms out and looked down at them.

‘I’m peeling. For the second time.’

‘Mum, I’m going out now.’

‘All right, Johnny. Do you want the whisk?’

His mother was baking a cake. Nobody would be around to eat it and it would sit in the cake tin until it started going mouldy and she would throw it away. She held out the whisk, coated with cake mix. Hathaway ducked his head and took the whisk, running his finger along it and putting the mix in his mouth.

‘Thanks, Mum,’ he said through a full mouth, his face burning.

His mother turned to his friends.

‘He’s always liked the cake mix from when he used to help me bake cakes. Would you like some?’

‘No thanks, Mrs Hathaway,’ Charlie mumbled. Bill merely shook his head.

Outside Hathaway stopped them in the drive.

‘Don’t either of your say a bloody thing, alright?’

Bill squeezed his arm.

‘Don’t worry, Johnny. Mums are like that. Mine’s the same.’

‘Mine too,’ said Charlie. Then, after a pause:

‘How do your angel cakes normally turn out?’

Hathaway found his father in The Bath Arms with Sean Reilly. ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ was playing on the jukebox and Dennis Hathaway was quietly singing along. He broke off when he saw his son.

‘Johnny boy, come and wet your whistle. You’re looking very smart – don’t you think so, Sean?’

‘Quite the man about town,’ Reilly said.

Hathaway preened. He was deeply into the mod scene now. He was proud of his suit. He and Charlie had gone down to John Collier and got suits made to measure. Both had edge-stitching, a ticket pocket, four buttons and shaped waist, though Charlie had gone for side vents whilst Hathaway decided on a sixteen-inch centre vent.

‘This doesn’t make me a mod, you know,’ Charlie said.

‘Oh yes it does,’ Hathaway murmured.

Hathaway watched Charlie with interest these days. Charlie was a grafter and, like Hathaway, was keen to get on in the family business. Both were losing interest in the group. Hathaway wasn’t entirely sure what work Charlie was doing – both his father and Charlie were evasive – but his father indicated there didn’t seem to be anything he wouldn’t do.

Hathaway touched the top button of his jacket, the only button that was fastened. ‘Made to measure from the Window to Watch,’ he said. ‘All the mods are wearing these, though sometimes they have waistcoats.’

‘John Steed has a lot to answer for,’ his father said. ‘Thank God you drew the line at the bowler.’

He nodded down at the newspaper on the table in front of him.

‘You seen the latest on the Great Train Robbers? Thirty years apiece.’

‘That seems stiff,’ Hathaway said.

‘It’s for making a fool out of the authorities,’ Reilly said. ‘And not letting on they’d done it.’

‘Bloody traitors to our country get less,’ Dennis Hathaway said. ‘Justice.’ He gave a contemptuous wave of his hand.

‘You said Bill Boal would suffer,’ Hathaway said to Reilly. ‘How do you know Roger Cordrey, Dad?’

‘Always get flowers for your mother from him.’

‘Has he got form?’

Dennis Hathaway grinned.

‘Eighteen and talking like an old lag.’

‘Cordrey used to rob trains between Brighton and London,’ Reilly said. ‘Started around 1961. Just opportunist stuff. He and a few mates would hang around near the guard’s van. One would distract the guard and the others would steal whatever registered mail they could grab. There was no guarantee of what it would contain.

‘Then Roger, sitting in his florist’s shop, figured out how to change the signals to red to stop a train. After that they could steal the lot, get off the train when it stopped and bugger off with the stolen goods. One of the men in the gang was mates with Buster Edwards. That’s how the Brighton gang got involved with the Great Train Robbery.’

The Rolling Stones came on the jukebox.

‘And you know all these people,’ Hathaway said, looking from his father to Reilly.

‘From the racetrack,’ both men said, Dennis Hathaway a beat after Reilly.

‘Right,’ Hathaway said, taking a swig of his lager.

‘Listen, Johnny, there’s something I wanted to discuss with you.’

Hathaway swivelled his head to look round the pub.

‘In here?’

Dennis Hathaway gestured at the almost empty room.

‘You see anybody listening? We can go to the end of the pier if you want. I don’t trust anywhere else.’

‘What is it?’

‘We were wondering – Sean and me – if you wanted to get more involved in the business. A bit more responsibility. Sean isn’t sure you’re ready but your friend Charlie has taken to it like a duck to water, so I figured you wouldn’t want to lag behind.’

Hathaway hadn’t really spoken to Charlie about his new duties, although he’d been curious. Now he felt left out.

‘What do you want me to do?’

Dennis Hathaway leaned forward.

‘Your friends the mods and Charlie’s friends the Teddy boys – excuse me, I think they’re now called rockers – they don’t get on, do they?’

‘You could say that.’

‘OK, this is what I have in mind.’

During the first half of May, Charlie and Hathaway went all along the seafront between the Palace Pier and the West Pier talking to businesses. They made a good team. Hathaway was cheerful and charming, Charlie had a dangerous edge. They didn’t threaten. They made promises.

On the Bank Holiday Monday, at the end of the month, Hathaway and The Avalons were up on the Aquarium Terrace drinking coffee in the sunshine. They were all in their mod gear – turtle necks and pegged trousers. They’d been taking a bit of a ragging from a bunch of rockers sitting on the terrace but it was in good spirits. The rockers knew Charlie and liked the group.

They were planning the future of The Avalons, though Hathaway and Charlie seemed disengaged.

‘Look, there’s money to be made on the American air force bases in Germany,’ Dan said. ‘There’s this competition – if you win, you get a tour.’

Charlie snorted.

‘Is that a comment or don’t you have a hankie?’ Dan said, sounding peeved.

‘These competitions are cons,’ Charlie said.

Dan shook his head.

‘Definitely not,’ Dan said. ‘Johnny Dee and the Deedevils won one to tour Sweden.’

‘How did it go?’ Charlie said, looking out at the Palace Pier.

‘Well, they didn’t actually go in the end,’ Dan said, abashed. ‘Two of the group are apprentices and couldn’t get time off work. But the principle remains the same.’

Charlie shook his head.

‘Let’s stick to rugby clubs and universities and colleges. And the parks.’ He looked at Hathaway. ‘We have a gig in Stanmer, don’t we?’

Hathaway nodded absently. He was watching an army of mods come on to the seafront on their Vespas. They parked around the Palace Pier and spread out on to it and the beach.

Next a line of motorbikes roared off the Old Steine, looped up above the Terrace and, a few minutes later, came back down Madeira Drive and parked a few hundred yards from the Palace Pier.

‘Have you heard the Shads are doing bloody panto this Christmas at the London Palladium?’ Billy said. ‘Alongside Arthur Askey as Widow Twankey. That’s disgusting.’